The Golden Locket
by Swetha Amit
On that Saturday night, when my beloved grandmother was admitted to the hospital, I was at a rooftop party, feeling drunk and dizzy. Loud music played in the background as people cheered and sang Happy Birthday to a colleague. I didn't realize how long my phone had been ringing until it vibrated in my pocket.
"You need to come home. Grandma is in the hospital,” my mother's voice sounded as if she were underwater.
My heart nearly stopped for a moment. The night sky, filled with shining stars, felt like a blur.
"Are you there? Can you hear me?" my mother prodded..
I mumbled a weak yes and stumbled to a corner where nobody could see the tears stinging my eyes. I left the party without saying goodbye to anyone; no one would notice in their intoxicated states. I could explain later. My apartment was only two blocks away. I staggered along the streets until I flopped onto my bed, still in my party clothes. I planned to leave the city early the next day. On a Sunday morning, the roads would be clear of Bay Area office traffic. I could reach Santa Cruz in under 90 minutes.
Driving down 101, hungover the next morning, my head felt like it was splitting in half. Grandma always had the magic remedy to relieve my headaches. She'd take a few cinnamon sticks, grind them into a powder, add water to create a thick paste, and massage it on my forehead. The feel of her soft, wrinkly hands moving in small circles on my throbbing forehead and the lingering scent of cinnamon drove the headaches away. What wouldn't I do for Grandma's cinnamon massage now?
I gripped the steering wheel and drove down the relatively empty roads. The sun glared from behind the clouds and nearly blinded me. I stopped at a traffic light, reached for my sunglasses in my bag, and put them on. While waiting for the light to turn green, I noticed a partial yellow streak in the sky, as if someone had wrapped a necklace around it.
A few years ago, on my twenty-first birthday, Grandma gave me a gold chain with a locket shaped like the sun, my ruling planet.
"Too jazzy," I commented, wrinkling my nose.
"It looks good on you. Wear it on your wedding day," her gray eyes grew moist.
I never wore it again. I wondered where I had put it. I almost missed the green light as tears filled my eyes. I wiped them away and continued my journey. The throbbing in my head persisted. I wanted to stop for coffee; however, recalling Mom's frantic tone from last night, I didn't want to be late.
Grandma’s illness began in the fall with a cough and cold, which was followed by a fever. She recovered and sounded cheerful when I spoke on the phone, although she was slightly out of breath and a bit wheezy.
"It's just a tiresome cold," Grandma would say. Sometimes, she complained of a headache.
"Try the cinnamon paste," I'd suggest.
"Will you come and massage my forehead?" she asked.
I mumbled a feeble yes. Guilt pricked me like shells on the sands of Santa Cruz beach. My visits to Santa Cruz have decreased since my new job in the city last year. Long hours in front of the computer left me with little energy to drive to Santa Cruz. Besides, I was obsessed with finding a steady relationship, seeing my friends hitched. Thanksgiving was spent at a friend's house in the city. Grandma was sick, so Mother didn't feel like celebrating. Plus, I didn't want to visit my father and stepmother in Oakland.
I arrived in Santa Cruz earlier than expected. I parked the car and entered the hospital room where Grandma lay on the bed. She appeared weak and small, almost like a baby. My mother sat beside her. After hugging her, I took a seat next to Grandma.
I could see the green veins in her shriveled hands. She squinted as she looked at me. Her gray eyes were like two dots on her face. The monitor beeped next to her. I took her hands into mine and held them against my cheek. I thought I could still smell a whiff of cinnamon. My headache eased a little.
"I'm glad you could come," Grandma almost whispered. I didn't think I'd last the night...,” she coughed.
I gently stroked her forehead.
Grandma gestured to Mother, who understood and retrieved a box. Grandma then placed the box in my hands. I looked confused.
Mother excused herself to give us a moment and then left the room.
"Open it," Grandma whispered.
It was the gold chain with the sun pendant.
"Promise me," Grandma's voice sounded hoarse and feeble. "Promise me you'll wear it at your wedding."
Last month, I broke up with a guy I had been seeing for three months. He had to relocate to Germany. When I tried to date other guys, nothing much happened beyond polite goodbyes and promises to see each other soon. But there were no follow-up messages or calls. A relationship and marriage felt like a distant dream.
"I will," I murmured.
At that moment, I struck a silent bargain with the universe. I would wear this locket, never take it off, and always visit my Grandma. In exchange, I wished for her to survive and live longer. Grandma smiled as I leaned forward. She placed the chain around my neck with trembling hands, and I fastened the hook.
"You will make a beautiful bride," she said wistfully.
I lovingly massaged Grandma's forehead, wishing I had some cinnamon paste. The reflection of my gold sun locket on her forehead resembled a bright star. I continued to move my fingers in circles. She eventually closed her eyes. The room was silent except for her hoarse breathing, snores, and the incessant beeping of the monitor. I muttered a quiet thank-you prayer to the universe.
BIO: Swetha Amit is the author of three chapbooks. Her works appear in Had, Ghost Parachute, Cream City Review, Oyez Review, and others. (https://swethaamit.com) Her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction.