by Wade, Ellie
“You were,” London states, the corners of her mouth tilting up into a smile. “Life isn’t the posed smiles for a camera. It’s the beautiful chaos that surrounds the picture. Your life was perfect because you were enveloped in love.”
I stare down to London. Her eyes capture mine, and a surge of gratitude for this woman encircles me.
My pulse leaps when an angered voice cuts across the room. “What are you doing in here?”
London and I jump back from each other with startled gasps. An older woman is standing in the doorway with her cane raised, ready to strike.
“I’m sorry. I was just—” I start to explain.
The woman’s mouth falls open. “Blimey, it’s you,” she says in wonder. She returns her cane back down to the floor. “You’re the grandson.”
“Hi, I’m Loïc Berkeley.” I extend my hand, and the woman shakes it.
“I’m Esther Willis, the caretaker of this place.”
“You’re the caretaker?” I ask, returning the photo of my family to the shelf where London found it.
“Yes, though my grandson does most of the work at this point. It’s been a long time.” She stares up at me, and I feel as if the last sentence was a reprimand of sorts.
“Do you know where my grandparents are?”
She nods. “Follow me.”
She leads us to one of the bedrooms. Using her cane, she smacks the side of a box that’s sitting on the bed. “In there, you’ll find everything you need—letters, legal documents, a deed to this house, their will.”
“So, they’ve passed,” I say out loud for myself more than anything.
“Jane, yes. It’s…let’s see…coming up on twenty years now, I believe. Right before your parents’ accident, she was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She was actually in surgery when your parents passed. I’ve never seen her so distraught as when she heard the news.” Esther stares off to the ground. “Jane was my best friend. We were pregnant with our sons at the same time.” She smiles to herself.
“Anyway,” Esther continues, “she was so sick, you see. She wasn’t cleared for travel. She talked to the government people over there, and they said they would place you with a nice family until she could make arrangements to get you. But…she never got better.” Esther looks past me, as if she’s remembering. Releasing an audible sigh, she says, “She wrote to you every day. The letters were all returned. They’re in the box.” She nods toward the bed.
“What about my grandfather?”
“He’s still alive.”
When I hear those words, I draw in a deep breath, my pulse leaping. “A couple of years prior to Jane’s death, he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. He couldn’t come get you because he could barely take care of himself. He was put into a home shortly before Jane’s passing. He’s still there. Unfortunately, his mind is gone. I’ve been up to see him a few times, but he doesn’t know who I am, let alone who he is. Alzheimer’s is a miserable way to go…steals your mind but leaves your body. Just terrible.” She shakes her head.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But he did have many years with periods where he was still himself, and he wrote to you a lot.” She eyes the box once more.
The room is exploding with an uncomfortable silence, save for the breaths of its occupants. I pull in air as I try to process everything I just heard.
Esther clears her throat. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her.
“I promised Jane I would look for you to let you know about her and Henry. I tried, but I didn’t know how. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to navigate through another country’s social services. Remember, this was before the Internet is the way it is now. There were phone calls and letters, neither of which proved to be of any use in finding you. I just hoped that you were raised by a nice family and that, someday, you’d come here for answers. And here you are.” She smiles warmly.
“Well, this cottage is yours. There’s account information in the box. All the bank accounts are in your name. There’s a pretty large life insurance policy that you can collect as well. I don’t know what your plans are, but my grandson will gladly keep this place up, if needed. I’ll write down my contact information for you and leave it on the table by the door in case you have any questions. I’ll just give you some time.” She nods and turns toward the door.
“Excuse me, Ms. Willis?” I ask before she leaves.
“Yes, dear?”
“Where is my grandfather exactly?”
“Oh.” She walks back in the room and pulls a pamphlet from inside the box. “He’s here.” She hands it to me and exits the room.
On the floor of the bedroom, London and I sit cross-legged amid a bunch of papers. There are official documents and personal letters from Nan, Granddad, and Ms. Willis.
“Look at this one.” I show London. “It was addressed to me when I was in New Hope, living with Dwight and Stacey. Do you think they are the ones who marked it with Return to sender? Why would they have done that?”
The hurt little boy that so desperately wanted to know he was loved mourns within my soul.
“I don’t know.” London looks down at the letter in my hand. “There are such cruel people in this world.”
We continue reading letter after letter. I hear London sniffle, and I look over to find her wiping her eyes.
“They loved you so much, and all this time, you thought they didn’t.” Her voice breaks as she shakes her head. “It just breaks my heart. I can feel your Nan’s pain through her words. None of this is fair,” she says with a half-sob.
My heart thrums wildly. “No, it’s not.”
The evening is spent soaking in the memories my grandparents left me, and they left me a lot. Nan’s letters are full of stories about her and my grandfather when they were younger, my father growing up, and the tales of how my parents met, how they found me, and how they loved me.
