The Locket (2 page)

“We all believe in you, Claire. Stay strong, child,” the woman had murmured, offering her reassurance. Hanging my head at her kind words, I stared at my hands, knowing if I saw any faith in her eyes it would have brought on a new round of tears. I was not sure who she was, which was not unusual. Many people in town knew my aunt or I had met them as a child. Knowing I should, at the very least, thank the kind stranger for her words, I looked up, but she was gone. It had felt strange to me as I never even heard her footsteps when she departed. It was even stranger that she said, “We.” Who had she been referring to? I wondered.

There were many more people I didn’t recognize. Some waved to me while others offered a warm smile, leaving me to wonder why they had been watching from so far way. I had thought that perhaps they were just as uncomfortable with funerals as I was. When I really thought about it, I was surprised so many people had showed. My parents left this town many years ago and my aunt had only a few friends. I remembered thinking how sad it was that people were more willing to offer warmth in a time of death, than they were in life.

Finally settling into a seat in front with my head on Maggie’s shoulder, I waited for the service to end. After placing a rose on both caskets, I ran to the waiting car unable to stand it another minute.

Aunt Maggie had been speaking to an older blonde-haired gentleman who hugged her before he left. She said goodbye to a couple of ladies she knew from church before joining me at the car and wrapping me in a hug.

It had been extremely painful watching the grounds crew lower the caskets, dropping my parents into their resting place. When the men began shoveling dirt back into the hole, finalizing my parents passing, it was confirmation that they were actually gone. Nothing had remained but two bodies in pine boxes six feet under the earth. I recall how angry I was, thinking it was totally unfair for someone as young as I was to lose both parents.

Maggie was really great but I wanted to feel safe and cared for in a way that only a parent could provide.

Snapping out of my rumination, I heard Maggie’s voice again.

“Claire, you have got to…Oh, you’re up, good.” Maggie said, returning to my room. She came up behind me, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I twisted my head to look at her. “I miss them so much.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. I miss them too.” Maggie turned me around and took my hand, leading me to the bed. She pulled me down beside her and squeezed me to her chest. The dam burst, and the river of tears broke free.

When I eventually cried it all out, I pulled away from Maggie.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, wiping the wetness from beneath my eyes with a tissue. I laugh inwardly, thinking how Maggie always carries tissues around in her pockets. “Now, school, get to it.” Maggie patted my leg before standing and leaving me to pull myself together.

“School,” I muttered under my breath.

While getting dressed, I tried not to think about how much I was going to hate today – I was kidding myself – it was all I could think about.

Since my parent’s death, I had been living in my aunt’s house – a final destination on my long path to adulthood. At times I drowned in self-pity, but often reflected on the fact I was home – the most stable home life I had ever known – the most grounded I had ever felt. It was full circle from where I had started my life. Sometimes anger consumed me when I thought of my parents raising me like we were in a traveling circus when I should have grown up here. Missing them made up for any ill will I had. More than anything else, I was angry I no longer had them.

Standing in front of the old mirror in my room, as I did every morning for the past month, I hoped if I stared long enough things in my life would fall perfectly into place. Sadly, I probably thought about the meaning of life more than most girls my age, questioning my purpose. Why was I here? When I thought about how short life was, I wondered if I would ever know. My life had been one huge challenge, much like a puzzle with missing pieces. Each time I thought I was close to solving it – I realized there were more than a few holes.

It was hard to believe I would be eighteen in a few days, when the tiny reflection looking back at me looked more like an awkward fifteen year old. I was all of five feet, two inches, and noticeably thin. My gaunt figure was only made less noticeable by the long waves of mousy-colored hair that lined my pale face. I always preferred to say mousy or sandy blonde to describe my hair color. I hated when someone used ‘dirty’ or ‘ash’ before the word blonde. Sometimes it was even said as a compliment, like either of those words was meant to describe something that was attractive.

My face was heart shaped, like a locket my mother used to wear. I thought I was just a bit less attractive than other girls my age. My lips were lacking in color, thinly lining my teeth, which seemed slightly too big for the rest of my face. This was only made worse by the fact that my jaw never seemed quite straight, because I made it a habit of pursing my lips to the side when I was in thought. Having been in thought quite a bit lately, I started to wonder if my pursed lips were permanent.

