*Fiction — November 16, 2022
Signed Over to You
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T he scraps on the wall were scrawled with the abandon of a dying writer, and the consideration of an acquaintance left behind. Melinda looked at the living room, and the wall so filled with thoughts it almost curled up at the ends, a vintage effigy made older by the passing of its creator.
“Jesus,” her latest assistant breathed, “I mean, I knew she was a little eccentric, but…” This one had an irritating habit of trailing off. It distinguished her from the rest. Fast-talking, with an incredible idiocy-to-content ratio. No real use for her in the field work—that’s been Melinda’s specialty for years, there’s something endlessly fascinating about what survives people’s lives after they stop surviving—but Mel’s never been good at accounting, so an assistant’s a necessary evil.
The owner of the apartment was the late Ellen Laney. Apparently her wife had died some 22 years ago. How was she still grieving? How could you live with such a tether on someone else? When Cass (Gods, even her name doesn’t hurt anymore.) had passed, Mel had moved on within the month. She tears herself out of her thoughts. In situations like these, in Melinda’s experience it was best to state facts to oneself, keep you from succumbing to the muchness. (She had first heard ‘much’ as an adjective when her mother read her Alice in Wonderland, and the phrase, in her mother’s tired timbre, had stuck.) The wall was blue. A sort of navy, messily done. The paper fragments were only barely hanging on, the adhesive on the cheap masking tape giving out in its age. She felt less overwhelmed already. This wasn’t a fairytale; some sad woman had died of an indeterminate illness, alone. It’s Mel’s job to pick up the pieces, box them, and send them to the nearest convenient dumpster. Sometimes things are salvageable, and can be sent to a thrift shop. She liked the one between 5th and 6th; some of her best blazers came from there.
A snippet of paper fell from the wall. Almost involuntarily, Mel bent down and picked it up. She read: ‘I can’t remember how her nose wrinkled when she laughed, all I’ve got are the drawings. I’m fading along with the remnants of her graphite.’
A snippet of paper fell from the wall. Almost involuntarily, Mel bent down and picked it up. She read: ‘I can’t remember how her nose wrinkled when she laughed, all I’ve got are the drawings. I’m fading along with the remnants of her graphite.’
The assistant speaks up again, tucking mousy hair behind her ears in a reflexive motion, apparently jarred from her wall-related awe by the lack of Mel’s usual biting admonishment. “I guess we should wrap this up, it’s late.”
Melinda didn’t want to. This was someone’s life. For the first time in 20 years as someone tasked with clearing up the dregs of stranger’s lives, she didn’t think she’d even seen anything like it.
“Leave it,” Mel says, “this room’s old. Do you have any idea what they used to put in paint?” She doesn’t have any idea what they used to put in paint. Luckily she doesn’t think this intern does either. Mel provides the clinching reassurance; “I’ll get some tests run, you get back to the office.” The assistant—they really should start giving them nametags, you can’t ask her to remember these things—scurries off in a cloud of faint lavender and somewhat stronger anxiety.
This is a bad idea, efficiency is everything in this line of work. Who knows how long they can keep the rights to disposal. Mr. Forste will be furious. The idea is distant, and not altogether concerning. He’s been furious for the last decade. At this point it’d be concerning to get some acknowledgement of her quality of work.
‘This is the way it’ll be, Mel.’ Her mom had told her, years ago now, creased eyes scanning her worriedly. Melinda’s second day on the job, and she was already looking for the mark of corporate infestation. Yet another reason to get out. She’s only been back for a day, and Summerside’s looming over her. People she knew since she was, as was frequently remarked upon, ‘yae high’ looking at her with a downcast gaze. Such a pity, they say shaking their heads as they close up shop at the end of another identical day. That’s alright. Mel’s not ‘yae high’ anymore, and she’s gonna be just fine. It’s true that this job is small in a huge city, but this town is miniscule. It was never about where she worked with her mom, it was about where she chose to settle, and that wasn’t changing any time soon. She wasn’t going to spend her life puttering about in Summerside, waking up day after day to fill two sets of shoes. Cass was always a sneakers person, had a whole collection that spread through the house like the leak on the roof. Her parents had wanted to keep them all. She’d put them in a plastic bag, and taken them to the second hand store down the road the next day. A week after that, she repainted Cass’s room. A week after that, she went to the city, and made a job out of clearing out for the dead. Melinda knew the way things slip through the cracks until you don’t recognize where you are, or what you’re doing, or where everything went so wrong. She wasn’t going back home any time soon.
