A Mother's Gift

Andrea hesitated at the threshold of her mother’s tiny Cape Cod.

“Almost done,” she spoke aloud. “Just one more room.” The old bronze key stuck in the lock, but by now Andrea knew exactly how to jiggle it to make it give way. She stepped into an empty kitchen, cupboards bare and floor swept clean. Gloves tucked into coat pockets, she hung the parka on a hook, followed by the scarf. She paused, savored the softness of the scarf beneath her fingers, and imagined her mother knitting away, needles clacking while she rocked to a rhythm only she heard.

“Last day,” she promised herself, “then this old girl goes on the market.”

The stairs were narrow and dark, and creaked beneath Andrea’s sneakers. She wondered again why her mother had never agreed to sell the house in favor of a single-story. For some reason, she clung to the shambling place, teetering hesitantly up and down the stairs the last months of her life.

Now Edith was gone. The funeral, stuffy and formal, left a bad taste in Andrea’s mouth and the week that followed of preparing the house to sell was no better. There were good and bad memories here, moments of laughter and moments of sorrow. Andrea supposed it was the same in any house.

The right bedroom, a guest room, was already cleared save for heavy furniture. To the left was the chore Andrea dreaded. Sorting through her mother’s personal things was something she put off to the last.

She slipped in a pair of ear buds and chose a playlist featuring light rock from the seventies. It was the music Edith had played while baking, dancing to the rhythm between batches of cookies or jars of jam. It was the happiest Andrea had ever seen her. With her music chosen, Andrea began working.

An hour later, the bed stripped, the dresser drawers emptied, and the contents divided into trash, recycling, or donations, she paused for a breath. Hands on hips, she surveyed the closet doors. It was the only job left, sorting her mother’s clothes and the memorabilia that she knew Edith had kept on the top shelf.

“I need a drink,” she decided, and carefully navigated the stairs once more to the kitchen, where the refrigerator still hummed. Inside was a six pack, half empty, and Andrea chose a bottle, twisted the cap, and sipped.

That stalling tactic did not last long, and back Andrea went up the stairs. Deep breath in, she thought, sucking in oxygen as she flung open the closet doors.

Edith’s scent drew her in immediately. She was a child again, watching Edith prepare for a night out with her dad, a social event, or a church service. The brush she drew through long chestnut hair, the way she shook her head and that hair caught the light as she spritzed herself with Christian Dior perfume.

Andrea shook herself and sang absently along to “Midnight Train in Georgia” as she lightly fingered the fabric on each hanger.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe she kept these clothes so long,” she caught herself telling the still room. There were outfits she knew her mother had grown out of fifty years ago. She buckled down, tearing dresses from hangers, folding them sloppily, placing them in the waiting paper bags. In the very back she found Edith’s wedding suit. It was torn in several places, vestiges of the days Edith allowed Andrea to play dress up in her brocade skirt and jacket. Andrea suspected the dainty little box hat was still in one of the plastic bins on the top shelf of the closet.

The wedding suit went in a pile to keep, along with a bottle of perfume from the vanity and Edith’s silver-backed hairbrush.

The closet rod empty, Andrea turned her gaze to the top shelf. “Nothing to do but to do it,” she said, and grasped the handles of the first box.

It was heavy and nearly fell to the floor with a thud.

Andrea sat cross-legged on the rag rug and tugged the lid off.

The wedding hat was crushed, but it was there. Andrea allowed a smile, and gingerly laid it on the “keep” pile. Besides the wedding hat, there were old pictures, and letters that Andrea had seen a hundred times. Her mother as a child, an awkward teen with permed hair, then a graceful young woman with a beau, Andrea’s father. The wedding pictures, honeymoon pictures, and some that Edith had felt were scandalous, but Andrea saw no impropriety. Old people were so funny about romance.

The box held Andrea’s early scribbles, photos, and mementos, but nothing Andrea hadn’t seen before. However, she supposed she needed to keep it all.

“Just in case,” she thought. Just in case she ever had children? A husband? Family who gave a fuck? “That ship has sailed.”