The only redeeming quality I had were the jade green eyes that were a gift from my grandmother. I was thankful for that gift. Unfortunately, I had also been gifted her name, Claire, Claire Blake. While I was sure it was a divine name in her time, it was dreadful in mine. Given my already faint complexion, I was sure I would always be known as Fair Claire no matter what town I moved to. Of course, this was one of the nicer things I had been called. It always amazed me the new and cruel ways adolescents could find to tease the new girl.

I noticed the intricate details of the mirror for the first time since I arrived. It was thinly framed in deep mahogany wood, adorned with carved roses, worn on each side where hands had adjusted its tilt for many years. It had probably been in the house as long as everything else. As though it could see what goes on, I assumed it knew many secrets. Like the ones families gossiped about over morning coffee.

Northfield loved gossip. Over the summer, I heard a couple of moms in the market talking about weird occurrences that supposedly happened in my aunt’s house years back. They had gripped their children’s hand and shuffled them away from me, telling them to stay close. Some old men in the hardware store had started a similar conversation a few days later. I walked into the next aisle to eavesdrop overhearing that a handyman named Bob Hawthorne had shown up at the house to check on some work he had done. The men said Maggie shooed Bob away, but he claimed he saw my grandmother talking to a ghost before he left. Evidently Bob left town after that and had never been seen again. The handyman allegedly saw a ghost and my poor aunt got branded as a ghost whisperer.

Having asked Maggie about it once, she explained Bob came by and Gran was in the house arguing with an old friend about politics. She had the curtains drawn in the living room and the sun reflected off the man’s rain jacket, creating a glow around him. Bob had insisted the whole room was glowing and my Gran was speaking to a ghost. Maggie said he wouldn’t even allow her to explain. He got in his car and sped off. There were numerous stories with reasonable explanations that people didn’t want to consider. It seemed like the people of the town needed a little drama in their lives.

If I stared long enough in the mirror, I almost saw my mom staring back at me with her reassuring smile, telling me everything would work out. I missed her so much. My heart ached with grief.

“Claire?” My aunt’s voice interrupted my reminiscing. “Hurry down, you need to get going.”

“One sec, Mags,” I called down to her.

Adjusting my sandy locks in the mirror one last time, as hopeless as it was, I tried to tell myself today was a new day and a better day – a homecoming of sorts. This cheerful tactic was something I tried every morning hopeful that the power of positive thinking would somehow manifest itself into my life and all would be perfect. I was still waiting for that to happen, though I vowed to keep an open mind.

Truthfully, I wished my first day of senior year was anywhere but Northfield. Due to the rumors about the ghost in our house, I was sure I would be all anyone was talking about. The rumors weren’t hushed any by the fact that my parents had scooped me up and disappeared in the middle of the night, all those years ago, with no explanation from our family as to why we left.

My parents never regretted their decision to leave Northfield. They had claimed with each move it was for my own protection – that I was special. Their overly suspicious nature had hindered my social life tremendously. I was allowed to make friends but they were not allowed to come to my house, and I was not, under any circumstances, allowed to visit their homes. I had often wondered if we were in a witness protection program on the run from the mob. It wasn’t as though my father would have been considered the shady type but he had been more than a little secretive.

I had frequently questioned my parents about why they sheltered me from so much of the world. They would never tell me, insisting I had to wait for some understanding. That request had infuriated me. As a young girl, how was I supposed to understand that sleepovers, birthday parties, and trips to the mall were out of the question for me?

In my opinion, my parents had been diluted with some theory that I had a ‘larger purpose’ in life and it was their duty to make sure I was safe. They controlled everything I did for my ‘protection’. I was sure they were as crazy as the townspeople always said they were, but I loved them in spite of themselves.

So, who was I? An awkward, insecure teenager? A loner? I supposed most teens felt this way, but I took it personally, feeling like if my parents would have allowed me a normal life, then I would be a more confident person. It’s true that all parents try to shelter their children, shielding them from dangers of the world, but mine had been over the top. They had never trusted anyone. If a stranger in line at a store had said hello to me, my father would grip my elbow and drag me from the store, abandoning our cart and its contents. Growing up this way, I learned not to trust anyone. Our frequent moves had been my justification for this distrust, and for not allowing me to have any meaningful relationships.

