Inheritance

It was the 7th notebook her mother had given her as little present in 12 months, just because.

This notebook was black leather. It was unassuming, mid size, elegant. Moleskin.

It felt nice between her fingers as Violet held it, and she smiled at her mother, thanking her. A skin, soft. Softer than hers. Seemed too nice, somehow, Violet's rough hands a downgrade as she regarded the notebook's promise.

Wrapping paper pulled open, Violet felt her brain misfiring up. The challenge to use the notebook because it was offered had arrived. Again. Ghosts of notebooks past haunted her. Her mother obviously believed she could do it. Enough to keep offering opportunity, and challenge. Somehow this notebook made Violet feel all of a sudden like she was a mannequin. She was dry and breathless. A desert and a coldfront swirling up. Here was a luxury… How many notebooks does a person have to receive to finally write in them?

Violet considered her ability to follow through, to honor the notebook with words. Violet thanked her mother immediately, jumping up to hug her and shriek, I will use this! Running her hand over the leather grain and looking closely at the details, smiling up at Phoebe to express gratitude. I will use this! I will use this.

Phoebe (her mother) liked to give gifts. All sorts of gift, all the time. Just because! Because why not. Because sometimes even the simplest of gifts whether paid for or made or found were the best thing that the gift giver could ever give, honestly. Giving gifts was good for everyone. Little gifts were just the ticket to feeling excellent as the giver. Phoebe gave gifts, and she taught her one and only child to do the same.

Phoebe favored different gifts at different times. All gifts fell into predictable camps. And regardless of the moment in time, all gifts seemed unexpected yet familiar. They were timely. They were known.

There were three kinds of gifts.

There were the Practical Gifts. Flashlights, big lanterns, and now pandemic preparedness defined the trend. When giving flashlights for instance, Phobe would lean in to Violet and say:

“I need to know you are carrying this tiny flashlight in your purse, or otherwise on your person, at all times. We need this. Oh, you don’t need this perfect little flashlight I am giving you because you say you already have one?? Show me then. Show me now.”

“The good thing about this particular flashlight is that it is small but heavy, it can protect you if you need it, Vi. And you will need it. Hopefully not. But, you never know! You could be getting out of your car at your house and all of a sudden there he is! A predator! You would have this flashlight to swing at him then, or blare him in his eyes!!! Flash Mode! Don't you dare refuse this!”

Following the panic parade Phobe would discuss other things and then, artfully, when saying goodbye she would pull a little side bag out of her pocket like a drug deal. She would stare her daughter, only child, best friend, confidante in the eyes and say;

“Oh and there’s another little present too in there… Batteries! Definitely. Batteries. Extra batteries for the flashlight so double check when you go out that you have a well working flashlight and the batteries are turned on.”

Other practical gifts were paper towels, facemasks, bottled water, vitamin D, hand sanitizer, disposable gloves, 409 spray. Such a collection pre pandemic would have suggested the gifting of a germaphobe or a serial killer. Post pandemic times, quintessential Pheobe. A kindness, really.

Greatest hit number two: Eucalyptus.

Just that. Eucalyptus.

End of.

Third most likely: Notebooks.

Phoebe’s little notebooks were always that, little. “Fits into your purse! Maybe your pocket? it just fits!” Sometimes the notebooks were for sketching, sometimes for writing, sometimes for organization. Most often they were the stretched a bit too thin version of the gamut.

Violet appreciated the notebooks for their utilitarian purpose and for her mother’s snobbish commitment to the finest of things despite being utilitarian.

This notebook? There was something about this notebook.

Nice to hold. But opening it, Violet recognized its weight for the first time. She was surprised. A beautiful lead brick it was. Her breath quickened, then slowed.

Does any frog know that life is changing when it jumps from one lilypad to another? And what of the dice, slow motion, thrown swift, turning blank slate to riches? What of surprise? Inside the notebook in the very front cover Phoebe had written: You’re ready.

Vi looked up at her mother, who was already gone.

_______________________________________



The thing was, Phobe had been gone for years. Cancer, a cough, a giveup, who cares, all the same. Violet thought her mother could have fought harder.

Phoebe could have done the treatment, she could have showed fear instead of smiling, and cracking funnies like... "it's cool, I'm just checking out early!"

Phoebe liked to double over laughing and then wink. "The opposite and the same as being late to the party. Never cool to do what's expected!"

Phoebe was smiling until the end and Violet couldn't stand it.

That blooming brilliance within her mother was the most perfect and the most blinding and the most cutting Violet had ever known, and she no longer knew how to live in the bland.

When she looked in that little notebook, the last little notebook, the most practical and beautiful present she had every recieved, Violet found her mother's handwriting. You're ready.

Violet knew her inheritance.

Blank pages met drawn pages met writ pages.

The line goes on. Our leather softens.