Tricia’s Bio:

Tricia Bowering was born and raised British Columbia, where she eventually studied Psychology at the University of Victoria. She now makes her home in Vancouver, where she keeps busy with work and spending time with her family. She recalls writing short stories as early as grade two and all throughout high school, but years of study and work slowly pushed writing aside. Finally, she has returned to writing as a serious pursuit, and has enjoyed reconnecting with her creative voice.  She looks forward to writing more short fiction and entering lots of contests in the future.

Remembrance

By Tricia Bowering

As soon as I saw the cottage it struck me as similar to my mother’s house, where I’d grown up. When I pulled into the gravel driveway, however, I picked up telltale signs of neglect. The grass grew in haphazard clumps in the front yard and weeds had begun to invade the flowerbeds. The compact car parked in front of mine had a flat tire. As I approached, I noted that the front curtains were shut even though the afternoon smelled of sun and spring.   

I rapped on the door, jarring the stillness of the neighborhood. When there was no answer, I knocked again. “Mrs. Simpson?” I glanced down at the file to make sure I had the name right. 

Footfalls sounded behind the door, then hesitated and stopped. I waited.

“Yes?” 

“Mrs. Simpson, I’m Anita James, the public health nurse.”  

“Am I expecting you?”

“I called earlier. Let me show you my ID.”

She opened the door and I handed it to her, but she held it in midair then put it in her dress pocket. Her hand was skeletal under translucent skin, and the hollows in her face made her eyes look huge. Her sweater was buttoned incorrectly. 

“You can give it back to me now.” 

“Yes?” 

“My ID in your pocket.” I gestured to it. 

She took it out and read it. “Anita James. Is that you?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Am I expecting you?” 

“I’ve come to visit for a bit.” 

Understanding suffused her face as she handed my card back with a gracious smile. “Company! Come in.”

I followed her inside as my eyes roamed over the pictures placed with care on the mantle. Family? Friends? No one had visited recently, if the layer of dust on the frames was any indication. That, and the air of benign neglect that hung over the house like a miasma. This was a forgotten place. A museum.

“I’ll put some tea on.” 

“Thanks.” I followed her into the kitchen, where she was reaching for her teapot. “Do you mind if I look around a bit?”

“Go right ahead.”

I cringed at her vulnerability, my hand tightening on the file. The fridge contained sour milk, half a jar of jam, and old bottled condiments. There were ugly black marks radiating from the front stove element, and the paint had blistered on the adjacent wall. A passerby had called the fire department last week after noticing smoke pouring out the kitchen window. “It still smells like smoke,” I said.

“My husband smokes,” she said. “I can’t get the smell out of the house.”

I checked the bathroom and bedroom, picking up details: a hand knit quilt draped over an ottoman, an antique brush set placed on the dresser, a man’s old-fashioned shaving brush in the medicine cabinet. Superimposed on it all was a layer of grime and smell. 

A tear I hadn’t even noticed rolled lazily down my cheek and I wiped it with my sleeve. So unprofessional.

Returning to the living room, I opened her file. Meredith Simpson. Widowed fifteen years ago, son nowhere to be found. No other family. Found wandering in her housecoat in the street three times by the neighbor. There had been the fire department incident last week, which could have been so much worse.

She placed a teapot in front of me, and then took two delicate bone china cups and saucers out of her china cabinet.

I lowered my head into my hands.

“Are you okay?” She placed the cups down and put her hand over mine.

“I’m not sure.” I looked into her kind eyes and for a moment let myself remember two weeks ago, when I’d packed my mother’s house up, along with all my childhood memories. Dementia had stolen her world too, and now she had four walls and a hospital bed.

Mrs. Simpson frowned. “I don’t seem to have any biscuits today.”

“That’s fine.” There was no tea in the teapot either.

“And who are you?” 

“Anita. I’m from the health office.”

“Am I sick?”

“Sort of.”

For a moment, her confusion lifted. “You going to put me in a home?” 

“You’ll be safe there.” 

She gestured to her surroundings, worried. “No one will remember.” 

I’d been wrong earlier. This was not a forgotten place. Not yet. 

I placed the empty teacup on my knees, and looked carefully around the living room. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll remember.”

***