I loved that apartment. I loved Martha. I loved who I was there. I hope, when you meet the girl I was then, you will love her too.
Your grandmother,
Bonnie Foster
P.S. I forgot to say, in all my sentimentality, that Martha took the box’s key with her when she left. You’ll need to find it, I suppose.
After reading the letter for the third time, I immediately drove straight to my mom and dad’s house with wet eyes and an aching heart. I made a pot of tea, sat my parents down at their dining table, and did what Bonnie asked of me. They both took it well, though there were some tears shed. All of us commiserated, knowing Bonnie deserved better than a love that had to be kept secret. We all wished she’d been born in a different time. Then, we grieved that the world is still not always a kind, more understanding place—even nearly seventy years later.
After a long afternoon, and many hugs, we said our goodbyes. My mom told me to do whatever I needed to do tofulfil Bonnie’s wishes. Which is why, last week, I dug up the time capsule and why today, I’m writing this email.
Only a few minutes before the bell rings, signifying the end of the school day, I send my email to the elusive Dr. Callum Lewis. Who, if my research proves correct, is the grandson of the late, brilliant Martha Bennett—Bonnie’s true love.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Time Capsule Belonging to Martha Bennett
Date: February 14, 2025
Dr Lewis,
I hope this email finds you well. My name is Georgia Anderson and I live in Toronto, Canada. Recently, my grandmother Bonnie passed away and left me instructions to dig up a time capsule that she and your grandmother Martha Bennett buried together in 1956. I have done so and I would like to share my findings with you, if you’re willing.
If my internet sleuthing has failed me and your grandmother is not Martha Bennett who attended the University of Toronto, please disregard this email.
Sincerely,
Georgia
P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day!
Chapter Two: Georgia
A week earlier
You rang?” I say, putting the car into park while answering my sister’stenthcall.
“Georgia, what the hell?” my sister whisper-yells down the phone, her voice raspy and desperate. “You cannot be serious!”
I turn my ignition off and bring the phone to my ear as I reach for the flashlight I keep in my glove compartment. Thankfully Phoebe has a nocturnal six-month-old, so she’ll be able to keep me company on the phone at two in the morning while I do this. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. “Why are you so freaked out about this?” I ask, laughing.
“You’re grave digging, Georgia!”
“I’m not digginginsideof the cemetery, Bee! I’m diggingoutsideof it. There’s a big difference.” I quickly test the flashlight and then put on my baseball cap that I brought to disguise myself at Phoebe’s urgent command amongst her tsunami of texts. Afterwards, I open my car door. “You would be here doing the same thing as I am if the letter had been addressed to you!”
“Which is bullshit, by the way ... You’re, what, eight minutes older? Why the hell does that makeyouthe Stanley Yelnats of the family?”
“Stanleywho?” I ask, opening my trunk to grab the small shovel I’d bought this afternoon at my local hardware store.
“The kid fromHoles! Jesus, G, keep up!”
I gently close the rear door, trying to not wake the neighbourhood. “It’s literally the middle of the night,Phoebe. I’m sorry for not getting your obscure middle-grade references.” I begin making my way around the block in the direction of the church steeple that’s haloed by the moonlight. I parked one street over, just to be safe. “It’s freaking freezing out here.”
“Digging anywhere on city property breaks, like, four different bylaws, FYI. You’ll have to pay thousands of dollars if you’re busted! Not to mention, you’d be caught standing outside a graveyard with a shovel! How do you think that will look?”
“Thousands?” I whisper, turning onto the side street. “I’m glad I’ve got a good lawyer, then,” I tease. “And that she can lend me some money if I need it?” Living in Toronto is expensive, full stop. But living here on a teacher’s salary is next to impossible. Even in my tiny basement apartment with one singular window, my finances are tight.
