THINGS LEFT UNSAID
She died today. And yet, so did I. Well a tiny part of me at least. I had rarely allowed myself to be close to anyone, anyone except her. And now, she was gone. My grandmother was the last person who had ever shown me a stitch of compassion. I am not sure if one would call it “love” because I am not quite sure what that word means. Oh yes I had parents (until today that is what I had referred to them as). The quaint colloquialism we refer to as “mom and dad”. But no love was lost between them and I when we halted all forms of communication five years ago. Because, you see, there had never been any love to begin with.
Now today sitting in this lawyers office, with them on the other side of the room, listening to my grandmothers will read aloud, like some secret that she kept to be divulged quietly amongst us with her removed to a posthumous state. I cannot get my mind to focus on the attorney’s words, I am so struck with grief I can only focus on the nameplate on his mahogany wooden desk. I wonder what does esquire really mean in the context of legalities. Why had the forefathers chosen to use that as the identifier? “Ms. Abernathy, are you listening?” The attorney beckons me back from my mental wanderings. “…Yes?” I reply, my questioning tone is twofold; I am asking if he speaks to me and for myself if I am actually listening. He clears his throat and continues, “…Your grandmother has left you her estate, its not much, some property in Tennessee as well as the sum of $20,000. She has left this for you as well.” The attorney slides a little black notebook across that great mahogany desk towards me. Had that been there the whole time, I wonder to myself? My quandary does not last long, my thoughts quickly interrupted by the groans and growls of my parents who are just now processing that they had been left with nothing. How fitting that the people who, in my life, gave nothing (no affection, no compassion, no attention, no cares) to me, had now been given just that in return. “That concludes the reading of this will. I thank you all for coming today, I ask that you all leave quietly at this time. I am sorry for you loss” The attorney flatly states. My parents said not a word more, as they exited the attorney’s office, and yet the looks of anger and disappointment told its own sordid tale. Perhaps they understood the gravity of the situation that the daughter who that had never spared, had been given all she ever needed from the cold hand of a dead woman.
I walked out of the office with a check for $20,000, the deed to a property in Tennessee that I had never heard of let alone seen, and a little black book. Bewildered, I climbed into my beat-up late 70’s model pick-up truck and sat. As if frozen in that moment I couldn’t feel anything, no joy could come from my newly found gains because the anguish of not having her with me anymore usurped that feeling. I looked at this book, clutched tightly in my hand now, cracked black leather with its odiferous hint of the mildew of age and poor storage. The pages yellowed with time and spine cracked from near over use. I willed myself to open it ever so delicately as to not disturb the front cover that seemed to almost want to fall off. On the first page, written in the splendor of my grandmothers’ exquisite penmanship was the phrase “What’s done in the dark comes out in the light”. A cliché that she had said on many occasions that meant little to me in this moment but would soon reveal itself to be truer than I could ever imagine.
I sat there for a few moments, watching my parents lumber sullenly to their new luxury car. Such anguish over what to them would be a measly sum, but to me is more than I had ever had in three months. I was a bar maid, I say was because last week I had been fired for getting into an altercation with a patron. He was a regular who came in every weekend to hit on the staff and let his hands roam our bodies unsolicited and make inappropriate jokes that everyone laughed at begrudgingly. He was a big deal in our small town, most of the people that he believed where laughing with him really were laughing at him. Last week he had his eyes set on me and allowed his hands to roam to freely. Apparently big deal men don’t take to kindly to being sucker punched by woman.
And now here I was a thousand-heir with a check that could set me up for a decent start and all I could do was weep. I missed her, I missed her more than this money could ever mean to me. I turned the page in the tattered little black book and there was an address written in the middle of it 1117 Broken Ridge Way, Brookview Tennessee. I had never heard any of my family talk about a place in Tennessee. I hurriedly opened the envelope with the deed inside. It was the same address scribed on both pages. At that moment my parents flew by in their black beamer, my “mother” flipping the bird at me and scowling as they made their angry way out of the parking lot. I new right then that I would never see them again.