Despite all of that, I longed to see my overbearing mother beaming over me while I played guitar. I would even graciously accept her criticisms. My dad had taught me to play. As I got older, I had taught myself to play more – mastering the art. Now it was my one constant, my fingers on the strings, the sound, taking me to a place without worry. My “happy place” as I referred to it.

I loved classic jazz, like Charlie Parker or Freddie Hubbard. My dad used to play Jazz albums for me on an old record player, when I was growing up. I had loved the crackle in the speaker from the old vinyl as much as the music itself. Something about the crispy noises from the scratching of the needle had been soothing. My dad would laugh telling me he thought I was born in the wrong era.
An old soul,
he would say.

I was fond of some modern musicians as well. They were mostly singer songwriters, such as, Ed Sheeran and Tim McMorris. Whenever I tried to talk music with girls my age it was usually followed by a rude response, followed up with loud whispers. “She’s so strange.” I found it best to avoid this line of conversation when attempting to make friends. Instead, I chose to keep things a little more simple, keeping my distance. Having friends were overrated, anyway.

“Claire!” My aunt’s voice brought me back to reality again.

“I’m coming, Aunt Maggie,” I called down, grabbing my favorite blue sweatshirt from the post of the bed, and heading towards the door. Taking a deep breath, I whispered out loud over and over, “today will be different. Today will be different. Today will be different.” I was still banking on the power of positive thinking. Hopefully, today I could finally cash out.

Making my way to the kitchen, I forced a self-assured smile. My aunt had been worrying over me so much since I arrived. She was genuine and caring. As sweet as Maggie was, it made me uncomfortable knowing how much she fretted over my grief. The thought of her feeling compelled to make sure I was happy all the time made me sad. Smiling whenever I was in her presence was something I thought eased her worry. That morning, I found it especially difficult as the anticipation of another new school was racing through my thoughts.

Searching through the chaotic cabinets, I looked for something to grab for breakfast. Aunt Maggie was not the most organized person. She owned a mounting collection of plastic ware, finding a home in whichever cabinet happened to have room when it came out of the dishwasher. I found a box of Pop Tarts behind a plastic colander that had been placed close to the stove one too many times. After a quick glance at the expiration date, I dropped the foil-wrapped fruit pastry into the front pocket of my backpack. I wasn’t sure I would be able to actually eat it. My stomach had been doing somersaults all morning as my nerves continued to develop.

I set my bag on the floor and snatched a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the sink.

“Are you nervous?” Maggie asked. “Nervous?” Aunt Maggie repeated herself a little louder.

I was wrapped in thought, not paying attention, even though she was standing right next to me. “Wha…What?” I stuttered.

“Nervous?” Maggie asked again.

“Uh…No…Not at all, Aunt Maggie. Really, I’m fine. I’ve been to how many schools? I’m good. Don’t worry about me, okay?” Maggie nodded. The crease in her brow however, told me she didn’t believe me. Her expression reminded me so much of my dad.

Maggie was my dad’s older sister, although she would never say how much older. She was a woman of small stature with dark-red hair. Large dimples on both sides of her smooth face made her irresistible. Just one smile from Maggie made you feel welcomed and cared for. She lived in this town her entire life and knew everyone. Yet, she rarely had visitors and mostly kept to herself. I was fine with that because it meant fewer visitors to the house that I would have to interact with.

Finished with my water, I placed the glass in the dishwasher. I scooped my backpack from the floor and slung it over my shoulder.

Deep breath, Claire. Today will be different.

“Claire, it’s okay to be nervous. I would be,” Maggie offered with an earnest smile.

“Okay, so, I’m a little nervous,” I admitted, holding up my index finger and thumb and pinching them together, leaving a small gap to show how much.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she said, yanking me in for a quick hug. She let go of me, and I leaned against the counter while Maggie set off rummaging through the pantry.

I loved this woman so much. I couldn’t imagine surviving the last couple of months without her. As much as I loved her, I wasn’t sure how long I would stay with her.

I liked Northfield, affectionately known as River Town to the locals and weekenders that hiked along the Connecticut River. Northfield was a quaint town that lay at the intersection of Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire on both sides of the Connecticut River in the Pioneer Valley. It was plush, with rolling hills and miles of dense forest making it a beautiful spot. But I wanted to explore the world on my own, outside of town.