Wendy MacGown – December 20, 1990
One of 10 short story winners for $75
As expected for the last Saturday before Christmas, the traffic was heavy and rude. I spent a good 5 minutes waiting to turn into the Methuen Mall. The driver of the car I just cut in front of blasted her horn in anger. I quickly made my selections and started to daydream while waiting in the 20-deep checkout line.
I sure do miss Gran, I thought. She always made the holiday bearable. I used to remember every detail of shopping so I could joke with her and make her smile when I visited. When she was with me, every store window was a fascinating gift. She had lived through the Depression and still marveled at the displays. Gran would spend time in line talking and gossiping about the people around us.
Now I just wanted to go back to bed.
“Move on, lady,” the man behind me shouted in my ear.
“Watch it, pal,” I spat, “have a little respect for a pregnant lady.”
“That’s not my problem,” he replied as he folded his arms across his chest and glared.
I turned my back on him and moved forward to pay for my purchases, refusing to look at him. I quickly left the store and found my car. My head was throbbing.
My shopping done for the day, I headed toward Newburyport. I had to start cleaning out Gran’s house. The new owners would be moving in after the first of the year. As I turned my car onto Tyng Street, tears welled in my eyes. I had lived here with Gran for 10 years. When my parents died in a car accident, Gran had taken me in with open arms, melting the angry, withdrawn child with her patient caring.
I slowly parked my car and gazed at the big old house. It needed paint and window caulking, not to mention a new roof. The uncles had decided to sell it and split the money among themselves. Gran’s household possessions were my inheritance as I was her only daughter’s child.
The house was frigid so I turned up the thermometer. I made myself a cup of herbal tea to elax and war up. The quiet house and the hot scented tea lulled me.
Every year, Gran’s assorted children, in-laws and grandchildren had appeared for holiday dinners. None of them would think of missing her groaning table of home-cooked goodies. They were all at the old house for Thanksgiving this year except Gran. She had quietly slipped away in the night, two weeks before Thanksgiving, while her nurses chatted about holiday plans.
I had been away on business, installing new software for an important customer. Gran shooed me away as I offered to stay in town until she was released from the hospital, She claimed her stay was a minor mater, no need to concern me.
With tears in his eyes, my husband, John told me of Gran’s death. I had been so tired during the customer installation that after each day I checked in early and collapsed on the soft hotel bed. Gran had been the furthest from my mind.
The funeral and the weeks that followed had been a blur. I had been sick with what I thought was a stomach flu for all of October and November. Without John, I wouldn’t have made it through the Thanksgiving dinner which I cooked and presented, as expected. My face became more and more of a mask as I smiled, chatted, and served. When the day was over, I collapsed on the sofa. John tenderly removed my shoes and covered me with a quilt. I couldn’t make it up the stairs to our bed.
Glancing around the cold kitchen, I missed her so much. If only I had been there when she needed me the most. She had been shrinking since July. When I had asked her about it, she had joked about reverse puberty. She laughed and said, “At 78 years of age, I can do any weird thing I want!” Her doctor told me after the funeral that she didn’t want me to know about the cancer, I never had time to tell her about the baby.
I huffed and puffed as I tried to push the large cardboard box up the stairs and finally pulled it behind me. The overhead light in the stairwell popped and shattered as I flipped on the switch. Just another repair for the new people.
The box barely fit through the doorway to Gran’s bedroom. I dropped onto the bed to rest a bit from the climb. My growing abdomen was certainly sapping a lot of energy. The hissing steam radiators brought my mind back into focus.
Oh, well, I should start on the closet. I carefully removed her dresses from the padded hangers and folded them neatly into a pile on the bed. These will go to Goodwill, I muttered aloud. With the last armful of clothes in my arms, I noticed a package at the back of the closet. I dropped the clothes onto an empty space on the bed, and reached into the closet for the package.
It was wrapped in gold foil with a gold and silver ribbon and bow. The attached card merely said “Shirley,” and was written in Gran’s handwriting. I reached into the tiny drawer in her nightstand for her scissors. I paused an though of all the little habits of hers that I would miss. She kept scissors in every part of her house in case they might be needed.
I removed the box’s cover and pulled back the delicate tissue paper. As I listed the soft lacy fabric to the light, a small card dropped to the floor. The gift was a christening gown with a lacy bonnet attached by a tiny gold safety pin. I reached awkwardly for the card, and sat back for a few seconds to wait for the dizzy sensation to stop. As healing tears rolled down my face, I read her last message to me:
Dearest Shirley,
Bless you and the new life you carry. This was your mother’s christening gown. May it clothe your child in the love that I always had for you.
Love, Gran
