THE BOX OF BROKEN PROMISES
Lately, Ive had the uncomfortable suspicion that someone else lives in this house with Tom and me. No, not a ghost. Ive always imagined ghosts as serious beingsif they show up, its for some significant purpose, not for the everyday nonsense Ive experienced. This was something far more mundane. Like a mischievous sprite.
It began with my gym socks disappearing. Just one at a time, naturally. If it was the washing machine, I could have shrugged it offevery woman in Englands lost the odd sock to the drum. But these, the white ones with the red stripe I wear to yoga, stared at me daily from my drawer. Almost accusingly, as if reminding me of how long its been since Ive touched them.
And then one day, gone. First one, then the other, vanished as if by magic.
A week later, they reappeared in exactly the same place, rolled tightly. Resting on top was a torn bit of slightly smudged paper, typewritten in wobbly letters:
You forgot about us for 127 days. We counted.
Was this your doing? I demanded, cornering Tom as he scrolled through his tablet in the lounge. Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me to lose weight and get to the gym?
He looked at me over his reading glasses, baffled, and shook his head.
If you say so, I replied, even though a part of me thought he was up to his old tricks. Toms always been one for a joke.
Next went missing: my favourite hair clipthe one that always sat on the hall mirror. And a lipstick, the expensive one I saved for special occasions, tucked safely in my handbag.
Both turned up in the kitchen cupboard, nestled between the porridge oats and pasta. Both had notes.
On the clip: Make your mind updo you want long hair or short? Im tired of being abandoned, then missed.
On the lipstick: And when was the last special occasion? Im on the verge of drying up.
This isnt funny anymore, I hissed at Tom, shaking him awake from his sofa nap before Sunday roast.
Honestly, are you mad? he snapped, ruffling his hair. Why would I torment myself with silly pranks like that?
It was a fair point. Toms foolish sometimes, but never stupid. A cold prickle of anxiety crept over me.
I started mentally recording where I placed everything, sometimes retracing my steps again and again. I even visited the GP, worrying about my memory. The kindly old doctor ran the usual tests and pronounced my memory sharper than his.
Still, things kept vanishing.
My best pens. The striped blouse I loved. Hand cream.
And, worst of all, the keys to the cottagea lost cause that had Tom grumbling for a week.
I grew jumpy: sleeping badly, flinching at every creak and groaning floorboard, endlessly fiddling with my phone, keys, purse.
Then, last Saturday, things got stranger still.
Determined to tidy the closet at last, I spent the morning clearing out old boots and jumpers. There, tucked inside an empty shoe box, were all my missing things, neatly arranged like a charity shop window display.
My blouse was draped around my pleated minias if they were dancing. Next to it, a note:
Have you forgotten how to dance?
My pens, sorted by colour:
Were tired of stress. You chew us when youre anxious. Let us rest.
The cottage keys, their rings laced together like holding hands:
We just fancied some funno ones been to the cottage in months. But, unlike some, we came back on our own.
I found myself bewildered.
There was something cheeky, wiseeven sad in those slipshod notes, as though Id written them myself, but in another life, one where I had time to speak with my belongings.
As I prepared to close the box, I saw one more notethis one in a far corner, an anonymous grey scrap, unattached to any lost thing. Just a message.
The words were shaky, ink slightly smudged as though tears had bloomed there:
You promised that little girl in the mirror youd be an artist. I am that girl. Its lonely, here in the box of broken promises and forgotten dreams.
I sat on the closet floor for a long time, head resting against the crowded shelves, memories unspooling.
There I was in nursery, tongue between my teeth with concentration, drawing a house, sunshine, Mum and Dad and my little sister in felt tips. School art lessonsthe thrill of seeing watercolours swirl across wet paper. The sharp scent of oils at the community art studio. Museum hush, each brushstroke like music, the enthusiastic chatter of the guide.
I used to think that would be my life.
Then I decided it would be a hobbymy escape.
And then
Nothing.
Not for lack of time, really, but for putting it off again and again, replacing it with more important things until that warm, hopeful glow vanishedjust as quietly as the socks and pens.
I ran my fingers over the last note.
The paper felt strangely warmpulsing a bit. Or perhaps that was just my hands, trembling with regret.
An extra hour at the shopping centre, another crime drama on tellywere those genuinely more important than my own dream?
That night I tossed and turned, sleep evading me. At two I slipped out of bed, heart heavy.
Where are you off to? Tom mumbled sleepily.
Go back to sleep I muttered.
Somewhere in the closet were my old watercolours, I was sure of it. As I walked through the hall, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrorthe little girl. She looked frightened. But hopeful.
