Current Day - October 2018
I’m seatedat the head of an oversized picnic table with so many pairs of eyes staring at me with what I can only describe as love, but something is amiss.
All these faces—have I missed time, or just forgotten?
A brilliant light appears to my side and I search for the source, finding glowing candles flickering on top of a round vanilla frosted cake. Leah is holding the pastry, walking with slow steps as she approaches the open space at the table where she sets the cake down. “We’re going to sing now, okay, Mom?” she asks.
“Yeah, Gran, are you ready?” Makena echoes Leah—the two sounding almost identical when hearing them together.
What a sweet gesture this is, but my mind is foggy, I suppose. I glance around, searching for Everett but he isn’t here. Neither is Dad, Lewis, or James. Why aren’t any of them here? “Well, sure, that would be lovely, but whom are you singing too?”
“It’s Dad’s birthday,” Carter reminds me again.Dad’s birthday. Everett is their father, of course, I know this. I must have known today is his birthday.
“Yes, I know, but your father, he isn’t here, am I correct?” I ask, watching the wax drip down the sides of the candles onto the sparkling whipped frosting.
“Sure he is, Gran,” Makena says. “He’s home, just like you always say.” Makena points up toward the dark clouds and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. He’s home, but I am not. It shouldn’t be this way. It was never meant to be like this.
My eyes fall to the dessert plate set down in front of me as I catch the reflection of my eyes through my glass of water. “Well, then, I suppose it might be time I finally go home too. Lewis and James, and my father—they must all be wondering where I am.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Leah asks, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I glance down the length of the table at Daniel who I recall sharing much of my story with today. The look on his face tells me he understands what I mean, but I’m not sure such a powerful explanation would go over too well for the others tonight. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just a chatty old lady, I guess,” I say, waving the questions away. “Makena, do you know where the journal is—the one you gave me recently?”
I find Makena’s eyes, watching a downcast expression match the slump in her shoulders. “Gran, I didn’t give that journal to you. Papa did, when you were just a girl, remember? It’s full of your memories.”
“Everett gave this to me. My memories?” I question. “I thought the book was for me to keep track of reminders.”
“Mom, you have, for most of your life. We make sure you have the journal in case you want to remember anything you might have forgotten,” Leah explains while handing me the leather-bound book.
I flip through the pages to the back cover, finding a yellowed envelope.
I trace my fingers across the soft paper with my name written in all capital letters. Beneath, are the words “Just in case—”
“What is that, Gran?” Makena asks.
My memories are in pieces sometimes, but this envelope—I know what is inside.
I lift the envelope, feeling something fall to my lap.
It takes me a moment to glance down because I know what fell. This time, it has fallen face down and the words I have refused to read are staring back at me.
Doll-face,
This photograph isn’t just a portrait of me—it’s the person I became because of you. When you see the smile on my face, remember it’s there only for you.
I flip the photograph over, instantly going back in time when we were young and carefree, laughing and running blissfully along the shore. That smile. It was one in a million.
“Oh, that’s papa,” Makena says, easing it from my hand. “Wow, he was a good-looking guy, huh?”
“Only the most stunning man in Hollywood during the 1930s, but I believe my bragging rights ran out quite a while ago,” I joke.
While the others are fawning over the photo, I tend to the envelope, slipping out the piece of paper I could never get myself to read. Was dying of old age worthy of reading his “just in case I die before you” letter?
I suppose it won’t matter for much longer, so I unfold the paper and find more of his beloved handwriting:
My Dearest Elizabeth,
I apologize for the formality of this letter, but if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, and I assume there isn’t a proper nickname to soften these words.
