A hollowed-out impression in the dark blue velvet was all that remained of my mother’s gold locket.
My twelve-year-old niece, the family’s designated angel, had finally taken the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.
Her mother, my sister-in-law, would call me a liar.
She’d paint me as a forgetful, paranoid woman making up vicious stories, the same performance she gave every time one of my sentimental things vanished after they visited.
What that perfect little thief and her vicious mother didn’t count on was that I was done playing their game, and I had just bought the one thing that would turn their quiet, perfect lives into a shrieking, undeniable siren of public humiliation.
The Silence After the Hummingbirds
The house settled into a quiet hum after they left. It was a familiar silence, one that followed every family gathering, but tonight it felt different. Heavier. I ran a dishrag over the already clean granite countertop, the circular motions a poor substitute for the frantic energy buzzing under my skin. My husband, Tom, was in the living room, channel surfing with the volume low, a sign he was decompressing from the social marathon.
The silence wasn’t just the absence of my brother-in-law’s booming laugh or my sister-in-law Cynthia’s high, sharp chatter. It was a pocket of air where something used to be. For the past year, it had become a ritual I dreaded. After they left, I’d do a quiet, secret inventory. A little silver salt spoon from my grandmother. A signed first edition of a poetry book I loved. Small things. Sentimental things. Things you could convince yourself you’d merely misplaced.
Tonight’s party had been for my son Ben’s return from his first semester at college. It was loud and joyful, full of overlapping stories and the clinking of glasses. Cynthia had been in top form, regaling everyone with tales of her daughter Madison’s latest achievements. Madison, at twelve, was the family’s designated angel. Her blonde hair was always in a perfect, glossy ponytail, her manners impeccable. She’d spent most of the evening curled in an armchair, reading a book, a portrait of youthful innocence.
I dried my hands and walked through the dining room, my eyes scanning the mantelpiece. The pair of tiny, porcelain hummingbirds were still there. Good. I continued down the hall toward our bedroom, my heart starting a low, anxious drumbeat against my ribs. It was a stupid feeling, this premonition of loss. It made me feel old and suspicious, two things I never wanted to be. But the feeling was as real as the hardwood floor beneath my feet. On the bureau, next to my jewelry box, was a small, framed photo of my mother. And pinned to the velvet matting beside it, there was usually a small, silver brooch shaped like a swallow in flight. Usually.
A Husband’s Gentle Logic
“Honey?” Tom’s voice came from the living room. “You okay? You’ve been pacing.”
I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, staring at the empty spot on the photo mat. The absence of the swallow felt like a hole punched through the wall. I walked back into the living room and stood in front of the television, blocking his view.
“It’s gone,” I said. My voice was flat.
He muted the TV, his brow furrowing in concern. “What’s gone?”
“The swallow brooch. Mom’s brooch. It was on the bureau.”
Tom sighed, a soft, tired sound. It wasn’t a dismissive sigh, but it was saturated with a gentle, masculine logic that I knew was coming. “Elaine, are you sure? You wore that blue blazer last week, didn’t you check the lapel?”
“I haven’t worn that blazer in a month,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “It was on the mat. I look at it every single day, Tom. It’s gone.”
He got up from the couch and put his hands on my shoulders, his touch meant to be grounding. “Okay, okay. Let’s not jump to conclusions. We had a dozen people in the house. It could have gotten knocked off. It could be under the bureau, or in a drawer…”
“Only one person went into our bedroom,” I said, the words tasting like poison.
His face tightened. “Don’t. Don’t start that again. She’s a kid, Elaine. She’s a sweet kid. What possible reason would she have to take a vintage silver brooch?”
“What reason did she have to take the salt spoon? Or my copy of Ariel? Or the tiny music box that played ‘Für Elise’?” I was ticking them off on my fingers, a litany of small, strange thefts that sounded insane when spoken aloud. “Every time they visit, something of mine, something with meaning, vanishes.”
“Coincidence,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He wanted to believe it. For the sake of his brother, for the sake of family harmony, he needed to believe I was just a messy, forgetful, fifty-two-year-old woman. “You’re stressed. Ben’s leaving again in a week. Let’s just look for it in the morning. It’ll turn up. It always does.”
But it never did.
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