“It’s me, Grams. I found your book, I think.” I rush to her side and gently place it down on her lap. The corners of her lips perk into a smile as she keeps her focus set on the ceiling above ourheads.
“The nice doctor told me I might not be able to see very clearly for the next few days, but you knowwhat?”
“What?” Iquestion.
“I can see he's very handsome,” she says through weaklaughter.
My cheeks burn, knowing Mom is a replica of Grams in every way. Both want nothing more than to point out the obviously attractive men in this world, constantly reminding me that I'm still not married and don’t have children. It's becoming a running joke—one with an underlying meaning I've gotten good at sweeping under the carpet. “Anyway,” I try to change the subject, “I hope this is the book you were referringto.”
“It is,” she says, glancing down at it. She lifts the cover, and the spine crackles against the tug as she flips through a couple of pages. Grams appears to be reacquainting herself with the pages as she runs her fingertips down the center of a handwritten page that looks like a diary entry of somesort.
“What is it?” Iask.
“I wrote this after I arrived in New York, back in 1945. It's so hard to remember the details now, but that's precisely why I wrote everything down while the memories were fresh in mymind.”
“Memories?” I question. I know Grams arrived in New York around 1944 or 1945, just after the end of the war, but beyond that, I know verylittle.
She tries to lift the book, but her hands shake while attempting to do so. “Would youmind?”
“Mind?”
“Yes, Emma, would you please read me thispage.”
I take the book from her hands and turn around in search of a place to sit. I pull the blue plastic bucket chair over to Grams's side of the bed and take a seat. With the book resting on my lap, I scan the page, admiring her beautiful handwriting along the yellowed lines of the cream-colored paper. “Are you sure,Grams?”
“Why wouldn't I be?” she asks, soundingconfused.
“You have never wanted to share much of your past with me,” I tell her, assuming that's what is contained within thesepages.
“It’s time I tell you what happened,” she responds without hesitation. “So, please, please read my words. I need to rememberCharlie.”
