Attic Book

When you lose a parent, you know this day will come. And for me, this incoming task felt like pressing hard on a scar that’s barely healed. Yet, I have daydreamed about this, excitedly thinking about what I might find. Everything sitting up there, at one point, held such meaning. The child in me loved some of those items so dearly, and to explore them would be exciting. There’s also a part of me that feels the finality that comes along with this; dad’s moving, she’s gone, and it all hurts. It’s harder to look at these nostalgic things because of the weight they hold, the pain and memories that will arise. I dreaded this and also fantasized about it. I could hold both, I think.

I remember being in the attic once or twice as a kid. I hated the ladder, and it creeped me out to be up there. One time, a bat flew out of it and into the living room for my mom and brother to deal with. My dad pulled the ladder down like he had done it yesterday. I brought up the bat story and Gabe dished out the details once again. My dad tested the first step.

“Not bad, glad I made it sturdy.” Having a hand in building our family home was always a talking point for my dad. I look at Gabe, and we snigger while rolling our eyes.

We chat briefly about who will climb up first. Dad, Gabe, then me. The climb isn’t bad; I move carefully. Once we all arrive in the attic, I look up and around, amazed at the height of the roof above me. The smell felt familiar, and for a second I forgot I was 29. There was a draft. Boxes were stacked around the room. There were plastic bins, too, showing a peek of their contents.

“I did move some things down years ago, maybe 2005?”

After taking a few moments to look around, I look at dad.

“Where do we start?”

The plan was, divide and conquer, while also leaving space for emotions, keeping items we are attached to, and being able to part with things that we can.

“I can’t take it all when I move,” he had said when the attic was brought up in conversation recently.

The three of us spent hours looking through the attic. It started slowly, lightheartedly; laughing, talking about memories. I think we each ended up in our own little world. It was heavy; every piece of paper, every toy, every journal, every old cushion was a part of the life that we shared together. And now, it was like officially moving on from that life when maybe we still weren’t over it. I know I wasn’t over it.

I found the first journal when I opened a big red suitcase that had been sitting alone in a corner. But it wasn’t just one journal among other things; it was exactly 37 journals. Some were slim and fancy, some were thick and leather-bound with buckles, some with covers collaged with dried flowers.

“She kept every journal she ever owned.” my dad said, peeking over my shoulder as my eyes ran over the large collection sitting in front of me.

Each one looked different from the other, but they all held the same purpose: the pages held words she had written, experiences she had, feelings she had felt.

A few weeks after she died, I had come across an old journal of my mom’s. It was in a living room cabinet, tucked between 2 large scrapbooks. I took the journal home with me that day, with her silent permission, and read all the way through. Her words painted pictures and reminded me that this woman was a person who really lived and loved her life. I think I’d forgotten that in the midst of my grief. Her words helped me navigate the greatness of the loss I was experiencing. It felt like I was talking to a friend. Whenever I read something I could relate to, I felt validated: she felt that, too, like me. I felt close to her in a different way. The words from that first journal years ago gave me the peace I didn’t know I needed, during such a hard time.

My mind came back to the present, in the attic, and I scanned the collection in front of me. After a quick look at the lot, I saw that, of the 37 journals and notebooks my mom had accumulated, 10 of them were the pocket-sized Moleskin kind. They were all black, simple, classic. I smiled, and thought “The woman had style.” I never knew she liked that brand, and I wish I had; I’ve many Moleskin’s myself. She bought her first one in 2012, and after discovering them, she carried them around everywhere. On the first page of the first one she owned, she wrote: “I think I’ll keep these with me from now on!” From reading them all, she would often jot down anecdotes about her daily life. Her slim writing filled the pages to bursting in every one of them.

It had been 3 weeks since I had brought her notebook collection home in that red suitcase. Reading them was like a little project on the side, there for me in moments I missed her. I often talked to her in my head before starting a new one, saying I was sorry for reading her private words, that it wasn’t ok for me to do this... and every time, she reassured me that it was okay. It almost bonded me to a part of her in my head I felt I had lost. Maybe my relationship with her had changed through reading her journals. Whatever it was, it was a journey of its own. And ultimately, that journey turned into another one, when I went to read the last little black notebook.

