Genève’s Locket
I sit alone in the evening by my mother’s grave. I sometimes visit her during the week but never miss a Sunday — I talk to her, and occasionally she answers. People think I’m crazy that I hear her voice from beyond the grave, but she does speak to me.
About a year ago, when I sat with mom, I told her about my day. I told her about the reckless intoxicated man that swerved into my lane while I drove to work. I shared how much my broken wrist ached and how it took thirty-two stitches to close the gash on my leg. I explained that I tried to avoid a head-on collision and oversteered. I crashed into the tree, and he crashed into me anyway. The officer at the scene later explained that he was amazed I lived as metal and metal pinned me. A couple of days later, I picked up the morning paper and read an article about how the drunken driver hung himself.
A few months ago, I sat by Mom’s graveside. I shared with her the troubles I was having with an obsessive admirer. I told her how he would call me and tell me I was nothing but a no-good whore and that he would ruin my name and life. How could I be a whore when I didn’t want anything to do with him? He tried destroying my sense of worth, and I told her I could feel myself crumbling under his relentlessness. His roommate found him dead after that visit with my mom. He had severely cut his wrists.
It was a typical Sunday morning. I packed a basket with fruit, wine, cheese, and jam. I brought a blanket to sit on and sometimes nap. It was a pleasant day, with warm sun, a cool breeze, and a sense of calm in the air.
I laid the blanket down, “Hi, mom. Another lovely Sunday.”
I poured a glass of wine for mom and myself. I imagined we would clink glasses to life. Though she never sat with me, I always filled a drink for her. I cut the strawberries and apples, “Today, I brought your favorite fruit, brie, and ginger jam.”
“Thank you, honey,” my mother’s voice was clear and near. I looked up, and she stood with one hand on her gravestone. The wind blew through her long, red hair. I reached my hand up to her, hoping I hadn’t lost my mind like people say I have. She took my hand and sat with me, “You are my sweet angel. I have always protected you, and I always will.”
It finally connected — people who hurt me soon died after I visited with my mother. “Yes,” as if she was reading my thoughts, “I gave them the pain you suffered to their darkest extent. The intense suffering led them to madness — never to hurt my beautiful angel again.”
I had no words in response, just streams of tears. Mother’s hand was cold while she wiped the tears from my face, “There is only suffering in life. Come with me where there is quiet peace, and we will always be together.”
I sat speechless while she took the locket from her neck and put it in my hand, “All you have to do is let me hold you, carry your soul to the world beyond this dreaded place.”
I laid my head in her lap and closed my eyes, “Mommy, I have missed you so much.”
The Daily Record wrote a front-page story about Scarlett, “Miss. Scarlett White, 23, was found dead on top of her mother’s grave, Genève White, on June 7, 1976, marking the second anniversary of her mother’s murder.
Police speculated that Miss. White’s early passing is of natural causes. Scarlett was posed on the grave as though she was napping; there were no signs of foul play, self-infliction, or poor health leading to her passing.
A friend of Miss. White’s said, “Scarlett held her mother’s locket in her hand. The very locket Mrs. White was buried with.”
This will be a mystery that will haunt Lily Village for the years to come.”
THE END
Mojha R. MacDowell
Fictional Newspaper Article Written by Castiel Ferguson
