Dovetail by Karen McQuestion
We don’t actually fear death, we fear that no one will notice our absence, that we will disappear without a trace.
—T. S. Eliot
CHAPTER ONE
PEARL —— 1983
Time has a way of evening things out. I was beautiful once, turning heads and garnering admiring glances, but now I would not stand out in a group of my peers.
If you saw me in public, picking up prescriptions at the drugstore or sitting in the waiting room at one of my many doctors’ appointments, you wouldn’t give me a second glance. If you thought about me at all, you might think I looked like a nice white-haired grandma. Or, if you’re a mean-spirited type, you’d peg me as a broken-down old hag, one who’d lived a bit too long. One foot in the grave.
And you wouldn’t be wrong either way.
If you read a brief summary of my life, nothing would seem out of the ordinary. It would go like this: Born to an upper-middle-class family in a small town in Wisconsin in 1899, the second of seven daughters, Pearl married young and had one son. Upon the death of her husband, a World War I veteran, she was widowed in her forties and never remarried. After her husband’s death came a succession of office jobs, none of them noteworthy, but because she made some good investments in the stock market, she accrued enough to build a nice nest egg. When her father passed away, she moved back into her childhood home and spent most of her elder years living there until poor health forced her into an old folks’ home.
Phrased like that, it sounds like a very small, uneventful life. I guess in a way it has been. Honestly, I had planned for more. I was going to travel the world and have big adventures. So much for that.
Getting old sneaks up on you. People see you differently. Weaker. They use the word frail and rush to your side to help you over curbs and such. Others see you as a problem just for existing. I understand that and will not be offended if you’re wondering why God takes youngsters and leaves old-timers like me behind. I have often wondered the same thing myself. My body has long since worn out, held together now by spit and baling wire, my bones creaky, my joints complaining with every move.
I have regrets, many, many regrets. One night, while lying in bed, I realized that I’d broken each of the Ten Commandments at least once. It was a horrifying thought, made all the worse by realizing there’s nothing that can be done about it. What’s done is done. You can’t unring the bell. You can bet I would, if given a chance.
I find myself praying every day, something I never did much of before. Fear is what drives me. I don’t want to go to hell, if there even is such a place. And I know I’m not a shoo-in for heaven; this worries me.
You’d think after so many years, I would be as wise as an old owl, but if anything, the opposite is true. The more I learn, the less I understand, and the more uncertain I become. And maybe that’s just the way it should be—the afterlife as a mystery known only to God.
I do know one thing. I am the only one left who knows the truth about the final moments in the life of Alice Louise Bennett. She was my sister, only eighteen months older. The two of us were as different as the night sky and the morning sunrise. Alice was the one with a heart of gold. My father called her Ally-bird because she sang like a nightingale. She loved everyone in our family, but I always thought I was her favorite. She was the best of all of us.
There has to be a reason why I’m still around. Lately, I’ve been thinking that it may be to seek redemption. To that end, I’m on a quest to change my ways, to repair some of the damage I’ve done. When I meet my Maker and he says, “Pearl, what do you have to say for yourself?” I want to be able to say that at the end, I tried. Better late than never. The effort has to count for something.
Alice died at the tender age of nineteen. She would have lived much longer if not for me and my foolish pride. Her death was a great loss.
After she left this earth, nothing was ever the same again.
I miss her still.
CHAPTER TWO
1983
Joe was in group therapy when he got the news that someone had come to sign him out and he would soon be leaving the facility. This was a surprise. Just that morning, Dr. Jensen had told him he was nowhere near ready to be discharged from the Trendale Psychiatric Treatment Center. The good doctor, his face serious, had said, “In my professional opinion, you are still in need of a lot of help, the kind you can only get right here.”
“I’m legally an adult,” Joe said. “I can check myself out, right?” It made sense. He was twenty-two—old enough to vote, drink, and drive. He should be able to make decisions about his own health.