When I picked up the last Moleskin, something was different. I can compare the feeling I had to one of receiving a slightly heavier birthday card. I had read 9 so far, so when this specific last notebook felt heavier than the rest, my interest was peaked. Why was this heavier than the rest? Could there be something inside? Pictures? A folded note? A dried flower? It was all so exciting, for some reason.

My brain went into analytical mode. I opened the first page: nothing interesting. I continued to flip through the pages eagerly. What was I looking for? I brushed off the thought. I got to the end of the book, and my eyebrows raised: a small key is taped down to the last page. The only things are written on the page: “12-31-12, FCB 739. Don’t forget!”

My first thought, a diary key? No, too big for that, unless... I go to the suitcase of journals and see if any have lock and key. One does. I line the key up with the lock and push. The key is too big. Back to the page… but wait, what is my urgency? Why does this feel so significant? I can’t say, I don’t know. It felt like a puzzle or something… why would she leave this here? Back to the page… FCB, what does that stand for? Initials? No, I know; it’s Francis Cooperative Bank, the same bank that I use. I’m at a loss for what the rest of it means. I grab my phone and open the nearest search engine.

“why would you have a key from a bank?” is what I come up with first.

First answer: “Probably a safety deposit box.”

I listened to The Carpenters on the way there, the anticipation lingering. What was I about to find? What if it was something cool? But what if it was, nothing? I really didn’t know what people put in safety deposit boxes, to be honest. All I knew, was it was a piece of her.

The man at the bank walked me back to a private room. I sat down at the table. “Be back in a minute” he said, sweeping out the door again. He arrived 2 minutes later with a box numbered 739. It was bigger than I expected. He set it down on the table in front of me, said

“You’re good to go! Holler if you need anything.” I nodded. He smiled and closed the door behind him.

I paused to take in the moment. My eyes search the box; grey, metal, not tall but thin and long. This was so important to her, why did it end up in my hands? My eyes flood with tears, and the feelings rushed in behind them.

Everything about the loss of my mother was so heavy, and all of a sudden, I’m about to unearth some treasure or something? It felt unreal, like a movie. I never knew why this key felt like such a big deal; I was just trying to close a chapter and move on… now I’m standing at a new door that feels exciting, but for what? What was in this box, and why was it such a big deal to me? Was I expecting something to take the pain of losing my mom away? “You always loved living in a fantasy!” I said out loud to myself.

I blinked hard. I opened my wallet’s coin pouch. I take out the key and the page it came with. I line up the lock and key, and, unlike the journal lock, this one allows the key to slide right in. I turn the key in one bold move but stop before lifting the lid.

“Why are you making such a big deal of this?”

She’s right, just open the box, just do it.

I think up until I was in that attic, I had forgotten how beautiful my childhood was. We didn’t want to talk about the line between knowing my mom was sick and when she “wasn’t sick”. We all just kept pretending it was shiny and fine.... and maybe parts of it were, but it was rusting all the same. She got sick and we all just pretended it was normal. She. She pretended it was normal. If you hadn’t seen her, you might not know she was sick as she was. And her light never dimmed, not really. Maybe she kept things secret for us, maybe for her own sanity. The thing I know for sure is that notebook with the key was her last before she lost the ability to write normally. She never had a notebook after that. Maybe she knew this would be the last one, that this key was important to put there for somebody to find. Maybe she left it there for me. She always knew I struggled. But never mind that now.

I open the lid.

My jaw drops.

Tears flood my eyes and they fell fast down my cheeks.

“Oh my god…”

I knew the moment I opened the box that I’d tell my kids this story one day. I’ll tell them about the jewelry my mother had collected from her travels around the world, show them the pictures of her great great great grandparents and their families. I’ll show them my grandmother’s fancy pin collection that my mom had saved. I’ll tell them about my mother, about how she always made me feel safe and cared for in a scary world.

And then, I’ll tell them about the $20,000 in cash I found in there, too, and how it was the beginning of starting a life for myself, one better than I could have dreamed… but that’s another story.

The end.