by Holly Jacobs
I opened the door to the kitchen.
It looked like it always had except the refrigerator was unplugged and the door was propped open. I was surprised that the house wasn’t as dusty as I thought it would be. But there was an unfamiliar smell that spoke of disuse, whereas once the house had smelled of countless family meals, pans of brownies, and an occasional wet dog.
The house was silent, where once it had been filled with children’s noises. Screams, laughter, loud music.
For a house to be truly a home, there had to be people, smells, and sounds. This was just a house—an empty shell where once there’d been a home.
I stopped at the thermostat and turned up the heat when I went into the dining room; then I continued into the living room. Both looked the same. As if just yesterday the family had eaten dinner around that table, or I’d sat on one side of the couch with Lee on the other as we read or watched something on television.
I was just about to start up stairs, when I heard someone come in the side door. “Mom?” Conner yelled.
I went back into the kitchen as he came in. “You’re early.”
He grinned. “So are you.” Then my son, my joker, grew more serious. “We both figured you’d come early and didn’t want you to face this by yourself. Connie’ll be here soon. We didn’t want you to have to go through things alone.”
He took my hand in his and I looked at my son. In my mind’s eye, he’s still the little boy battling two sisters. Raging because they spied on him. Playing jokes that made them crazy.
That boy was gone. Now a man stood in his place. There was a lot of Lee in his son. The same blue eyes, but my dark hair. It had been lighter when he was young, but now, it was almost the same shade as mine and cut so short it was almost a crew cut.
“Well, since you’re here first, you can start.”
“What are we doing here tonight, Mom?”
“I want you both—”
The door opened again. Moments later Connie joined us. “It’s snowing. Good thing I’m crashing with you tonight, Mom. I wouldn’t want to drive back in that.”
“You do remember that heading south of Erie means more snow than here by the lake?” I teased.
“Yeah, but a half hour is a lot easier to face than two-and-a-half hours.”
“Mom was just telling me what she wants us to do here tonight.”
“I want you both to go through everything and anything. Take what you want. If you want furniture, we’ll make arrangements for that. I’m taking my personal items and my grandmother’s chair, but basically selling whatever else you two don’t take.”
“Mom . . .” they both said as one.
Before I had the kids, I’d have said that myth about twins completing each other’s sentences was just that—a myth. But my two Cons had taught me otherwise. Even though they were adults now and lived in different cities, they still managed to twin-speak on occasion.
“It’s time, kids. The house has been vacant for more than a year. I just realized recently that I don’t live here anymore. My home is the cottage. This is simply the house I used to live in. It’s filled with memories—both happy and sad. But it’s not mine anymore. It’s just a repository for those memories. And I don’t need something physical to hold on to those.”
They both looked concerned.
“This isn’t something sad. It’s me moving on. And I think you’d both agree, it’s about time.”
They looked at each other, and did their psychic-twin voodoo thing, then nodded.
“So where do we start?” Conner asked for them both.
“Let’s start down here.”
What might have been a sad thing turned out to be filled with happy nostalgia.
We went through the downstairs. There wasn’t much I took. Photos, mainly. My grandmother’s rocking chair. I loaded them all into the truck, thankful for the cap on the back.
Then we went upstairs. The kids each went to their rooms and I went into the room I’d shared for so many years with Lee. The room I’d used on my own while we were separated. The room he’d come back to.
I’d taken most of my clothes with me when I’d started staying at camp. There wasn’t much in the room I needed or wanted. My jewelry box. More pictures.
Then I spotted Lee’s ugly red sweater on the back of the chair. I’d hated that thing. It was baggy and tattered. I’d threatened to toss it out, but never had the nerve. He’d loved it and never saw a problem with wearing it out in public, but finally the kids ganged up on him with me and he agreed to just wear it around the house.
I put it on my small pile of keepsakes. Then left the room to find the kids. They were standing outside Gracie’s closed bedroom door.
“You can go in,” I told them.
Connie splayed her fingers against the door, below the small ceramic plaque that proclaimed, GRACIE’S ROOM. “It seems wrong, picking through her things.”
“She’d want you both to have something of hers.”
They still stood, frozen, so I opened the door and went in. The kids followed behind me.
Conner’s arms draped over both my shoulders and Connie’s. “I still miss her,” he said.
Connie walked over to Gracie’s bed and picked up a Cabbage Patch doll. “Britta Patty. She was my doll for all of two minutes; then Gracie stole her. She loved her more than I ever could.”
“Maybe you should take it. Someday you can give it to your daughter.”
Connie lifted up the corner of the mattress and pulled out a battered orange blanket. “Only if Conner takes her blankie. Do you remember when we went to Greenfield Village and spent the night at that hotel in Detroit? We got almost an hour toward home before Gracie remembered that she forgot Blankie.”
“Remembered she forgot?” Conner teased. Then he joined in the remembrance. “Dad was not pleased about having to drive back.”
That was an understatement and we all recognized that. Lee hadn’t wanted to drive back, but Gracie’s mounting hysteria finally convinced him. The ride had been a white-knuckle one for me, as he drove wildly back to Detroit.
