“You’re so beautiful,” she says softly, and all I want to do is let her hug me again. Now I understand the comfort of a person’s arms around you. “So grown up, but so much the same. I’m so glad you found your way home while I’m still alive. I would have died with a broken heart if you hadn’t come back.”
“Mom, can we save the morbid talk, please?” My father shakes his head as he walks past us and goes into the adjoining kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Grandma.” I have no idea what else to say. I don’t want to break anyone’s heart or make anyone sad.
She grips my hand in her thin, boney one. “Don’t you dare apologize. Come sit with me, I have something for you.” She holds onto my hand as she sits on the couch, and I sit next to her, captivated with the rings on her hands, all diamonds and colored gems. I remember these rings. When I was little, I used to call them stars because they sparkled and shone.
“You still wear the stars on your hands,” I murmur, and her entire face lights up at hearing those words.
“You remember…I was so afraid you would forget me.” She squeezes my hand even tighter, and I decide it’s okay to let her believe I didn’t forget a moment with her. Deep down, I wish I actually did remember more of her because I can feel in my heart that we were close. I haven’t felt like this with anyone else. This pull of remembrance, of belonging and feeling loved.
“Lizzie… bring me my bag that’s over by the front door,” Grandma says, and Lizzie gets up from where she’s been playing quietly on the floor to retrieve a large shopping bag that Grandma dropped when she saw me.
“Do you have a present for me, Grammy?” Lizzie asks, peering into the bag.
“Not today, sweetheart. Today I have a special gift for Holly because she hasn’t gotten any in a very long time.”
Lizzie nods absently and goes back to her game, and Grandma reaches into the bag, pulls out a wrapped, rectangular box, and hands it to me.
“But it’s not my birthday or anything,” I say, placing the box on my lap.
“That’s okay, this is just a special gift.”
Intrigued, I tear off the wrapping paper to find a dark burgundy photograph album with the word “memories” embossed in fancy script on the front. I glance at my grandmother, and she gives me a warm, encouraging smile as I flip the book open. The first page is filled with photographs of me as a newborn baby, and I don’t even have to ask if it’s me because Grandma has added a little strip of colorful paper beneath each photo with my name and the date and place in pretty writing. A lump forms in my throat as I slowly turn each page, watching myself grow older, playing with my brother, blowing out birthday candles, at the beach with my father holding me at the edge of the water. Suddenly the photos of me have stopped, but the pages continue with pictures of Zac, my parents at parties and holiday dinners, and photos of my grandparents. Seeing the photos of my grandfather brings back vague memories of him, but I don’t ask where he is. I’m afraid to hear that answer. I turn a few pages and there are photos of baby Lizzie, and she looks just like I did earlier in the album, with wispy blond hair, bright eyes, and a big smile. I see Zac’s prom photo, and I’m delighted to see Anna standing next to him in a pretty dress when they were both so young, then Zac graduating from high school, then college, Lizzie’s first day of school, and so much more. Every photo has been labeled by my grandmother. My hands shake as I flip through the pages of memories that should have been mine, in my head and not here in photographs, but I am so very grateful she made this for me.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this.” My words catch in my throat, and I turn to hug her. “I love this so much, and I needed this.”
“You don’t have to thank me. This is your life. All of this belongs to you.”
“I’m still not sure seeing all that is good for her recovery.” My mother entered the room while I was hugging my grandmother. “You should have let me talk to her doctor first.”
“That’s nonsense,” Grandma says. “She has every right to have these photographs and see herself, and her own family. None of this is a secret. And I won’t be kept from my granddaughter any longer, Cynthia.” She continues to talk over my mother, who attempts to interrupt her. “I’m eighty years old, I’m not going to live forever, and I want to see my granddaughter while I still can. I’ve respected your wishes long enough.”