Don’t Wait

Truman sat with his head resting on his hands. It was hard to know how his hands were holding his head up. He knew he should move, but how?

He knew he would die; he could accept that…eventually. But how did his Grandfather die before sharing the story of his grandmother and him…their family story.

It was so complicated, he knew that. Three children dying in two car accidents, two of those children dying as young children. Truman’s mom was still so young, as was his father when they were killed when he was nearly five.

His grandparents’ loss was beyond comprehensible to him, but then Truman’s inability to process his parents’ death was also. Or, perhaps more the part of the story he still could not accept. The trauma he blocked from his memory until recently haunted him. It returned in fragments, like a destroyed video that was slowly restored by the owner. This was done by his unconscious without his knowledge, and every sense could trigger the fragmented videos of his memories. Senseless, confusing memories invaded his daily life, destroying the person he should have become. The husband, the father, the doctor…He was less due to these fragmented memories he feared.

He knew some of the memory loss was physical, but he still felt to blame for the pain it caused his grandparents. Now, his grandfather was gone and so were the links to his past. It was that simple, he thought.

His grandfather’s friend, also a respected lawyer walked in to offer condolences. He looked at Truman and said with such grace and comfort “He loved you.” Truman could only nod in response, his dark eyes clouded over. His head still hanging low, his lanky shoulders hunched over awkwardly.

Harold’s voice was still comforting. Truman could hear him say, between the words, how he understood why he was acting disrespectful, perhaps childish. Everyone else here was mourning as well and wanted to comfort Truman. Harold’s voice was just oozing southern charm and empathy. Was that a South Carolina drawl? Did his grandfather say he was from Charleston? That fit...but Truman simply refused to be here. He preferred to be inside his head, in his fragmented and painful memories.

The mix of Harold’s voice and Truman’s fragmented memories were smothering Truman until he heard those words. “I have this black notebook for you. In it, is the story of your grandparents. The one your grandfather told me you’ve wanted.” Truman looked at him like he gave him a million dollars. It felt like all the riches of the world, it was the answers he needed. He hoped it would help him know them at a deeper level, feel closer to them even after death.

Now his father’s friend Harold sighed, and Truman realized in a flash this man lost a lifelong friend. Yet he was working in this moment, how difficult that must be for him. “Truman, we will go over your inheritance later. Yet he wanted you to see this with the black book.”

Harold handed him a statement next. His dark eyes had bags under them. Harold was carrying a weight Truman could not fully understand in his youth. “A statement?” He stammered out. He felt useless, not even participating in the conversation with this poor man in the conversation before now. Harold was grieving, and the weight he was carrying seemed far heavier than he was revealing. Truman could see it hidden behind his blue eyes, like a cloud that wanted to peak out behind the sun. Something heavy was weighing on this Southern gentleman.

He suddenly realized he had been selfish, in his grief. Yet his grief had been more over the story of his grandparents, more than his grandfather's death…how self-involved. In his attempt to hold on and understand, was he missing the point?

“Yes, when your parents died there was life insurance as well. Your grandparents invested some of it. They also donated twenty thousand every year in your parent’s names, and your name. It has been important to them, to remember them in this way. This year, it’s up to you to do this and to pick the organization.” He hesitated. “I have a list of past ones…” He paused for emphasis. “And. You. Have Time.” Harold gave a weak smile. He said those last four words with purpose, each one with more time between the last.

To show there was time, he was just doing the bidding of a friend as the instructions were given. He was a respectable and trustworthy man and friend. Truman knew this. Everyone did.

He looked at the money. He thought about the gift involved in the money. To be able to donate it as he wished, in his parents’ memory. In his grandparents’ memory as well. This was such a beautiful way to remember them, as this was who they were. In their worst grief and sorrow, they helped others. That was their legacy, and one he hoped to continue. Harold was studying him he realized. Small tears were forming, and he could not hide them. It was impossible to fight the emotion at times like this.

He looked up “This is beautiful, just...” and then his head dropped down. It felt like an avalanche of crushing honesty in that moment.

Harold studied him another minute, allowing the silence to sit there like a comforting fog. It built a little of a buffer between Truman and the sharp edges of reality, the reality he refused to handle. The heaviness of this new black book in his hands, with the past’s story in it. Finally, he could read it. Yet he was emotionally drained.

Would he ever feel ready to read their story? How his issues kept a happily married couple apart for all those years, living in separate homes yet loving each other more fiercely than he could comprehend at his age? Look at his young marriage, in less than five years he felt more distant from her than two people should be able to feel. Still, he loved her. Clueless on how to reach her, touch her. The woman who he once felt he knew better than she knew herself. What happened?

