The Amber and Coral Bead Necklaace

When I was in high school, my father, who worked nights at a university, used to find things the students dropped or accidentally left behind. He'd store them at the gatehouse and, after awhile, if they weren't claimed, he'd bring them home to me. The wristwatch I've worn ever since then had been left on a bench with a view of the ocean. I know that bench and the way light seems to grab the waves as they rise—no wonder the lovely watch had been forgotten. Sometimes my father's gifts were things I'd prefer not to have received, like single costume jewelry earrings or books I wouldn't ever read, but I never told him, as I was afraid all the surprises would stop.

Often I would think about the person whose loss had become my gain; I might hesitate to wear or use the found item for a while. Had the expensive watch been a store-bought birthday gift from another father to his daughter? Though it didn't stop me from eventually wearing and loving the watch, it was a long time before I stopped thinking about that girl, whoever she was. A woman I know dropped her emerald engagement ring at a gas station. When she and her fiancé quickly returned, it was nowhere to be found. The marriage didn't last long. If there's a home for lost items, it might be my father's house. Retirement hasn't stopped his crow-like eyes from finding things, especially shiny ones, it's only decreased the chance of the lost being returned to its rightful owner.

On a long ago day, my father handed me an old-looking necklace that I thought was from somewhere in Africa, the ultimate hippie beads. I'd seen girls like me, but older, girls who had the money I didn't, wearing such necklaces. The long necklace had big amber beads like knobs of butter that were interspersed by smaller coral beads, the color of pumpkin. I wore it to school the next day and the next and the next. This was better than cash money! I didn't give a backwards glance in the bereft girl's direction. Until my style changed and the necklace got put away in a box, amidst other forgotten things, I wore it often.

Recently, after years, I opened that box again, and there was the beautiful and, yes, quite old necklace, curled like a bright lizard in the dark bottom of the box. I hung it up on a peg with my other necklaces but didn't wear it because the beads' arrangement looked clunky and hung too low on my chest when I put it on. It remained hanging until I considered remaking it into two necklaces, one with the big yellow beads and a second with the smaller deep orange ones. Just before making the cut, I stopped myself, afraid that doing so might sever more than the black thread. What if there had been a ritual tied to the making of such necklaces and what if, by loosening the beads and letting them fall, I were to mess with something big that shouldn't be disturbed? You see, I'm superstitious; I believe in many things I can't explain.

The necklace kept staring me down whenever I walked by, and so out came the scissors again. I don't know whose voice it was, but the words I heard in my head said that by cutting the thread I would discover something; a good or bad thing, it didn't say, just that I would gain much needed knowledge.

This has been a difficult time. I've felt uncertain, and have been wavering, as if a wind were blowing through me. If somehow making one necklace into two could lead me to peace, or even a fragment of understanding, I'd be grateful. Though I knew too that, when lost, one is often oblivious to the most-needed signs, directions that may be as straightforward as a map in hand. But maybe the simple act of rearranging the beads would, at least, help me pay closer attention to my life.

Rather quickly, what had been one necklace became two, both of which made me happy. I placed the big yellow amber beads beside each other and made a close to the throat necklace that I wore several days in a row, pleased by the look and feel of it against my skin. Just yesterday, I put second necklace on for the first time. The strand of smooth coral reminded of rosary beads. With that, my husband and I went out for breakfast and a walk along the beach.

After just one more cup of coffee, we left the restaurant for the ocean and our favorite beachside path. For February, it was a glorious day, well, for any month, really. The translucent water was turquoise, a color that startles me no matter how many times I see the ocean wear it. In the warm sun, I removed my scarf, right away realizing that my new necklace was gone. It was not on the ground at my feet, nor anywhere around us, though we retraced our steps before continuing our walk. Had I not put it on before we left the house; had I only meant to? No, I could remember the beads going over my head and falling to my blouse. Had the clasp undone itself at the restaurant and fallen to the floor without my notice? Was it gone for good? And was the missing necklace my sign? Was I more lost than I'd realized?

Walking back, we took a path we never do. At an ocean-view bench I stopped to read the words engraved in stone on the seatback, a saying that, despite being a cliché, was the sign I longed for, obvious as such, only because I'd have to have been blind not to see it that way: "Listen to your heart's song."

And curled on the seat below, having been placed there by someone quite unlike my father, was my coral necklace.

Patrice Vecchione