But there’s something about it that pulls on my memory. I begin humming along, knowing in my heart what the next note will be.
Without looking up, Gran calls over the music. “This was the lullaby I used to sing to your mother.”
Instantly, happy memories flood my mind, chasing away the sorrow that had begun to grow after thinking of my parents.
My grief has become such an emotional roller coaster.
The lullaby I remember now is about north winds, the Mother, and the sea.
The melody calms something deep within me as Gran finishes playing. Maggie excuses herself and slips off the bench and out of the room. I take her place beside Gran. Resting my head on her shoulder, she gently removes her hands from the keys to place one on top of mine while the other cradles my cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Lena. There’s so much I want to tell you, but there’s so much I don’t remember. Just know that I love you, and I am so sorry.” Her eyes aren’t completely clear, and the glassiness of the memory fog is battling against the sparkling blue. She won’t be here for long.
The lump in my throat keeps me from responding, and it isn’t until the tears trickle their way down my cheeks that it eases enough that I can respond.
“I miss you so much when you’re gone, and them, too.” My voice cracks. “So much, every day.”
She strokes my cheek and begins wiping away my tears. “I’m afraid things won’t be getting any easier, dearie; you must become stronger.”
I want to argue.
I want to scream that all of this is so unfair, and I didn’t do anything to warrant all this pain and suffering.
But instead, I swallow the frustration and grief down. We sit together for a moment longer before her eyes turn glassy;she’s gone again.
She quickly moves her hands back to the piano keys and slides away from me. My chest aches. But before I move from the bench, she glances sidelong at me, her eyes more cloudy than I’ve ever seen them.
“The necklace has answers,” she whispers.
Maggie clears her throat from the entryway, catching me off guard, and we trade places on the bench. Gran keeps playing, but my mouth hangs open in shock. A strong pull from questions unanswered that her comment triggered has me desperate to find the answers.
My necklace is warm against my skin, and the faint humming sound of a note held too long begins ringing in my ears. I have so many questions, like a puzzle without all the pieces, and I want it solved; purpose begins burning in my veins.
Where do I find answers?
The office may have some. There are many books, family diaries, and photo albums in there. I’m probably losing my mind, but the ringing and strange interactions with Gran are really starting to drive me mad.
My steps are quick as I march down the hall and through the office’s double doors. It’s really more of a library with its walls of bookshelves lined with books, knick-knacks, artifacts from the grounds, and photo albums.
The albums are probably the best place to start. That way, Idon’t have to read through pages of an ancestor’s diary. I grab the first album off the lowest shelf and haul it to the writing desk right in front of the floor-to-ceiling leaded windows that make an entire wall.
The view from the windows is like a picture out of a storybook, rolling hills dotted with mature trees stretch on for as far as the eye can see. The aroma of old camera film and mint floats up from the pages that are thick and yellowed with age.
I flip through the pages slowly to keep them from ripping. Briefly scanning each picture of faces and places, not recognizing anything, before I finish the first album and exchange it for the next one.
The first picture in the next album causes a gasp to escape me.
This task will be infinitely more difficult than I initially thought. A tear escapes and slips down my cheek before dropping onto the plastic-covered photo.
My parents gaze up at me, sprawling on a picnic blanket under a large tree. Far in the background of the image, barely visible over the tree line, is a pitched roofline with battlements.
I lovingly trace my father’s face. He was always handsome, but seeing him in his youth is remarkable. My finger begins tracing my mom, her long hair blowing in the breeze.
My tracing halts.
Peeking out from the neckline of her white, billowy dress is the unmistakable medallion that’s currently clasped around my neck. This was my mom’s necklace? Is that what Gran meant by heirloom?
Even more questions whirl through my mind, and I quickly flip through the rest of the album, looking for another glimpse of the necklace, but there is none. It’s as if it vanishes after this day.
