Tucked In

Posted on Sat Jun 29th, 2024 @ 10:26pm by Lydia Dunham

509 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Winter is Coming
Location: Rockefeller State Park, New York
Timeline: September 3, 2010 - 10:30 p.m.

The van was home. After grandfather died. After the first cases of the virus started showing up. After the strange occurrences. The way New York City filled with horrors, decaying versions of people she had known, greeted as she went in and out of their penthouse. After all of that, the van became a refuge. Home.

One whole cabinet was filled to overflowing with brand-new sketchbooks, pencils, erasers, fine-line markers, and more. The first full week, she finished a sketchbook, small and thin, and filled it with before and after pictures of the people she had known. The barista who made her coffee. Mr. DeNunzio who sold newspapers that she only bought when she needed them for an art project. The security guard at the desk in the building where they lived.

She had a good memory. She could close her eyes and bring the person back, summon up the details. Not always a good thing but, because it was essential to her art, she had learned to live with the downside.

Tonight, Mr. ... Josh ... was tucked into a teardrop trailer not very far away. He was as nice as he remembered though he smiled more now. Or maybe he had before and she just wasn't able to see it. That could be.

Lydia changed into her favorite pair of pajamas, made sure that everything was back in its proper place, and climbed into bed. She sat there for a moment, loosely braiding her hair, and then settled against the pillows stacked in a semi-circle around her. She rolled on her side, facing a collage of photos, of her grandfather, pulled the blankets up and tried to go to sleep.

Tried being the operative word.

Her memory, when she was 'HIS' prisoner, wasn't perfect; there were parts that were missing and although she had promised to try to get them back, to help the police, there was a part of her that had resisted the process. What she had recalled, came back to visit her sometimes at night. Not fun.

And so, the part of her that didn't want to remember, tried to stop her from going to sleep on the off chance that a nightmare or a new memory. She lay, curled up in her double bed, with a battery operated nightlight on and looked at the pictures, one by one. Each of them held a member of her time with her grandfather.

Standing like Napoleon, because it was his idea, while she sketched him. Lying on the loveseat in the library, staring into the fireplace, watching the flames undulate, while he read to her, his deep voice lulling her to sleep. Going to an amusement park for the first time and hearing him laugh. Him taking her to the golf course where she loved the hat he gave her and surprised everyone, including herself, by 'not sucking' her first time out.

Memory after memory with as much detail as she could bring back until finally, mercifully, she drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

 

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