Two September 1996 #3
“Yes. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The sky was turning grey as he pulled out of the driveway.
I watched his car until he was out of sight, standing there holding the box.
When the first raindrops darkened the wood, I headed inside.
Nothing had changed but at the same time, everything had changed.
The floors under my feet were soft, the windowpanes had started to rot and the wallpaper that Kiju had been so proud of was peeling.
My heart sank. I should have seen this, I should have been here for her, I should have helped.
Dust, which would have been banished before it had time to rest, had begun to settle on everything.
I wiped a spot clean on the kitchen table and set the box down.
The rain had started coming down hard and it beat loudly against the windows.
I love a good storm, I heard her say. I turned, not sure what I was expecting, but I was alone. Her voice was alive in the walls of this place.
The dishes still sat on the open shelves, mismatched coffee mugs and teacups, a few with matching saucers.
Her prized pots that had cooked many a meal hung off hooks on the wall.
I had mistakenly bought her new pots last Christmas.
But she liked the pots she had; they’d been a wedding gift from her parents.
Her father had worked extra, they’d saved for them.
It was important that she use those pots until she joined them on the other side.
The new set remained in the corner, the receipt still in my wallet.
She had never been against modern amenities, but she saw no need for them.
Who needed to pay for a fancy toilet when the outhouse was just fine?
The county eventually threatened to condemn the place and forced her to get indoor plumbing.
I think she secretly liked it, not having to go out to the outhouse in the middle of a January night.
But she would never say so. She did agree to power, but only because she loved listening to the radio.
Her little silver radio sat beside the sink.
There were a few radishes sitting on the wooden counter; their green leaves had wilted and the radishes had gone soft.
She must have been preparing to cook them for supper.
I leaned over and took one of the radishes in my hand.
I snapped off the greens and wiped it on my pant leg before popping it into my mouth.
“No waste, Kiju.”
I smiled and opened the box. I think it must have been the emotion of the day, but something in me silently made a wish that there was a picture of my mother inside that box.
I knew there wasn’t, there’d never be, but losing Kiju and knowing I would never see her face, or hear her voice remind me that I had my mother’s nose, brought that childhood wish front and centre again.
There wasn’t much light coming in through the grey skies and rain-soaked windows, so I bent low to see what it contained.
On top was the letter the lawyer had mentioned.
A box, located under the bed of the deceased, has had the contents examined and recorded. All the worldly possessions of the deceased, including those contained in the aforementioned box, are now the property of the granddaughter, Aliet Paul. There may be no claim from any other.
Contents
One marriage certificate for the deceased and husband, June 12, 1937
Photo of deceased husband in military uniform, dated September 14, 1940
One birth certificate for a daughter, Margaret, March 8, 1940
One death certificate attached to a telegram informing the deceased that her husband had died. Date smudged and cannot be determined
One braid of black hair labelled Maggie’s first haircut
Multiple school report cards for child named Margaret
Death certificate of daughter, aged 15, Margaret. Cause of death: heart condition during childbirth. August 5, 1955
Birth certificate of baby girl, daughter of Margaret, granddaughter of the deceased and now owner of this box and its contents, dated August 5, 1955
One braid of auburn hair labelled Aliet’s first haircut
Multiple report cards for a child named Aliet
A collection of pennies, of no real significance
One knife, plain, hilt wrapped in leather, of no real significance
One similar knife, etched with the word we’ ji’wet, no real significance
Multiple letters from a woman named Sally, no envelopes, town unknown, various dates 1958–present
High school graduation certificate for a girl named Aliet
Piece of twine with note: last baby born under the tree. Of no real significance
College certificate in nursing for a woman named Aliet. High honours. 1977
Birthday card celebrating deceased sixtieth birthday
Postcard from woman named Aliet to the deceased from vacation to Banff, Alberta, 1985
Stack of recipe cards tied with twine with a note: For Aliet only, no date
Deed to the house and the land transferred to granddaughter, Aliet
Colour photo of deceased with woman, back reads Aliet’s fortieth birthday, Kiju and Aliet, August 1995
Signed
Robert J. Adams, Attorney
I lifted each item out individually, smoothing the papers on the tabletop.
I ran the tips of my fingers over the tufts of hair, mine and my mother’s, the picture of Kiju and me when she made me a lemon cake with chocolate frosting last year for my fortieth birthday.
I untied the stack of recipe cards with my name on them, tied with a piece of twine.
There in her crisp cursive were the recipes for all the teas and medicines.
On the top card, she’d written me a note.
My dearest girl, my Aliet,
I always said I would never write these down.
I always felt that they would be taken for granted if I did.
There would be no need to think about them, to consider the gifts given to us.
But there hasn’t been a baby born under the tree in over two decades.
And the women in town don’t come to me anymore for teas and I never got the chance to fully teach you, so I am writing them down, for you, and you only. I hope you find a use for them.
All my love, Kiju.
As I flipped through them, I remembered sitting by the fire, stirring the medicines, listening to the songs and the first cry of a baby.
The loving first words of the mother. The stories of my own mother.
I straightened the stack, tied it with the same twine, put everything back in the box, looked around at the house my grandfather had built and that had helped raise me, and closed the door behind me.
On the drive back to the city, I tried my best to convince myself that it was just wood and glass, doors and old furniture.
There was no reason to stay, but by the time I’d reached the outskirts of the city, the glare of lights and hum of too many cars and too many people, I remembered all that the house was, knowing it was always so much more than four walls and a roof.
When I was eighteen, my world turned upside down, and I had abandoned this house and the legacy she’d left me, naively thinking that the past would remain in the past, but no one tells you that it doesn’t work that way.
The past follows you, regardless of how desperately you want it to leave you alone.
But deep down, I knew that this time I wasn’t leaving for good. This time, I was going home.