by Robin Gold
Sitting down in a club chair, Libby narrowed her eyes. “Oh yeah? What color are they?”
Busted. Clara had no idea what she could have been thinking. Her mother’s keen sense of awareness had never worked in her favor. Sighing, she cringed, lacking the energy to pretend she hadn’t just been caught red-handed with her dirty paw in the cookie jar. “Crap. I’m sorry, Libby. I didn’t notice. But, I’m sure they really are beautiful. All of your arrangements are.” She attempted to save face, though this was no lie. Her mother’s glorious floral displays were worthy of the cover of House & Garden magazine, and while Clara’s bouquets paled in comparison, Libby had passed her botanical passion down to her.
“I don’t get it. I thought chrysanthemums were your favorite,” exhaled Libby, deflated.
“They are,” Clara assured her. Because the chrysanthemum blooms in November, it represents the light of hope in dark times, which is why she had always loved it most, despite its ordinary appearance.
“I can’t believe you didn’t see the arrangement. It’s huge! What are you, a zombie?”
Clara knew her mother’s words were teasing, but only on the surface. This was not the first time since Sebastian’s untimely passing that Libby had compared her to the so-called walking dead. Nor was it the second, or tenth time. Come to think of it, “zombie” was a pretty accurate description, Clara—feeling numb like usual—admitted to herself, offering her mother a forced, unconvincing half-smile.
She had tried her damnedest to bounce back after Sebastian’s “accident,” as she referred to it. Even the word “death” was too painful and final for Clara to accept, much less say out loud. In the blink of an eye, her entire universe had shattered, instantly becoming an inconceivable memory. BAM! In one second. Just like that . . . gone. It struck Clara on a daily basis how one moment—one little, tiny, itty-bitty moment—could change everything. And it never ceased to leave her trembling.
Still, though it felt like something had been brutally ripped from the inside of her chest, Clara had no intention of going down without a fight. At least, not at first. The last remaining sparkle of eternal optimism in her wouldn’t allow it. Thus, she had tried every known solution under the sun to help her cope with her unbearable grief and get her deteriorating life back on track, including, but not limited to: private counseling, group counseling, acupuncture, denial, kick-boxing, cupping, meditation, music/sound therapy, bonsai (“Clip clip, hooray!”), prescription drugs (antidepressants and anxiety medication), illegal drugs (marijuana and ecstasy, which ironically made Clara feel sad), aromatherapy, writing (she lit her “grief journal” on fire), spiritual cleansing, self-help books, knitting therapy (“Knit one, purl two, everyone can heal, so can you!”), dolphin therapy (don’t ask), long contemplative walks, short violent runs, Camp Good Grief for bereft adults, needlepoint, and deep tissue massage (ouch!).
Finally, when all else had failed, and Clara continued to sink deeper and deeper into melancholy, she decided to attempt suicide by leaving her car running in her closed garage. Only that didn’t work either, thanks to her busted garage door, which had an aggravating mind of its own and refused to remain shut—prompting Clara to recall the film Poltergeist and wonder if perhaps the home she and Sebastian loved so much was built atop an ancient Indian burial ground.
After eight excruciating months, Clara had officially suffered her fill of torture attempting to pick herself up, dust herself off, and start all over again. Ultimately, she’d gained nothing but command of the dolphin alphabet, a couple clay pinch-pots, and a pathetic-looking handmade sweater with two neck holes. And so, with her grief sitting on her soul like a ten-ton brick, Clara—the same peppy girl voted “Most Likely to Brighten Your Day” in her High School senior yearbook—finally yielded to the escalating despair she’d battled so desperately to overcome, and allowed herself to descend into a thick, black fog of nothingness. At last, accepting that no other viable alternative existed, Clara ran out of steam and gave up on life. Simple as that. She just couldn’t fight anymore. She was too depleted and broken to try, or even care. She was done—like her Frisky Kittens in a Fruit Bowl needlepoint that she’d completed a tenth of and knew would never see another stitch.
