Part 7 — The Rocking Chair Pact
By late spring, the fields around the Cartwright farm were alive with green again, but inside the house, time felt slower, heavier. Evelyn Mae Cartwright spent more and more of her days in the rocking chair, wrapped in quilts even when the air was warm. Her hair, once silver and neatly pinned, now slipped loose in wisps, and her eyes carried a distant haze.
Mari watched her grandmother carefully, the way one watches a candle flicker low, afraid of when it might finally go out.
Evelyn still had good moments. Some mornings she surprised Mari by recalling the hymn lyrics perfectly, her voice quivering but clear. Sometimes she’d tell a story about Daisy or Rusty with such detail that Mari almost believed the forgetting had lifted.
But the fog always returned.
One evening, Evelyn asked Mari to fetch Walter in for supper. “He’ll be late if you don’t hurry,” she said firmly, pointing toward the barn.
Mari’s heart twisted. She had learned not to correct so sharply. She only nodded, walked to the doorway, then came back. “Grandpa says he’s proud of the meal,” she whispered, placing the plate in front of her.
Evelyn smiled, content. “Good. He always loved my cooking.”
Under the table, Clover’s empty place echoed like a wound.
Mari’s notebook grew thick with pages. She filled it daily—memories Evelyn still shared, fragments of stories, even her grandmother’s confused questions. She wanted nothing lost, not even the broken pieces.
At night, when the house grew too quiet, Mari whispered the names like a litany: Jack, Daisy, Rusty, Bonnie, Scout, Clover. Each name felt like a candle lit against the dark.
But one evening, Evelyn interrupted her.
“Who are you talking to, child?”
Mari froze. “I’m remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“The dogs. Your dogs.”
Evelyn tilted her head, puzzled. “Did I have dogs?”
The words struck like a blow. Mari forced a smile, though her throat ached. “Yes, Grandma. Many. And they were all good.”
Evelyn nodded faintly, already drifting back into the fog.
Mari wrote the exchange in her notebook that night, her tears smudging the ink. She’s starting to lose even them. Even Clover.
A neighbor, Mrs. Hanley, visited one afternoon with a pie. She found Evelyn rocking on the porch, Bible open but unread in her lap. Mari greeted her gratefully, though her heart pounded with fear of how her grandmother might act.
“Hello, Evelyn,” Mrs. Hanley said kindly.
Evelyn blinked. “Do I know you?”
The neighbor’s smile faltered. “It’s Mabel Hanley, from church. We’ve known each other forty years.”
Evelyn frowned, then turned to Mari. “Child, is she telling the truth?”
Mari squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “Yes, Grandma. She’s your friend.”
Evelyn nodded slowly. “If you say so.”
Mrs. Hanley set the pie on the porch rail, her eyes wet with pity. “She’s slipping fast, isn’t she?” she whispered to Mari when Evelyn looked away.
Mari nodded, though she hated hearing it spoken aloud.
That evening, Evelyn picked at her pie without tasting it. “I don’t like people looking at me like that,” she said softly.
“Like what?” Mari asked.
“Like I’m already gone.”
Mari squeezed her hand. “You’re not gone. Not as long as I’m here.”
The first real fright came in June. Mari woke to find the front door open, the screen banging gently in the wind. Panic surged as she ran barefoot into the yard.
She found Evelyn halfway to the road, nightgown trailing in the dew. “Hazel’s waiting,” she insisted, eyes wild. “She needs me.”
Mari grabbed her arm. “Grandma, Hazel’s gone.”
“No,” Evelyn cried, struggling weakly. “She’s right there by the fence. Can’t you see?”
There was nothing by the fence but morning mist. Mari held her tightly, tears streaming as she whispered, “Come back, Grandma. Please.”
Evelyn collapsed into her arms, trembling. “Why can’t I tell what’s real anymore?”
Mari guided her back to the porch, wrapping her in a blanket. Her own hands shook long after Evelyn fell asleep in the rocking chair.
That morning, Mari wrote in her notebook: She’s starting to follow ghosts. I have to hold her leash now.
The summer grew hot. Cicadas shrilled from dawn till dusk, the air thick with dust. Evelyn’s world shrank smaller and smaller. Some days she barely left the porch. Other days she wandered through memories only she could see, speaking names Mari had never heard.
But there were still glimmers.
One evening, as fireflies rose from the grass, Evelyn reached for Mari’s hand. “Tell me about Clover again.”
Mari blinked. “You remember him?”
Evelyn’s eyes shone, if only faintly. “Not all of him. Just… the feel. Like a quilt on a cold night.”
Mari swallowed hard, then began. “He came in a storm, remember? You dried him with Grandpa’s shirt. He stayed by your side through the quiet.”
Evelyn smiled softly. “Yes. A good boy.”
