Best left in the past

It was raining the day of the funeral. A huge blanket of swollen gray clouds was smeared across the sky, pelting fat drops onto my neon rainbow umbrella. This was my very first funeral, and it seemed every bit like it did in the movies. Everything was there; everyone was dressed in black, holding their matching black umbrellas, and it was raining.

It was raining. Honestly, it was like the weather was trying to be as melodramatic as possible for grandma’s big day. Of course, the old bat probably would’ve eaten it up. She always wanted everything to be perfect, and was a stickler for propriety and tradition.

Dad calles that being anal.

She certainly wouldn’t have approved of me, with my highlighter of an umbrella among the sea of bobbing black ones. My choice of rain gear was a small rebellion, but a rebellion nonetheless. Never mind I never had the guts to do so when she was alive.

I ran my fingers over the little black book in my jacket while the preacher droned on and on. It was comforting to have, to feel it’s delicate leather cover, crispy from age. I kept it in the pocket over my heart and stood and waited.

After the sermon had finished, people began milling over to grandma’s casket to pay their respects. I hung back while Mom and Dad made their way over, and I eyed the box with trepidation. I’d never seen a dead body. Now, having seen my fair share of death, I can tell you it’s unsettling to see someone that will never move again. Back then, I was frightened of what I’d see. It took a stern look from Mom to finally propel me to the body box and peer inside.

Taking a deep breath, I bent over and looked: It was her alright. Part of me wondered if I would recognize her, pumped full of formaldehyde. But it was unmistakably grandma, eyes closed with a blank expression on her face. I stood there for a good minute, baffled. What do you say to a woman that hated you? Hated who you were?

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“Annabelle dear, would you fetch my cane for me?”

“Yes Gramma!”

It was sunny, in her sitting room. The late afternoon blaze shone through the floor-length windows, casting a reddish-golden hue on all it touched. I was eight.

I scampered over to where the cane rested against the wall. It was an elegant mahogany rod with silver filigree, tipped with a faceted green gem. I always used to think that my grandma must have been a witch, or a fairy godmother, and that the cane was her magic staff. It certainly looked the part, and seemed rather out of place in such a modern room.

I raced back to her seat, cane in tow, and stopped in front of her. Grandly, I held out the cane like I was awarding her the Nobel Peace Prize, and she humored me by accepting the cane just as sumptuously. She rose from the couch, the afternoon sun catching on her face.

Age had not been kind to her. She was wrinklier than a shar-pei, and had a stern brow connected to a large hooked nose that curved down to her thin, pursed lips. Constellations of large moles scattered across her face, and all of this was barely covered by a thin film of foundation and powder.

She looked vaguely like a vulture, with her feathered stole around her neck and her long coat that she wore even inside, a perpetually cold woman. Thin wisps of silver hair floated around her face like cirrus clouds, and her gnarled hand grasped the cane like the roots of an old tree digging into the earth.

I followed her as she unsteadily shuffled into her office across the room, careful to help support her in case she fell. She paused at the door and, turning back to look at me, said;

“You won’t tell anyone if Grandma does a little secret business, will you?”

I shook my head furiously. She smiled. “Good.” Gesturing towards the room, she held out a hand as if to say “Shall we?”, and we both pranced into the room.

Once upon a time, Grandma’s office had been a lovely room filled with oil paintings of the Italian countryside. It had been my favorite room in the entire house. Of course, nowadays it’s a complete mess. Grandma was never quite the same after I left.

In the center of the room was Grandma’s desk; and in front of her desk was the steamer chest. It was a relic from the 1800’s, hunter’s green and bronze and mottled with dings and scratches. At the time I had always wondered what was inside of it, but Grandma kept that thing locked around the clock- she never opened it for anyone. She always told me that the past was a nasty thing to dredge up.

She sat at her big desk whilst I stared at that chest for probably the 1000th time, entranced. My guess as to what was inside? Fairy stuff.

Half an hour passed before I heard a rustling from the entry hall. Grandma, in her own little world of papers and files, suddenly perked up like a lemur- before shoving all of the papers into drawers in a panic. Feet stomped into the office, carrying a frazzled looking woman with a million shopping bags. My mother. She spoke:

“Annabelle, we have to get going. It’s getting late for you, and I have my book club in 20 minutes, let’s go.” She grabbed my arm and began dragging me out of the room when Grandma, finished hiding files, sat up in her chair and cleared her throat. Mother froze, and turned around to face her creator.

