Remembering Jack

Deanna sat on the edge of her mother’s bed, one foot crossed over the other, with her left hand balled up into a fist underneath her chin. Her back was slightly humped over as she watched the clock slowly tick away; the minutes seemed to pass by even slower. She sighed and glanced around at her family dozing in their seats. She scowled; her children hadn’t inherited laziness from her side.

She nudged her husband with one push of her shoulder, standing up in front of him. He looked up lazily at her through one eye. “What?”

“I’m going crazy in here,” she half hissed, half whispered. He situated himself and smirked up at her before shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

“You wanted to stay. ‘She’s my mother, I can’t leave her!’” he exclaimed, mimicking her in a high-pitched voice, “Those certified nurse’s don’t know shit about taking care of my mother!”
She grabbed the edge of his green jacket and pulled him roughly towards her. He simply laughed, letting her pull him forward. “If that’s what you wanted…” he trailed off, kissing her neck. She firmly pushed him back.

“No, I want to go home.”

He looked back at the old woman, who was sleeping fitfully, rolling over and moaning. It was now almost nightfall; they had been there for at least six hours, doing nothing but watch the old woman sleep, until they eventually did the same thing themselves. “Visiting hours end soon, anyways,” she reminded him. He groggily wiped his eyes and stretched, his back muscles cracking broke the stifling silence and his daughter’s jumped awake.

“Come on,” he said lightly. “We’re going home.”

They all moaned and got up sleepily, walking slowly at first and re-adjusting to their unfamiliar surroundings. Courtney looked at her grandmother, hesitantly walking over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. In her sleep, the woman smiled and turned over. “Jack,” she whispered. “I knew you would come back.” She rolled back over in the same manner, the smile disappearing.

Courtney swallowed and walked out of the room. She fought off the urge to cry; she knew it was stupid. Why would she cry about her grandmother not remembering her? Old people did that; it was the natural way of things. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair and swallowed once more, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling while she waited.

“Who is Jack?” she asked aloud. It came out of her mouth before her brain even thought about it. It hadn’t seemed that important to her, at first – and now, it seemed to be a dying curiosity that was growing inside her. It was funny, how some things worked. How some people don’t care about a certain thing until they heard it said out loud, or they don’t want something until someone else had it. She wanted to know who this “Jack” was and why her grandmother kept mentioning him, even if it was nothing but the effects of being old and senile.

She had never said anything about him before; of course, that could just be because of the fact that she remembered not to say anything – she knew not to say anything about this person. But now, she was old and things were probably all jumbled up. Courtney’s eyes widened as she realized her grandmother probably did not want anyone knowing about him. She realized something else: it was only in her sleep or in fits that she mentioned this Jack person. Courtney imagined she was fighting very hard not to lose her memory.

“You ready?” her dad asked her abruptly, coming out of the doorway. He tucked in his shirt tail, which had fallen out while he was asleep.

“Dad, why do you tuck in your shirt?” Courtney asked, rolling her eyes. She walked ahead of him to avoid being seen with him. Even if she was in a nursing home.

Her father caught up with her. “What’s wrong with tucking in my shirt?”

Courtney laughed. “Everything.”

“It’s part of your school code,” he argued.

Courtney – being three inches taller than her dad – had to look down at him so that their eyes met. She answered him patronizingly, a smile on her face – something rare for her parent’s to see nowadays. “Dad,” she said, matter-of-factly, “girls do not tuck in their shirts.”

“But it’s part of the schoo-”

“Save it,” Deanna told him, seemingly coming out of nowhere. She passed by him in a hurry, like she didn’t want to be seen walking with him either. That was normal for Deanna, however. She looked back towards him over her shoulder. “Please un-tuck that shirt,” she ordered – to which he replied under his breath, ‘yes, boss’ -- turning back around and walking up to the front desk. She leaned on it with authority, one hand placed on her hip, and the other resting firmly on the counter.