“Take Blankie, Con. Someday you might get some woman drunk enough to agree to procreate with you—that’s the only way you’ll reproduce. But those kids should know about Gracie.”
They were sniping, as always, but I could tell that being in here, in Gracie’s room, moved them as much as it moved me. I fingered her bookshelf. “She was my biggest reader.”
I pulled out a book. “You two should take some of these.” The set of Chincoteague books was on the top shelf. I took them out and put them on the floor; then I pulled out another small stack. “Belinda,” I said, recognizing Gracie’s favorite book.
“Belinda Mae,” Connie corrected me with a small laugh. “Gracie sang that song for weeks,” Connie said. “B-E-L I-N-D A-M-A-E that is me. With Belinda Mae, then Sophia cannot win, Belinda Mae begin again.”
I opened the book and a piece of paper fell out.
I picked it up and my hand started to shake as I recognized the handwriting on the envelope: Mom, Dad, Connie, and Conner. “It’s from Gracie.”
The envelope was sealed, so I gently slid my finger underneath it to break the seal, pulled out a piece of notebook paper, and read aloud.
I’m not sure who found this, or how long it took you to find it, but I’m sure someday you will find it. And I am sure that you all will share it, so hello Mom, Dad, Connie, and Con.
I know you were sad when I died.
Yes, despite Mom’s attempt to remain upbeat, I know I’m going to die. Dad, when you took us to church a few weeks ago, the minister said something about how he tries to be happy about what he has, rather than sad about what he doesn’t. That stuck with me because I’ve had a wonderful life. I never doubted, not even for a minute, that you all loved me. And I have so many really great memories. Mom yelling at the three of us when she caught us on the garage roof. That time Mom got all sad ’cause we were growing up and so we took her to the z
oo in order to make her think we weren’t really that old. Remember? The camels were having sex and Mom about had a heart attack, then quick as a minute, she told us that they were just trying to give each other piggyback rides. Mom, it was just last year. We were in our teens, and we all knew what sex was.
Mom, I put the letter in the book because I remember you reading it. I loved that song she used to spell her name, B-E-L I-N-D A-M-A-E that is me. And that time I had chicken pox, you read it to me over and over. And you made me my own song.
Amazing Gracie, has chicken pox, her face is itchy and red, but Mommy is here, and you are dear, so keep your butt in bed.
I didn’t realize you’d ripped off Amazing Grace until we were at church at camp and they sang it. I looked at you and we both burst out laughing.
And Dad,
I read the words, and choked up, realizing Lee wasn’t here to hear Gracie’s letter.
“Mom, they’re together now. He knows,” Conner said.
I nodded and went back to reading.
And Dad, how about the time you took us all fishing and the crickets got out in the car? Conner had fallen asleep and didn’t wake up when we all bolted outside. Mom told you to go rescue him, but there was a huge cricket on his head and you were laughing so hard, you couldn’t.
Those are my memories. My whole life has been filled with those kinds of things. I guess they are sort of small things, but they mean everything to me.
And while I’m sad to leave you all, if I could pick living to eighty years with some other family, or spending sixteen years, or maybe I’ll make it to seventeen. But however long I make it, if I could pick eighty years with another family or my few years with you all, I’d pick less years with you all every time.
Remember me.
I love you all.
Remember to love each other.
Gracie. God, how I missed her. I tried to imagine what my youngest would look like now as an adult, but I couldn’t. In my mind, she would always be a teen. My little Gracie.
“Mom,” the twins said in unison.
“I’m fine.” I brushed at my face and realized I’d been crying. “I miss her, that’s all. I’ll always miss her. But I’ve finally recovered as much as any mother can.”
I might figure out how to put my past behind me and recover from the pain, but I realized that I’d never stop missing the people I loved who’d gone on without me. My father, Gracie, Lee.
We finished going through the house. Connie and Conner both decided to rent a U-Haul and take some furniture. They still had keys and wouldn’t need me for that. I’d taken everything I wanted. Whatever was left when they were done, I’d sell; then I’d put the house on the market. I didn’t need to come back to it again. My memories were with me and didn’t rely on the house.
I took the book and the letter, packed up the car, and told Connie that I’d meet her at the cottage, but I had a quick stop to make first.
Though it wasn’t Monday, I stopped at Sam’s bar. It was bustling with people.
“Lex?” Sam said by way of greeting as I came in, covered in snow.
My stool was occupied. I mean, I knew other people used it when I wasn’t here, but it was still odd to see someone else sitting on it. “One thing,” I said. “I know it’s busy and this won’t take long, but I need to tell you one thing.”
He waved at the new bartender, Chris, and he took me into the kitchen. There was a cook there I’d never met. I waved as we continued through it into Sam’s office.
I’d never been in here, I realized. I’d never been to Sam’s apartment, either. There were still parts of his life I hadn’t been introduced to. We sat down on a rather battered plaid couch. The office was just a little worn at the edges, but very neat. A pressboard bookcase had notebooks and some other big, official-looking books and binders on it. His desk was one of those metal ones that you might find in any office. Everything on it was neat and precise.
“One thing,” he said, pulling me from my inspection.