“Well, zombie or not, it’s a treat to have you home.” Libby winked at Clara.
“So when did this box arrive?” Clara steered the conversation in a new direction, hoping to avoid further discussion about her disappointing absentmindedness. “Why didn’t you mention anything about it to me?”
“I called you in Boston when it was delivered back in July and you specifically told me to put it in your bedroom. So I did.” Libby sipped her wine. “Remember?”
Clara drew a complete blank, which was reflected in her vacant expression.
“You said it probably wasn’t anything important, or it would have been sent to you directly, and you’d just open it when you came home next.” Libby continued to attempt to jog her memory, but Clara’s confused appearance revealed that she might as well have been speaking Klingon. “Hello? Is any of this ringing a bell?” Libby’s voice was now laced with unequivocal concern. “Christ on the cross,” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers a few times when Clara didn’t respond. “Come on. Get with the program, Clara-pie. Wake up!”
Right then, Leo, bless his little buffer heart, cleared his throat, interrupting, “I would like to propose a toast.” He raised his glass. “To Clara! Welcome home. It is wonderful to have you back.” He smiled at his sister.
Setting her concerns aside for now, Libby lifted her goblet and grinned as well. “Hear, hear! I will happily drink to that.”
The reunited Black family clinked their glasses together.
“Me too,” Clara felt obliged to say, wondering how she was going to make it through the weekend with her remaining sanity intact. Gazing out the music room window at the gently falling snow, she longed to be one of those snowflakes, swirling in the evening wind so peaceful and carefree, that come dawn would dissolve with the rising sun.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Open the package,” Libby coaxed, nodding at it as she sipped her wine, knocking Clara out of her dismal reverie.
Leo leaned over to get a better look. “There’s no return address?”
“Nope.” Clara peeled off the brown paper wrapping. “But maybe there’s a note or something inside.”
“That’s strange,” he remarked.
When Clara finally managed to rip the cardboard box open and first glimpsed the astonishing object that lay inside, her jaw all but hit the Oriental area rug. “No . . . way . . .” she stammered in disbelief.
“What is it?” asked Libby. “Let’s see.”
Flabbergasted, Clara slowly, and ever so carefully, removed the clear, foot-long, cylinder-shaped tube from the protective bed of Styrofoam peanuts it had been cushioned in, making sure not to damage it. She stared at the startling item with silent, genuine amazement.
“What the heck is that?” Leo asked.
“Yes, what is it?” echoed Libby, bending down with a grunt to pick up a couple of rogue peanuts that had fallen on the floor. “It looks futuristic.”
“Just the opposite,” Clara murmured, transfixed.
Suddenly, Libby gasped. “Wait a minute . . .” Giving the mysterious object a closer gander, her eyes expanded like saucers with a look of both shock and recognition. “I think I remember that thing. Yes . . . I do! I know what it is!”
Unable to tear her eyes from it, Clara softly stated, “It’s my fifth-grade time capsule.”
3.
Upon completing their history class unit on legendary ancient and lost civilizations, Miss Jordain, Clara’s fifth-grade teacher, assigned each student to create a personal time capsule. Referencing a worn Oxford English Dictionary, she read aloud to the class, “A time capsule is defined as a container used to store for posterity a selection of objects thought to be repre
sentative of life at a particular time.” After listing some specific guidelines to follow when filling the capsule, Miss Jordain distributed to each student an empty glass tube and announced that she would collect their finished creations the following week. “I want you all to think very hard and very carefully about the personal artifacts and information that you choose to include in your time capsule,” she cautioned. “Do not lose sight of the fact that it will be used as an important method of communication with people in the future. For other generations it will serve as a valuable reminder of your story so that it is not forgotten or lost, like our dear Atlantis and Lemuria.”
Never in Clara’s wildest dreams did she imagine she’d see her time capsule again. In fact, she’d completely forgotten about it. Which was why to be sitting here now, in her mother’s music room, decades later, balancing the “ancient” relic in the palms of her hands sent shivers down her spine.