He looked down at his now horribly wrinkled shirt and did as he was told. He smoothed it down and flicked his hair to the side. Courtney had already disappeared, most likely already half way home. He wasn’t too worried about her; the crime rate in Gotham had lowered considerably since his time. Anyone visiting would never believe it was the same Gotham it had been many years ago; people were actually comfortable with walking out on the streets, or going shopping at night. No one worried about getting robbed or killed. There was an easy silence that hung about the city in the later hours of the night. It was actually nice.

No one talked about criminals or vigilantes anymore. You wouldn’t hear it on the news or radio. Not even on the internet. It was a subject that had been – even though no one had publicly said it – taboo for the longest time; it seemed as long as it wasn’t mentioned, it had never happened. Deanna and her husband were too young to know or remember why; it seemed that only the middle aged and elderly knew of the past, and why everyone was so nervous about mentioning it. It was something that had simply been put to rest, and for good reason, certainly.

Deanna’s loud voice cut his train of thought off as he reached the counter. “Excuse me?” Deanna asked, wagging her forefinger around. “I will come see my mother as much as I wish. You cannot kick me out of the nursing home.”

The nurse, with whom she was speaking, looked at her blankly before answering. “Honey, I’m going to have to calmly ask you to leave. You are causing a spectacle of yourself.”

Deanna scoffed loudly and turned around to her husband. She shook her head disbelievingly and grabbed him by the shirt collar before leading him out. “Come on,” she ordered, dragging him along. He sighed and took her hand into his. “Deanna, stop,” he said. She released his shirt and walked out of the doors, aggravated.

“Daddy!”

He turned to see a disgruntled looking Morgan, whose hair was sticking up in all types of awkward directions, with tears running down her face. Kayla followed after her, looking like she usually looked: pissed off. Kayla was in the early stages of being a teen and having all those raging hormones. He’d already been through it once and knew not to try talking to her. It did no good and only pushed them further away. He waited for them patiently and shook his head as they walked off to the parking lot. He laughed quietly to himself thinking, that if Deanna kept being so forgetful, he might just have to place her in the nursing home with her mother.

Courtney had just pulled up to the house; she had rushed off and knew that she would only be alone for so long. As soon as the car was off and in park, she hurried to get out and rushed up the brick steps of her home. She reached under the welcome mat hastily and grabbed the key, before looking around quickly – as to make sure no one was watching, which was ridiculous; she did live there after all – and opening the door. She threw it back under the mat and opened the door, slamming it shut.

She flipped on the porch light and the hall light, and then locked the door. She pulled off her boots, coat, and scarf, discarding them carelessly at the foot of the steps. All that could be heard in the still quiet of the house was her padded footsteps up the stairs. When she reached her destination -- the attic -- she let her hand rest on the door knob a few moments before opening it.

She laughed to herself. “Why am I doing this?” she wondered out loud. She didn’t understand why she was so curious; but she had always been an extremely curious child. Not much went undiscovered by her when she was growing up; it was probably the reason she discovered the truth behind “Santa Claus” when she was only five. She had been a pretty smart cookie, to figure out that he hadn’t left her presents behind early, like her father told her. The next year, instead of telling her the truth, her mother insisted that Santa left the presents at their house because there wasn’t enough room in his sleigh. She never believed anything her parents told her after that.

She just had to know who this “Jack” was. Her grandmother’s nurse had told them that she kept saying his name in her sleep; he must have been pretty important. He could even still be alive…and maybe, just maybe, if she found out who he was for her grandmother, she could meet him…or give him the message her grandmother obviously wanted to send him. She turned the cool door knob and opened the door. It creaked silently, and cool air rushed out to greet her almost immediately. She shivered slightly and reached down the plug up the lights.

They flickered to life slowly, begrudgingly. And when they finally came entirely on, they nearly blinded Courtney. She let her eyes adjust to them before stepping in. She almost walked into a beam, before remembering to lean down. There had been countless times her forehead had met the beam, and it only got worse every year, as she got taller. She felt like she was way too tall to be seventeen. She honestly had no idea where she got the height from; her father was short, and the only reason her mother looked tall was because she was always wearing high heels. And it couldn’t come from her grandmother; she was pretty short too. She supposed it had been her grandfather, though she had never met him. He died early on, when her mom was barely two.