In the few months she was able to fight her sickness, she documented a lifetime of memories. It’s the greatest gift she could have left me. For someone who has lived a life full of unanswered questions, finally gaining the facts of one’s heritage is an overwhelming and powerful experience.
I now have stories of a family that loved me and loved each other. I have a past and history that extends beyond torture and heartbreak. I plan to read these letters over and over again—not tonight, but soon. I want to cement my Nan’s beautiful words into my mind, turning them into memories, allowing them to shed light on all the dark corners of my mind.
London and I sit out on the back patio and listen to the waves from the sea as we eat a dinner of granola bars and water, which was what we had in the car. Neither of us has any interest in leaving the cottage tonight.
Years of love are penetrated into the walls, the furniture, the air; it’s almost tangible as it surrounds me. Maybe it’s finally having answers, perhaps it’s the letters or this cottage, or it’s a combination of all three, but I’ve discovered a sense of myself that I never knew was there.
Loïc
“It’s not England that’s magical; it’s life.”
—Loïc Berkeley
“You know what amazes me?” London asks on our drive to the nursing home that houses my granddad. Her question is rhetorical because she continues, “The cottage felt lived in even though no one had stayed there for years. I mean, the sheets smelled like they had been freshly washed. Nothing had dust on it. The air didn’t have the stale smell that abandoned places get.”
“Yeah.”
“I think Ms. Willis has been cleaning that cottage, waiting for you to come, for almost twenty years. That’s commitment.” She reaches over and places her hand on my thigh.
“You’re right. She could have been keeping it nice in memory of Nan, too. They were best friends,” I offer.
“It’s probably a little bit of both,” London agrees. “Are you feeling okay about today?”
“I’m su
re it’s going to be strange, seeing him, especially since he won’t know me. But a selfish part of me is glad that I have a living family member even if just physically. Is that horrible?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not. I understand. He’s still your granddad, and he’s alive. That’s exciting.”
The nursing home is two hours north of the cottage even though it seems further. I’m relieved when we finally arrive.
We check in at the front desk, and a few minutes later, someone comes to get us.
“Hello, I’m Nancy, one of the nurses who works with Mr. Berkeley.”
I like Nancy immediately. With her bright eyes and warm smile, I can tell that she’s one of those people who’s everyone’s friend. It makes me feel good, knowing that Granddad gets to see her happy face every day.
“So, you’re the grandson?”
“Yes. I live in the United States.” I explain to Nancy a little about my past and how I just found out yesterday that my granddad was alive.
London and I follow Nancy as she walks down a hallway. “Well, I’m glad you came. Mr. Berkeley hasn’t had a visitor in years. Have you been around someone with Alzheimer’s before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, the main thing to understand is that he won’t know you, so don’t take it personally. That’s just the way it is with Alzheimer’s patients. Most days, Mr. Berkeley doesn’t speak at all. Every now and again, he’s lucid enough to talk, but what he says doesn’t normally make any sense to the rest of us. You can talk to him, of course. We’re not sure how much our patients can understand—the reality is, probably not much—but it doesn’t hurt to try.”
“How long can someone live with Alzheimer’s?” I ask.
“The average is ten years past diagnosis. However, it varies. Truthfully, your grandfather has survived more years than most. It’s difficult. His mind has gone, but his body refuses to. He doesn’t appear to be in any physical pain or mental anguish, which is the best we can hope for.” She smiles. “There he is.” She points to a man sitting in a chair by the window in what appears to be a large living room area. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around.”
I look to London. She entwines her fingers through mine, and we walk toward my granddad. Releasing her hand, I pull up two chairs and set them in front of him.
He looks the same, like the man from the pictures I vaguely remember, but older and paler. His hair is now completely gray, and his face wears more wrinkles. I feel a weak yet familiar pull toward him. I’m not sure what I expected, but I hoped for a strong, real connection. I want my heart to know he’s family and to feel something, anything.
He doesn’t acknowledge us sitting in front of him.
“Just talk. Tell him about yourself,” London urges in a whisper.
“Hi, Granddad. It’s me, Loïc, your grandson.”
I look to my granddad and wait. He doesn’t move his stare from the window.
I turn my head to face London.
“I know,” she says gently. “But we don’t know what he understands, so just keep talking. Tell him stories about your life.”
“Okay.” I nod.
I’ve craved a familial connection for so long, but the man before me isn’t the same as the one I remember. He isn’t laughing, making jokes, or driving Nan crazy. He’s not doing anything, and it’s unsettling.
Yet I do as London suggested. I talk.
I pretend that my granddad is listening and able to care. He’s not the same man I hoped to see, but maybe deep down, part of that man still lives.
There’s a chance he hears me. So, I tell him about being in the military. I talk about meeting Sarah while in foster care and how she’s become like a sister to me. I smile big when I mention Evan. I glance at London with nothing but affection in my eyes as I tell this man all about the woman I love and how we’re going to get married.
