Forget Me Not

She was feisty, unfiltered, and stubborn. Particularly difficult, without a shameful bone in her body. She’d spit and kick if she couldn’t get her way, and I’d always be the one to restrain her when acted out. Grandma was difficult, and I always thought she hated me. So, when she passed, I felt relief. I was almost glad. She wasn’t suffering anymore, and luckily, neither would we.

Mama once told me that Grandma, “used to hustle,” but I never expected an inheritance. Especially not twenty thousand dollars. That, and some random black book I thought Mama mentioned. I couldn’t remember, I got too excited when I heard about the cash. Though the money was unexpected, I welcomed it wholeheartedly. Grandma had finally contributed something to my life, instead of always taking. It felt worth it, taking care of her for so long. All of the bathing, feeding, and changing, the restraining, bruises, bite marks, and missed social events. There was finally an upside to it all: Cash. Merely a long overdue payment for my services. I’ll take it.

Mama would say I was “too cold,” towards Grandma, that at one point, we were inseparable. I never believed that, but I wanted to. Badly. I wanted to understand what Mama felt. She remembered more of “before” Grandma than I did. She could speak of her fondly. I couldn’t. I didn’t hate Grandma. I knew it wasn’t her fault that she acted out. I felt selfish for even feeling the way I did. I didn’t want to feel resentment, but I didn’t believe her. There weren’t even pictures of us, so there wasn’t any proof that we were close. Plus, I wouldn’t say I was “cold.” She was cold. I was indifferent. And tired. So tired.

***

I hardly remembered who Grandma was before she got sick. Mama, never wanting to admit it was sickness, would say Grandma’s “changes,” started 10 years ago, when I was around 6. There were many signs pointing to Grandma's condition, but after being in denial for a while, the final straw that told mama something was wrong was when Grandma started to forget how to write.

Grandma loved to write. She had journals scattered all around the house. Moleskins more specifically. The only journals she would use. She was particular about everything and her choice in journal was no exception. Writing was the only thing that kept her quiet. Even if I couldn’t understand any of it, at least if I saw her writing, I knew the day would be tolerable. I could use that time to do something I enjoyed for once, or maybe shower.

Some nights after Grandma was in bed, and Mama and I had a moment alone, she would tell me about how Grandma used to write me bedtime stories. Sometimes even bringing out her old paints and markers to make it a picture book. Strangely, she never wrote these stories in a Moleskine. Mama said that Grandma didn’t think it would fit the “baby book theme.” Personally, I think she just wanted to keep them for herself.

Mama kept one specific book that Grandma worked especially hard on. On Grandma’s worst days, Mama would read it before going to bed. It almost looked like a real hardcover book. The cover was made of old thick cardboard, but beautifully painted. The paper inside was sewn and glued together carefully, but beginning to peel off of the cardboard spine. I have to admit, the book did look like there was a lot of love put into it. From her paintings on the covers, to the way she had meticulously handwritten every page, it was beautiful. I wish I could have known that Grandma. The Grandma who made me books. We might have gotten along. But I never felt attached to that book. Maybe as a kid, but not now. That level of care and love from her didn’t feel real. I didn't remember that grandma. So even though I desperately wanted to, I could never understand how reading it made mama feel better. Despite being made for me, it never felt like my book. It felt like Mamas.

***

It took weeks after Grandma’s passing for Mama to feel ready enough to clear out her room. I wasn’t sure if it was because it would be a massive task for us, or if she was just having a hard time letting go. I didn’t ask, to avoid feeling like an awful person.

The room was cramped, and it was clear we had a big job to do. Her room was full of journals, notebooks, and oddly enough, textbooks. After Mama and I took a moment to see what we were dealing with, we decided to start small.

Mama and I didn’t speak, we just started stripping the bed. I wanted to talk, but I could tell Mama couldn’t. She was moving slowly, removing the pillows from their cases and inspecting each cover. Had I been alone, I might’ve yanked it all off in one go, but I steadied myself to avoid looking impatient. She looked tired. Mama had been running on minimal sleep for years. She took care of Grandma while I was at school, and would only go to bed after I had finished my homework. Since I was old enough to help, she worked nights as a nurse's assistant. She had worked mornings, but too many times Mama found a bruise on Grandma and knew no one could take care of her the way she wanted. So she decided to do it herself, including me in that plan.

Once the covers were removed from the bed, we began to tackle the books. I started with the piles on the dresser, and Mama chose the piles near the bed. I questioned what we would do with all of the books. What did she do with all of these books? There were books about biology and psychology all over the place. I had to break the quiet.

