I look over to the silver metal box at the edge of my desk. It is rusted and the lid is slightly warped from being weighed down by soil for so many years. But the lock,annoyingly, is firmly in place.
My grandmother Bonnie was a gentle, soft soul. Despite my sister, Phoebe, and I spending our summers with her and Grandpa at their lake house every year growing up, I never knew much abouther. I understand now, with everything I’ve learned in the last few weeks, that she was habitually a private person. Not shy, as I’d previously thought her to be.
I’ve been making a list of all of the things Ididknow about her before now, to offset my guilt. For example, I know that Grandma Bonnie made fantastic shortbread. She loved puzzles, enjoyed a long walk every morning at sunrise, proudly hung all of our terrible drawings on the fridge, kept the neighbourhood birds well fed, and could make one hell of a quilt.
Most of all, I know she loved me and I loved her. She was a steady, welcoming presence. Throughout childhood tantrums and teenage drama, she was there. Always calm,cool, and collected with a tin of cookies on the counter and a blanket to wrap me up in when I needed it most.
My grandpa Henry, on the other hand, was a live wire and an open book. As a proud Canadian Air Force veteran of the Second World War, he told me story after story about his time stationed in Yorkshire. When he realised I’d taken a liking to history, he started recording documentaries on VHS tapes for us to watch together on rainy summer days. When it wasn’t raining, he’d take us fishing on the lake or let us drive his truck around the property. He waselectric. I used to wonder if Bonnie didn’t talk as much because Henry never seemed to stop.
When I was eighteen, Grandpa Henry passed away from a heart attack in his sleep. It was devastating, of course, but we all knew it was coming. Mom had been trying to get him to eat better and take his heart medication for years to no avail. According to him, life was “too damn short and hard” to die without enjoying cheese and red meat—the two main staples of his diet.
Grandma Bonnie sold the lake house that following year, took the three of us grandkids on a trip to Nova Scotia with some of the money from the sale, and moved into a retirement community walking distance from my mom and dad shortly thereafter.
Admittedly, I was not thebestgranddaughter during my college years—only visiting and calling when my mother reminded me to. It wasn’t until Bonnie got sick that I realised I was taking her for granted. I began visiting her every Sunday afternoon. We’d go for walks on the days when she felt comfortable using her wheelchair. Most visits, I’d read to her, sneak her treats from the bakery next door, and vent about work and my lack of love life as she drifted in and out of sleep.
But even in the last few years, when we spent so much time together, she didn’t talk much. The nurses all loved her and her soothing nature—they’d tell me so every time I picked up my visitors pass at the front desk. They took good care of her until the very end.
Three weeks ago, on January 24, Grandma Bonnie passed away at ninety-three years old. We had her funeral a week later—family and friends gathered at the local funeral home, each of us wearing one of her beloved brooches. My parents, sister, and I collected her things the next day—most of which has since been divided between my sister’s storage unit in Montreal and my parents’ garage nearby. I spent the next two Sunday mornings in bed, curled up with the book she and I never got to finish together.
Then, ten days ago, I got a phone call from her estate lawyer, asking me to come into his office.
At first I was sceptical, because my mom had told me about the ludicrous amount of paperwork involved in divvying up Grandma’s assets between her, my uncle Simon, and the three of us granddaughters. I’d thought that Mom, as the executor of Grandma’s will, had it all under control and I shouldn’t overstep by communicating with the lawyer directly. But Bonnie’s lawyer insisted that he was under specific instructions to hand-deliver an envelope to one Georgia Anderson.
So, I went to meet with him. It was a quick visit. An exchange of niceties, an envelope handed over, and a paper slid across a desk for me to sign confirming that he’d done his duty. I opened it in the lawyer’s parking lot, unable to wait. Inside the envelope was a handwritten letter from my grandmother, dated April 19, 2017.
