Prologue: The Locket - An Locket (Part 4)

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Prologue: Part 4

My mother's brown eyes stared back at me as I elevated the canvas to stand parallel to my face. A sky blue background faded into wisps of hair that came loose from her braid. Even in a painting she looked serene. The work was from her shoulders up, yet far enough away that I could make out bits of nature that created a background. I recognized her signature strokes and use of color instantly. This was a self portrait, the only painting I had found that focused on a subject other than a tree, lake, or the occasional skyscraper.

To my - albeit - limited knowledge she did not draw people. I marveled at the work. My mother's thick hair was tucked tightly behind her ear while small strands had escaped as though she was met with a soft breeze in the bright blue summer day she created. Her face turned slightly to the right, allowing a fuller view of her profile. Just as in all her photographs she stared contently from behind the brushstrokes, her lips forming a grin that engaged the apples of her cheeks ever so slightly. Around her neck lay a small silver locket that was almost covered by her braid which rested over her right shoulder.

An airy laugh escaped my mouth as I continued to stare in astonishment. I never felt as if I was staring a ghost in the face. I felt as if something had finally clicked, here was my mother the way she had created herself. Not sanitized in the way the packed boxes had felt or the single paged file detailing her disappearance. This was absolutely unfiltered. Art has that power of capturing one's true intentions.

You cannot lie through a painting.

I had nearly forgotten Martha's presence when she gently patted my knee, giving me a soft smile of encouragement. I returned her sentiment before looking down at the albums. Gingerly I sat the painting in my lap and picked up the first album. The cover was made of fake leather and the entire photo book was no more than one inch thick.

I let out another laugh, this time louder and more genuine as the photographs flooded my view. Most of the photos were grainy, and almost all were personless; bright summertime landscapes or street life. I recognized a few of the photographs to be similar to paintings I came across in the unit.

As I went through the second album I found a few of herself scattered about. Most were candids, a profile here, the back of her head there. In the few where she was actively posing there was always something that skewed or blurred her appearance. The sun catching the attention of the lens, creating a white spot that overflowed onto her person, or a shadow from a tree branch shielding half of her face.

The only one that captured her fully was taken from several feet away. She sat criss-cross on a wooden bench, her hands folded peacefully in her lap. All of her hair was pulled over to one side to reveal a small pink flower tucked behind her ear. The photograph was nearly perfect save for a bright spot in the bottom right corner. Something in a clump of grass captured the flash. An almost indistinguishable circle, a silver piece divided into four quadrants, only two of which I could make out. Something that resembled an addition sign and a star. I squinted at it what and odd detail, perhaps my mother's? Something she dropped?

Underneath was a larger picture of the area. A small pond surrounded by tall grass and trees took over the foreground, the bench sat in the back right corner, this time personless. I recognized the place vaguely from a painting I had seen in one of the boxes.

As I continued to flip through the photos I could not wipe the smile that had firmly planted itself on my face. Finally I had something, a solid connection to her. I was seeing her world through her own eyes.

Martha sat next to me as I giddily leafed through and examined each photograph, grinning as I recognized the burgundy jacket that we found in the boxes years before. At this point in my life, Martha was the only person - aside I suppose from Barry - who knew about Unit #16. I looked up at her for a moment mid-way through the second album.

"Thank you." I stated simply, reaching my hand out to touch hers gingerly. She nodded and smiled, evidence of crow's feet forming at the edge of her eyes as she did.

Martha had never known my mother, but I often wondered if she was curious about her like I was. In some way I imagined this was exciting to her, but as we exchanged a momentary glance before going back to the album, I realized her expression of happiness was centered on me, not on the revelation of my mother's painting or her photographs, but on my reaction to them.

When I was younger I often made Martha tell me stories about her own mother, just so I could imagine a different life. It was like being given the outline to a play and then adding in your own characters who were gently guided throughout the scene. Martha was kind in that way, indulging my simplest needs.

As we finished album two, I looked up to see that it had begun to rain outside Unit #16. A small puddle formed where the concrete platform that held the unit met the asphalt. I pulled on my jacket, thankful I had thought to bring a raincoat since I was notorious for ignoring weather reports and subsequently getting caught in a downpour.

I opened the front cover of the third album slowly, wanting desperately to make the moment last as long as I possibly could. My heart instantly dropped. The first page was blank. I turned to the next, and the next, all blank.

I started at the empty plastic sheets in disbelief as I continued to go through barren pages. Why would they pack this if it was empty?

Suddenly a flash of color caught my eye. There sat a single photo of a baby swaddled in a lilac blanket. My hands shook as I took it from the plastic sheath. The child couldn't have been more than four months, an exuberant smile overtook the baby's face as it stared up at the camera. I cradled the photo in my hands before turning it over. The back read: May, the sunshine to my spring day.

I stared at the cursive script in disbelief. I turned quickly to Martha and attempted to pose a question but all I could get out was a stutter. Martha placed her hand on my knee and nodded, her own lips were pursed together and I could tell she was close to tears. I looked back at the album, the spot in which the photo had been was not empty.

A single silver locket rested underneath the layer of plastic where the picture had been. A locket like the one in my mother's self-portrait. The clasp on the locket was loose and opened easily with my one free hand. June 2nd, was written in the same cursive script as the caption on the photo. Eighteen years ago today, my birth date.

A wave of serenity washed over me. I suppose after eighteen years of looking I hadn't known exactly what I was searching for. Now I held it in my hand. Proof that my mother loved me. From the moment I saw the lone photo of a newborn swaddled in a lilac blanket I knew what this album was. It wasn't another collection of future or past painting inspiration, this was my baby book. It was a sign that she cared.

"This is me," I held up the photo to Martha. "This was going to be my baby book. I didn't think I had one of those, why did she start it and just-" My voice trailed off and I closed the locket with a quiet click. I decided to leave that question for another day and allow myself to revel in my new found treasures.

My shoulders relaxed and I curled forward holding the photo and locket to my heart. I did not cry, for once I felt a piece of my curiosity quenched - if only for the moment.

Martha sat with me in silence, with only the light sound of rain outside Unit #16. 

Alrighty, let's get to the good stuff ! 

Present day commencing in 3... 2... 1... Scroll ! 


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