“Mama, are any of these yours?” I held up one of the biology books for her to see.

“No,” she responded without a glance in my direction.

More silence. Books thicker than my school textbooks, all about the human brain, how food affects your head, the long term effects of untreated mental illnesses. You name it, she probably had it. I think Mama was overwhelmed, because she finally decided to speak.

“Quinn, did you ever take a look at the black book grandma mentioned in her will?”

“No, I kind of forgot about it,” I felt awful saying that out loud.

“Do you know what it is? What’s in it?” Her voice was shaky.

“No idea. You?” I knew that she didn’t, not with the way she asked.

Mama shook her head slowly. She had questions. I could tell Mama wasn’t upset that I hadn’t looked at the book, she was upset that she didn't know what was in it. It probably confused her even more as to why it was left to me. I’ll admit, it piqued my interest.

***

After Mama went to bed, I started on the dresser. I’d separate the clothes into piles, keep, donate, trash, and let Mama give final approval. Her first drawer was full of silk scarves. Easy, keep. I moved on to the next drawer. Not easy. It was a glamorous junk drawer. Brooches and pins, expensive pens, vintage card holders, mixed in with old mail and weathered trinkets. I hadn’t gotten very far in the process before I found something interesting. A plain envelope with my name on it. It must have been old, it was the same handwriting from the baby book. Inside was a faded sticky note. It read, “Closet crawlspace. 61-504.” I was finally curious enough to do as Grandma asked. I found a step ladder in the closet, and turned on my phone's flashlight. I popped open the crawl space cover, and right in front of my face was a safe.

My only thought was , whatever was in that safe was either going to make us rich, or be very illegal. Combination 61-504. The safe opened easily. Inside the safe was only 3 things, a few loose gemstones from when Grandma sold jewelry, a picture of her and Grandpa who passed before I was born, and a little black book, Moleskine of course.

I got down from the crawlspace and sat on the edge of the bed. The book was worn, and the leather was ultra soft because of age, obviously well loved. Still, it felt sturdy. It was important to her, but why? I opened it, and on the first page there was a short note with pressed forget-me-nots taped below it. Dated May 2nd, 2008. The day Grandma was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

“My Dearest Quinn,

In my darkest hours, you’ve brought me joy. Herein this diary, I have written down every moment I wanted memorialized. From the oldest pieces of my past, to this very moment in time. My hope was to go through it together, when you were older. But it seems I am following in my mothers steps of dementia. I am at peace with that now, as much as I can be. I’ve researched to no end, hoping to beat the odds but, of course to no avail. In these past 6 years, I've smiled more and laughed harder than I ever knew possible, (don’t tell your mother!) If you find yourself angry or frustrated, know that’s ok. I went through it with my mother, and I understand the pain. It will pass. I hope that in my final years, I was still good to you.

Forget-me-not my love,

Grandma.”

My eyes started burning but I continued to flip through the pages. Tiny pieces of pink paper would slip out here and there: diary entries from when she was a little girl. Notebook scraps marked her time as a teen. The first few pages of the journal told her favorite childhood memories, but quickly shifted into her time with Grandpa. Vacation stories, milestones, even their saddest moments. Closer to the middle of the book were her favorite memories of Mama. Then, a thin pink satin ribbon marked a whole section, a little over a third of the book.The first page was dated with my birthday: October 2nd, 2002.

My birth story, and all of my firsts. She wrote them all down. Stories all about the time we spent together, with pictures. We actually had pictures together. Little memories started coming back to me, bit by bit. Grandma loved me. She loved me more than almost anything. This book wasn’t just pieces of her, there were pieces of me too. Pieces of everyone she held close.

I couldn’t have hated myself more in that moment. Grandma knew that this might happen. She prepared and studied for it. No wonder there were books everywhere, she wanted to prevent it all. But more importantly she wanted me to know I was loved, even after she passed. Even if she couldn’t remember. Yet, all I had thought about until that moment was how free I felt, how much resentment I had for missing out on so much.

I read the first page over and over. The pain would pass. The way I felt was normal, even if I felt like a horrible person. I needed time, mostly to forgive myself. Having Grandma's reassurance helped, knowing she went through the same thing. There was another feeling too, I think closure. It didn’t feel like what I’d imagined. I hoped there’d be some immediate relief. Maybe eventually. I wanted to understand what Mama felt, and on a small scale I think I did. I even got another book from Grandma. One that I could use to learn about her, and from her. I could let go of resentment and learn how to forgive. All because Grandma left me this little black book.