Grampa's Gift

Call me Ishmael.

My hand dropped. I didn't know what to write next. Turning the page, I started at the top.

In the third grade, a poster showed famous first words from influential books; "Call me Ishmael" topped the list. My teacher explained that those words connected readers to the narrator through his first name; I guess writers don't usually tell their readers what to call them. She explained that the name he used all at once intertwined history and religion and psychology in a reference to his hardships (and maybe even lack of veracity) that his readers would understand. But how did the name he used tell anything about his life? The name I use was given to me and I don't have a choice in what it means so only by chance could it tell anyone about my life. His readers were a lot smarter than me, I guess. I tried to read the book a little the next year, but his readers were definitely not fourth graders who got a kick out of Clifford the Big Red Dog just a couple years earlier. But I liked that one line could mean so much to anyone. I want to write one line that means so much. But “Hi, my name is Mallory” couldn’t possibly mean anything to anyone.

Then it hit me. He didn't say, “My name is Ishmael.” He said, “Call me Ishmael.” Maybe Ishmael isn’t really his name.

Googling Ishmael, I really understood the guy. The original Ishmael, anyway. Not the maybe-it’s-his-name-and-it-just-fits-but-maybe-it-isn't-and-he’s-just-trying-to-connect-with-his-smarter-than-a-4th-grade-audience character.

Ishmael was Abraham’s first son, from his wife's servant. Later, Abraham had another son through his supposedly barren wife, then he tossed the servant and their son into the desert for the wife and son he liked more. When Dad left, home was never home again. I may as well have been wandering a desert like Ishmael and his mom. Lost. Thirsty. Abandoned. Maybe the stuff I read is true that Abraham didn’t want to send them away, that he was just listening to God who said to listen to his wife, that sending them away protected his younger son from a jealous older brother who was hurting him. But why was Ishmael so jealous? Why did he tease and hurt his brother? How did he feel after being abandoned? He became a bandit. A bad guy. Later, he redeemed himself. But as a kid, that was a lot to face.

I was six when my dad left, seven the next time I saw him, along with his mistress and her kids. I wondered why my dad wanted them instead. He said he loved me. But, he left without even saying goodbye. I wonder if Abraham said goodbye to Ishmael. If he gave explanations. Or excuses. If he actually cared. If my dad actually cares. And I might know why Ishmael became a bandit, aside from maybe desperate poverty. I went through a stage for a couple years when I bullied littler kids. And I stole! Once, in that empty classroom, I took those quarters and nickels and even a whole dollar from those little kids' desks. Erasers and things from people in my class. Snacks from lunch boxes. A candy bar from the store, when my mom was right there. And I lied. About nothing important, either. About dreams I had that I made up on the spot, about movies that I never saw or games I never played, about something I learned in school that I was just making up. Except for some of the lies, no one knew, and even when kids tattled on me for pushing them, everyone believed me that it was an accident. People say kids “act out” to get attention. I didn’t. I didn’t want to get caught. I just wanted to feel powerful during a time when I felt so powerless. I wanted control at a time when everything felt out of control. Did Ishmael? He probably felt pushed away, neglected. Discounted. He probably resented the love lavished on the new kid. He probably just wanted a sense of control. Or feared his lack of it.

Five years passed since we came home and discovered my dad and his stuff were gone. He never remembers my birthday, even though my stepsister shares the very same day but is only a single year older than me. He never forgets her birthday. But I guess that's because she lives with him, so he can't. But once he knows her birthday is here, how does he not know mine is, too? But I wish he was here.

My mom is here.

I talked to Grampa about it. He said neither of my parents are all good or all bad, but that neither recognizes what a gift I am, either. He also said one day I’ll recognize how much my mom does for me. But I know I won't forget how much she’s done to me. Grampa never yelled at me with eyes bulging, and that devil growl my mom gets. He never spanked me because the Kool-Aid container was put back in the fridge empty. He never abandoned my kitty at the park while I cried and begged from the car, just because I forgot to clean out the litterbox. I never had to tiptoe in from the back door so I could figure out his mood before I passed by. Same with my dad. When he yelled and spanked me, he was scary but he wasn't just looking for a victim. But he’s also full of broken promises. He makes me feel so special sometimes. But his words never mean anything. In the end, I feel like my dad hurt me more than my mom, if only because I never expected anything from her.

I paused.

Grampa retired to the Midwest three years ago. Three days drive, or two plane rides away. I spent every summer with him after that. Three summers already. I met Auntie BeeBee only because he moved here. Every Christmas, Grampa sent me movies he recorded from cable on old VHS tapes, and fudge he made from Gramma's special recipe. This year, he sent me a black journal and this interesting rectangular pen that clips to the side. And a really sweet note.

