The Pretend To Be Agreement

Epilogue PT. 1

"Ugh uh," she mumbles, sniffling.

Oh, dear. She's crying.

"Cami," I start, petting her brown locks down with my hand, suddenly remember what I had to do today. "Do you want to help mommy clean up her closet?"

As soon as the words hit her ears, her head springs up and she staring back at me, eyes wide in excitement. Unlike most kids, and although Camille was very young, she liked cleaning. So, as I remind myself that I need to organize my closet, why not get her to help me?

"Pwease, mommy? Can I?" she asks, and with a nod of my head, she wiggling in my arms—a clear signal of hers that lets me know to put her down. When Camille's feet hit the floor she starts in a running sprint, almost running into a wall, but skillfully avoiding it as she heads toward my room. I follow after her.

******

It was an hour later and I find myself buried under a mountain of clothes, shoes, and much more of my random belongings. Camille was sitting on a blanket with Ralph—her stuffed teddy bear—and our cat, Minnie, by her side. She had given up on helping me after fifteen minutes, getting distracted by all of the things I've collected—more like hoarded—over the years and I have been too lazy to actually put in their proper places. 

Like the snow globe, I had bought on Miles and I's honeymoon three years ago when we stayed at his family's winter cabin up in Vancouver. It's probably supposed to go on the mantel on the fireplace, but, instead, it's been sitting in a box and collecting dust—much like all of my other random junk, that if it's not stored in my closet, it's in the downstairs in the basement. Including all of Miles' old clothes, police uniform, and awards he'd received. I kept them down in the basement because it hurt too much to look at them. They brought back unwanted memories of the night I got a call from the hospital, a nurse informing me that my husband has been shot.

But then, there were some things that had been put in proper places—things I hadn't seen nor thought about in years. Two and a half years to be specific. It's only when Camille finds some old jewelry in a bottom of a cardboard box and asks me where she's supposed to put does something in my brain click.

"Here, give it me," I tell her nicely and she hands over the jewelry, which consisted of some earrings, a tangled necklace, and a broken bracelet. Pushing the tall pile of clothing off of me, I stand up off the floor and walk over to my dresser where a hand-crafted Oak jewelry box sits on top, surroundings by socks, a small variety of perfume bottles, and my medication that I take for the intense migraines I get. 

Moving the socks and perfume bottles out of the way, I grab the jewelry box and hold it to my chest as I walk back over to my spot on the floor and sit down slowly, careful to not drop the very expensive birthday gift that's in my arms. 

Once in a comfortable position, I set the jewelry box down in front of on the floor and open on of the little drawers, all prepared to drop the jewelry that's in the palm of my hand in the drawer and forget about it until another day when something catches my eye.

 Oh...my...God.

"No."

No, no, no.

Sitting there in the bottom drawer of the jewelry box was a circular gold shaped locket about the size of my thumb that had a small turquoise stone in the middle. I hadn't seen the locket in years, had tucked it away in away in the jewelry box after the first few months after....after Will and I broke up. I stopped breathing for a second, my heart feeling as if it had dropped to the pit of my stomach. Just seeing the piece of jewelry made old, buried away emotions rise to the surface and tears prick at my eyes, clouding my vision.