Here and Now
The day after Halloween, I was leaving to go to a party and reached for the last things I always put on: my rings.
They were gone.
These rings were my most treasured possessions, especially the yellow-gold double-diamond that was my mother’s. She and Mr. Brock designed it back in the 60s, and when she passed in 1981, I had slipped it off her finger and onto my own. The others were two little bands with sentimental value; I have always worn these together.
I had kept the diamond ring appraised and insured, and I wore it everywhere except for those no-makeup-and-baseball-cap destinations like rivers, trails, the gym, or the yard. But the minute I walked back in the door, those rings came off even faster than my shoes did, and I hung them in the obscure, illogical spot that has been their home for twenty years. I’ve never hidden them anywhere else, because, well, their spot is as well hidden as anywhere else I could come up with.
I went to the party uncomfortably ring-less, perplexed that the rings were not on their hooks. I am very consistent with these rings. The minute I get home, I take them off and hang them up. As much as I love them, I don’t want them on my hands at home. I don’t need to lay them down anywhere else; my house is so small that it’s just a few steps from anywhere to the spot where they live. Putting them anywhere else is something I would never do.
I spent the weekend obsessively returning to the ring-spot; they were never there. I tried to envision the last moment I was aware of having them, and I thought it was at work. I do take them off sometimes, but I always wear them home. I’ve left them on my desk overnight exactly once in my whole career. So, though it’s not something I would usually do, I decided they must be on my desk.
Monday came; the rings were not at work. I envisioned harder. I did not panic; a life with ADHD has taught me that everything is somewhere, and adrenaline is not your friend when you’re looking for it. Deep breaths and a still mind work better, and while it’s okay to ask someone if they’ve seen it, you just don’t want to be that spacey frantic person who can’t keep up with your stuff.
It had been a hectic Halloween week, with a Trunk or Treat, new early-morning gym classes, and some nasty weather. When had I worn them, and when had I not, and why on earth would I have done anything different than what I always do?
I hated the thoughts that crept in. Had I worn them to the Trunk or Treat? Had I taken them off to put on gloves? Did I leave them in the truck, or put them in my coat pocket, and they fell out? These were not things I would usually do, but the rings were somewhere; everything is. Had somebody found them? Had somebody taken them? I hated those thoughts. When Winn remembered seeing them on my hand at the Trunk or Treat, I gladly released that train of thought. They had to be in my house.
I moved on to surfaces. I circled my very small house, over and over, and over. They were not lying around. Pockets were the next frontier, even though putting the rings in a pocket was something I would never do. Days went by. I checked the pockets of jeans, jackets, dresses, my bathrobe, and my hammock chair on the porch. Of course they weren’t there; I would never have put them in a pocket.
Little tubs, bowls and baskets holding pens, makeup, business cards, and a broken drumstick came next. I pulled everything out of these little vessels, didn’t find any rings (because I never would have put them there), then put things back in place. My household corners are holiday-clean and my products are now within their expiration dates.
I questioned myself. I doubted myself. I worried about myself. I hated myself. I still didn’t tell anyone.
I downloaded a hypnosis app for Finding Lost Things. It took the edge off my acting like a moth to the flame of those little hangers, but it didn’t help me find the rings. I prayed, of course, and finally told the kids and a couple of friends, starting with Lauretta, because she is Catholic and I figured she had the most direct line to St. Anthony.
When I finally told the kids, they were so sweet. It was okay that my daughter and granddaughter would no longer have the ring to inherit; they were just worried for me. The boys would come move all my major appliances to help me search. Putting my rings beneath a major appliance was not something I would ever do, but their caring touched me deeply, and I actually did break out Mr. Flashlight and Mr. Yardstick and swept under everything. I found a lot of kitten toys and a Hot Wheels or two, but still, no rings. Now my house is *really* holiday clean.
My friends all wanted to help. The answer to all of their questions was “yes”: Have you looked in the truck? Have you looked in the garage? Have you checked your Ring cameras? Are you sure you didn’t hide them away somewhere? (Actually, the answer to that last one was “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”)
It terrified me that I could not summon a memory of my last moment with the rings, but I had to move on. I contacted my insurance agent and she was so nice. She didn’t seem to think I was crazy, and she didn’t need a police report; just send her an email when I got ready to file the claim.
Do you know how stupid it feels to write down that you’ve lost the most treasured thing you’ve ever owned, and you don’t even know when or where it happened? I do.
This column was on deadline. I filed the insurance claim and kept writing, but I didn’t stop looking. I kept checking pockets and corners, returned to the hangers when the hypnosis app wore off, and I kept pleading with my brain to show me the last time I had the rings. I kept feeling crazy, and I kept feeling sad. I had to become okay with knowing I would never know where they were. I knew I would never stop looking.
The insurance money came in two days. If you want an insurance company recommendation, I have one for you. At least I had the diamond ring insured, right? Would the money make things better? I would never replace the diamond ring. If I couldn’t be trusted to keep up with it the first time, why get another one? I must have thrown them in the trash with Halloween candy wrappers.
My column was nearly done, and the girls were coming for the weekend. I dusted and mopped the guest room and fixed the back of the linen chest where the kitten had learned to crawl into an opening and nap on the blankets, then push the front door open to get out. I re-folded all of the pushed-out blankets and turned to pull the cover sheet off the bed that was there to keep kitten hair off the spread. There, on that cover sheet, in the middle of the guest bed, out in the open and framed by a hula hoop, lay my rings, as peaceful as a kitten in a sunbeam.
My head spun. I didn’t cry. Things were surreal. I took a picture, then picked them up and put them on. I had no memory at all of taking them off in that room, but the fact that I used the word “kitten” three times in the last paragraph suggests that a little fuzzy thing must have caused me to act in haste and do “something I would never do.”
For all those days, I had never searched the guest room. Going in there was not something I usually did. Until company was coming, or apparently, until a kitten fell out of the linen chest.
This column with an unresolved ending now had a real one. I said so many prayers of gratitude to God and Saint Anthony, and to my kids and friends.
I happily sent the insurance money back.
