Rache

Solid brass door handles. The handle on Rache’s door was solid brass, and it came out at an angle so an old person could grab on to it easily. The door had a peephole and number on it, but Rache’s name had already been taken off. She didn’t live there anymore.

Everything in this room was now supposed to be mine. Well, not the furniture, but everything in the closet and in the drawers. The nightstand was hers, but not the lamp on top of it. The bed sheets and the curtains were gone already. So was Rache. All that was left was her stuff.

Rache’s funeral was going to be on Tuesday. She was going to be buried. Cremation was cheaper, but burial was easier. Rache had it already written out in her will what she wanted done. No decisions for anybody. That’s good. I didn’t want to make any decisions.

Her closet was huge. You walked in and there were two rows, one on either side, stuffed with dresses and suits and pants and blouses. I had always loved Rache’s clothes, how she always matched whatever it was that she was doing. She had a special pair of tan slacks and a black button-down shirt that she always wore for writing. Everything was in perfect order, pressed, and ready to wear. I was almost afraid to start taking things off the rack.

It suddenly occurred to me that Rache and I were probably the exact same size. I was taking these things home with me—and I could probably wear all these clothes. About half-way down on the left side, I saw a flash of blue—my favorite dress. I had to try. I stuck my head out of the closet. There was nobody there. I sneaked over to the door and shut and locked it. There weren’t any windows in Rache’s room—she had always complained about that—but I looked in the bathroom just in case. I had always wanted to try on that blue dress.

It was a perfect fit.

I had to admit, looking at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall, that I looked pretty good in it. It had shoulder pads that gave me that military look and a collar hanging down in front like a giant bib. The skirt was straight all the way down to my ankles, so I looked really tall, and the belt really made me go in in the middle. The neckline went all the way up to my throat, but I don’t really have anything to show off anyway. Every thing was solid blue. It was perfect. All I needed was the right shoes.

And, of course, she had them. Blue heels the exact same color as the dress. I popped them on and stood in front of the mirror.

I looked very nice.

I wanted to twirl, but the skirt was so narrow I could barely walk. I felt like one of the girls in Pearl Harbor in my 1940’s dress.

“Why, of course, Mr. Anderson. I would love to go to the military banquet with you!” I said to the mirror.

The mirror didn’t respond. In the reflection, there was only an empty, poorly lit room. All I could see was an antique nightstand with a burned-out lamp on top of it. Cold, bare walls enclosed a gray, bare bed. The only light was coming from the bathroom and the closet. I sighed.

I walked slowly to the bed and lay down on the end of it, my hands beneath my ribcage, my feet dangling from the edge. I hadn’t gone to prom. There wasn’t any Mr. Anderson to take me away from it all. There was no Mr. Anderson, and there was no Rache.

The bed was hard and cold.