Her fifth-grade time capsule contained an interesting collection of gems: a photograph taken after a January blizzard of Clara, Libby, and Leo poking their heads out the icicle-laced window of Maple Manor; a crinkled admissions ticket stub to Disney World; an individual packet of McDonald’s “fancy” ketchup; a “Finding Your Way” Brownies patch, which Clara had earned with her troop by mastering command of the compass; and a small, brittle molar tooth. A horrified expression crossed Libby’s face when Clara displayed the tooth. “Where did you get that?” she harrumphed. “Does the Tooth Fairy owe you money?”
At the bottom of the time capsule, tucked neatly inside of its original pink envelope, Clara also discovered Natalie Marissa’s official Cabbage Patch Kid birth certificate.
“My God. Remember what you went through to get one of those dolls?” Libby smiled. “I had never seen you so hell-bent on attaining something in all my life. The unwavering determination you had . . .” Shaking her head, she chuckled at the memory. “There was no stopping you.”
Clara recalled her quest to have a Cabbage Patch Kid, searching toy store after toy store, adding her name to waiting list after waiting list—she’d even once contemplated Cabbage Patch–napping a doll from her friend Stella. Finally, after trying for over a year, Clara’s prayers were answered in the form of Natalie Marissa. The moment she held Natalie Marissa in her arms and inhaled her sweet, fresh plastic and artificial baby powder scent, the pain and frustration of her struggle to adopt a Cabbage Patch Kid instantly vanished. At the time, Clara viewed Natalie Marissa’s birth certificate as an unequivocal symbol of hope: tangible proof that good things do indeed come to those who are patient and believe. And so into her time capsule it went.
Clara stared at the birth certificate, a million miles away. She wished she could have but a tiny fraction of that youthful hope back again. If only it were possible . . .
The final remaining relic inside the glass tube had been a specific requirement by Miss Jordain. Slowly, Clara removed it as a surprising flood of memories washed over her. She gawked at the tightly folded sheet of white paper before carefully unfolding it. On it was a detailed list of things ranging significantly in importance that Clara hoped to accomplish before age thirty-five, when she figured her time would probably be up, just as it had been for her father. Miss Jordain’s original assignment had been to create a list of everything you hoped to accomplish before the end of your lifetime, which implied when you were wrinkled and gray with grandchildren and hair growing in places it shouldn’t. But when Clara asked Miss Jordain for special permission to modify the term of her list, explaining the reason for her request, Miss Jordain gave Clara’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and nodded, “Of course that’s all right, dear.”
Miss Jordain did attempt to convince her that there was absolutely no correlation between when her father passed and when her time would eventually come, but Clara was steadfast in her conviction, and when the wheels in her head began spinning, she suddenly feared the worst for her teacher, gulping, “Why? Are you thirty-five yet?”
“Okay then,” Miss Jordain, forty-seven, replied, smiling at Clara, “I look forward to receiving your time capsule next week,” and continued strolling down the narrow aisle of desks.
“That’s terrible!” Leo almost spit out his wine when his sister recounted this tale. “Why haven’t I heard about this before? I would’ve straightened you right out. I had no idea you were really convinced that life ends at age thirty-five. Jesus, that’s awful.”
“Not as awful as when Miss Jordain called me after school that day to suggest it might be beneficial to have a friendly little For Whom the Bell Tolls chat with my daughter with the vivid imagination.” Libby extended an open hand to Clara. “Okay, Wednesday Addams. Let’s see your list.”
But Clara was too absorbed in reading it to hear her mother’s request. Created at age ten, before reality encroached upon that magical sense of childhood power that allowed her to believe anything was possible—something she had continued to believe up until Sebastian’s “accident”—it felt to Clara as if her list belonged to a complete and utter stranger.
And in a way, it did.
4.