Harold was still there, studying him lost in emotional thoughts. “Truman, let me know when you would like to go over the inheritance. That is up to you. I would like to have their financial person there, to explain their investments before you decide to change anything.” Harold’s voice was soft, quiet, and without emotion. He could sense there was no judgement, just information.

Truman looked up, inheritance? As a husband and father, he had life insurance and he dreamed of investing. He did not understand, yet he felt like he should have assumed. He just never questioned where his grandparents’ assets would go. He was the only person left in the family, and that loneliness was what haunted him. Financial aspects had never entered his mind. Perhaps he had been naïve. Perhaps he just never wanted to think of this day. Finally, he held the black book with the secrets to the past, twenty thousand dollars that could help any charity of his choice, but he still could not bring his grandfather back. He could not bring back his grandmother. His parents. Nor the aunt and uncle he never met, as they died far too young.

He was powerless to do any of the things he wanted to do in the present. Just hold his wife and have her look at him the way she did not long ago. He had been feeling sorry for himself, for the comforts of her lost affection. He stood, head down, hands in pockets, face aflame with shame and guilt. He had work to do. Yet the black book and the past was weighing him down.

The idea of an inheritance had never been discussed, just like the existence of this little black book. Just like the real story of his grandparents, the one he had wanted to know fiercely. He realized as he looked at the book, this was a big reason for his role in his marriage’s decaying. Not the black book, no, him. He had been so focused on how he destroyed his grandparent’s love story, he started to destroy his own.

Right there, prior to responding to Harold he made himself a promise ‘No matter what is in this black book, I let go of the guilt, shame, and forgive myself. I was a child, and I did not remember because it was the only way I could survive. But here today, I have choices. And I have a wife and child that depend on me.”

He looked up at Harold, nodded. “Perhaps after the service, the following week? Let me know some good times? I am taking some time off, so I’m fairly open. I have no expectations of making changes unless there’s reasons his financial person tells me I should though. I don’t think I’m financially more capable, and I trust my grandfather’s choice.” Harold smiled, deep into his eyes. Nodding, with wetness reaching his eyes but not spilling over.

Then as they walked out, Truman clutching that black book like it was his compass and Harold his black briefcase like it was a weight, Harold stopped. “Can I share something with you, I haven’t told anyone yet?” His crystal blue eyes were suddenly twinkling with happiness. There was no hint of the past clouds Truman had noticed, which made him nearly smile. Yet, his face unwilling to smile. Truman nodded instead.

Harold perked up, “I’m retiring, I thought I needed this job to feel alive. I have no idea why.” He laughed slightly, his warm eyes showing laugh lines that were endearing. Truman knew he was a warm and loving grandfather. “But I will finish your case only, giving the rest to the other partners and selling out. I’m focusing on traveling and visiting the grandkids the way I always promised my wife I would.” He smiled again, with his wet and moist clear blue eyes.

Truman smiled back, with his swollen and wet dark eyes. “Your wife must be so pleased with you.”

It was now Harold’s turn to look down, fidget and finally he met his eyes. “She died of cancer one year before I was going to retire son. One year. My advice? Take this inheritance, it’s large, larger than the money I’ve earned over a full lifetime and take a good month or two off each year. A man should work, absolutely, it should be your passion. But take time off, travel as a family or do things around the home you enjoy. There will be plenty to keep invested.”

Harold smiled warmly “That’s not my professional opinion, it’s what I would tell my own son.” Let’s say it will be in my black book he will read one day. I hope you will give it to him, and tell him? Tell him how much I mean it?” His eyes showed this was a sincere request.

Truman nodded. “In my professional opinion, as a psychologist, and it matches my deeply personal opinion...don’t wait for him to read it. Tell him, share the stories meant for your black book with him while you are living. I will be happy to give him the written one as well, but please don't keep it a mystery while you're alive.”

Truman’s voice grew more emotional: “Get a place by every child and spend quality time there being a part of their lives and share those stories. So, when you do go, they can keep those memories. That is what will comfort them, it is how your grandkids will remember you. And perhaps you can start a black book together of all that is special.” He held his up for emphasis, hoping the fact that he wanted these words while his grandfather was still alive to sink in. “Write your own father-child and grandfather-grandchildren stories as well.”

Harold nodded, for now he was at a loss of words. He put his arm around Truman and gruffly said a few moments later “Consider it done, Doc.