Finding Emily

Sitting on the bench staring at the newest “From the Neighborhood” exhibit at Framed, our little city’s own version of The Metropolitan, it could have been like any other day. Usually, I’d have been here just to relish the work of local artists our little museum had chosen to highlight this season. But there is nothing usual about today. Because today, my entire world is falling apart.

“What’s wrong dear?” a woman asks me. I didn’t even notice when she sat down next to me.

“Nothing,” I say, giving her my best faux smile.

“Of course,” she replies, the look in her eyes telling me she knows I’m full of it.

We sit in silence for a while longer. Now that I’m aware of her, the discomfort takes on its own physical form, like a third body taking up space on the bench, crowding us. I want to move but I don’t want to be rude. The woman, who seems to be in late seventies or eighties by the marked lines on her face and the light gray hair that’s neatly tied into a bun atop her head, sits quietly looking at a mixed media sculpture.

We both continue to stare as the tension builds. I bend down to grab my tote bag. I’d brought my sketch pad just in case inspiration struck but I should have known better.

“Don’t leave on my account, dear,” the woman says quietly. She’s sitting with her hands in her lap holding a little black notebook. It looks old, its’ cover weathered and cracked, and the pages seem yellowed. She’s rubbing circles on the leather cover like you would caress a lover’s hand.

“I..I’m not…It’s not because of you,” I finally stammer out.

“Of course not, dear,” she smiles.

I grab my tote bag and make to stand, but in my haste, I trip and my bag falls, spilling all my secrets. The old woman, agile for her age, reaches down and helps corral the contents back. She holds on to a note that, like a heat seeking missile, razed my life into shards. I hesitate for a moment as she fingers the innocuous blue note paper, but I make no motion to take it from her. She stares at me for a moment before turning it over. She remains stoic as she reads the words written there and then turns her gaze back to me. Her smile is empathetic. I watch as she slips the note into the front of her notebook and then reaches to help me to my feet.

The tension that had enveloped us breaks and with it goes my resolve. My eyes, already weary, filled with tears.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay,” she says. As I sit beside her, she wraps her thin arms around me and holds me close. The tears that had brimmed my eyes start to fall within the confines of still silent space. My cries are quiet. I can feel her comforting me with her touch, something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.

After a while, my sobs have subsided. “I moved here for him,” I say. She’s quiet and I assume she’s just going to let me talk. “It’s stupid, I know. Cliché. I mean, it was just after college and I loved him. I thought he loved me.” She holds my hands in hers rubbing those same circles on the tops of my hands that she did on that black leather notebook.

“So, it’s a broken heart that brings you here today,” she says. It’s part statement, part question. She’s not wrong. But she’s not totally right either. Eric’s note was the final bullet in this life of mine. I hang my head and breathe a deep sigh.

“Actually, I was laid off this morning. I showed up to work to find out three of us were being let go. I was down, but finding Eric’s note,” I say, shaking my head. We’re done. We can’t be together anymore. I need you out of the apartment by the time I get back on Sunday. Leave your key with the office.

I think back to the callous way Eric ended our three-year relationship. He not only broke my heart, but he left he homeless. What the hell was I supposed to do now? The tears threatened to fall again, a burning in my eyes and nose making me acutely aware I must look like a complete mess. I free myself from this stranger’s hold and reach for the tissues in my bag.

“It’s been one hell of a day for you, young lady,” she says, and I can’t help but chuckle. It was definitely not what I was expecting her to say. “So, what are you going to do now?” she asks.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I came here to clear my head.” I look around the exhibition room. There are just a few people meandering around, standing in front of different pieces. I feel like I’m on display too. Raw, vulnerable, exposed. “I need to go back to the apartment and get my things. I guess I’ll get a hotel for a few nights and then figure out what I need to do.”

“Your job was it something you enjoyed?” she asks. Thinking about her question in earnest, I shake my head. “Then what is it that you really would like to do?”

That’s the million-dollar question. What do I want to do?

“In my eighty-six years,” she starts, “I found that there are many things we need to do. And many more we want to do. But in the end, when you look back at the what ifs that make up your story, make sure your wants were met as often as your needs. We don’t regret unfulfilled needs. We long for everything we wanted that we never did or received.” She smiles and cups my cheek. “It all seems insurmountable now, but it isn’t. Just like that sculpture there, your life is all possibility.”

