Swiping the email away from my real estate agent, I wait for the relief to hit.She’s going to be okay. But somehow, even the knowledge that I’ve been able to give Gracie a financial cushion barely makes a blip against the hollow roar of loss that’s been drowning everything else out since we parted ways. Money won’t buy her forgiveness, it won’t give her the truth she asked for, and it definitely won’t make me more qualified to be in a relationship than a parasitic fungus.
I exhale, shoving down my self-loathing, which I’ll flop around in later. The only thing to be said for the last few days is that they’ve been punishingly busy. As it turns out, discreetly getting rid of a historic estate is fucking complicated. I’ve even had to step back from my pro bono work just to attend all the necessary meetings between the prospective owner’s leadership team, the escrow company,financial advisers, my estate attorney, trustee manager, and a goddamn partridge in a pear tree.
But today, I’m at Larkwood because while I’ve somehow managed to go through the entire estate and label my grandmother’s possessions into keep, auction, or donate categories, there’s still one room I haven’t touched.
I stop in front of the door, which has been closed ever since she passed. I had tentatively hoped that Gracie and I might be able to tackle this overwhelming task together. My rib cage contracts when I think of how it would have bonded us.
But that possibility is gone now. Not only did I break her heart, but I’ve also robbed her of a last goodbye. Stomach twisting, I open Nana’s door, knowing I deserve whatever pain waits inside.
But when I cross the threshold, the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 envelops me like a hug. Pieces of the room that lost their wonder through familiarity seem to glow anew. The signed Broadway poster forFunny Girlin its pride-of-place above the fireplace mantel. The carelessly flung dressing gown on the green fainting couch. The space is as warm and eclectic as Nana was, and despite the tears burning behind my eyes, I can’t help feeling comforted.
As I scan the room, wondering where the hell to start, my eyes catch on a bright yellow piece of paper on the mantelpiece. Something about it is familiar, and as I cross the room, I see it’s a card I made her as a child. On the front is an unfortunate drawing of a dolphin that looks almost indistinguishable from a penis, complete with a graphic spray of water from its misplaced blowhole. Below this, in toiled-over lettering, are the words:
Too Nana
Luv Jude
Happy Bichday
The surprised laughter that escapes me is almost painful after days of frowning. Ofcoursethis is the childhood relic she’d display. I pick it up, surprised to find that it’s heavy. My heart kicks in mychest. Inside is an envelope paper-clipped to the back side of the card, labeled in Nana’s perfect cursive:Jude. Stomach leaping, I quickly remove it.
Taking out the letter with trembling hands, I walk distractedly to the fainting couch and open it.
Dear Judy,
So you found your card. How long did it take you to work up the nerve to enter my haunted chambers? If I were a betting woman (and I am), I’d say it probably took long enough for you to be kicking yourself right now, wondering why you waited so long. But unfortunately, this bet isn’t one I’ll be cashing in on because if you’re reading this, I’m already dead.
Sorry for the morbidity (actually, I’m not sorry—who doesn’t love a juicy postmortem letter?). But I know you probably have some pressing questions, and as I’m running short on time in both the day-to-day and existential sense, I’ll hop to it.
Question 1:“Nana, will you curse me with male pattern baldness for getting rid of Larkwood?”
How dare you ask such a thing. For one, have you seen your hair, boy? Doves would fall from the sky, and baby angels would weep at its loss. Secondly, no: I’m dead! If I played my cards right (and I’m certain I did), I’m butt naked in a heavenly hot tub with Cary Grant, Paul Newman, and Omar Sharif as you read this. Trust me when I say the fate of Larkwood is thelastthing on my mind. But I can understand your concern.
Yes, I often and loudly proclaimed that turning Larkwood into a wedding venue was the best decision I ever made. Yes, seeing it play a starring role in so many new love stories brought me incredible happiness. But most importantly, it helped me achieve what I’ve always wanted for the estate: to be a place of hope and new beginnings after so much darkness.
And while I suspect we’ll have very different ways of accomplishing that goal, I left Larkwood to you, Judy. You’re the one who gets to decide what happens now, and because ofwho you are—the most caring and selfless man I have ever known—I know that whatever you do will be eye-wateringly moral and kind.
Question 2: “Then why the fuck did you leave Gracie the cottage, Nana?”
Oh, I can’twaitto answer this one. As I prepare to shed this fabulous mortal coil, one of my only regrets is knowing I won’t ever get to see the nuclear bomb detonate behind your eyes when you see Gracie Holland for the first time. I can imagine how it’ll transpire, though. Naturally, you’ll be at each other’s throats when you discover she’s my wedding coordinator and she finds out that you’re planning on terminating her job. But because of the cottage, you’ll be at a stalemate unless you can find a way to work it out. And therein lies my absolutely delicious reasoning for putting you in this pomme de discorde.
After three years of getting to know Gracie, I’ve come to the irrefutable conclusion that you each have something that the other desperately needs. After being badly burned in love, Gracie has retreated from the world and become stuck in her past. She needs someone as pragmatic as you to shake her loose and show her that not every person she shares her tender heart with will be careless with it. And you, my sweet, guarded grandson, need someone to fall head over heels for.
As someone who’s known you since infancy, I can say with zero hesitation that despite the unromantic airs you put on, you have more love to give in your pinky finger than the rest of us combined. And while siphoning it off toward worthy causes is a noble endeavor, it has broken my heart to see you deny yourself the experience of receiving love in return. You are worthy of that kind of love, Jude—no matter what you tell yourself—and I do hope meeting Gracie will open you up to it.
Question 3: “Nana, why didn’t you tell me you were dying?”
Oh, sweetheart. Something tells me you already know the answer to this one, but I’ll spell it out for you anyway. It has been one of my life’s greatest heartbreaks to watch you growup bearing the burden of so much grief and worry over things beyond your control. No child should have to witness what you witnessed, just as I never should have had to see my daughter and grandchild shoulder so much pain.
More than anything, I wish your mother and I had found a way to close the rift between us, despite her choices. It’s why I’ve also written her a letter, in the hope of telling her that a single moment hasn’t passed since she was born that I haven’t loved her with all my heart. You’ll find it in my dressing room, beneath her old teddy bear. Please give them both to her.
And so. Knowing the kind of pain you have both endured, withholding my diagnosis was the least I could do to spare you from any further suffering. Let me assure you, Jude—there was nothing you could have done to extend my life or make me more comfortable. You have been the axis around which all my hope and love spins outward. By simply existing, you’ve already done more than you know.
And now, off to my nail appointment. Can you imagine me showing up to the Pearly Gates with chipped polish? Heaven forbid. Literally! But I’ll leave you with this: It’s a beautiful thing to protect the ones you love. But when protecting them means sacrificing your own well-being, it’s time to stop. Your mother is a grown woman, Jude. She can handle more than you think, especially if it means seeing you find happiness. And with any luck, my meddling will help you do exactly that.
Kisses from the hot tub,
Nana
