Nana's Story

“Emma, darling,” my grandmother calls from her study down the hall, “I have something for you.” I hear a slight grunt and I’m off the crocheted-lace doily laden settee in her living room, dust motes rising in furious coral clouds, reflecting the light from the orange and pink stained-glass windows above the couches. I walk quickly down the hallway, Nana was very stubborn when it came to asking for help and I didn’t want her hurting herself, as her back had been giving her issues lately. We almost collide in the doorway, something sharp knocking into my shin.

“Ouch.” I grumble, running a hand down my leg, rubbing the pain away as I glance at what Nana is holding. I give her a look, grabbing the bag out of her hands with urgency. “Nana, you know you shouldn’t be lifting things this heavy.” It is a bag of books, I shift the handles over in my hand, I would guess there were 20 or so hardcovers in there. As an avid reader and book collector, I had shuttled my fair share of fifteen-pound hauls of books. I wanted to open a bookstore one day.

“Oh, Emma, they weren’t that heavy, I had it.” A flash of embarrassment came and went across her face, quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Just look in the bag.”

“I just worry about you, you should—” I cut myself off as I notice the top book in the bag, and even though it is tiny, its cover gleams at me, as if it were begging for attention, screaming “Pick me up! Read me!”

“Oh, Nana, where did you find this?” I pick it up and admire the metallic blue and gold intricately woven in textured bands across the cover. Nestled in the bands in a seemingly random pattern are tiny, silvery white pearls. The words, Den lille havfrou, are embroidered onto the bands with a striking wine-colored silk. The Little Mermaid, my absolute favorite story ever. Nana swears it was the only story that would calm me as a baby, “Of course, I always told a friendlier version, but you were fascinated nonetheless,” she would say.

I walk over and sink into one of the worn-leather armchairs, the end table next to it stacked high with books, like grandmother, like granddaughter, I think to myself. Tears spring to my eyes as realization sinks in. I am holding an original copy of Anderson’s most famous fairytale, in its original language, and in pristine condition. This tiny, thirty-page vessel that looked more journal than book was worth a small fortune.

“Nana, I can’t even begin to imagine how much this must have cost, it’s beautiful, it really is, but you have to take it back. I can’t accept this.”

My grandmother looked at me sharply, and I winced slightly, one thing my grandmother loved to do was spend what little money she had on her family, and to question a gift was a personal attack to her.

“Emory June,” I shrink back an inch as the legal name comes out, “it is very offensive to questions a person’s financials, how many times do I have to tell you that?” She tries to look stern for as long as possible, but by the time she walks over to the other armchair she is trying not to hold back a smile. “Besides, I only got it at the consignment shop on Magnolia for two dollars, can you believe that? Some people just don’t know the value of what they hold.” She winks at me and laughs. We always laugh about this. Nana is the one who taught me that the best books come from second-hand stores as the people who donate them and the people who sell them usually don’t know the true value of what they had. I had bought many books for less than a dollar that are worth hundreds of dollars. I had never found one this rare and valuable though, and something small inside of me wondered if she was telling the truth or not.

I ignored the thought, she was so enchanted to see me happy over the book, so I didn’t push it. I turn to her with a smile, “Do you want to read it to me for old times sake?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t speak Dutch,” she widens her eyes and sets her mouth in a grimace, then breaks it by chuckling, “but good thing I have it memorized.” She leans over and grabs the book and I close my eyes as she reads, the words as familiar and comforting as her hugs, they swarm around me, and I can block out all the anxieties and worries for those moments.

-SIX MONTHS LATER-

I wait for the tears to come, to sweep me away in sorrow and drown me in grief, but they don’t. I sit instead in my bed, wrapped in her crocheted blankets and staring at the blue and gold book that sits on my vanity. I don’t regard it in awe anymore, but with fury. I had taken it to an antiques dealer and had it appraised a week ago, after it happened, and not only did I find out it was worth well more than a few thousands, I discovered my grandmother had bought it after all, from that same dealer. Now, I wondered why she even thought to waste her money on something so trivial, when she should have been spending it on herself.

