Grandma has come out of bedroom to sit in the living room. Mom said she likes to hear our voices. We talk about playing a game, one that will be easy for mom to play too because she forgets things now. Mom is so excited. For her it could be Christmas morning when she was six years old, old enough to anticipate and still young enough believe. She does not care what game we play. She just likes to see us interact to hear us laugh. All she ever wanted was for us, her children, to all be friends. To have three of four of us together in her house is just an unspoken bonus. My oldest brother suggests we look at old pictures. Mom has not seen them since she moved to Seattle and thinks they are lost. She has searched everywhere. I give up and try to get a game of Clue started. My sister-in-law will play Clue because she considers it a noncompetitive board game. I am not sure how her definition works. Some games are approved others are not when I cannot delineate. To me they all have elements of luck and won mostly by knowing the required strategy. I know the strategies for Monopoly. My brother-in-law excels at Risk. My sister-in-law is good at word games like Probe and Scrabble. My dad’s wife conquers games with pegs and dice that knock out opponents. My sister’s imagination and quick thinking wins her Scattegories. Nevertheless, my brother ignores me and wins the herd as usual.
We all begin the search. Most rooms are obvious and quickly dismissed. Mom’s closet seems promising and we unload boxes with anticipation. However, tax records are not as fun for reminiscing. There is only grandma’s room remaining. Mom says grandma has gone back to bed and is asleep. My brother says perfect. Mom is almost in tears and then her words reflect a touch of anger, a hint of resentment. Grandma does not let her in her things. She is private with secrets. She tells us the secret trips, the safety deposit boxes possibly holding the hidden treasure mom needs to save her retirement. We start quietly but grandma’s sleep is undisturbed by our betrayal so we pull more boxes out of the closet and become louder. It is a small room with a hospital bed, a dresser holding the always-on TV, a small nightstand, and some photos on the windowsill. Mom’s chair, end table, and lamp are there too so she can share the company of her mother’s confined life. At the foot of the bed is the closet. We are in an assembly line of deceit. I am on the floor of the closet. My oldest brother stands above me and provides the orders. Several paces back my younger brother stands near grandma’s nightstand and watches her. Mom is a few steps back in the doorway wringing her hands in a cliché manner. Next is my sister-in-law, barely visible behind her husband and just outside the doorway. My other sister-in-law, the newest wife, is behind her in the hallway. My nephew, the innocent, is in the living room.
I triumphantly announce the discovery of a large box of photos. I struggle to pull them out and hand them to my older brother. I turn to mom. She is crying, ‘I thought they were lost forever’. My brother responds they have been here in the closet. She continues to cry. We pass the box down the assembly line and out of the lair. I find one more and we decide that is enough. We will all leave. One of the wives quietly closes the door after we have all exited toward the living room. Now we surround the treasure chest placed on the oak table that was our game table as children. My mom cannot stop crying at the revelation of each treasure. We pass them around and soon everyone is exploring the chest.
Mom goes back to wake up grandma. We tell her not to, let her sleep. Mom replies she will not want to miss us being there. Mom soon brings grandma out. She is smiling as she takes small steps down the hallway and mom settles her in the blue velvet recliner. Grandma tries to smooth her hair. We continue our exploration. My oldest brother tells us,’I know this will be the last time I see my grandma.’ I deny this claim. Great-grandma lived to her 90s. Grandma does not have any illnesses. She has been old a long time and will just continue on being old. This I believe even though my husband would already be buried if he were not in a box in my bedroom. He walks to the hutch that used to be in the formal dining room and held my mom’s wedding china and porcelain wedding doves. Now behind the glass doors are picture frames, mom’s dad, her last dog Fritzi, and the photo we took in our early twenties. All of us resisted getting together for a professional photo. We were busy, busy with our young lives. My brother was right when, a few years ago, he said that mom knew. She knew it was the last time we would all be together, the four of us, her children. My sister’s two oldest daughters and my brother’s first two children were already in the photo. Of course, mom was right. How long before I moved to Hawaii and sold my brothers on following? We never went back to our hometown and even weddings and then funerals did not always bring all of us together.
He removed the 8x10 and closed the glass door. He went to my grandma’s side. He pointed at his likeness captured over 20 years ago and then pointed at his chest. Grandma mimicked him. Yes, he said, that is me. Then he pointed to me at maybe 23 and me today standing in her living room and then the same for my little brother. She was so excited. I was shocked. Was she just being pleasant to a room full of strangers who came to visit? They lived in Seattle for five years. When my brother and his family visited, did she think they were new friends? New every time they came over? When my brothers and husband did a remodel at the house did she believe they were just handymen? Was I the handyman’s wife, perhaps bringing him lunch or waiting for the end of the workday?
How can I continue to be so naive? I knew she did not comprehend they lived in Seattle. I know she would ask me where I live. When I would tell her I lived in San Diego and have to fly there, she would be perplexed. She must think I fly from San Diego to Los Angeles. In her life, flying was an extravagance. What did she make of someone who flew for a 150-mile trip?
Then my brother handed her a picture of grandpa. She ran her left finger down the image of his body as I have done to photos of my lost husband. However, I have found it better not to touch the photo for it breaks the illusion that is so hard to steady in your mind in the first place. From across the room I saw the look of excitement disappear, not even wash away but vanish. Was her expression sadness, grief, memories, the struggle to capture memories or remember feelings? It is hard to say without putting my first year of loss, and now the recollection of that moment so farther along in my journey, onto the interpretation of her expression. At this point, I would read it as acknowledgement and maybe just loss. So now, the winter before spring marks year five, I would say that is the epilogue of how long grief lasts. She was 87. Grandpa had been part of her for close to fifty years. She walked alone another 20. It was part of her.
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