Useless Things

“Abigail!”

I hear the full-mouthed voice of my Aunt Mel’s husband call out across the front lawn. I avoid thinking of Bruce as my uncle, as this is a time to keep my real family close.

He’s adding price stickers to my grandmother’s teacups and stacking them without a care on a folding card table. I raise my hand in a small wave but quickly switch to tucking back a strand of my auburn hair instead. I don’t want to seem rude, nor do I want to appear pleased that he’s here today. The blazing July sun gives me an excuse to look away while I hurry into Gran’s house.

Inside, my dad stands at the kitchen counter, back turned to me. He's sifting through old photos but sets them down when he hears my sneakers squeak on the linoleum. In one motion, he spins around and outstretches his arm. No greeting, just impatient delegation. He shoves the small black notebook towards my face, his eyes indicating I should take it.

“Your mother is in the bedroom sorting what will go to charity. Start taking inventory for the estate sale. Write each item and its estimated value.”

Already turning back towards the counter, he picks up one of the numerous bills piled there, rather than the old photos he’d had before. I wonder why he doesn’t want me to know that he cares, why he doesn’t think it is okay to be sad that his mother is gone.

My dad has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, being the executor of the will. The task was made more unpleasant by the fact that there is no money to divide, no inheritance for any of us.

I tuck the compact little black notebook into the back pocket of my jeans.

This house once felt so comforting with its honey oak cabinets and pink lace pillows. The familiar scents of perfume and bubble bath have been replaced with the sterile smell of bleach after my cousin Heather scrubbed the bathroom clean yesterday. The whole family was so quick to prepare everything for sale, scattering Gran's belongings across the lawn.

Now, it feels empty and silent, apart from the faint rustle of hangers as my mother empties the closet on the other side of the wall.

I walk across the living room, and over to the cabinet under the window.

Inside is a cylindrical tin that has been there for at least 20 years—my entire lifetime. I run my hand over the faded floral design and pop the lid to get a whiff of my childhood. This tin brings back memories of when Heather and I would sprawl across the carpet, coloring pictures and watching black and white sitcoms on VHS.

This tin of wrapper-less, waxy crayons is so old, I’m sure my dad and his sister must have used them when they were kids too.

The little black notebook feels heavy in my hand, and not only because it’s a sturdy one with a hard cover. I let the ivory pages fall open and stare at the blank space, imagining how it would feel to write:

Item: Faded tin can with old crayons

Value: Either paltry or priceless

Feeling one tiny tear gather at the corner of my right eye, I squeeze my eyes shut and force it away. Maybe I’m more like my dad than I realize.

Gran was a child of the Great Depression, and it showed in every corner of her home. Along with the teacups, she had also collected bells. Tiny silver ornaments that tinkled like fairies, all the way up to heavy brass choir bells that Heather used to clang in my ear. She had bells with kittens on the handle, bells labeled “Made in Vienna”, and bells with no ringer.

I always wondered why Gran would collect something for which she had no earthly use, but in this moment, it makes sense. When you’ve had nothing, it must be so gratifying to hoard whatever your heart desires.

I can’t bring myself to write any of the bells in the notebook either.

I spent much of the day like this, finding difficulty in taking stock of Gran’s items. I guessed at prices and sorted things into piles until I made it down to the corner of the basement. Gran had cupboards lining the entire back wall, each to capacity with expired cans and dollar store cookies.

Sometime around three, my dad had wandered down the stairs to insist that I take some of the soups and vegetables. “They’re still good,” he had said. “These things don’t ever go bad.”

A thought had been bothering me all day, something my dad had said last night.

“The strangest thing is that my mother was not broke.”

He leaned across the dining room table, his tone getting heated as he explained how at one point she had hundreds of thousands in the bank which had mysteriously disappeared.

One of the many details lost in Gran's growing confusion over the years.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had robbed her outright,” his voice was filled with sadness, not greed.

As I sit in the cool, musty basement, I picture Gran handing all her savings over to a door-to-door charlatan, and being left with nothing but canned peas for dinner. Perhaps, Bruce had helped himself to his unfair share of the money, capitalizing on Gran’s vulnerability.

I throw the remaining cans into the paper bag with extra force at the thought.

When I make it around to the chest freezer, I open the lid to find it stuffed to the brim with ancient, frozen specimens. Gran loved baking pies, and here was her stash.

The freezer is overflowing with bags of handpicked blueberries, blackberries, and peaches. Beneath that, various meats are wrapped in foil and labeled with the year. The first one I pick up says “89”.

When I reach the bottom, I have to pry off the last one, assuming it may have been stuck there since before I was born. I peel back the edge of the aluminum to make sure it is no good.

“Dad! Dad, get down here!” I shout.

-

I sit around the dining room table once again with my parents, but this time my dad is beaming. He’s been laughing and proclaiming his disbelief for the last two days. Gran had been a child of the Depression, through and through.

We should have known she was too smart to be swindled. Forever distrusting of banks, she had taken her financial security into her own hands, or should I say, into her own freezer. Thousands of dollars had been wrapped and stacked like meat—her stash, indeed.

“Abigail, I haven’t told you the best part. Gran included you, as well. There's still a lot to settle, but how does $20,000 sound?”

I felt my mouth open and a tiny gasp escape.

I would trade every penny of that for one more day of coloring on the floor with Heather, the scent of Gran’s blueberry pie wafting from the kitchen.