Through it all, he never looks at me or shows signs of knowing that I’m there. This interaction leaves me with a slight sadness in my heart.
“I don’t know what else to say,” I tell London.
“Oh, I know! I’ll tell him how you proposed.”
London turns to my granddad and goes on and on with so much excitement, telling him every detail of the proposal. Well, at least up to the point when she said yes. He doesn’t need to know what happened after that.
I watch, fascinated, as she speaks to this man, as if he’s interested, as if he’s talking back with her. She doesn’t end with the proposal. She continues with stories of our time together. She tells him about my work with veterans and the speech I gave when she saw me again for the first time.
It’s bizarre because, as I listen to London and this one-sided conversation, it’s as if she’s sitting here, having a legitimate conversation with my grandfather. She pauses and laughs and tells the stories with enthusiasm and love. In this moment, I fall in love with her a little more.
After a couple of hours, we decide to go.
I touch my granddad’s arm and say, “We’ll come back another day, okay?”
As I pull my hand away from his arm and stand, he turns his head and looks at me. I freeze and stare into his eyes.
He blinks. His voice is hoarse as he says, “William?”
He thinks I’m my dad.
“Yeah.” I nod.
“How are you, son?” He reaches his arm out and takes my hand.
“I’m good, Dad,” I answer.
“Where’s little Loïc? Did you bring him?” he asks, hopeful.
I shake my head. “Not today.”
“You must bring him to visit. Your mom and I just adore that boy. He’s a special one, isn’t he? Such a gift.” A small smile touches his face before his eyebrows crinkle. “Where’s your mom?” he asks, almost panicked.
“She’s coming. She’s on her way.”
“Good, good. I miss her.”
“She misses you,” I say.
His grip on my hand releases, and he drops his hand to his lap. He closes his eyes and then opens them again. When he does, he’s gone. The blank expression has returned.
“Dad? Granddad?”
There’s no sign that he hears me as he looks out the window again.
I turn to London to find her eyes red with tears.
“That was amazing,” she says, reaching out to grab my hand.
I take hers in mine and squeeze softly.
“Yeah.” I shake my head in awe at what just happened.
“Try again,” London urges.
“Okay.”
I gently grip my granddad’s arm and say, “We’re going to get going now, Granddad. We’ll be back another day, okay?”
I wait for a response, but there’s nothing, and it’s all right.
As we walk out of the home, the reality that something like that might never happen again sets in. Yet I’m oddly fine with it because I feel like I was just given a gift. My granddad came back to life, if even for a few seconds, and it was magical. He didn’t know who I was, but he loved me. They all did. None of them wanted to leave me, but they weren’t given the choice.
Nan was right. It’s not England that’s magical; it’s life. Sometimes, one can pray for a miracle, and it never comes. And, other times, one might not know they need one, yet they get a miracle anyway.
Now, almost twenty years later, I finally know the truth.
The one and only truth is love. I’ve had it all along, and I finally believe in it.
London
“True joy comes when one’s heart is completely open and vulnerable to the world.”
—London Wright
The sun is just starting to warm the earth with its light. Its rays sneak into the bedroom between the fluttery white curtains that dance from the salty air of the sea.
After visiting Loïc’s granddad yesterday, we came back to the cottage where we plan to stay for the rest of our vacation.
I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve bee
n so happy. The obvious reason for that is because there hasn’t been one.
It’s hard to wrap my mind around the past three years.
I think of that girl who basically rubbed her boobs against Loïc’s dirty truck that hot May day. In hopes of what? A booty call, a one-night stand, attention? Who was she? God, I barely recognize her. How did she ever win over Loïc?
I was never a bad person. I did the best I could with the knowledge I had of the world, and at that point, I was looking through entitled, spoiled, rose-colored glasses.
Loïc thinks I saved him, but he’s wrong. He saved me. He saved me from myself, from me living a shallow, self-centered existence. I know that sort of life would never have led to happiness. No one can live a life of genuine happiness without experiencing the gift of loving someone more than themselves. True joy comes when one’s heart is completely open and vulnerable to the world. Yes, with that vulnerability comes potential for great pain, but the pain is what allows us to appreciate the love. Loïc taught me that. Change comes with knowledge. As soon as I knew better, I demanded more from my life.
“What were you giggling about?” Loïc’s tired but alluring voice whispers from behind me as his arm that’s wrapped around my middle pulls me against him.
His firm chest against my back causes an intoxicating pressure to start to build within me. I turn around to face him, immediately lost in his impossibly blue depths.
“What was funny?” he asks again with a sly grin.
He knows I can’t think straight when confronted with a Loïc who’s just woken up. His hair all tousled and his sleepy expression just make me want him more.
I blink, clearing my lust-hazed mind. “Oh, I was just thinking how much things have changed since the car wash.”
“God, have they ever.” He lets out a chuckle, raspy and sexy, from deep within his chest.
