Things Left Unsaid

Sherryl Clark

He couldn’t sleep without the grey army blanket around him. Rough, stiff, a bit smelly – the sense of home, his father’s stubbled face, early morning cups of tea. The blanket rubbed his skin, poked corners into his face. He pulled it closer.

At night, when the bed he shared with his wife became too hot, too constricting, too comfortable, he lay on the couch, army blanket draped over his body, often over his head. He breathed in its smell, relaxed, drifted off to dreams of his childhood, his father in the workshop, tools lined up along the bench.

When he went missing, they searched the streets and back alleys, places he’d walked, parks and rivers. They took dogs to hunt through the local forest. The police asked his wife over and over, ‘Any signs of dementia?’ and didn’t believe her when she said no. Then there were murmurs of suicide, not always out of her hearing.

They asked her if anything was missing. His wallet, credit cards, phone? No, she said, they were all still on the dressing table. The only thing … but their glances and murmurs had become so irritating that she held her tongue. Still, her eyes occasionally focused on the couch, the missing blanket.

The bank stopped his credit cards when she insisted. It was only months later that she received a statement for a card she never knew about, from a bank they’d never used. Nobody would tell her anything. Privacy. But the police eventually revealed that the card was in use. They closed the missing person’s case.

In a charity shop, she found a similar grey army blanket, bought it and laid it next to her on the bed. Every night, she fell asleep with one hand on its rough, unyielding surface.