I drove back to my apartment in silence, parked my truck and meandered solemnly up the steps. Eyeing the door to my place I saw a man in a suit standing at my door, as if he knew I was going to be there soon. I had an uneasy feeling about him, and went back to my truck to grab my taser (whom I called Betsy) from under my seat. I felt as though having a little extra piece of mind might be good right then. I made my way back to the staircase and as my foot hit the first step, the man said loudly “Ms. Abernathy?”. I looked him over, Betsy firmly in my side holster unlatched and ever ready. “Who wants to know?” I barked back, sounding not as intimidating as I had hoped. “Sorry to bother you ma’am, I am looking for Ms Abernathy. My name is Reginald Rogers and I worked for her grandmother, the late Madeline Abernathy”.
My mind was racing, who was this man? How did she even know him? And better yet, how did he know her first name? My grandmother never, and I mean NEVER used her given name. Everyone called her Bea, short for Beatrice, her middle name. I looked suspiciously at him tickling Betsy with my first two right hand fingers. “I have proof if you would like” Reginald Rogers stated. He held a cell phone and proceeded to push play on a video clip with a paused image of my grandmother. The recording played “My little HB, I know you will be hurting right now. I haven’t left you I am always here so be strong. The man who is showing you this video is named Reginald Rogers and he has worked for me for many years. Please listen to what Rogers has to say HB, he will help you greatly and he will be working for you now. I love you my little honey badger don’t ever forget that!” I stood there, mouth agape, mesmerized by the shear astonishment of all that was transpiring. “Ms. Abernathy?” Rogers question again snapping me back into the reality of the moment. “ Ma’am, per your grandmothers instruction I now work for you, I would ask that you pack your things and come with me immediately. We don’t have much time.” I moved then, as if in a trance, relinquishing my hold on Betsy and taking out my keys, then opening my apartment door. Still levitating in thought through the door and into the living room. I just stood there, motionless staring at my dining room table. “Ms. Abernathy we must get moving”. Rogers interrupted my lack of thought. “Yeah, sorry I…” I replied trailing off. I found my speed and grabbed my hiking pack and began throwing some clothes in; I was still enchanted as I moved around my apartment gathering a few odd and ends. To be frank, I didn’t have much to begin with so it wasn’t very difficult. Lastly I reached down into the bottom of my sock drawer and grabbed my metal box of valuables.
We made our way to down the steps of my apartment and I started off towards my truck when Rogers interrupted me mid stride “This way if you will” he said. Rogers ushered me to a black SUV with opaque tinted windows. “But what about my truck?” I asked. “I will have it delivered.” He said thrusting his right hand, opened palmed at me. I knew that was the universal signaling for “give me your keys”… and I complied. Rogers took my bag and opened the rear passenger door for me. I had never been driven anywhere let alone in such a nice vehicle. I hesitated for a split second, peering in (not to closely) to see if anyone was waiting for me there. There wasn’t. I slid into the back seat and sat there, staring off into space as Rogers walked around to the trunk and put my bag in. As we pulled away from my apartment building I could not help but be mystified by all that had transpired thus far, my grandmother had a secret it seemed, a big one. Why had she not thought to tell me that all this would happen? I wondered if my parents knew anything? “Your grandmother was a very private person. She did not wish for you to know anything about this part of her life until the time was right” Rogers stated as if he heard my thoughts. “Do my parents know?” I blurted back almost in fear. “No, ma’am they do not. Your grandmother intentionally kept this part of her life from them because she knew what kind of people they really are.” He replied. That statement didn’t require any follow-up questions; I also, unfortunately, know what kind of people they are. I leaned forward in an attempt to quietly question Rogers “Where are we going?” I asked. “Tennessee ma’am” Rogers replied. His answer was so short I felt as though any further requests for answers would be intrusive. I decided instead to read the little black book that was now burning a hole in the back pocket of my jeans. I took it out with a new found nature of inquisitiveness, now I had to read it. I turned past the address page now and there was an old black and white photo of my grandmother in all of her youthful glory and some man I had never seen before. She wore a soft looking button down dress, her hair pulled up in a 1940’s wrapped quaff. The man wore a long sleeved dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark colored freshly pressed trousers. They were both barefoot in a field of flowers, with a river or something flowing beside them. Both smiling and bright eyed, his arm wrapped tightly around my grandmothers’ petite waist and her arm over his shoulder. They looked as though they had been dancing and stopped to take a photo. I turned the photo over and there was the phrase Broken Ridge Ranch- Gene & Madi 1942 penned in my grandmothers hand. Who was Gene, is He the reason I am now going to Tennessee?