1992 (4 YEARS OLD)

I’m running in the back yard, chasing Max, our goofy furball of a dog. He’s being so funny I can’t stop giggling and chasing him. I don’t see the hose across the sidewalk, but I feel the pain and see the bright red stain on my knee that appeared as I fell over and hit the ground. I rub at it but it doesn’t come off and now hurts even more. I am crying and screaming, and then Nana’s arms are around me and she is cooing hushes and kissing me and my knee. She whisks me away into the house, humming softly, and I have already started calming down as she sets me on the counter next to the sink. She dips a napkin in water and touches it to my knee. It hurts and I start to cry again. “My dear Emmy, don’t cry,” she murmurs, “I’m going to tell you a story, close your eyes and listen little Emmy, don’t look at your knee, Nana will make it all better for you. You just listen to me Emmy. Once upon a time, in a kingdom under the sea, there lived a king with his six daughters, and the youngest of them was…” I didn’t cry again, and I forgot about the stain on my knee. I was lost in an ocean kingdom.

That was the first time I remember my grandmother telling me that story. She would tell it many years to come, until she bought me my first book of it, the more kid-friendly version of course, when I was 8. She gave it to me along with a mermaid themed journal for me to practice writing in. Those were my most cherished possessions for the longest time. I look away from the vanity and glance at my bookshelf, the bottom two rows holding every journal, notebook, and diary I have ever written in. They are in chronological order, and the glittered pink plastic of the mermaid tail sparkles in its spot, third one in on the top row of journals. I close my eyes and play the memory over in my head, the aching hollow in my chest growing exponentially. I know I need to start getting ready, but I can’t move.

1998 (10 YEARS OLD)

“Happy Birthday, Emma!” Nana leans across the round wooden table, sliding a silver-foiled package into my hands. It is embellished with a metallic purple bow, my favorite color. I am excited and do not hesitate to rip into the gift. A soft leather kisses my fingers and I pull out a beautiful lilac journal, it is embossed with lavender that runs along the spine and front cover. I love it. Every year on my birthday since I was 6, Nana buys me a journal. Of course, I would end up buying more journals throughout the year, but these are special because I’m only allowed to write my stories for her in them. In return for the new journal, I must read her my stories from last year’s journal. I throw my arms around her, “Thank you so much, Nana! I’ll be right back!” I run up the stairs to my room and grab the rainbow-striped spiral notebook from last year. I go back downstairs and sit down, opening to the first page and begin to read to her.

I look in the mirror and adjust my dress. I pull down at the hem, my fingers anxious for something to tug. I slide into a pair of black ballet slippers and turn to the bookshelf and spot the lavender flowers halfway across the top row of journals. A few spines to the right sits a clear tube filled with a milky green substance, my 12th birthday journal, it glowed in the dark, decidedly my most unique journal. It inspired me to try my hand at horror stories, especially since I had read the actual version of The Little Mermaid earlier in the year. I had asked my grandmother if we could wait to read the stories until a week after my birthday, on Halloween. We had dressed up and sat by the fire in the backyard, roasting marshmallows as I read her the spooky tales. I look up into the mirror and think of the striking resemblance I have to her on that night, in my black dress and dark eye makeup.

2006 (18 YEARS OLD)

I look around my room and pack the last few books away in a box. Today is the day I move away to college, to pursue writing. Nana comes into the room and smiles, “Your parents would be so proud, Emma,” and walks with me downstairs. There are movers there, loading up the giant van that will take me hours away to a whole new world. She presses a small brown moleskine into my hands, “I know it’s not your birthday yet, but I want you to tell me everything.”

I find the worn brown spine about a quarter of the way in on the bottom shelf. Those were some of my grandmother’s favorite stories. I run through today’s schedule in my head, I must be at the funeral home in a little over an hour to hold the celebration of life, then we will bury my grandmother next to my parents and grandfather in the family plot at the cemetery. Cancer. She had known for months but never said a word to me and instead just bought me expensive gifts and lied about it. I run my eyes over the bottom shelf and stop at a small black notebook on the far-right side. I go over to the shelf and pick it up, she gave this to me the day before she died, my 26th birthday journal. I hadn’t opened even opened it yet. I run my fingers over the bumpy, unassuming cover, and pull open the first page. I gasp in shock as a check for twenty thousand dollars flutters to the floor, I pick it up and read the first page. My darling Emmy, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, but take this and use it to share your words with the world. Love, Nana. Finally, the tears come in earnest and I sink to the floor, she always had faith in me, always put me before her, and even now she supports me. I love you, Nana. I grab a pen and start writing her story.