The Life I Used to Be

Nothing good would come from this.

Those words echoed like an incessant warning in my head, growing louder with each moment I ignored them. And even though I knew they were correct, my feet carried me forward anyway. Of course I knew nothing good would come from this, but no power in hell or earth would keep me away now. Another step. Another reckless decision. Another moment closer to... what?

She’d passed away a month ago. My beloved grandmother Violet. The woman was a phenomenon: caring and kind, but with a resolve of steel and a demand for respect that exuded from her without words. When I heard that she’d passed, I’d cried for days. Not tears for her, but selfishly for the world that would be less now without her, and for all of us who would have to continue living in the damn useless thing. Seven days weeping like a child, and then on day eight I’d cried anew when the box arrived with my name penned in Violet’s elegant print.

I took another step toward the old farm house, clutching the black leather notebook close to my chest against the chill ripping across the neglected land around me, left now only to the ghosts.

I opened the book to the first page... the only page I’d yet read, per Violet’s very specific instructions. I looked down at the handwritten address I finally stood before, then at the battered key taped to the page, knowing there was no turning back. There never was. No, the truth was that I would follow Violet anywhere, even now. Especially now.

The key protested but the door opened. And finally, I was allowed to turn the page.

I stepped inside. “Violet, what have you done?”

“I know you’re confused,” the page read, lit only by the sun filtering into the silent, aged room. Dust which had been undisturbed for years was now thrown into a frenzy in the air. “Confusion is good. It means you’re still willing to learn.”

I turned the page.

“You don’t know this house, but it was important to me for many years. I learned to breathe peacefully here, possibly for the first time in my life. Do you know what that’s like? To finally feel safe after years of just getting by? You will. Walk to the bookcase in the bedroom.”

I moved down the hall, lined with askew frames, each with the photo removed, as if the house was still hiding its secrets from my intrusion.

There was only one bedroom, waiting at the end of the hallway, as frozen in time as the rest of the home, but with signs of love in the hand sewn quilt. I stepped to the bookcase. I turned the page.

“Slide it away from the wall.”

For the first time, I hesitated, and in my head the warning echoed again: “Nothing good will come of this.”

I moved it anyway.

The bookcase slid away, revealing a hatch door secured with a rusted lock. “Nothing good will come of this.” My finger toyed with the next page, already knowing by the weight of it what I would find.

Time slowed for either seconds or hours; it just seemed to pass differently here. Hell, it passed differently without Violet. Though I did feel her here in a way I thought was gone forever. And it was because of that embrace that I was able to turn to the next page, remove the key, and open the groaning hatch. That same peace carried me down the ominous staircase that shouldn’t exist, into the inky blackness and stale air of this space burrowed here into the earth where only darkness and secrets could ever make a home. I followed Violet anyways.

The ground that met my feet was nothing more than packed dirt, and the walls smelled of damp earth. Pulling out my phone for light, I scanned the small space. It couldn’t be more than twenty feet from end to end, and was inhabited by only a pair of ancient suitcases, layered with dust and neglect. They’d clearly been stowed her for decades, now only relics of a time when travel was a glamorous event of trains and long goodbye kisses on smoky platforms.

I turned the next page.

“Years ago I decided I would never find myself in a life where I was without options. I’d lived that way for too many years and lost my taste for it. I never told you about that time. I never told anyone. I don’t know if that was the right choice or not, but it was my choice and I refuse to regret it. Now it’s time for someone to know about me and all those years a thousand lifetimes ago... when my name was Alice McAvery.”

My knees went out from under me, landing on the soft, damp earth. My eyes, however, were ravenously fixated on the weathered book, turning swiftly to the next page. The next secret.

“Alice was rarely happy, because she was raised to only be content. There’s no quicker way to break a woman than to make her believe ‘good enough’ is actually enough. But that’s all Alice had. Well, that and—”

I couldn’t turn the page fast enough to read the rest, slightly tearing the edge. Violet would forgive me.

“Alice also had a husband who was into some rather unsavory yet lucrative dealings. Not that she knew that during the three years of their unhappy marriage. In fact, Alice only discovered his dealings when she was at a bank the day he came in planning to rob it, and, well...”

I turned the page frantically, finding a small brass key, and immediately crawling across the dirt to the waiting cases. Peeling the key from the page I tried first the black suitcase with no luck. The green case, however, immediately released, falling open eagerly after so many years standing sentry.

My light scanned over the contents: five large packages wrapped first in brown butcher paper and twine, then wrapped again in clear plastic cellophane to protect each from the elements. And penned on the package sitting on top, in tidy, revenant script, was the name Alice.

Clawing through the many layered cellophane, then gingerly unwrapping the paper, I looked down at Alice’s life, confined here to a container no bigger than a shoebox. Photos without smiles, moments frozen in perpetual content but never joy. Occasional bruises, but in the eyes there was a hint of the fire that would become Violet. I studied each one, finally reaching the bottom of the box, finding a marriage license ripped into four pieces and a gun. Needing answers, I turned back to my book.

“I was done with being Alice. Done with orbiting another person’s chaos. So I left, but not before I made sure to take every last thing away from him. I liked Alice, but I knew I couldn’t be her any longer. So I became someone new. Somebody who could be braver.”

I looked at the next package, labeled Susan, and turned the page.

“I was Susan Collins for precisely two years. Wild years. Susan traveled to Paris and drank champagne in the mornings. She wasn’t a great fit either, but she was a damn good time!”

Susan’s box was filled with elegant snapshots, piles of jewelry worn in happy moments, and a stack of bonds that would have brought me to my knees had I not already succumb.

“After Susan, I tried my hand at giving back to the world with this money that I didn’t have any rights to. That was the year I spent as Eleanor.”

I opened Eleanor’s life, seeing more of my grandmother in the eyes as she tried on another name. Eleanor had many photos, few of herself. These photos were of others smiling, happy to be cared for even if just for a moment. I saw Alice in their eyes as well, wanting more. Deserving more. And I was proud of Eleanor.

“Then Betty for a time. Betty was tired, and perhaps a bit of a recluse. Everybody needs times away from the noise, to discover what they really want from their own life. Betty was my quiet and my rest, living alone out in Colorado for a spell.”

Inside the box, Betty had stored photos she’d taken of herself in isolation, hiking along a crystal lake, mountains and untainted snow all around her. It looked like peace. And at the bottom was a photo of a small cabin, an address scrawled on the back, and a set of keys.

“What I really found out there, however, was Violet. And, of course, your grandfather. He never knew any other names; just Violet. Of course he knew I’d lived quite a life and had secrets, but he never asked. It didn’t matter to him, because he loved Violet just as much as I loved being Violet.”

I opened the last parcel. These photos I knew. At the bottom was a picture of she and I when I was only six, and she was finally Violet. And below that was a bundle of cash so thick it was staggering. Flipping through the bills, still crisp despite their age, I counted precisely $20,000 with a note on the band that read “For Emergencies.”

Collapsing backward onto the ground beside the now emptied suitcase, my heart raced in a mix of shock, disbelief, and a previously untapped depth of awe for these women who I loved.

I turned the page.

“I have loved being Violet. She had roots and freedom, but most importantly she had a reason to stay. So I buried the rest, knowing it would always be there if I needed it. But most days I just didn’t. Most days I had more than I thought possible. So I left it for you, just in case you were ever Alice and wanted more than having to be content with crumbs.”

I don’t know exactly when my eyes filled with tears, but they fell freely now and carried me hungrily to the next page, knowing no good would come from it, but wanting it anyways.

Another small brass key. The second suitcase. It opened reluctantly, wary to unfold what it had protected for so long. The narrow light from my phone scanned over cash, stocks, bonds, jewelry, heirlooms, precious books, gold... and sitting there neatly stacked in the corner...

Six more black leather-bound notebooks.

Six more stories I wanted to know.

Six more chances to be whoever the hell I wanted to be that day.

Time slowed for either seconds or hours; it just seemed to pass differently here. Hell, it passed differently without Violet. The house was locked up. The hatch secured and hidden beneath the bookcase as before, and two suitcases now sat eagerly in the back of my car, ready for new adventures and the continued legacy of Alice, Susan, Eleanor, Betty and my lovely Violet. Taking one last look at the house I knew I would see again, I started the car and turned down the empty lane. The GPS was set for home, telling me to turn right. I stopped at the end of the lane as my phone lit up with an incoming call: his name written on the screen, bringing with it the same feeling of dread, unease, and tension it always did.

“Hello?”

“Are you done yet?”

Was I? Done? “Yeah, I really think I am.”

“So what was it? Did she leave us anything good?”

I looked at the suitcases in my rear view mirror nestled in the seat, and farther back to the farmhouse that had protected my grandmother’s secrets. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

I ended the call, not interested in his words.

“Turn right,” the GPS commanded again. I switched it off, took off my ring, and grabbed the phone, dumping all three out the window.

And I turned left.