by Natasha Deen
I take her pajamas out from underneath the pillow, press them to my face, and inhale the scent of her. My sorrow is overwhelming, but I don’t cry. I can’t—any liquid on her clothing will erase the smell of her from the fabric. The bed catches me as I collapse. Farah’s words sound in my mind—I, too, want to go with my grandmother, to be in any place she exists. The only person who ever saw me—really saw me—is gone from this world, and I don’t know how to stay upright as everything spins out of control.
“Nira.” Dad’s voice sounds from the other side of the door. “Are you okay in there?”
“I’m fine.” I clear my throat and force myself to sound stronger. “Just finding her papers.”
I return Grandma’s clothing to their spot under the pillow, then I move and sink in front of her dresser. She’d told me she kept them under the bottom drawer. I pull it out, disengage it from the rest of the bureau, and find an envelope. Time has turned its white surface to gray.
I open the folder and slide the contents on the floor. Inside are a list with her bank accounts, documentation of her stocks and bonds, deeds to her home in Guyana, a copy of her living will, and her last will and testament. There’s also an envelope with my name.
I take it in my hand and trace the precise script of her writing. The edges are worn soft by time. I open it. There’s another envelope, plus a paper with my name on it. I unfold the letter and start reading.
Nira,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead or you’re snooping. I hope it’s the latter. There’s so much of life I still have left to live. If I have passed, I hope I died in the satin sheets of the bed of my much-younger lover. Maybe a good-looking actor, one with muscles and dark hair. I’d like to think if he proved too much for my heart, I also proved too much for his. What a way to go! What headlines—Hundred-year-old lady was too sexy for her thirty-year-old lover.
God, trust my grandmother to make me laugh and cry, at the same time.
I wonder how I will die. I pray it will be years from now—
I glance at the letter’s date. Two weeks ago.
Please, Lord, it wasn’t a senseless death.
The letter crumples in my hand.
I’m not going to give you advice on how to live your life. If I have been worthy of your love, then I will have lived my life as an example.
I put down the letter because I’m crying so hard, I can’t see the paper and am afraid I’ll make the ink run. I catch my breath and keep reading.
I have so many hopes and dreams for you. I hope you have all the good things life has to offer, but I hope you have your share of tragedy, too. It is only when our hearts are broken that we see how strong we really are, that we see how much love surrounds us as people reach out.
But Nira, I hope you find strength and comfort in yourself. There are times in this world when you will have to set off on your own, when doing the right thing will mean doing it by yourself. Never fear these moments, never fret the lonely road. It will take you to beautiful vistas and lands of possibilities, if only you trust it. And if you let it, the moment will remind you of how strong you are.
“Nira?” Dad taps on the door.
“She left me a letter.” I can barely get the words out. “I’ll be there soon.”
Now I must turn to the true reason behind the letter. My death. I already know my sons and daughters-in-law will be useless. God bless them, but they won’t know what to do. You and Farah will have the level heads needed to take the family through these waters.
I keep reading her letter and log the instructions on the kind of funeral she wanted, including the music and program.
I hold the paper close when I read the lines that blaze themselves on my skin and heart.
Go to your dreams, ignore everyone else. You’re just like me, and I got all the dreams I dreamed. I got you and Farah (and your parents, but every dream has a weird part, right?). If I could do it, you can do it. You and me, girl, we’re cut from the same cloth.
I hold the letter close, finish reading, then turn to the sealed envelope. It’s stuffed, and when I open it, another envelope falls out, addressed to Farah. There’s also a pile of tea bags and sugar packets. They’re labeled, and I sort them. A tea bag and three packets each of sugar for Uncle Raj, Aunty Gul, Mom, Dad, and Farah. I hold the tea bag for me and search the envelopes for the sugar.
Nothing.
I go back to her dresser, looking through the drawers, even pulling them out to check underneath. I sort through the last one, lifting the clothes aside, and find a folded slip of paper with my name. On the other side are the words, I know what you’re looking for. You don’t need it. You’re strong, Nira. I love you.
“Nira?” Farah comes in and kneels beside me. “Is everything okay? You’ve been gone awhile.”
“She left me a letter.”
“Oh.”
“And one for you, too.”
Her legs must lose strength, because she leans against the wall. She reaches for the envelope with trembling hands.
“Are you going to read it?” I hand it to her.
She shakes her head. “Not yet.” Her fingers stroke the envelope. “Not yet.”
I point to the tea bags. “She left instructions.”
Farah moves to the pile. Her fingers play against the sugar packets and tea bags. “Where’s your stash?”
I hold up the tea bag.
“No sugar?”
I collect everything and stand. “Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”
“I don’t need tea.”
“I’ll put the kettle on to boil.”
“Don’t be a ninny. I don’t need tea.”
“Okay,” I say, “a small cup.”
“I’m not—okay, fine, a small cup.” She starts down the hallway.
There’s the sound of the doorbell. “Nira,” Mom calls, “the kids are here.”
I move, then stop in the doorway. For a moment, it’s like Grandma is here. The air in the room changes. It grows warm and bright. I’m sure I can smell her perfume and hear the sound of her laughter.
Farah stops, turns. “Are you coming?”
I follow her, and leave the door open behind me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story wouldn’t exist if not for my parents and their decision to move from Guyana to Canada (though times and policies have changed, I had Nira’s parents face some of the same government obstacles to immigration as my parents did). When I was growing up, they were always straightforward about the price of this move, the racism and uncertainty we would face as visible minorities, and I thought I understood it. As an adult, I’ve come to a higher understanding of the fear and trepidation they must have faced bringing their young children to an unknown country, and I have a deeper gratitude for the lifestyle they gave up in order to raise their children in a country that would allow them to dream, dream big, and turn those dreams to reality.
Nira’s story also owes its existence to my agent, Amy Tompkins, my editor, Allison Cohen, and the incredible teams at Running Press—marketing and promotion, design, Julie Matysik, Amber Morris, and Susan Hom. I am grateful for all of their thoughtful insights, editorial wisdom, and hard work on this book.
Thank you to my author support system and critique partners—Kate Boorman, Hope Cook, Johanna Melaragno, and Nikki Vogel. Between the pep talks, manuscript troubleshooting, and chocolate giving, you kept me going.
And to my husband. There aren’t enough words or page space to express how lucky and grateful I am to have you in my life, so I will simply say “thank you,” and trust you understand all that is meant in those two words.
Finally, let it be on the record, Mom, Dad, and Grandmas, you were right. A cup of tea really does solve everything.