Her eyes closed, her lips moving faintly as if in prayer. Mari bent close and heard the whisper: “Clover, Clover…”
She held her grandmother’s hand, tears slipping down her cheeks. For that night, at least, the pact still held.
Mari’s own grief deepened as Evelyn’s memory thinned. Clover’s absence was sharper than ever—like a missing tooth her tongue couldn’t stop touching. She dreamed of him often, standing at the gate, waiting. In the dreams he never barked, only watched her with steady eyes.
One morning, Mari awoke from such a dream and found Evelyn watching her.
“You were crying in your sleep,” her grandmother said softly.
Mari wiped her eyes. “I dreamed of Clover.”
Evelyn tilted her head. “Who’s Clover?”
The words cut deep, but Mari forced her voice steady. “He was your dog. The last one. And the best.”
Her grandmother frowned faintly, as though reaching into a drawer she couldn’t open. Finally she nodded. “If you say so, child. If you say so.”
Mari turned away, clutching the brass tag in her palm, whispering fiercely, “I say so. I’ll keep saying so.”
By midsummer, Evelyn began sleeping longer during the day. Her appetite faded, her voice grew soft. She rocked less often, though Mari sometimes pushed the chair gently so the creak continued, filling the silence Clover once had.
One evening, as the sun bled red across the sky, Evelyn stirred suddenly and gripped Mari’s wrist with surprising strength.
“Mari,” she whispered, “don’t let me go where I can’t remember.”
Mari’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—if my mind wanders too far, call me back. Say my name. Say Clover’s name. Keep me on the leash.”
Tears spilled down Mari’s cheeks. “I will, Grandma. I promise.”
Evelyn’s grip loosened. She sank back into the quilt, eyes fluttering shut. “Good girl,” she murmured once more.
That night, Mari sat on the porch alone, notebook open on her lap, lantern flickering. She wrote until her hand cramped:
She is slipping faster. But she still knows Clover’s name, sometimes. She still trusts me to keep her tethered. That is my job now. I am the leash. Memory is the leash. I cannot let go.
The rocking chair beside her sat empty, swaying gently in the night breeze. Mari watched it, imagining Clover there again, keeping watch as he always had.
And for a moment, in the hush between crickets, she thought she heard his sigh.
Part 8 — The Rocking Chair Pact
By August, Evelyn Mae Cartwright barely knew the farmhouse she had lived in for more than seventy years.
Some mornings she looked out the window and asked, “Whose fields are those?” Other times she wandered into the kitchen and marveled, “What a fine home—who built it?”
Each time, Mari answered softly, “You did, Grandma. With Grandpa.”
But the answers never seemed to stick. They fell like stones into water, rippling for a moment before sinking into silence.
The forgetting had deepened, and Mari felt its weight pressing heavier on her shoulders.
One hot afternoon, Evelyn refused to come inside. She sat in her rocking chair, quilt draped over her lap despite the heat, staring at the empty porch boards at her feet.
“He should be here,” she whispered.
“Who, Grandma?” Mari asked, kneeling beside her.
“The dog. The one with the bent ear. Where is he?”
Mari’s throat closed. “Clover’s gone, Grandma. Remember?”
Evelyn shook her head, tears welling. “No, no, he was just here. He was lying right there.” She pointed at the spot where Clover had slept so many nights. “Don’t tell me he’s gone. I can feel him.”
Mari pressed her grandmother’s hand. “He’s still with you, Grandma. Just not the way you think.”
But Evelyn began to rock harder, the chair creaking like a cry. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare take him from me too.”
Mari’s own tears spilled, but she whispered fiercely, “I won’t. That’s why we made the pact.” She pulled the brass tag from her pocket and pressed it into Evelyn’s palm. “Here. Feel this. This is proof. He’s still with you.”
Evelyn clutched it tightly, trembling. Slowly, her rocking eased. “Yes… yes, this is him. Clover.”
Mari nodded, though her chest ached. “That’s right. Clover.”
The strain of caregiving wore on Mari. She was only twelve, yet her days were filled with duties far heavier than she shouldered. Cooking, sweeping, guiding Evelyn through the fog, writing everything down in her notebook.
One evening, she stared at her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Her braid was messy, her eyes ringed with exhaustion. She hardly looked like a child anymore.
How long can I keep this up? she thought. What if she forgets everything? What if she forgets me?
She gripped the sink, whispering into the quiet: “Memory is the leash. I can’t let go.”
Evelyn’s confusion deepened into fear at times. She began to mistake Mari for others—Hazel, her sister; her own mother; sometimes even a neighbor girl from her youth.
One evening, Evelyn grasped Mari’s wrist suddenly, her eyes wild. “Who are you? Why are you in my house?”
Mari froze. “It’s me, Grandma. It’s Mari.”
Evelyn shook her head violently. “No, no—you’re lying.”
