Memory tissue adhesions
A short story inspired by a 100-words on what remains
Back in August, I wrote this 100-word story about a misplaced letter…
It prompted many queries. Some of you were intrigued, some demanded to know what happened next. I always read every comment and question from you with care and delight. SO…here’s the full(er) story about that forgotten letter.
Tell me what you think.
Memory tissue adhesions
A short story by Reena Kapoor
Zohra opened the top of the four drawers of the antique armoire. The movers buzzed about the house, wrapping and packing her life in deft, raucous motions. She’d just finished making a few lists, something Harish would’ve done. If he hadn’t passed three years ago, leaving her bereft. Right now he’d be here counting and recounting how in their 42 years together, they’d tended to three girls, twice as many dogs, the garden, and innumerable travelers, both wandering and lost. Now she created these lists by herself, checking with him in her head, when she had a question.
Zohra opened a couple of drawers. She wasn’t looking for anything but she’d forgotten so much of life that opening old cabinets and drawers often rekindled a long forgotten memory. It felt like a game of clues in which she had to think back to the date and provenance of items rediscovered. The armoire itself was a beloved one. Zohra remembered how she and Harish had found it in the far corner of an antique shop in Shanghai. Long before the girls arrived, when the two of them wandered the streets of old countries with little attention to time.
The deepening and simultaneously receding red lacquer with its solid brass hinges and locks in fading gold gave the armoire its grandeur. Not a grandeur of riches but of stories, buried, awaiting a teller. The main latch was held by a brass plate etched with an intricate bird in flight, a unique motif they hadn't seen elsewhere. When the shopkeeper revealed to them the armoire’s secret compartment, Zohra was sold. Plus the armoire was just the right size, not too big, like many of the other pieces they’d been attracted to. But the shopkeeper, an old, well-traveled Shanghainese, seemed reluctant to part with it. Finally, he quoted them a price that was too high. But Zohra was in love. Harish negotiated a little. The old man wouldn’t budge. So they gave in. And the armoire became a cherished possession.
Now Zohra had sold most of their furniture for this move. But the armoire was going with her. She ran her fingers on the smoothened wood. How many lifetimes and how many homes had this old dame seen, she wondered. As her fingers caressed the wood they reached absently for the sliding block of wood that revealed the secret compartment at the bottom. On impulse, she opened it.
Zohra was surprised to see a few papers sitting in there. Oh dear! Harish would have laughed and rolled his eyes. Zohra sighed with relief when she saw the first item. It was a bill from the dog licensing place. Probably incurred a late fee followed by an annoyed phone call. Licensing for everything, including poor old Toby. What a good doggie he was.
She remembered those days of dogs and laughs and how easy and impossibly busy and harried, happiness turned out to be. Anytime a glimpse of the past came flashing back she would hold on tight. Was she really there? How could she leave these walls soaked in 42 years of memories? Can’t think that way. One day at a time…
Every one of her friends had talked about what was next. “Are we simply biding time waiting for death?”
“Never!” Zohra insisted. “Let death come and catch us when she’s ready. We’ll not be found ready and waiting. We’ll put on makeup and be gone dancing!”
They’d all laugh.
Zohra stuffed the old bill into her tote to throw into the garbage later. But there was something else. A sealed envelope. In an instant, she knew what this was. The date on the stamp was from over twenty-four years before. Were we still writing letters then?
She knew what it would say. It would be polite and angry. Repeating what she’d already heard in calls from him, “If I can’t have you, I need to move on. I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”
When she’d received it, Zohra decided not to open it. Losing a dear friend was hard. Losing a dear friend because you’d caused them hurt, even if unwittingly, was even worse. Harish had been the love of her life, and she’d decided she had to let this complicated friendship go. She couldn’t afford much else. These were mishaps, unintended wounds of life that couldn’t be indulged.
Still it hurt. So she tucked the letter away, all those years ago, in the beloved armoire she knew she’d always have. Securing it in this obscurity along with Toby’s licensing bill, which must have gotten stuck to it somehow, costing me a fine I hotly contested, no doubt! She smiled, shaking her head.
So much water had flown by now, surely she could read this letter without remorse. Could one ever laugh over old wounds? Or does scar tissue persist the hurt? She was going to read it. It was that stage of life where so many who were once precious were either lost or so ensconced in their own journeys that they were beyond pain from actions or inactions forgotten shadows may bring. A strange feeling to have agency yet so little possibility of impact. Ha! We “old” people suffer from all sorts of debilitations but it’s this irrelevance that really gets to us.
Zohra moved to a remaining chair, and sat down to open the letter. The paper was dry and crisp. Thankfully, still intact. It offered only three lines.
Dear Z,
I’ve been so mistaken, so fearful that I lost faith. In life, in love. If you can forgive me please call. Even if not today, tomorrow, a year or five, or a hundred years from now. I’ll live a half life in my memory of you.
It wasn’t signed. This was the exact opposite of what Zohra expected when she stuffed it out of sight. All these years gone by thinking I was persona non grata! She read it again. Then she reached for her phone. But where would she call him? All she had was an old phone number.
“Mom!” Rehana, her daughter, was standing at the door. “You OK? The movers will be done in another twenty minutes… What’s wrong? Are you crying?” Rehana came up to Zohra with a concerned look on her face and touched her cheeks. They were wet.
Zohra folded away the letter quickly. “It’s nothing! I don’t know where these came from…maybe the dust.”
Rehana put her arm around Zohra. “Sorry Mom! It must be hard. But you’ll be so much closer to us now and to the two chipmunks you love even more than me...”
“I’m fine darling. What’s there to cry about when I have you all?” Zohra hugged Rehana and the letter to her chest. “I need to make a phone call.”
“To the bank? I called them already,” assured Rehana, just like Harish would have. She was truly her father’s list-making daughter.
Zohra smiled. “No, to an old friend. I just found out something about him and I need to call him.” She signaled she needed to be alone.
Rehana looked surprised but nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen while they finish loading.” She gave Zohra a squeeze and walked out of the room. The movers came in for the armoire.
Zohra fished out her phone, and looked for his number. She walked to the window and dialed. It rang several times. No one picked it up. A generic voicemail appeal came on, “You’ve reached… ”
Zohra put the phone down without leaving a message. Of course! What else did you expect? She was shaking. She leaned against the window. There wasn’t even a chair to sit on anymore.
Then she stared at the phone. And dialed again. This time she left a message, “It’s me. I just read your letter. Today. I hadn’t read it before. I don’t know… don’t know if this is the right number anymore…” She hung up. And for the next few minutes she stood still, letting the wetness on her cheeks be. It’s been twenty-four years, for heaven's sake!
The movers were ready. Rehana was calling, “Ma, ready to go?” She came to the door again. “Do you want to walk through the house once more?”
Zohra shook her head. “No, it’s all in here and here,” she said pointing to her head and heart. Rehana nodded. But Rehana needed to go through the house. It was where she’d grown up. She was taking pictures for her sisters. Zohra walked outside and stood for a moment not looking back. Rehana came out a few minutes later. Her cheeks were wet too. They got in her car and drove away.
So many goodbyes. And one attempt at a “hello again!”
***
Slowly Zohra settled into her new apartment, new life. So many friends were disappearing into illness and death. Zohra was no fool knowing her time was marked too. She wrote in her diary: Days of a new life. Grateful — to be alive and loved.
Besides, there were her granddaughters! She fully understood why people claimed having grandkids is even better than having kids. Not because grandkids are perfect versions of our kids, without their flaws. But because, finally as grandparents, we’re able to see how perfect our kids really were, in their own unique and lovely ways. It was just our faulty notion of parenting that obscured such vision. Zohra smiled thinking how she could spend every minute of every day with her granddaughters and it wouldn’t be enough. But such was life. Short and sweet. Sweet, because it was short.
Two months went by and Zohra tried to put the letter out of her head. Most likely the number was a dead end, and the recipient deleted an old woman’s nonsensical message. She tried to search online but nothing usable came up. Just as well.
Then one morning, she was in her kitchen when her phone rang. His number? Couldn’t be! Must be the owner of the number calling to tell me they have no idea who I’m looking for...
Zohra picked up, and hesitated, “Hello?”
A voice said, “Hi! Is that you?”
It was him!
Zohra hurried to a dining chair and sat down. She nodded. “It’s me.”
He laughed his laugh that she hadn’t forgotten. “Thank god I got you. I’ve held on to this darn number just for that reason. I don’t check my messages very often because most of them are junk. Every month or so I check and delete them. But today…,” he babbled on.
Zohra tried to say something but all she got out were nods and smiles. And then she was crying.
His voice softened, “There there! We’re here now.”
They went on like that for a very long time.
###
reena | 2023
So much beauty in this. Love this line, “Zohra opened a couple of drawers. She wasn’t looking for anything but she’d forgotten so much of life that opening old cabinets and drawers often rekindled a long forgotten memory.”
So lovely, Reena.