My smile is weak and full of sadness. It can’t be any other way right now. Melancholy fills me to the brim. “Emily. Time to go.” We both turn toward the voice in question. A woman in blue scrubs shepherding two other octogenarians calls to my new acquaintance. Emily stands and I follow suit.

“What’s your name dear?” she asks.

“Hannah. Hannah James.”

“Well, Hannah James. It’s been a true pleasure meeting you.” With a sparkle in her eyes and a little snark in her words, she said, “And when you go gather your things, leave that toad something to remember you by. A well-hidden piece of seafood should do nicely.” She smiled and winked, making me laugh.

I watch her leave with the rest of her group and head back home.

A few hours later, I’m surrounded by two boxes and three suitcases. This is what the last three years of my life have boiled down to. I sit on the couch and look around the room. Emily’s words echo in my mind. What is it that you really want?

Well, not Eric. I’m hurt about how he went about it but if I’m honest with myself, the signs were there. He was never forever. And my job was a chore to get up for every morning. So, what do I really want? I realize I haven’t checked my phone all day. I turned it off after seeing the note and just threw it in my bag. I need to check my email. Check my bank balance.

When I look in my bag, I’m surprised to find Emily’s little black notebook. I hesitate for just a moment before I open it. My note is in the front. I take it out, ball it up, and toss it in the trash. I flip to the first page and find a sweet poem dedicated to someone named Matthew. A smile makes its way across my face.

I spend the rest of the night reading the love story of Emily and Matthew. It’s filled with memories, pictures, sketches, stories, and poems. On the last page, there’s an envelope glued to page. I open the flap and inside I find a gold wedding band, and what look like diamonds. It looks real and expensive. I wonder how much something like this would go for. I quickly set that thought aside and slip it back in its envelope.

I spend an hour Saturday morning calling different nursing homes and assisted living facilities. For a relatively small city, there are more than I would have thought. I’m met with resistance, being told they can’t release any information because of privacy laws. That and I only have Emily’s first name.

I look through the book again and find a picture of Emily from what must have been forty years ago. So, I take out my sketch pad and, using the picture as a guide, I draw Emily as I recall her features to be now. I grab my newly completed sketch and spend the afternoon driving to each of the eleven facilities, showing the sketch and pleading my case. When I get to number eleven with no luck, the feeling of defeat takes over. A nurse comes over. “Have you tried Montgomery Hospice?”

Hospice? Hospice. Oh God. “I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you.” I nod and head out. Arriving at the facility, I show my sketch at the front desk. The receptionist smiles and asks me to wait. I take a deep breath and take a seat.

“Are you Hannah?” a middle-aged woman asks me.

“Yes.” I’m startled but I have to assume this has to do with Emily.

“My mother hoped you would find us,” she says. “Follow me.”

In the room at the end of the hall, Emily sits in a chair by the window. She’s playing checkers with a little boy. When I walk in, she smiles and I smile back, holding up her notebook. Emily’s daughter and grandson leave to get snacks at the vending machine. I sit with Emily and hand her the notebook.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s all I have left of my Matthew. Well, this and my memories.”

We sit and chat until her family returns. I say my goodbyes and start walking out. Tomorrow, I will be headed back home. I need more time to figure things out and my mom is excited about having me home.

Before I reach the front door, Emily’s daughter calls me and hands me a small, wrapped gift. “It’s futile to refuse. She’ll guilt you by saying it’s her dying wish,” she says. I smile. “Thank her for me,” I say. I slip the gift into my tote and make my way home.

It’s been two weeks since the note, the break-up, and since Emily. I’m in my old bedroom trying to figure out what I want out of my life. My mother is just happy to have me here and, while I love her, I need to do something else, be somewhere else. With my job, I’d felt trapped behind that cubicle. Even with Eric. That relationship had also felt stifling. I needed to be free. I’d always wanted to travel. My severance check had come in and I could afford to take a month to do that.

That’s what I want. So, I search for laptop and I happen upon a small, wrapped gift. Emily. I smile and unwrap it. Inside, I find a small black notebook, much like hers. I open the cover and find an envelope inside, with a dedication on the first page.

Hannah,

Let nothing hold you back. Live the life you want.

Love,

Emily

I smiled at her stern, yet loving words. I opened the envelope next and found a check for $20,000.00 with a note: An old woman’s dying wish for a young woman’s living dream. Make me smile, Hannah.