“Tell me, what exactly is so late about three in the afternoon?” Grandma said.

Mother gritted her teeth. “Mom, it’s late for Anna…”

“Oh, is that how you’re punishing her?” I looked over at Grandma, still sitting in her chair like the goddamn president. Mother sighed, clearly unhappy that this conversation was happening. “Yes. That is how we have decided to handle the situation.”

Grandma raised her hands, feigning placation. “I’m just surprised that you’re taking your frustration out on your child, of all things.” Mother was shocked. “I am not! This is necessary, Mom.” I tugged on Mother’s sleeve. I wanted to get in the car so I could play Angry Birds on her iPad.

“Necessary? All the child did was tell the honest truth-”

“She called a boy gay, Mom! For wearing dresses to school!” Mother exploded. “His parents told me that he still hasn’t gone back to class!

“That’s just what happens when parenting goes so wrong that your little boy becomes confused like that. I certainly wouldn’t have let your brother go to school in a skirt.”

“For Christ’s sake Mom, this is why I don’t like you hanging around Anna anymore! You’re a bad influence. Backwards.” Mother began dragging me out the door. As we walked away, Grandma called out to us, “I know you hate me Lucy! But you don’t have to force Annabelle to play along!”

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The day before the funeral, it arrived in the mail. A simple package, with scrawled handwriting and a bland-looking stamp. It was pretty unassuming. Attached to it was a letter, in pretty cream card stock. Mother and Dad and I sat around the coffee table, the package at the center of attention. Slowly, Mother began to open the letter with her finger, which made a R i i i p sound that echoed dully throughout the living room.

We all stared at the letter. It laid out the inheritance logistics, all of Grandma’s belongings and money that would go to her next of kin. But to her next next of kin,

“20,000 dollars! She’s giving all that to me?” I gasped. The other two turned to look at the paragraph I had read. There it was, in black print, a dollar sign next to a two and four zeros. I’d never had so much money in my life. What would I do with it all? Suddenly college didn’t seem so far off.

Mother’s eyes bugged out of their sockets as she took the letter from my hands. Aghast, she said, “No no, that can’t be right. That’s way too much-” But it was right. “This is- crazy!”

Dad wrapped an arm around Mother. He didn’t seem to know what to say, so he just sat like that, giving me a confused look.

I took back the letter from Mother. I was so surprised that Grandma would give the majority of her savings to me. My eyes glazed over with shock, until I saw the rest of the package, sitting on the coffee table. Ignoring my mother, still talking, I leaned forwards and undid the wrapping. There, sitting on torn brown paper and tape, was a book.

It was smaller than a slice of bread, and black as night. The leather cover was speckled with years of age and wear, with a few tears at the edges. I turned it over in my hands as my mother’s voice drowned out my thoughts;

“Why would she do this?”

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“Grandma, have you ever felt… different?”

I remember asking that stupid question like my first name. It was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong person for it, but I had asked that question anyways, driven on by the hope that our friendship would carry me through. How stupid I was.

“What are you getting at, dear?” Grandma was considerably worse in condition than the last time I had seen her. She was weak and fragile, like if handled at all she would be irreversibly damaged.

“Well, I feel different, I guess. I feel like I’m not who everyone thinks I am. Have you ever felt like that?” Grandma stared at me. “Grandma, I don’t think I’m a girl.” Grandma got a look on her face, like a cat toying with its prey- daring it to run away.

“And, my dear, what do you think you are instead?” I hesitated, my breath sharpening to a point. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this.

“Um… I think I’m… nonbinary?” The air left the room. “I- uh, I picked out a new name for myself… one that fits me better?”

“What?” Grandma wheezed. Her breathing got a little worse. Labored, uneven. Panicked, maybe.

“Um… My new name is… is Sock.”

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I stood outside in the cold. Grandma was inside, hacking up her lungs. She had never given me a reply.

My friend Tom picked me up in his car. He wore a champagne tulle skirt under a beautifully structured bodice that made him look like a fairy tale character. Frilly, sure, but beautiful too. I got into the car.

