The Brooch

My name is Rachel Lincoln. As my fingertips brushed the edge of the photo frame, the phone screen suddenly lit up. Tim Jones's message, icy and sharp like a frozen needle, pierced straight through my eyes. In the photo frame, Nancy wore a pale yellow romper; her hundred-day-old face was furrowed in a tight crease, yet she still tried to lift the corners of her lips toward the camera—this was the last smile she left me. The message was cruelly concise: "7 p.m. tomorrow night, Third-Floor Banquet Hall, Joy Restaurant, Mary Shaw's birthday party. You must attend." No room for negotiation, no further explanation—just as if I were merely a prop he summoned at will. Mary Shaw—this name has cast a shadow over my marriage with Tim Jones for five years. From the encrypted photo album on Tim's phone during our courtship, to the name he would sometimes mutter absentmindedly after we married, and then three months ago, when he told me with reddened eyes, "Mary has advanced cancer; I want to hold a Rejuvenation Banquet for her." Tim and I have been married for three years. On the day we registered our marriage, he promised to protect me and care for me for life. But now, he is hosting a grand Rejuvenation Banquet for another woman, and worse, he insists that I, his lawful wife, attend in person to witness their so-called "fulfillment." Nancy has been gone for one year and seven months. That day was her first birthday; I even made a small cake, but never got to see her blow out the candles. My father has been lying in the intensive care unit of City Central Hospital for ten months. He suffered severe head trauma and is in a coma. The doctor said the chance of him waking up is almost nonexistent. My mother turned gray overnight, staying by his bedside all day, repeatedly murmuring, "My husband will be fine," her spirit on the verge of collapse. I stared at the phone screen, my fingertip pressing so hard it turned white. Tim Jones, what you owe me, what you owe Nancy, what you owe my father—this party will settle everything. The next evening, I opened the wardrobe and selected a smoke-gray silk dress. The dress was a gift from Tim Jones on our first wedding anniversary. I wore it only once; when Nancy spit up and stained the hem, it was tucked away at the bottom of the trunk ever since. As I pinned the Pearl Brooch to the neckline, the cold touch of the metal instantly sobered me—the brooch concealed a pinhole camera and a miniature recording device inside, specially made by a friend at my request.