Her eyes scanned the various decorations – jack-o-lanterns, lights, flags, snow men, ornaments, tissue paper, wrapping paper, and many other items. None of them were what she was looking for. She was looking for one particular container that held her grandmother’s items that could not be taken to the nursing home. She spied the lime green container with no problem; it nearly glowed. The only problem was getting to it; it was underneath a whole pile of wreaths. She leaned down and began throwing the – what she considered worthless – wreaths left and right, until she finally unearthed the container.

She began tugging on it and brought it back with her. She fell down on a red container, and breathed out heavily as she pulled the green container the rest of the way with her. She wiped the lid off a bit, and almost immediately went into a sneezing frenzy. She held her nose and looked at the lid. It said: CS. Newspaper clippings.

She knew “S” stood for Sanders, but she couldn’t remember what her grandmother’s first name was, not at the moment. She didn’t know her grandmother’s maiden name either. But at least she did know it began with a “C.” She grabbed the lid and discarded of it carelessly, her eyes greedily scanning the contents inside. Her curiosity was getting the better of her; it was nearly eating away at her, not knowing. She had to find out. She felt as though this could help her perhaps connect with her grandmother better… make her understand why she had been so distant when she was growing up. But as she delved into the contents deeper, she began to feel disappointed. It was newspaper clipping, after newspaper clipping – just as the lid had said.

She felt as though she had got her hopes of for nothing. She had secretly dreamed of a grandmother who had a past – who had done things that were illegal or things that society wouldn’t approve of. She wanted a rebellious grandmother who had a thousand stories to tell. A bunch of newspapers wasn’t much of a legacy.

She picked up a huge stack and reached underneath; thinking that maybe something more interesting would be at the bottom. Something hidden. She only found more newspapers and laughed dryly before dropping them. Her eyes trailed to the very first one; her eyebrows immediately scrunched up in confusion.

It read: Joker: His Reign is Over.

“Who the hell is Joker?” she asked out loud. Usually, she wasn’t one for cussing, unless the occasion called for it. She had never heard of anyone named the Joker. “So strange…” she muttered. She looked through the newspapers, hoping to find a picture of him. But there were none. Only article after article about some mass murdering psycho-path. She picked up one and began reading an article about all the crimes he had committed. Why would her grandmother keep articles about some ‘Joker’ man who she was sure her grandmother had never known? Fascination, perhaps?

She stood up so that she could read better.

And that was when a much smaller article fell out from in between the articles. She dropped the rest into the container and leaned over. It was barely three inches long, and as she read, the contents of it made a chill go down her spine.

“Courtney!”

She jumped and quickly climbed over the container. The lights were flipped off and the door was shut, like the attic had never been opened. Except that she still had the article -- the only proof, the only thing that even made it real. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the blood rushing to her ears. She had not heard them drive up or even open the door. Hadn’t she locked it? Surely she would have heard…

“Yeah?” she called, looking over the railing. She tried to appear calm, but her fingers were shaking. The paper clenched between her fists seemed to weigh one thousand pounds suddenly. She feared she would drop it down and it would land exactly in front of her mother and then she would have to explain why and how she had gotten it.

“Can you check the laundry for me?” Deanna called.

“Yeah, mom.”

She whirled around, and then paused. “Hey mom!”

“Yeah?” Deanna yelled back.

“What was grandma’s first name again?”

There was a pause before Deanna answered. “Charlotte. Why?”

“No reason,” Courtney answered. “I’m going to go check on the laundry now.”

She walked into the next room, where the washer and dryer were. But she knew she couldn’t possibly concentrate on the laundry after what she had just read. Her heart was still pounding furiously and she leaned against the wall for support. Taking the article back out, she re-read it once more, another shiver running down her spine. She knew she most definitely would not be able to focus on clothing right now. She was sure the contents would be forever in her mind. She would never be able to forget.

After being held captive by the Joker for many years, Charlotte Sanders is being welcomed home as a hero for killing him and putting an end to his madness.