I debated on whether or not to go to the small town I had been brought up in. It was tough, considering there were so many memories. But, I had to make the decision in one hour, before well, nothing was even left.
It was a cute, brown- in a very ancient sort of way, something nice and cozy, sort of house. With the walls I had drawn on or to be more accurate, scribbled with my crayons. Sketches of a little five year old up to the time I was eleven. And then, all the enthusiasm drifted away like the short rain that came to simply tease you and make your air more humid.
Even so, the fact that it was going to be gone left me ambivalent about visiting it. Ten years had passed.
And in ten years, I had earned my degree, found a job and settled in with someone I loved. And had a lovely son.
That home was a reminder of someone I had lost.
Yet, I wondered how much dust the air had blown in. If the jukebox was still there. If the muslin curtains still draped the windows like before.
The house was always in our name, and I wouldn't let go of it; neither would I allow to sell it even though there was no one remaining to inherit it. That house was a haunting place of soft muslin cloth which could make you want to run your fingers along it and the scribbled walls filled with the scent of crayons and the howling that day.
I glanced at the clock; thirteen minutes had passed.
Someone rang and I went around the table to pick the phone. "Hello?"
"Ms. Linda?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes? That's me," I responded.
"I am Ted. We are the people who are going to live in...the demolishing takes place at nine a.m. Are you going to come or can we just speed it up?" he got to the point.
My heart rate picked up as I choked out. "No, please. I'll be there. Just give me some time. You said nine a.m. I'll be there before that."
"Okay," he said hesitantly.
I kept the receiver and sighed. I met him a day before, looking at the house, wrinkling their noses. They were five. A family of five with three kids.
And they despised the house; I could tell when they'd come to ask for permission.
I grabbed the keys off the stand and closed the door. I was going. No matter what. I had to listen to her voice.
I started the car, telling Richard of my decision. He wished me luck and told me to be careful. Richard had visited it some five years back. He said he didn't have the heart to be reminded of everything again. And neither did I.
You can do this, Linda. You can. For the little bud.
I sped up, glancing at my wristwatch every few minutes. I reached there at ten minutes to nine.
"Ms. Linda. How nice," he said, but I opened the door with shaky hands, barely being able to get the darn key in. I stepped in, inhaling and then coughing instantly.
I glanced up the cobwebs that lined the ceiling and the dust under my feet. It felt slippery and I treaded carefully. I knew where to go, without even paying attention.
I reached the dreaded place where a little jukebox sat atop the kitchen counter. It looked as though it'd been waiting all its life for me to come along. I wondered if it'd still work, considering that I'd put it to a deep slumber of ten years. A rat scurried by and I jumped in worry. Calming myself, I took a deep breath and took a bronze coin.
"For Isabel. My heart and my life," I said, inserting the coin and running the combination.
80399.
It was her birthday. The International Day for Women. 8th March 1999.
A mewling sound came out and then, immense crying, a bawling of sorts as someone calmed her. Although songs of different eras filled the jukebox, I had one tape of her. Because Isabel was like the moonlit sky.
I choked back tears, and then, I slid down the kitchen counter, as her cried filled the room. And then, her laughter played as I wiped the tears.
"Isabel, where are you?" I whispered, holding the jukebox tight. I was careful of not making any noise so that they wouldn't hear me. I didn't want them to. Isabel was our family's secret.
She died because of one reason which was the reason for all other reasons to become.
She was a girl. And the fact that I had conceived a girl shocked them.
I remembered the night I had delivered her and the week after how people kept coming in. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours. Bristling. Whispering like I had sinned.
It's a girl.
Our whole family came to the U.S when I was a kid. But, we brought in everything from India. The clothes, the lovely Indian fabrics with little elephants in block prints, the pickles we'd made of gooseberry, lemon, mango, garlic and so much more. Except the scent of the rain. We couldn't bring that from India. And with all those, we brought the whole baggage of traditions and culinary experiences and all the other rules of society.
And in our society, it was a crime to be born a girl. Much worse was the mother who had committed it.
But, then, she was lovely with brown eyes and curly hair, and I told them off. I had breakdowns and outbursts like no other. I didn't know how she died. Sometimes I wondered if she died because nobody other than me and Richard did love her. Not even my parents who wanted a son.
It was custom. It was a miracle I was in this world.
But I had not sinned. I had given birth to a flowering bud and I wanted her. I wondered at times if she died due to the sheer depression because nobody loved her. If she could understand the bitter truths which were much more bitter than the bitter gourds we grew in the backyards. I would never know because I never wanted to.
Truths hurt. I didn't want another truth right after her death.
I glanced at the big clock which had stopped crowing. It was supposed to crow at nine but now it was nine-ten.
"Linda!"
I knew it was them. To be exact, I didn't want them to demolish the house. Not even want them to live in it.
"Isabel, my love, know that now, you might live in someone else's house, but I...I will hold you close. Because this jukebox is the source of my....sanity. You will be here, I know."
Isabel couldn't speak because she died a year old. I didn't get to hear her first proper words or sentences. All I heard was Maa. Mom.
And I...was left with her cries and laughter. I felt the soft muslin cloth dusted with dust and cobwebs and I left, clutching the jukebox.
"Is that all you want?" he asked.
"You could use an mp3 player," commented one of their sons, listening to a song.
I shook my head. "Have a nice time, living here."
I saw the JCB come up close, and walked towards the car, glancing at the jukebox.
My Isabel trapped in a box only. I wondered if I should pick anything else, but I knew she'd want something to be there.
"Is there something wrong?" he asked, a frown creasing his eyebrows.
"There was. But now, there isn't," I respond shakily. I take a deep breath. "I know you're going to construct a new house, and I wish you the best, but by the bedside table of the master bedroom, there's...a snow globe with a girl dancing inside. If you don't mind, would you care to keep it? I don't want it, I just want it to be there in your house."
I prayed and crossed my fingers that they'd say yes. Isabel would laugh for ages when she saw that girl dancing. And when I'd play her a song from the jukebox.
"Must we?" asked the wife, Giselle.
Her only daughter, Nora, barely turned eight, looked up at me big hazel eyes and smiled. She ran in and brought out the snow globe after five minutes. "Why don't you take it?"
"Because..." I bent down to her level. "I had someone special. She left early but I still remember her. I think she loves this house, this place. Especially that globe. So, I don't think she'd like it in our home, because this was where she was born."
I shook a bit, and stood up so she wouldn't have to look into my eyes.
"Who was she?" asked Melvin, Giselle's son who was listening to a song.
"My daughter...she left early. When she was a year old."
Nora's lips turn down and I bend down, lifting it. "Be happy for me. I see her in you."
Giselle's hand tightened around Ted's. "Was she..."
"No," I said. "I don't know and I don't want to."
Melvin comes up and looks at me. "If you want we'll keep a room just for her. Where all her things are there, in our new house."
I shook my head. "That depends how you want it. It doesn't matter. To me, I just want her to be happy by remembering the ancient warmth of that house in little places."
And then, I left, the jukebox in my hand. Tomorrow, Isabel would turn eleven. I would have to pick up some fresh lilies.
********
This is as always dedicated to Mother Mary, who has always brought me through time. And thank you to ChickLit for this prompt, so that my writing is sharpened.
Yours,
Rose