Where's Mary?

If walls could talk, we would ask…. Where’s Mary?

We didn’t worry when she was gone for a few days. She’d left before. Seven, sometimes ten, days would pass, and but then, she’d burst through the door with too many bags, a suntan, and a big floppy hat that looked silly in the context of the one-story brick ranch we framed.

Mary would return, and we’d stand up straight to greet her.

But now, weeks have turned into months, and she still isn’t home. So we're left to wonder and worry and slouch and dream she is on a sundeck somewhere sunny.

Snow has been falling since she left. We watch it pile up on the ledge outside of the living room picture window. It’s so quiet and still that it makes us drowsy and lazy, and we stop trying to hold in heat. We don’t see the point. Mary isn’t home, and the heater is turned down too low. We hope it’s warm, wherever she is. And we promise, we’ll get back to work as soon as she arrives.

Mary has lived here as long as we can remember.

Nearly six decades ago, Mary moved onto this land when she was a young woman and her new home was underground. She lived in a basement with her husband and two young boys while they scrimped and saved and built us on top of them. Eventually the husband built our walls. He raised us, placed red bricks around us, and brought his family above ground to live within us.

We were so proud of him, and of us. We built a place for Mary.

We were always Mary's house.

We’ve seen others come and go. Once, a new baby boy arrived. He shook us with sounds of life that we both loved and loathed, but Mary was patient so we tried to be too.

Then, the baby grew up. All the kids did. We watched as the three boys stretched into new shapes and sizes. They grew taller and smarter, and we saw Mary dry their wet heads and sticky tears, peel their apples, and shut their doors after they fell asleep. We stood by and watched as Mary watched them need her less and less until they eventually left.

Mary taught us what love meant.

It’s just one of the things she showed us.

For years, it was just Mary and the husband who lived within us, until he was gone too. We saw him last on a day in the dead heat of summer. Mary invited over guests and greeted them with hugs and strained smiles and trays of deli meats and fresh Italian bread. But when everyone left and it was just us, we watched Mary softly sob in the house alone.

Mary taught us what loss meant.

Even when Mary lived with us alone, the house was never empty for too long. The boys would visit and bring new friends, ladies, and then, babies. Mary welcomed them all on Sundays. We relished those slow Sundays with Mary. She would dote over whoever showed up and keep the kitchen running all day. We’d have a full-house heavy with aromas of roasted chicken or stuffed peppers or buttery pierogies or our favorite roast beef with carrots and sweet onions. We love the way her cooking would permeate our walls. The smell of Mary’s kitchen is baked into us, just like she is.

Mary feels like a part of us and that’s why we want to know where she is.

The snow has melted, and she’s not back. And now, the oldest granddaughter is here. We beam when we first see her because she made Mary happy. It’s hard to believe she’s the same little girl who used to come for sleepovers. We remember her laughter when Mary would let her put on jammies and eat ice cream in bed.

The granddaughter was here a lot before Mary went missing. She’d come and wash Mary’s sheets, empty the fridge, toss out old newspapers, and smile gently in the direction of Mary’s chair as Mary dozed off during the commercials of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune.

But the granddaughter is not smiling now.

She has plastic bins, and she’s opening every drawer in the house. It’s making a mess that Mary would have hated. The granddaughter is putting things into piles on the floor. “Trash. Donate. Keep,” she says to the son who is here now too.

The son, so grown now we sometimes confuse him for the husband, isn’t as purposed as the granddaughter. He wanders around and stops and stares, and we feel like he sees things the way we do.

We think he must be wondering where Mary is too.

As the granddaughter pulls items from the back of drawers and closets that creek when they open, we inventory the items. We wish we could talk to her.

If walls could talk, we’d say, we know what’s there.

We’ve been here.

We've seen her.

We miss her.

Where is she?

“Dad, remember the movers come on Monday to take what’s left. We need to take anything we want.”

The dad nods and walks out of the house empty-handed. He doesn’t seem to want anything to go, and we can relate.

Hours go by, and we watch. The granddaughter carefully picks out and packs up her favorite Willow Tree Angels and vases. She boxes up china for her younger sister. She tries on a few sweaters and puts the in the keep pile even though they don’t fit. She’ll wear them anyway.

We watch Mary’s life unpack and then get boxed up.

The son comes back in, and he and the granddaughter work in silence until they’ve scoured every drawer for every letter, every card, every picture stashed away.

And then unexpectedly, the granddaughter gets up and steps close to us.

We haven’t been this close to her in years. We try to send our message out to her.

Where is Mary?

But she doesn’t answer our call.

Instead, she takes the hanging pictures and photos from us.

We are bare. Exposed.

Then, we know.

We know where Mary is.