Ironically, “On Top of the World” rang through her earbuds. She dug the phone from her back pocket and skipped it.

She stood on tiptoes and ran her hands along the closet shelf. Her fingers touched a pile of dust bunnies, then cardboard. There was a shoe box tucked in the back corner of the shelf. Andrea strained but lacked the height to reach it. She eyed Edith’s rocker, sitting forlorn in the corner of the room. She supposed it would hold her weight.

Balancing on the rocking chair, she grasped the box and carefully stepped off.

The shoebox had a large, black, “PRIVATE” scrawled across it in Edith’s handwriting.

Andrea paused. “What the hell,” she decided, and lifted the lid.

“What the…?” Hand to her throat, Andrea took in the contents. Twenty dollar bills, hundreds of them, were crushed in the box, some stacked neatly, others crumbled, as if they had been shoved inside as an afterthought. She caught sight of something black buried beneath.

It was a small black notebook, and flipping through the pages, Andrea saw that they were nearly filled with her mother’s handwriting. In the beginning, she recognized Edith’s hand from her youth. There were blank pages following, then several more pages written in a tired, slower script.

Flipping back to the beginning, Andrea scanned the pages. She caught words like, “leaving,” “divorce,” “child support,” “affairs,” and “penniless.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” she said. “Let’s back up.”

I am leaving Richard. I am ready for a divorce. I am taking Andrea with me and will demand child support through the courts, though I have no confidence they will grant it. I am tired of Richard’s endless affairs, and though I will be nearly penniless, I am ready for a new life.

“Mom!” Andrea rocked back in shock. Her parents had never divorced. To her knowledge, they had always carried on a close relationship, always seemed happy. There had never been any talk of affairs.

Yet, here it was, in vivid detail, the deeds her father had performed with other women. There were names, dates, places, and dollar amounts.

This will be my new life fund. Every week, if he asks, I will tell Richard that the groceries were twenty or so dollars more than they cost. This way, I can save that twenty dollars and over time I will have enough to start a new life with Andrea. It won’t take long this way.

“What happened, Mom?” Andrea murmured. “Why didn’t you leave?”

She skimmed the pages until she reached the blank ones. The pages of spidery script carried a greeting to her.

Andrea, my darling girl. If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I realize that if you’ve read this far, you know what your father was really like. I’m sorry that you had to find out this way. I didn’t know how to tell you, or even if I should, and I convinced myself that you might not find this box anyway. Maybe by now you hate me so much you just torched the house. I wouldn’t blame you.

That would be a waste of twenty-thousand dollars, though, wouldn’t it?

“Twenty-thousand…!” Andrea breathed.

You might be wondering why I never left your father. Well, to make a long story short, I loved him. And in his own way, he loved me too. He just loved a lot of us women. I hope you won’t hold that against him. He’s been gone a long time now. He always treated me well, except for that one small thing. And really, when you have companionship, stability, and mutual respect – yes, we did have that, despite, or maybe because of, the honesty we eventually shared – what else do you need? He had an itch and I learned to let him scratch it.

Anyway, back to you. I have kept this money all these years for you, continued saving even after I decided to stay. It’s not a fortune, it won’t make you wealthy, but that’s not it’s intent. It’s play money, my dear. I want you to travel the world, see a new place you’ve always wanted to see, take a class you’ve always wanted to take. Take time off work and take a road trip. Do something adventurous. A dance class, maybe?

Andrea laughed. She’d always had two left feet.

Not a penny is to be spent on debt, mine or yours. That’s what life insurance is for.

I’ve always loved you. I always will. Don’t cry too much over me. I was ready to go.

That was it. There wasn’t a signature, only that last line: I was ready to go.

Andrea sniffled and realized that tears were blurring Edith’s handwriting.

When she could see straight again, she counted the bills. Fifteen minutes later, she knew that her mother hadn’t been lying. Twenty-thousand dollars.

Her mother had loved her, cared about her, thought of her. There had been numerous things Edith could have spent that money on over the years, but instead she had clung to it with a tenacious will.

Andrea wiped the new tears from her eyes and began dreaming of Paris and Rome.