Gin-infused secrets

Sometimes I think I know too much, and sometimes I think I won’t live long enough to learn all that I possibly can. And sometimes I wonder if I won’t be able to obtain more knowledge until I unload my oversized baggage full of everyone else’s secrets. That’s right, my own secrets could easily fit in a simple cloth tote-bag under the seat, but the rest – the rest got the neon-orange oversize tag slapped on it the moment of check-in. This is not a story about a transatlantic flight however, it’s about me breaking my silence.

People like to talk to me; they feel comfortable with me as if they’ve had a couple stiff drinks and went into a confessional booth playing their favourite song, with me on the other side. They trust me and tell me all their hidden secrets, or I see them without their knowing. It’s truly a blessing and a curse. It’s almost like a superpower really – being the only person in the room that knows the real story behind everyone’s façade, the masks we all don to muddle through this thing we call “the real world”. All of this I have kept in my head, pulling the blinds over certain parts for survival, and using others as inspiration for my work. Until now.

To name a few of these hidden gems, I know my father preferred me to act more masculine as a youngster so I would not embarrass him around my uncles, and know my stepmother secretly takes anti-depression pills because she does not know how to find happiness without them. I know my younger brother is addicted to Adderall, but everyone thinks he’s funny and “such a character”. I know the lady down the street who would give me and my sister ice cream sandwiches during summertime when we were kids, kept gin in her pocketbook, now that I know the smell of Beefeater. I know that the girl I used to eat lunch with in middle school lived in a trailer home, but told everyone she lived in a wealthy neighbourhood on the other side of town, so she could fit into our annoyingly white-washed, non-diverse school. I know my uncle totalled his car at the end of his driveway in a drunken fit of anger, and does not remember the affair, but my then 13-year-old cousin does, vividly. I know my parents still don’t know who gave me my first pack of cigarettes; it was my favourite teacher, the one with fiery strawberry-coloured hair, who became the first feminist role-model in my life. I know my ex-co-worker, was a managing assistant by day, and a tantric, sex healer by night. And I know my ex-dance partner was born a Grace, but now goes by Elliott and has a better moustache than I do.

This is only the beginning and I so wish she could have been here for it. How her eyes would have gleamed knowing that I’m finally doing it. Conversations with my grandmother over Beefeater martinis and cheap chardonnay in a glass, with ice, feels like yesterday. We would share stories while listening to big band music and profess our true feelings about certain family members, which we only kept between the two of us. I remember the way the carpet squished between my toes in her living room, and the smell of the wood bar when it opened as I searched for a night cap. I would admire her artifacts that she collected over the years, each drenched with their own unique story. Her smile is still so clear in my mind as she would look down into her chardonnay and swirl the half-melted ice cube around in her glass with her tiny hand.

I would tell her of my travels or passing thoughts, and she would say – you should write a book one day, you have a thing with words. She knew how much words – both spoken and written meant to me, but I would simply shrug off the idea with a laugh and a gulp. I could never imagine myself living as a writer. Too many pressures from society, things to prove, money to make, things to buy, right? I have too much school debt I told myself, to simply tell stories, right? This was what I thought, until now.

I got the news of my grandmother’s passing the day after I left her house on a late summer day. When I returned for the funeral a week later, my family and I were going through the house and dividing items between ourselves before the estate sale. My stern and emotionally-detached uncle wanted each of us to take a few things but leave the rest – it was all going to the sale. All of her furniture that spent decades watching her life, traveled over the pond and back again, most all of it gone – gone to the sale. All for money, how disappointing.

In my state of shock seeing the house being stripped apart, something strange happened. In my grandmother’s bedroom, on top of her mahogany secretary desk, she left manilla envelopes for each family member with their respective names. I seized my envelope, trying to hold back the warm tears building up in the corners of my eyes. I shoved it immediately into my backpack and didn’t dare open it until I was alone. When I got home later that evening, I opened the envelope. In it was a picture of the two of us, followed by a book and a fancy Mont Blanc pen – clearly used, and made of a striking merlot red. The book was her copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which she would read as a young girl, alone in the middle of a lake while row-boating, hiding from her starchy aunts. I noticed popping out of the inside front cover, was a perfectly folded note. I opened it carefully, and simply saw the words Write it, it’s time. Another small piece of paper slipped out simultaneously upon opening the note and fell face upward on the floor. It was a cheque – a cheque of $200. I picked it up, only to realize there were two extra zeros to that number! I was immobile. I looked closer at the cheque to make sure my eyes were not playing tricks on me and discovered another small message – No one needs to know. XOXO.

This happened five months ago. I have not cashed the cheque yet, I have not told a soul my secrets and the secrets I keep for others, until now. It’s all here in my small black leather-bound notebook. It’s just the beginning, but I’m ready to take the leap. It’s time to break my silence, it’s time to find my voice, it’s time to write my book.