My dearest Georgia,
As I’m writing this, you are eighteen years old and your grandfather Henry, God rest his soul, has just passed away. Because of that, I’ve had to meet with our lawyer to discuss what I will leave you all when it is my turn to go. I know... very cheerful stuff. I hope we have more time together, my sweet girl, but, regardless of that, I suspect I will still have some things left unsaid when my time does come.
You see, I have lived somewhat of a double life.
When I was your age, I fell in love. Her name was Martha Bennett and she was a year older than me. We became friends while we were both attending the University of Toronto. I was studying English literature, and Martha was studying physiology and chemistry.
I know that may come as a shock to you, Georgia, and for that I am sorry. But I have seen you grow up to become a progressive young lady, and I have heard you speak with fondness and kind regard for people like me. Women who fall in love with other women, I mean. I also know of your appreciation for history, so you will understand that, in 1949, folks were far less understanding than they are now.
Martha and I were together for seven years in secret. Not even my sister, nor dearest friends, knew how we truly felt. It was a horrible thing to have to keep quiet, but those were the times we lived in, you understand. We rented a two-bedroom flat together as Martha continued her schooling at the Faculty of Medicine and I worked as a secretary for the local minister.
For a time, it was wonderful. Martha was a radiant, ferocious, and courageous woman. Shemade me brave. She made me think more about the world and how we ought to change it. She made me feel invincible. Alive.
Then, one day, I was leaving the church’s office when your grandfather came in, boisterously shouting about something the way he always seemed to be, and I suppose I caught his eye. He proposed five weeks later, which came as quite the shock as we’d barely spoken since our first encounter. Henry promised that we’d have a happy life together. He spoke of a property on a lake that he’d recently inherited with a large willow tree that our future children would play under and a library that could house all of the books he had noticed I perpetually carried in my handbag.
I was twenty-five then and the only one of my friends, other than Martha, who was not yet married. People were starting to grow suspicious of us. Or, at least, I had believed they were in my paranoia. I remember wishing for time to stop so Martha and I could go on as we had been. But, time doesn’t bend. Not even for true love.
As you know, I said yes to your grandfather’s proposal. In doing so, I broke my own heart and Martha’s as well.
It was not an easy choice, of course, but I did what I thought was best. I secured a future for myself that I’d always envisioned I’d have. I wanted children and a home to take care of and a lake to sit by and property to wander. I hope you can understand my reasoning, Georgia. I hope you don’t think I’m a coward.
I want you, and anyone else who may read this after I’m gone, to know that your grandfather was my very best friend and a most wonderful man. Henry learned the truth, after some few years of marriage. He was so gracious and understanding. I told him he could leave me and that I would understand, but he refused. We spent sixty years loving one another, just not in the way a husband and wife typically do. Regardless, I want there to be no mistake ... Lynn and Simon were born from love, and therefore you, Phoebe, and Madison were as well.
Now, my eldest granddaughter, this is the part of the story where you come in.
After I broke the news of my engagement to Martha, she made the decision to return home to England and complete her residency there. A few days before she left, Martha and I collected some of our memories and shared treasures, and we buried them in the hopes that someday our love might be uncovered by kinder eyes.
I suppose I’m not as brave as I’d wished I’d someday be, because I don’t think I’ll have the courage to tell you this or revisit those memories while I’m still living. Part of me doesn’t want to write this letter, either, truth be told. But I know I must because Martha asked it of me and those are her memories buried there as well. I think Martha would have shouted our love from the bell tower, if I’d only let her. She never gave a hoot what anyone had to say about her.
So, Georgia, I hope you’ll do me this favour and relay this message to the rest of the family the way you, in your compassionate and thoughtful nature,can. Most of all, I hope you’ll go dig up that box of memories for me.
It is buried to the left of the St Peter’s cemetery’s entrance, in the narrow space between the base of the maple tree and the iron fencing. It won’t be very far down, as it was winter when we buried it. Martha and I lived in the building across the way, if it’s still there. Our apartment was on the top floor, overlooking the street. It had a stained glass window that was covered with ivy in the spring months, a fireplace that kept us warm in the winter, and a roof that leaked in the spare bedroom whenever it rained.
