A notebook, an amethyst and a picture

Never before have I felt this numbing sensation in my stomach. A strange blend of sadness and anxiety is making my head spin, which makes my vision blurry as if I were dreaming. I walk into her room, my heartbeat accelerating with every step I take. It is the first time I walk through that door since she passed away in her bed a month ago. Her departure, as heartbreaking was it, was not a surprise to anyone; lung cancer fighters rarely make it for more than four years, like she did. But my gran-mother, Marguerite, was not only the strongest, most determined person I knew, but also an undeniable dreamer. The last night of her life, she shared with me once again her hopes to find an incredibly effective cure to her illness that could allow us to go to Paris together, so I can finally visit the city in which I was born. As I laughed imagining how wonderful that scenario could be, I drank my last sip of tea and got up to get her a fresh glass of water. By the time I was back she had already fell asleep, in result of the obnoxious quantity of medications she had been prescribed. I kissed her forehead and went home, unaware that it would be the last time I would see her laying there so peacefully in her bed. After I left, the universe took her away from her sufferings. She fell asleep peacefully and simply never woke up. A well-deserve rest for a fierce fighter.

That night, I came by her house to watch “Downtown Abbey”. This was a tradition we maintained almost every day for the past two years, consisting in watching some of her favorite TV shows together. Sitting crossed legs on the bed, just like when I was a kid, we would share some tea while she would reminisce on her past. She’d tell me about her younger years and how it was to grow up in the city of love. For as far as I can remember, she would promise to take me there one day, so we can experience together the place and culture we both came from.

You see, my gran-mother took me to Canada a long time ago, after my mother had died from a tragic altercation with my jealous, abusive father. That night, he was not too happy about his wife’s decision to move out of the house with their eight months old daughter, after he had thrown an empty bottle of Jim Beam whiskey right next to the sleeping baby. It was not the first time he showed signs of violence in front of her, but this was the moment when she realized that his anger was not just directed towards her anymore. she could not keep enduring any of this, not if it meant risking her child’s life. She packed a few bags and called her mother to come and pick us up, but it was too late. Dad was already two bottles down and overheard the phone call, so he stormed up the stairs and ended up pushing her down the twenty-two steps separating the master bedroom and the kitchen. By the time gran-ma arrived, dad had drove far away enough to fall asleep and wreck the car on a tree, which made the task easy for the police to track him down. Meanwhile, Marguerite found me upstairs, still asleep, unaware of the disastrous scene that just left my mother lifeless on the cold tiles of the family home.

My father got arrested and sentenced to 25 years of jail time, and gran-ma disappeared with me to Canada, in the hope of him never approaching either of us ever again. She told me that she finally received a call last year with the announcement that my old man had died in prison, but unfortunately the cancer already took her ability to move around as she wished. She was stuck to the bed 23 hours a day, having just enough remaining energy to discuss. Her body was indisposed, but her mind was as sharp as a blade, she liked to say.

How can life be so unfair, I ask myself, smelling her usual soft floral perfume as I first step in the room, making my eyes water slowly. But I quickly wipe that thought out of my head and start making some order out of the extensive amount of cloths and make-up products she owned. The place is generally clean and tidy, except for that one pile of cloths on the chair next to her bed, which was her replacement closet since her back was too painful to reach the hangers. As I sit melancholically on the side of her bed, I notice something strange right under the messy chair. I get up to move it over and observe a torn part of the carpet that I have never seen before. I look closer; it is ripped in a straight line along the wall, all the way to the bed. I remove everything off the carpet and pull it up, revealing a loose plank on the wooden floor. It seems almost too obvious, like it has been moved slightly out of place on purpose.

As I take a look under the broken floor, my hand first reaches to a bright purple crystal at the end of a long golden chain. The chain seems slightly stuck at the bottom of the cavity, in what appears to be a little black leather notebook. I pull the book out of its secret receptacle and notice that it seems brand new; only one page, the last one, has been used. I open the book, completely shocked of what I am finding in my own childhood house. The back cover of the book seems thicker than usual. I have a look in the expandable pocket behind the last page: 20000$, all in 20$ bills, lays there perfectly folded. I start reading the last page, which is written in French.

-"Bonjour maman,

Here it is, finally. The three of us can be reassured, he is never coming after us anymore. We are free.

For this reason, I think it is time for you to tell her. Tell her the truth and take this money I send you to bring her back to me. Don’t be scared of her reaction, she will understand that we had no other choice but to hide from that man. Tell her everything. That he sentenced me to a life in a wheel chair, prisoner of my own body; I could not risk the same for her.

Mother, thank you for providing her with a violence free life. Whenever you are ready, you can both come back to me now. I want to be there for her, and the same for you.

Here is the amethyst you left me twenty four years ago, and a picture you took of me and her. Give it to her, maybe that way she will recognize me when we see each other….

See you soon,

I love you both

Xx”

In a different handwriting, Marguerite left a simple message:

“Go and find your mother now.

Describe your life in Paris to me, with the remaining pages of this book.

Thank you for taking care of me.

Marguerite”

A week later, from my window seat on the plane, I can see the Eiffel tower as the pilot is announcing our landing procedures. I am wearing the amethyst pendant, ready to start the life Marguerite and I dreamed of for so long.