I took the letter out of the book and handed it to him. I waited while he read it. “I can recite most of the book by heart. Gracie mentions me reading it to her when she had chicken pox, but that’s not the time that stands out in my mind. It was toward the end . . .
“One thing,” Sam said again.
“Mom.” Gracie’s voice was so low that it was hard to be sure she’d said anything.
“Hey, sleepy head.”
“I was just thinking about Belinda Mae. Would you read it to me?”
How Belinda Mae Got Her Name was a children’s book and not the kind of book Lexie read to teenaged Gracie most afternoons. But she got it off Gracie’s shelf. The floor-to-ceiling built-in was crammed with books. A few years ago, she’d offered to store the children’s books, but Gracie had protested, claiming it would be like putting a friend in the attic.
Lexie read the book about Belinda Mae’s battle with Sophia, a bossy classmate. In the end, Belinda won the right to be called her whole, very long, name, but in a gesture of generosity, she shared the prize with her classmate. Rather than Belinda Mae Abernathy, she’d simply be Belinda Mae and Sophia could be Sophia Tonya.
Gracie sighed as Lexie finished the story. “When I was little, I thought I wanted to grow up and be like Belinda Mae. She was brave, but she was also kind. I liked that. But a few years ago, I took the book babysitting, and as I read it, I realized that I only wanted to be like Belinda Mae because she reminded me of you. You’re so strong, Mom. Brave and kind, like her. If I were going to grow up, I’d have wanted to grow up and be just like you.”
Hearing her talk so casually about the idea of not growing up broke Lexie’s heart into a thousand pieces. Her voice cracked as she managed, “Gracie, I’m not brave, or strong.”
“You’re wrong, Mom. You are. But more than that, you love with your whole heart. I know that if you could love me well, I wouldn’t be sick now . . .”
I’d choked back the tears as I read the letter with the kids, but I was crying now as I told this one-thing—this one big thing—to Sam. “I couldn’t love her well, though. And I realized Gracie was wrong. I’m not any of those things. I’m not brave or strong. Look at how I’ve fallen apart.”
“Lex—”
I interrupted him. I didn’t want him to argue, or to tell me I was wrong. “I feel like I let her down. I know it’s stupid, that Gracie’s been gone a long time, but still, I feel as if I’ve somehow failed her because I’m not the things she thought I was.”
“You didn’t ask me my one-thing.” There was censure in his voice, not pity.
“Do you have one?”
“After I bought the bar, Grid came to visit for a couple weeks to help get things set up.”
“It’s going to be a nice place, once you get it cleaned up,” Grid said.
Sam looked around the bar, which probably hadn’t seen the bristle side of a scrub brush in a couple decades. “Cleaning’s about all I can afford. After I got done putting down the money on this, plus the liquor license and the rest of the start-up costs, there’s not a lot left for renovations.”
“You wouldn’t want to do that anyway,” Grid assured him. “The decor is part of the charm. Let’s just call it historic decor.”
“Well, let’s hope that the customers think that, because I’ve got everything tied up in it.”
“My thoughts have always been, go big or go home.”
Sam knew Grid meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. “This could be the dumbest move I’ve ever made.”
“Well, dumb or not, it was brave. That’s something to hang your hat on.”
“I’m not brave. I think we both know that.”
“We do?”
“Look at how you had to come rescue me in the hospital.”
“Listen, being brave doesn’t mean doing things on your own; it means being smart enough to ask for help when you need it.”
“I didn’t ask,” Sam reminded him.
“Well,
sometimes being brave means picking friends who are so smart that they don’t need to wait for you to ask.”
“I think Gracie would be proud of you. You’re here. You came to me tonight and let me help you. That’s brave. You’ve made it through everything.”
“I haven’t told you everything.” And Sam hadn’t asked. I was glad, because I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell him the last thing—the big thing. “I don’t feel brave.”
“Maybe being brave isn’t about how you feel; it’s about doing what needs to be done, despite what you feel.”
The sound of someone shouting filtered into the office. I remembered this wasn’t our normal night. “I should get going. I told Connie I wouldn’t be long. I just needed to see you.”
Sam took my hand in his. I noticed how nicely they fit together. “I’m always here for you, Lex. Not just Mondays, any day, any time.”
“I know that, Sam. That’s why I came.”
I left Sam to his Friday-night crowd and went back to the cottage.
Being able to lean on someone else . . . maybe that was brave. I mean, if you leaned on someone, you had to trust that they wouldn’t let you fall.
After everything, I could still trust. I trusted my kids enough to share tonight with them. I trusted my mom—she’d have come if I’d called.
And I trusted Sam. I trusted in the healing power of our Monday nights, and our one-things.
I drove the snow-covered road home. The snow had stopped and the clouds had momentarily cleared. A half-moon illuminated the fields, then disappeared as I entered the wood-lined section of road that led to the cottage.
I felt centered. Eased. Letting go of the Erie house was another step in my healing.
And after talking to Sam, I felt braver than I’d felt in a very long time.
Connie left the next morning to drive back to Cleveland. I was thankful it had stopped snowing. She planned on renting a U-Haul when she came back in a couple weeks for Christmas.
