Chapter 4--Mrs. Jones a.ka. The Memory Keeper
I gave a quick rap on the door of the Jones’ cottage. It was a sweet, tiny, white house that had originally been a camp and then was renovated to be a year-round home. It reminded me of a dollhouse, the perfect place for one of the nicest people I’d ever met. Mrs. Jones, a petite, doll-sized woman with salt and pepper hair, opened the door, a smile stretching wide across her face. “Christina! It’s good to see you, honey! Come on in for some milk and cookies!” Milk and cookies--somehow they could cure any trouble. I followed Mrs. Jones as she walked slowly to the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane. Polio had weakened her right leg as a child, but she didn’t let it stop her from doing what she wanted to do. A moment later, the table was set for what had been a regular tradition. I used to come over often, when Daddy was sick. It was a little getaway for me when I couldn’t stand waiting and watching what was happening in my house until I wanted to scream.
Mrs. Jones sat down across from me with her own milk and cookies. She reached over and squeezed my hand, her eyes filled with warmth and understanding. “How have you been? You haven’t stopped by in a while.”
I ducked my head and stared at my plate.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with the end of school…and Tad and I’ve been running around…and…,” I swallowed hard as my cheeks turned beet red.
Mrs. Jones blue eyes stared at me intently, as if they could see inside my head. “What’s the matter, Christy? You don’t usually have any trouble speaking to me.”
I let everything out in a rush, beginning with dinner and ending with our acorn escapade. Finally, I looked her in the eye. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Jones. I suppose you’ll be wanting to tell my mother.”
Laughter, rich and deep, filled the room as she leaned back in her chair. “Lord, no, child! I think the scare Randy gave you was plenty and you’ve already apologized to the people involved. Let’s keep this between us.”
Impulsively, I popped up and hugged her around the neck. “You are the biggest sweetheart in all the world!” She murmured her thanks and blushed as I sat back down.
We ate our snack in a comfortable silence, just enjoying the good food and company. I thought back to the many times I’d sat in this kitchen--in the fall, with the scent of crisp leaves all around after I helped rake. I would scatter them every time I made a big pile to jump in, and then start raking all over again. In the winter, I would help shovel snow and hot cocoa with marshmallows would be waiting by the fire. Spring was the time to help plant flowers. Though I came to work for Mrs. Jones, it never felt that way. The best part was sitting in her kitchen at the end and talking to her stories she gave me a treat.
When I had finished my cookies, I sat swinging my feet, anxiously awaiting what would follow. I was not to be disappointed. “Would you like to listen to Janey’s music box while I tell you about her?” Mrs. Jones asked me softly.
I sprang up in answer and headed back to her daughter, Janey’s room. I opened the door and it was as if the room was waiting for someone, waiting for Janey. There was a hush as I stepped in and sat down on the bed in a place where time stood still. Mrs. Jones had not changed anything in this room since Janey walked out; I could feel it in my bones. The walls were a soft pink with tiny rosebuds, the bedspread matched. The pillows were fluffed with a pink bear nestled in the middle. A white cushion invited me to sit in the window seat under delicate, lace curtains while a bookshelf chockfull of a girl’s favorite books sat next to it, waiting to be read. It was a place that always welcomed me and made me feel at home, as if someone wanted my company.
Mrs. Jones made her way to the dresser and carefully cradled a carved, wooden box in her arms. It was beautiful, covered lovingly with roses. She handed it gently to me before sitting my side, sighing sadly as I opened it. Its music filled the room and tears filled her eyes. “Janey’s daddy made that box for her when she was five. How she loved that box. Whenever it plays, it feels like she’s here.”
It was my turn to hold Mrs. Jones hand. She and I understood each other. We had both lost someone we loved with all of our hearts. “Mrs. Jones, tell me Janey’s story again, please.” Every time I came, I always asked because Mrs. Jones needed to tell it. I asked to hear the music, to sit in her room. Mrs. Jones would always say yes because she was Janey’s
memory keeper.
One day, years ago, her Janey had walked out on a sunny afternoon in summer and she had never come back because a car accident took her away. Eighteen years old, snuffed out. But that was not the story Mrs. Jones would tell me, that was the story the neighborhood would tell of poor Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones would tell me everything she loved about Janey, every happy and funny memory she could think of because Janey had been filled with joy and had done the same for her mother.
Mrs. Jones reached out and touched my cheek, a tear creeping down her face. “My Janey was so much like you, Christy. She had adventures every day; she got herself into mischief, she felt everything more than anyone else. You bring her back to me whenever you come.”
I wrapped an arm around her to try and comfort her. “I’m so sorry you lost Janey. I wish I could be your daughter.”
Mrs. Jones smiled sweetly though her voice was sad. “I’d like nothing better, sweetheart, but your mother needs you. I guess we’ll have to share. I have a few things to do. Make yourself at home, rest a while. Take all the time you need until you’re ready to go home.” She slipped out of the room.
I stretched out on Janey’s bed and looked to the right at the bedside table. A picture stared back at me of a girl with brown eyes and honey-colored hair. She wore a sweet smile that made me imagine she was giving it to me, that she was my friend, someone to talk to when my head was too crowded with heavy thoughts. I smiled back at her then closed my eyes. The light was soft, the music soothing all the hurt places inside. It was hard to explain. It was like this room gave me a hug every time. I think it was from Janey. I started to doze off, thinking about Mother. Mrs. Jones said my mother needed me. Did she really? I couldn’t be sure now that she’d been replaced by Mrs. Hyde. I guess there was only one way to find out. Before I left, I picked up Janey’s picture and whispered softly, “Janey, you’ve been there a while. Will you please look after my daddy until I can?” A warm feeling came over me, making me feel a little better--strong enough to go see my mother.
As I opened the door to leave, I glanced back, the music swirling around me. I could almost swear I felt Janey next to me and met her gaze in her picture. Magic lesson learned: Love never dies if there is someone to keep the memories alive. It was here in this room. Mrs. Jones’ love for Janey was here as she kept Janey‘s room and stories alive. Mr. Jones love was in the music box he had made for his daughter. Janey’s love was here too, for anyone who wanted and needed to feel it.