After a nearly sleepless night mixed with worry and hope, I got up early this morning to search every nook and cranny of Grams's house, searching for the "special" book. Mom and Annie told me not to worry about it—that she must have been confused like the doctor said, but I sat awake for hours last night replaying her words in my head. They must have been right though because I don’t see any book out of the ordinary.
I put everything in Grams’s room back the way I found it before heading into the hallway. As I place my hand on the doorknob of her bedroom, another tear falls from my eye as I consider the day we’ll need to clean this room out. I can’t bear the thought of losing Grams.
Just as I’m closing myself out of the bedroom, my focus settles on a small wooden box beneath the bed. I've seen it there for years, but it never spoke to me until now.
I reopen the door, fall to my knees, and crawl forward a few feet until the box is within reach. It's heavy and full, but I pull it out and find that it isn't just an old box. It has intricate carvings alongside the brass hinges and brackets. The wood is tattered and soft as if it had been touched a thousand times before, yet I get the feeling it has sat here, sealed shut, for years.
Feeling a sense of guilt for prying, I remind myself that she asked me to find her book, and as vague as her plea was, I want to honor her request. I run my fingertips across the aged cover before releasing the clasps, then tug the lid open, listening to the groaning creak fight against the weathered metal springs.
Inside the box there are stacks of old photos and a soft, worn leather-bound book with a red ribbon draped over the top. My heart races at just the sight of the book, wondering what it contains, and questioning what Grams may have hidden from us all these years. I'm not one to spy or eavesdrop, and this feels just like that, so I’m nervous to do much more with the contents. As much as I want to know what this is and what's inside, I carefully pull out the book and hold it against my chest, inhaling the scent of aged parchment paper. Beneath the book are several more Polaroids of Grams in what looks like her early twenties, standing in front of the Statue of Liberty with her beaming smile that has apparently never changed.
I have begged for her story, wanting to know what her life was like, but she was never shy about refusing to discuss the past. She always said, "The future is the only thing that matters." In truth, I'm afraid of what I'd learn if she were ever to fill in the gaps of her life, but I also fear the day that her story could be buried alongside her.
Leaving the rest of the box behind, I stand up with the leather book and eagerly make my way out to the Jeep.
Less than a minute passes after settling into my seat when I feel the book staring at me—begging to be opened and brought back to the life it left behind.
My phone rings, and I’m thankful for the distraction as I pull it out of my purse, finding Mom's name on the display. I answer the call with a clear sense of urgency masking my attempt to sound calm. "Is everything okay?" I ask.
"Yes, yes," she says. "We've gone ahead and scheduled the surgery for tomorrow morning. I just wanted to let you know."
Relief overcomes me, knowing I won’t have to argue with her about this decision. "I’m glad you agreed. I think it’s best."
"Me too," she says, still sounding unsure.
"Oh, by the way, I found Grams's book," I tell her.
"What book?" she asks.
"The one she was asking for."
"I know, but what is this book?" Mom asks.
"I have no idea, but it’s old and looks like it contains a lot of stories or memories. I’m taking it over to her now."
"Mike isn't with you, is he?"
"No," I respond through a groan.
"That was very nice of him to stop by yesterday, but we don't need him hanging around the hospital right now."
"Mom," I say, trying to stop any further incoming comments on the subject.
"Emma, you know how I feel about him."
"I do. It’s not like you’ve been subtle about your hatred for Mike. I understand and partially agree with everything you feel."
"I'm glad to hear that," she says. "You should probably stop stringing him along then, and just break it off."
"Mom."
"Emma," she counters.
"I'll only be at the hospital for a little while. I have a deadline for a client this afternoon, and if I don't get the ad design to her, she’s going to find someone else." Business doesn’t end at 5 p.m. in my world, and therefore, neither do my contracting hours of operation.
"And why can't you tell them you have a family emergency?" she argues.
"Mom, it's my business, and I can't cancel all of my jobs. I'll handle it all, don't worry. I'm going to be right by your side tomorrow morning and whenever you need me to be with you."
"Okay," she sighs. "Just wait there until I get back, so she's not alone. I need to take a quick nap and a shower."
"No problem," I tell her.
Since my phone call lasted the entire drive to the hospital, it broke up the eagerness to open Grams’s book, but now that I’m here, excitement is rushing through me as I slide my hands along the warm leather binding. I need to know what’s inside.
I guard it within my arms like a lost treasure as I make my way into the hospital and over to the ICU.
As worried as I was yesterday, I must not have noticed how far the walk to the ICU was, and I'm out of breath by time I reach Grams’s room. Though, it’s perfect timing as I nearly run right into Dr. Beck.
"Emma," he greets me.
"Oh, hi, Dr. Beck. How is she today?"
"That woman…" he points behind him, "she is a spitfire." He laughs and looks over his shoulder at her. "She's doing well."
"Thank you for taking such good care of her," I tell him.
"It's my job," he says. "Will you excuse me, though? I have to tend to another patient right now."
I'm left without words, a bit mesmerized by his sparkling eyes and engaging demeanor, as well as the noticeable fact that he has the most perfect butt that I probably shouldn’t be staring at while he’s walking away. However, I've never actually seen a man's butt fill out a pair of scrubs so perfectly before.
"Emma, is that you?" Thankfully, Grams’s voice interrupts my inappropriate stare and thoughts, and I enter her room.
"It’s me, Grams. I found your book, I think." I rush to her side and gently place it down on her lap. The corners of her lips perk into a smile as she keeps her focus set on the ceiling above our heads.
"The nice doctor told me I might not be able to see very clearly for the next few days, but you know what?"
"What?" I question.
"I can see he's very handsome," she says through weak laughter.
My cheeks burn, knowing Mom is a replica of Grams in every way. Both want nothing more than to point out the obviously attractive men in this world, constantly reminding me that I'm still not married and don’t have children. It's becoming a running joke—one with an underlying meaning I've gotten good at sweeping under the carpet. "Anyway," I try to change the subject, "I hope this is the book you were referring to."
"It is," she says, glancing down at it. She lifts the cover, and the spine crackles against the tug as she flips through a couple of pages. Grams appears to be reacquainting herself with the pages as she runs her fingertips down the center of a handwritten page that looks like a diary entry of some sort.
"What is it?" I ask.
"I wrote this after I arrived in New York, back in 1945. It's so hard to remember the details now, but that's precisely why I wrote everything down while the memories were fresh in my mind."
"Memories?" I question. I know Grams arrived in New York around 1944 or 1945, just after the end of the war, but beyond that, I know very little.
She tries to lift the book, but her hands shake while attempting to do so. "Would you mind?"
"Mind?"
"Yes, Emma, would you please read me this page."
I take the book from her hands and turn around in search of a place to sit. I pull the blue plastic bucket chair over to Grams's side of the bed and take a seat. With the book resting on my lap, I scan the page, admiring her beautiful handwriting along the yellowed lines of the cream-colored paper. "Are you sure, Grams?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks, sounding confused.