Clara tossed and turned in bed. She’d been struggling to fall asleep for almost two hours (typical since Sebastian’s death) with Patrick Swayze staring at her (not typical) when the intoxicating aroma of grilled cheese sandwiches wafted up the staircase, down the hall, and underneath her bedroom door. This was one of the perks of having her brother around. Clara was happy that Leo had decided to pack a suitcase and lodge at Libby’s, rather than at his own bachelor pad in the city, while she was in town. Lord knows their mother couldn’t have been more elated to have both of her children home for the holiday. Throwing off her covers, Clara grabbed her favorite Harvard sweatshirt, which had once belonged to Sebastian, and proceeded directly to the kitchen.
“Hey. What are you doing up?” Leo, standing by the stove, waved his spatula at her.
Clara shrugged, inhaling the heavenly scent. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. But, I have been craving one of your sandwiches for months.”
“Say no more. You want it with or without?”
“With, please.” Clara yawned, taking her usual seat at the kitchen table.
“Order in! One midnight grilled cheese with avocado coming right up.”
Once again, Clara forced a semi-smile that sort of made it look as if she had to use the bathroom. She had no idea what Leo’s secret touch was—it could have been the precise ratio of Muenster to American cheese—but his grilled cheese was honestly the best she had ever tasted, and seemingly impossible to replicate. She’d long since given up on trying.
When their late-night snack was ready, Leo joined Clara at the table. She was grateful to have this time alone with her brother. It reminded her of the good old days. Throughout the years, they had probably spent hundreds of hours bonding at this kitchen table during the midnight hour while the rest of the sane world slumbered, discussing anything and everything—or sometimes, just sitting there together in silence, not uttering a single word, with their noses buried in some book or magazine, warmed by the comfort of each other’s company. These were the sacred hours that Clara missed most when she was in Boston, the hours when their masks came off that reminded her no matter how low or lonesome she felt, she was never really alone. Nor was her brother.
While they ate, Leo picked up Clara’s time capsule, which had been left on the table when everyone retired to their bedrooms for the evening. “I wish I’d made one of these when I was in elementary school.” He eyed it enviously. “How incredible is it that your teacher took the time and energy to send these back to her students twenty odd years later?”
“I know,” Clara nodded while chewing. “I thought about that before. It couldn’t have been easy for her to locate everybody.” It was difficult for Clara to imagine that Miss Jordain, the same woman who was rumored to enjoy topping her RITZ crackers with children’s bone marrow, had extended
the impressive effort to return the time capsules to their rightful owners. Perhaps she wasn’t so wicked after all. “I wonder why she chose to send them back to us now? You know? Why exactly at this particular point in time?”
“You mean in July?” Leo corrected her.
“Whatever. Think she had a reason?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Could be.” Leo unfolded Clara’s list of things she had hoped to accomplish before age thirty-five. “Let’s see what we have here, shall we?” Grinning mischievously, he began reading aloud:
• Have a pet dog (who cares if it sheds! BESIDES LIBBY!)
• Replace Lincoln’s mom’s beautiful vase I broke
• Serve on a real live court jury (awesome!!!)
• Visit the Wisconsin Dells
• Dig up Leo’s recorder from the backyard & apologize for burying it (& letting him stay punished for losing it!)
“I still can’t believe you did that, by the way,” he interjected. “Nor can I believe you managed to keep it a secret from me for all these years. That was low. Very impressive . . . but low.”
“I’m sorry. But if you’d been forced to listen to you play that darn thing night after night you would have buried it too.”
Leo shot her a deadpan look. “A), That recorder wasn’t even mine. It belonged to River Pointe Elementary School and was on loan to me for our class performance in the Spring Concert. B), That recorder was awesome. And C), I wasn’t that bad.”
“Uh, I love you dearly, but I’m gonna have to beg to differ with you on that one.” Clara finished off the last of her sandwich, muttering, “Delicious.”
“Moving on!” Leo grinned and continued reading: