Cracks (Partial)

The house was silent, still as a tomb, as Serena sat at the kitchen table. Piles of papers were strewn about the flat surface, obscuring every bit of the tabletop. Serena’s shoulders slumped and her expression drooped. She was exhausted, and her eyes were puffy from crying on and off throughout the day. Her mom had been gone for nearly two weeks now, but going through all of her stuff--and how much “stuff” there was--kept reopening fresh wounds. She could work for a while in relative silence, just focusing on being busy, but then she’d spot some memorabilia that meant something and she would go to pieces again. She could never tell where the memories would come from.

“I’m going to go crazy if I keep staring at these papers,” she said out loud, though no one else was in the house to hear her. The sound of her voice reverberating through the empty halls provided some minor comfort. She was tired of the silence, and wished her husband had come with her. Their daughter had a soccer game, and he had taken her, dropping Serena off on the way, but Serena didn’t realize how much she would appreciate the company while doing this.

She decided to go through a few more boxes, just to break up the monotony of the paperwork. After all, those papers weren’t going anywhere. She slipped into the living room, where most of the boxes were piled high, almost to the ceiling, and stood on her tip-toes to grab one off the top. It wasn’t labelled, but most of them weren’t. Her brothers had swept in, boxed everything up and brought it up from the basement for Serena to sort. She didn’t want to help move things, but when she’d stepped into the house crammed full of boxes, she suddenly regretted offering to do the sorting.

Oh well, it was too late now.

The box she had grabbed was light, and that pleased her. Hopefully it was something that could go quick. Even if it wasn’t that full, just clearing a box and declaring it “empty” would feel good.

She unfolded the top and peered inside. An multi-colored afghan was folded nicely inside--that explains why the box was so light, she thought to herself as she looked at it.

Memories came flooding back. She remembered the old wooden rocking chair that this afghan was always stretched over the back of. She remembered pulling this old blanket down, wrapping it over her legs because it always felt so soft, and always being disappointed at how much cool air the holey blanket let through. She picked it up out of the box and smelled it, to see if had been in the basement for long.

It didn’t smell too bad. Her mother must have not put it down there too long ago. Serena pressed the soft blanket against her face as she remembered happier times, reading on the floor while her mother knitted in that old rocker.

Her eyes open and she glanced down into the box, to replace the afghan inside, when she froze. Hidden underneath the afghan was a curio, an engraved wooden box that, according to Serena’s mother, had been in the family for generations and generations.

Serena set the afghan down unceremoniously next to the box as she reached inside and, with two hands, carefully lifted the small wooden box out of the larger cardboard one. It was short, but had a wide base - probably nine inches by seven inches, at least, but only three or four inches deep. As a child, she had been allowed to play with many of the things on her mother’s curio shelf, but this box was never one of them. Touching it always provoked a stern warning from her mother. “Keep your hands away from that box!” she would say, always snapping.

Not that it mattered. The box was fitted with a metal clasp, and a tiny padlock sealed it tightly shut. She had once asked her mother where the key was, and that was one of the only times her mother had smiled when discussing the box. “It’s gone, honey,” she said, her lips curling into a smile. “It’s long gone.”

Serena held the box with one hand while she idly traced the patterns of the intricate engraving with the index finger of her other hand. The box was smooth; aged; it almost felt as if the wood had obtained a glossy finish somehow, from the years of sitting in the curio cabinet undisturbed. Her finger wound its way down the lengths and spirals until it came to the lock. Cool, metallic, it felt…

Old. Brittle.

With a spark of excitement forming in the pit of her stomach, Serena considered the lock with intent. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, and definitely felt the metal of the old lock flexing beneath her strength.

After a day of memories, here she was again, hearing the distinct voice of her mother snapping at her to leave the box alone--not to touch it, but to set it down and leave well enough alone. But, God rest her soul, her mother wasn’t here.

With the glee of a willfully disobedient child, Serena carried the box back into the kitchen, where she had found a small tool kit hours before. She set the box down and hastily opened the tool kit, locating a screwdriver with a cute floral-print handle. Oh, Mother and her floral prints she thought as she grabbed the screwdriver and slipped the flat blade into a crack in the center of the lock. She twisted the screwdriver with all her strength and, to her surprise, the lock exploded into a mess of bent metal with her very first try.

She peeled the remnants of the lock away, and at last, the clasp was freed.

The hinge hadn’t moved in so many years that it had become stiff, and Serena couldn’t release it with her fingers. Even though she was afraid to mar the metal or the wood behind it, she carefully worked the flat of the screwdriver behind the clasp and pried at it, ever-so-gently. It finally let go with a squeak of protest.

Her mother’s warnings still sounded in her mind, but they were drowned out by the thrum of adrenaline and excitement buzzing in her head. The lid didn’t want to open either, but she was able to work those stiff hinges apart with her hands.

“Don’t touch the box!”

Startled, the box crashed to the kitchen counter as Serena jumped backwards. She looked around, certain of what she had just heard. Serena heard her mother’s voice, clear as a bell just then, but…

No, no. That was impossible. Shadows and memories. Her nervousness about what’s in the box amplifying her tension, her emotion--that must be it. Serena took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her mother was gone, and the grief swelled like a wave once more. She wasn’t ready for it again, not just now. Not yet. She closed her eyes and wiped her tears on the back of her shirt sleeve.

When she opened them again, there sat the box on the counter, clasp undone, hinges waiting to spread wide and reveal the mysterious contents to her.

With more excitement than trepidation, but a little bit of both, Serena cracked the lid.

She gave a small gasp as she beheld the treasure inside. The hollow eyes and expressionless face of a perfectly-painted porcelain mask gazed up at her, out of the box.

Her mother’s warnings unheeded, she reached inside to touch it; to feel the smooth texture of the pristine mask, to hold it in her hands and admire it.

*****

“Serena.” Whose voice was that?

“Serena.” Where was she?

“Mom, come on...what’s with you?”

As if waking from a dream, Serena became vaguely aware that her husband Thomas and daughter, Haydin, were the ones calling her name. Reality came rushing back, and she realized that there was no daylight shining through the windows anymore. How much time had passed?

She looked around and realized that she was sitting in the living room again. In her lap was the old wooden box, clasp closed, and she was clutching it with white-knuckled fervor.

“Oh, hi guys,” she offered weakly. “I must have lost track of time, and there’s so many memories here, and…”

Thomas reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

“I know, honey. It’s OK. I shouldn’t have let you come alone. Tomorrow, I’ll come over with you, and we can tackle some of this together.” He gave her his best reassuring smile. She loved that about him. He could read her like a book, and always seemed to know what she needed. Except...

“Well, maybe not tomorrow. I think I may need a break after today.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “Let’s get going for now. I can lock up, why don’t you get to the car?”

Serena was vaguely aware of the box in her hands as she and Haydin walked to the car. She didn’t know why she was squeezing the box so tight, but she did know that she couldn’t lose it or drop it, no matter what.

*****

In the days following, Serena’s dreams grew darker. She hesitated to tell Thomas about them--she was afraid of them, but it was difficult to call them nightmares. Not only did they feel so real, she was never scared. They were full of elements that should make them feel like nightmares, but she always felt in control. None of the individual elements scared her. They made her feel at home; in many ways, she liked how she felt during these almost-troublesome dreams.

Until the dreams started to coincide with reality, that is.

*****