The Keys

By R.J. Tennyson

“Honey, have you seen my keys?” Grace asked, biting her bottom lip. “I’m going to be late.” It was the forth time she’d asked that question in the past two weeks. Although she’d always been a little forgetful it was starting to concern her.

“Not again,” Stuart called back. The barb in his tone stabbed, causing her throat to constrict. Tears welled in her eyes as she searched the living room for the third time that morning.

“Have you looked under the sofa? Last time they were under the sofa,” he snapped.

“YES,” she snapped back. “That’s the first place I looked.” Forgetfulness was one of a long list of possible side-effects caused by the medication she’d started taking recently. Not my memory, please not my memory, she thought. It’s been hard enough for him to have to deal with everything this year without me forgetting things as well. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve any of this. I’m the sick one, but he suffers with me.

“Have you checked the laundry hamper? That’s where they were last week. In your jeans pocket.”

She ran into the bedroom and turned the laundry hamper upside down. A blouse, a pair of knickers and a lonely pairless sock fell to the floor; no keys. “Honey, are you able to drive me today?” she asked, panic in her voice now. “I have a meeting with Sarah first thing this morning.” Sarah was her boss and she had been concerned about Grace. Sarah noticed how stressed Grace was lately. She wanted to discuss how the change in medication might be effecting her. It had only been four months since Grace had returned to work so Sarah was being extra careful with her. She didn’t want to be the reason Grace relapsed.

“Grace, I told you last night I’m meeting a client on the other side of town this morning. I can’t drop you at work and make my meeting. Have you forgotten that it’s me who brings in most of the money? It’s me who brought in ALL the money when you were sick. It’s me who picks up the slack every time…”

Grace sat on the edge of the bed. With her face in her hands and began to sob. Stuart sat next to her. He placed his arm around his wife and drew her close. “It’s okay, they will turn up. They always do,” he said, with a mixture of sympathy and empathy, hoping to calm her. “If you leave for the bus now you shouldn’t be too late. I’ll give Sarah a call and explain what’s happened.”

“Thank you, Honey. You’re the best. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner.”

***

As Grace walked toward the bus stop Stuart watched her from the living room window; a smile on his face. Reaching into his pocket he removed a set of keys, dropped them to the ground, and kicked them under the sofa.