“You did the right thing, Sock. I’m proud of you.” Tom took his eyes off the road a second to look into mine. I felt like crying into his shoulder. “We picked such a stupid name…” I whimpered.

“Regardless, you deserve a large cinnamon roll and some hot coffee.” He ruffled my hair.

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“Give it here, let’s see it!” Tom said, as I nervously pulled out the book. I had gone to see him after fleeing my Mother who was still in a state. We sat at our favorite cafe, with hot coffees and the burning curiosity of exploring Grandma’s book.

We carefully spread the spine of the book open, and looked.

There was a date. It said March 23rd, 1893. Tom looked to me. “You said this was your grandma’s?” He said. I nodded absentmindedly, staring at the little thing’s contents. There were paragraphs upon paragraphs of scrawling cursive and little sketches in the page margins. A rabbit, a hawk…

I began to read. This book was a diary, and went through the daily life of a woman named Dixie Mae Jameison. Dixie was a funny person, and had a tendency to complain about her daily chores and the drag of looking for an eligible husband. She would rather run barefoot in the woods, and climb trees like the squirrels.

Dixie wrote how one night, she and a group of friends snuck into town to see a burlesque show, and how she was straight terrified. Dixie was sure they would be caught. It wasn’t until she saw the show that she changed her attitude. There, up on the wooden stage, were people dressed like she had never seen before. Men with roiling beefy arms and little curled mustaches wore pink sequined robes and dramatic ostrich feathers, and lithe women wore bespoke suits with pink carnations secured to their lapels.

They danced and sang and performed, while Dixie sat in awe. No one at home would ever have the audacity to dress like that. But Dixie wanted to. Having never felt comfortable just wearing a plain dress most days, Dixie had often wished she could dress how she felt. Some days it was masculine, some days feminine, and some days something else entirely.

And then, she walked on stage. She wore a blood red dress of satin and jewels, and as she stepped up to the microphone, she began to sing. And oh, how she could sing. Dixie was entranced. It was like the songs of the birds, back in Dixie’s woods.

Unfortunately, it was over too soon. Some man in the front decided he wanted to be part of the show as well, and as the woman worked her way down-stage, he grabbed her ankle.

The woman fell forwards like a rag doll being dropped to the floor by some petulant child. And Dixie, well Dixie was furious. Feeling something she had never felt before, she shoved her way to the front to help the woman.

There she was, lying on the club floor. Dixie grasped her before the crowd managed to trample her, and the two made it back to the woman’s dressing room while the MC tried to calm the crowd.

The woman’s name was Sofia, and her ankle was very sprained. Dixie stayed with her until help arrived to tend to Sofia, and the two bonded very quickly. Sofia invited Dixie to her next show, after her leg healed, and Dixie gave a whole-hearted yes.

The next few entries lay out Dixie and Sofia’s relationship. They meet every night, Sofia sings, then they cuddle backstage. It’s really sweet stuff. I kind of wish I had a relationship like that. But the most important thing is I can see why Grandma wanted it hidden.

Dixie is ripped away from her love, forced to marry some bachelor. Her affair with Sofia is discovered, and becomes a tarnish on her family’s image. To Grandma, Dixie must have been ‘that’ family member, the one who ruined the family.

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I say goodbye to Tom as I step back into my house. He waves, and promises to call me. Inside, Mother waits in the living room, watching tv. She turned towards me, surprised. The tv went silent as she pressed mute.

“Mother, I want to tell you something.” I planted my feet firmly on the carpet. “Grandma had a secret. This-” I hold out the book, “Explains everything. Well, mostly everything, I think.”

She took the book from my hands and began to flip through. As she read, tears began forming in her eyes.

“I always wondered- I never knew about my grandmother… This explains so much.” She looked up to me. “I think she saw a little of her in you. We knew she was planning on giving most of her money to you, Sock. But after she died it was so unclear- I was just surprised.”

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It was dark at Grandma’s house. I walked into her office, a full grown adult now, and turned to her steamer chest. It’s nearly buried under rubbish, and is no longer locked. I opened it. Inside were pictures and mementos from an age past. Great Grandma.

I admired the keepsakes for a while, before I took out the book. It still looked the same, just a little old book. It had been through a lot.

Gently, I placed the book inside the steamer chest, and closed the lid. I believed it could rest, now that someone knew its story.