Mari’s eyes burned. “Grandma, please—it’s me.”
But Evelyn pushed her away, trembling. “I want Clover. Bring me Clover.”
Mari stumbled back, heart pounding. Clover was gone. There was no way to bring him back. She ran to her room, buried her face in her pillow, and sobbed until her chest ached.
Later that night, she crept back to the porch. Evelyn had fallen asleep in her chair, the brass tag still clutched in her hand. Mari tucked a quilt around her shoulders, whispering, “It’s me, Grandma. I’m still here. I’ll keep you tethered. Even if you don’t know me.”
The next morning, Evelyn didn’t recognize Mari again. She called her Hazel, asking about school, about the dresses they wore as girls. Mari answered softly, pretending for a while. It seemed to calm her grandmother.
But when Evelyn drifted to sleep, Mari whispered, “It’s not fair, Clover. She’s slipping too fast.” She clutched the brass tag, desperate for strength. “How do I hold her when she doesn’t even know me?”
The silence answered. But in the stillness, Mari felt the leash tighten in her hand—the invisible thread of memory she had sworn to hold.
As summer waned, Evelyn grew weaker. She ate little, slept often, her frame shrinking beneath the quilts. The rocking chair became her anchor, her final throne.
One evening, Mari sat reading from her notebook. She chose Clover’s story, speaking slowly, clearly, letting the words fill the porch:
“He came to us in a storm. He was skinny, soaked, and scared. You gave him Grandpa’s shirt to dry off. You gave him a home. He carried you through the quiet when Grandpa died. He carried both of us.”
Evelyn stirred faintly, eyes opening. “Clover?”
Mari leaned close. “Yes, Grandma. Clover. Do you remember?”
Her grandmother’s lips moved slowly. “Good boy.”
Mari smiled through tears. “The best.”
Evelyn’s eyes closed again, but she kept whispering, “Clover, Clover…” until sleep claimed her.
The days blurred further. Mari sometimes forgot what day it was. She only knew by the way the light changed on the fields, by the creak of the rocking chair, by the dwindling stack of blank pages in her notebook.
Neighbors visited less often. Church friends brought pies and casseroles, but most didn’t stay long. They were kind, but their eyes always carried the same pity Mari had seen before, the same sorrowful recognition.
“She’s fading,” they whispered when they thought Mari couldn’t hear.
Mari hated the word. Fading sounded passive, like a photograph left in the sun. Evelyn wasn’t fading—she was being stolen, piece by piece.
One particularly hard night, Evelyn woke in terror. She thrashed in her bed, crying out names. “Jack! Daisy! Rusty! Where are you? Don’t leave me!”
Mari rushed to her side, clutching her hands. “They’re here, Grandma! I promise—they’re here in your stories.”
But Evelyn shook her head violently. “No! I can’t see them. I can’t hear them!”
Mari’s tears fell fast. She grabbed her notebook and began to read aloud, shouting the names like incantations.
“Jack the war dog! Daisy the collie! Rusty the barn mutt! Bonnie with her howls! Scout the troublemaker! Clover with his bent ear!”
Her grandmother stilled slowly, her breathing evening out. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Yes… Clover.”
Mari collapsed beside her, whispering, “Yes, Clover. Always Clover.”
That night, she fell asleep on the floor by Evelyn’s bed, notebook clutched to her chest.
By September, Mari knew: she was the only leash left. Evelyn’s mind wandered freely, but Mari’s voice could call her back, if only for moments.
Sometimes all it took was a name. Sometimes it was the feel of the brass tag pressed into Evelyn’s palm. Sometimes it was a story, retold for the hundredth time.
But Mari kept holding, even as her hands grew weary. She whispered to herself in the quiet, “Memory is the leash. Memory is the leash. Don’t let go.”
And though Clover’s body was gone, Mari felt his presence still—woven into every creak of the rocking chair, every sigh of the fields. It was as though he walked invisibly beside her, helping her keep the vow.
One evening, as the sky flared orange and gold, Evelyn stirred from a nap on the porch. Her eyes were cloudy, her voice weak.
“Mari?” she asked.
“Yes, Grandma?”
“Who am I?”
Mari’s chest clenched. She took her grandmother’s hands and spoke steadily, firmly.
“You are Evelyn Mae Cartwright. You are my grandmother. You are the keeper of stories and the woman who loved dogs more faithfully than anyone I’ve ever known. You are the one who made the rocking chair pact with me. And you are Clover’s girl, forever.”
Evelyn’s lips curved faintly, tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “That sounds right.”
Mari pressed her forehead against her grandmother’s hand, holding it tight. “I’ll remind you every time, Grandma. As many times as it takes.”
The rocking chair creaked gently in the wind, and Mari thought she heard Clover’s sigh again—soft, steady, patient.
The pact still held.