‘This is the way it’ll be, Mel.’ Her mom had told her, years ago now, creased eyes scanning her worriedly. Melinda’s second day on the job, and she was already looking for the mark of corporate infestation. Yet another reason to get out. She’s only been back for a day, and Summerside’s looming over her. People she knew since she was, as was frequently remarked upon, ‘yae high’ looking at her with a downcast gaze. Such a pity, they say shaking their heads as they close up shop at the end of another identical day. That’s alright. Mel’s not ‘yae high’ anymore, and she’s gonna be just fine. It’s true that this job is small in a huge city, but this town is miniscule. It was never about where she worked with her mom, it was about where she chose to settle, and that wasn’t changing any time soon. She wasn’t going to spend her life puttering about in Summerside, waking up day after day to fill two sets of shoes. Cass was always a sneakers person, had a whole collection that spread through the house like the leak on the roof. Her parents had wanted to keep them all. She’d put them in a plastic bag, and taken them to the second hand store down the road the next day. A week after that, she repainted Cass’s room. A week after that, she went to the city, and made a job out of clearing out for the dead. Melinda knew the way things slip through the cracks until you don’t recognize where you are, or what you’re doing, or where everything went so wrong. She wasn’t going back home any time soon.
Another piece falls; Mel sits. The window is closed, sunlight streams through glass onto her face. It’s a good thing those curtains were open. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to bring herself to touch them. They’re a ratty, threadbare affair. Easily dealt with. At this point she’s just avoiding the issue. Face the music Mel. She almost has to force herself to turn back, look at the wall again.
That fragment of the late Mrs. Laney is still in her hand, faded and with the faint aroma of old things. Like dust, sunbaked pavement, rotting leaves, honey. There are pictures too, drawings like the note said. A rollercoaster, a canyon, a bookstore, a skyline filled with city haze. In each there’s a woman, living loudly. Her hair is short, and defies gravity with reckless abandon. Next to her is Mrs. Laney, without the crow’s feet on her obituary photo. Each has a date in the corner, getting progressively older. There are a tragic few of those pictures, dying out with a 56-year-old woman, Mrs. Stephanie Laney, partner of Mrs. Ellen Whitlock. In contrast, the paper slivers are plentiful, written to every corner with cramped text. Gods, there must be 50, 60 of them. All with a desperation to remember.
Her knees are aching—they’ve never really been the same after that fall last winter, and the rug is as thin as the curtains. She stands with a reluctant heave, grabs her coat which she is surprised to find draped neatly on a rickety chair near the door. Maybe she’ll keep the new assistant around. Mel could get used to her, obliging and a steady hand with accounting? More rare than you might think. It’s Kate. Or maybe Kelly? Honestly, the name tag idea is getting more serious. The door of the apartment creaks as she pushes it open, the front door of the complex squeals as she pulls it closed. Outside, the post-it-note windows are going out one by one. It’s gotten late behind her back.
The streets are still damp from this morning’s shower. Petrichor. The smell has always been appealing to her somehow, seems to gild everything with a sort of premature nostalgia. She’s been walking home throughout this train of thought, heels clacking their way into her neighborhood. This’s been happening more and more often, Mel used to pay attention to every little thing, comb through it for some hidden reasoning. Who has the energy anymore? The beginning strains of Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” gives her a momentary start. New ringtone. It’s Forste—Really, not listening to her boss isn’t the greatest idea for her continued employment, but she’s been trying to climb the company ladder for 20 years and there’s nowhere else she can go. At this point, Mel’s pretty indispensable.—She walks the rest of the way to increasingly insistent music.
Her apartment is on Fifth Avenue, near the farmers market she’s never been to. If there’s ever enough time to be going to the farmer’s market, it’s time that should be spent somewhere else promptly. She walks more briskly just thinking about it. Her building has no stoop, which she remembers distantly being disappointed by. These things pass.