I thought of the words. A tear came, and I tried to unblink it away, keeping my eyes wide so it wouldn’t spill. But it spilled anyway.

The package came the day after he died. Even though I know he sent it while he was alive, I felt like a dead person sent me those gifts.

I know why he gave me a journal. He says I have so many thoughts all tangled up in that ball of yarn in my head that I need to get them out in the open so my mind can breathe. Said, anyway.

“Mallor-E!” Mom screamed from the other room. From Grampa's room. Not Maaaaaaaal-or-yyyyyyyyy, all sing-songy and sweet. Just harsh and cut off. Mallor-E! Sometimes, it's MALory. Like the last two syllables are one short, unimportant one. I hate how she says my name. I said once I wish my name wasn't Mallory ‘cuz she makes it sound so ugly. Grampa said it didn't matter what my name was, because it would be said the same.

“Is your stuff ready for Aunt Bee?”

I like Grampa's name for me. LeeLee.

“Yeah, I'm packed.”

He said I reminded him of his sister BeeBee, when she was little. He wouldn't call me Mal because that means bad in Spanish, and that there’s no badness in me. But he didn't know about that boy I pushed just because his kickball grazed me, or that girl I shoved when she accidentally bumped into me. Even if he did, he'd say something like people cannot always contain their first reactions, but can learn from them to curb their next reactions. They both said “Oh, sorry!” but I still hurt them. It was a choice. I was bigger; they never anticipated my rage. I picked on them because I could get away with it. And I enjoyed it.

I looked at this present from my dead grandfather.

I don't do that anymore, though.

I liked it's black vinyl cover. No ugly spiral binding getting bent and snagging everything. No glued in pages just falling out. I opened the cover.

Call me Ishmael. The first words I wrote in my journal. I swept my finger across the creamy sheet. I liked the color. Not bright white and blinding, or dull and grayish. It made me feel like I should be careful what I write. I wondered if I wasted space already.

I picked up my pen. Another gift from Grampa. Same company, even. Moleskine.

“Mallor-E! She's here!”

Call me Ishmael. Just don't call me Mallory. Anything but Mallory.

Then I closed the book.

At her house, Great Aunt BeeBee handed me a box.

“Grandpa left this for you in his will. He said you have a key for this now.” Inside was Gramma's jewelry box. “He left you some other things, too, but your mom and aunts say they can't find ‘em. I knew about this, though, so I got it for you ahead of ‘em.”

A painted ballerina posed, arms frozen overhead. Before Grampa moved, he’d wind it for me and I’d hold it ‘til the music ended. After he moved, he let me wind it myself when I came to visit. I don't remember Gramma. But I always loved that ballerina. A little lock sat beneath her, holding closed a little drawer. When I asked what’s inside, he said Gramma put a gift in there for me. He knew he saw that key laying around somewhere, and promised when he found it he'd give it to me. But he never did.

“Do you have that key with you?” Auntie BeeBee asked.

I shook my head.

“He told me he sent it in your Christmas box, LeeLee.”

“I just got a journal.” I carefully tilted the ballerina. That same rolling thud occurred as it always did.

“Well, maybe you need to put that journal to good use,” she smiled, and hugged me.

My first page was mostly blank. My next couple pages were mostly ramblings.

From a little folder in the back cover, I took out Grampa's note. I liked his handwriting.

On my first page, I copied,

Write what you feel. What you feel is who you are. Who you are is important. Write what is important.

I flipped through the book idly, and a few pages past the center, found a key taped with a note reading “Bring this next time you visit!” It was small, brass, with a swirly top.

I grabbed the jewelry box. “Auntie BeeBee! I found it! It was in my journal!”

“Oh, hun, I'm comin'.” She rounded the corner, wiping her hands. “Well, open it up!”

I fit the key in the little hole. Turned it. Pulled open the drawer. Inside lay a little round vial. From this, something the size of a pencil eraser fell into my palm. No, even bigger.

“A diamond?” I questioned.

Auntie BeeBee picked it up. “Oh, hun.” She held it, light sparking through it brilliantly. “LeeLee, we gotta get this appraised. This could help you pay for college! Or a down-payment for a house!”

The next day, a jeweler smiled at us. “Gorgeous gemstone. Round cut, tremendous fire. Just over 2 carats. Fetches $20,000 if you're selling.”

Great Aunt Bee smiled at me. “I'll put that money in the bank for you. You can get it when you're 18, and until then it'll collect a little interest.”

I thought a lot about Grampa later, and all of the keys he' given me.

I opened my journal.

First page.

Hidden things can mean more than what's obvious, and the smallest things can be the most precious.