Found in the Attic
He struggled down the narrow, creaky attic ladder, clutching what he found under one arm.
The attic — the only part of their brand new home they hadn’t inspected a thousand times — was full of surprises.
Before he hit the other flight of stairs to the living area, he looked at it closely in the light. It was beautiful. A rustic wood — not like the kind the hipsters buy brand new — but a natural rustic, old. You only achieved this look once you’ve lived. It had metal hinges, bronze and dull. The lock on it looked sturdier than what was necessary on something like this, but he could still break into it. She would love it — the mystery, the allure. It’d remind her of her work she’d been missing at the museum.
“What’s that?” she said as he entered the living room, her voice still and lazy.
“Found it in the attic. It’s locked.”
Her eyes lit up. “What do you think’s in there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Open it!”
The light in her eyes hadn’t been there in so long. He cherished the moment, that expectancy and interest there.
“I’ll need something to cut through the lock. I don’t know where we packed my tools away. Run to the store with me?”
In the car, she brightened, was talkative. He took in her words like fresh mountain air. She had so much to say after weeks of quiet.
“What do you think is in it?” he asked her.
“Treasure map. Duh,” she joked.
“Seriously. Best case scenario — what’s in it?”
“Hmm..” She thought a moment. “Something interesting from someone’s life where we can get a hint to who they were — a secret, a memory. The object could be anything, really.”
He smiled.
Back at home, they sat on the floor with the box between them. He played with the new tool, figuring out how to use it.
“You don’t look like you know what you’re doing,” she said with a laugh.
That laugh. The cackle that turned heads in bars when they were younger. He missed that laugh.
“I got it I got it,” he said. “Ready? Stand back in case something flies off.”
She backed up a bit, eyes wide. He looked at her — stared, actually. She was so beautiful.
The lock broke with a crack. She jumped and shrieked, then laughed at herself. He loved when she laughed at herself.
Her arm reached for the box, pulling off the lock. She opened it and looked inside.
But he didn’t look inside, only at her face. Her face would change soon — to either disappointment or excitement. He couldn’t take disappointment. Not now, not yet, not so soon in the new house. This house was supposed to make her happy. It was supposed to be far away from the illness that stole her dad — far away from the hurt. Here, he was supposed to make her happy again. Here, he wasn’t supposed to disappoint her. Here, he was supposed to know what to do with her, how to help her. It was supposed to be better for her here.
He watched her face, and what was that look? It wasn’t disappointment. It wasn’t excitement either. It was neutral. Always neutral.
“It’s a picture. And a necklace.” She held up the necklace, squinted at it.
“Wow, how old do you think it is?”
She shrugged.
“There’s a note on the back of it.” He flipped it around for her, hoping to see a glimmer in her eyes from this new detail. “What does it say?”
“It says Anne and Joseph, married June 1937. She’s wearing the necklace in the photo.” Her voice was steady, as unmoving as the box between them.
“That’s amazing,” he said. “It’s something interesting from someone’s life.”
She stared at the photo, face falling.
“It’s what you wanted it to be,” he said.
She stared at the photo. “I guess it is what I wanted.”
She gave him that fake half-smile, that new look born after the death. What he would give to never see that hiding face again. Disappointment would have been better. Disappointment implied happiness was possible, expected even.
The fake smile wasn’t supposed move into this house with her. This house was for new memories, for mystery wooden boxes, for healing. This was what she wanted.
He’d keep trying.