That fragment of the late Mrs. Laney is still in her hand, faded and with the faint aroma of old things. Like dust, sunbaked pavement, rotting leaves, honey. There are pictures too, drawings like the note said. A rollercoaster, a canyon, a bookstore, a skyline filled with city haze. In each there’s a woman, living loudly. Her hair is short, and defies gravity with reckless abandon. Next to her is Mrs. Laney, without the crow’s feet on her obituary photo. Each has a date in the corner, getting progressively older. There are a tragic few of those pictures, dying out with a 56-year-old woman, Mrs. Stephanie Laney, partner of Mrs. Ellen Whitlock. In contrast, the paper slivers are plentiful, written to every corner with cramped text. Gods, there must be 50, 60 of them. All with a desperation to remember.
Her knees are aching—they’ve never really been the same after that fall last winter, and the rug is as thin as the curtains. She stands with a reluctant heave, grabs her coat which she is surprised to find draped neatly on a rickety chair near the door. Maybe she’ll keep the new assistant around. Mel could get used to her, obliging and a steady hand with accounting? More rare than you might think. It’s Kate. Or maybe Kelly? Honestly, the name tag idea is getting more serious. The door of the apartment creaks as she pushes it open, the front door of the complex squeals as she pulls it closed. Outside, the post-it-note windows are going out one by one. It’s gotten late behind her back.
The streets are still damp from this morning’s shower. Petrichor. The smell has always been appealing to her somehow, seems to gild everything with a sort of premature nostalgia. She’s been walking home throughout this train of thought, heels clacking their way into her neighborhood. This’s been happening more and more often, Mel used to pay attention to every little thing, comb through it for some hidden reasoning. Who has the energy anymore? The beginning strains of Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” gives her a momentary start. New ringtone. It’s Forste—Really, not listening to her boss isn’t the greatest idea for her continued employment, but she’s been trying to climb the company ladder for 20 years and there’s nowhere else she can go. At this point, Mel’s pretty indispensable.—She walks the rest of the way to increasingly insistent music.
Her apartment is on Fifth Avenue, near the farmers market she’s never been to. If there’s ever enough time to be going to the farmer’s market, it’s time that should be spent somewhere else promptly. She walks more briskly just thinking about it. Her building has no stoop, which she remembers distantly being disappointed by. These things pass.
Her boss has stopped calling. Her keys jangle as she retrieves them from her pocket. The lock sticks for a minute, gives after a minute’s jiggling, it always does. Inside, she has to embark on the usual gymnastic circuit to reach the light switch, over cardboard boxes filled with things that should’ve been unpacked years ago. Her things, from a life as neglected and decaying as the boxes they’re housed in. It’s on the list. Everything’s on the list. Tomorrow she’ll tear down Mrs. Laney’s wall, she’ll apologize to her boss, and fire that intern for something meaningless. Tomorrow she’ll tick a few more things off the list, and add a few more. As always, work will be ticked off, everything else can stay.
Her sister could’ve done everything, Cass was one of those people—predisposed to delight, always on top of things. After she passed everything sort of unraveled. Stayed that way. Mel puts her keys on the table and hangs her blazer on the door hook. She takes off her shoes, leaning against the wall. The left one’s laces are fraying, she’ll have to get more shoe laces. Where does someone even get shoe laces? Melinda is an adult, she should probably know this. A problem for tomorrow. She rolls her shoulders back, hears a click, and winces. Cass would have suggested yoga. Unfortunately, Mel hasn’t touched her toes since around 6th grade, and she’s not going to start again now. She crosses the apartment, heads to the bath. The regrouting of the bathroom is another thing on the list, but it’s below unpacking the family pictures so it’ll be staying on the list for the foreseeable future. She draws a bath, hotter than usual. She’ll regret having used up the hot water tomorrow, but right now she’ll go to sleep without the drawstring tension along her shoulders, so future Mel’s gonna have to deal with it. She strips, and during the taking-pants-off-without-sitting-down dance, a piece of paper falls out of the pocket of her jeans. It flutters to the ground like one of those seed pods on the maple trees back home. It’s from the wall, in the apartment she’s not thinking about. A life of important paper scraps sounds rather lovely. She’ll put throwing it out on the list.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.
2022 Young Writers' Prize for Prose, Third Place