The Devil Face Dollar Bill

It had been a week since the passing of my beloved grandmother and four days since saying said my final goodbyes at the funeral. She was my favourite person and would continue to hold that title until my dying day. She had had a good life living to the age of ninety-nine, only a month shy of her hundredth birthday. I had taken the task of going through all the belongings in her home, though this was done out of love, it was also so I could possibly find the diary she had left me in her will. I had felt a sense of honour being left the diary of a woman who had led such a full life, and yet no one knew where she kept such a cherished item. The final evening of my stay in the house, I decided that I would sleep in her bed as the couch was starting to put a permanent kink in my neck. To some, the thought of sleeping in the bed where their grandmother had quietly passed in her sleep may have seemed morbid or obscure in the least, but after outfitting it with clean sheets and my favourite comforter that I brought from home, I felt more at peace than I had the entire week.

The lingering scent of the essential oils that my grandmother wore still permeated her room; neroli, the smell of bitter orange blossoms even rendered me slightly intoxicated with its rich floral and slightly citrus scent. My grandmother was a frugal woman refusing to pay for those "drugstore brands," as she put it, stating that a natural essence was so much more feminine than those synthetic blends. It was a scent I grew up with and one that would forever be ingrained in my brain. She was a woman who considered herself high maintenance but only unto herself. It was not that she expected anything from anyone else. She would never be seen in public without a full face of stylishly done makeup, her hair always perfectly coiffed, enduring the pains of consistently sleeping in rollers to ensure her hair would be perfect the next day. She was smart and sweet, making me believe I was the favourite grandchild, though I imagined she made all her grandchildren feel the exact same way. It had saddened my soul when dementia started to slowly take over her naturally happier persona. Though it wasn't to the same effect as some, it would make a tear come to my eye when she would look at me with that blank stare in her eyes, trying to figure out who I was.

I fell asleep thinking of all the great memories my grandmother and I had together, so it was no surprise when my grandmother's face came into my dreams. She was sitting in her favourite chair, an antique sleigh chair that had been reupholstered to an emerald green velour type fabric. She sat with the lovely serene face, her legs crossed and her hands laid neatly on her lap. At once, she stood, and her face went quickly to one of confusion and distraught, "you have to look in the wall Tara, you have to find it," she said as she stared directly at me." What are you doing? Go now!" she yelled.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I woke with a jump, confused if it was the dream or the loud noise coming from the wall that awoke me. Was that noise real or just remnants from the dream? I pondered this as I closed my eyes.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I jumped up from my laying position. Trying to figure out where the sound came from, knowing now that there was indeed a noise that woke me up.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I flung myself up on the bed, my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I could not concentrate on any other outside noises. I sat perfectly still, trying to calm myself, looking to the right of the bed as I knew that was where the sound had come from. In all my years staying at my grandmother's house, I had never heard a noise like this, yet my brain was indeed trying to play it off as pipes rattling within the walls. I sat and listened quietly. I could hear what sounded like a scratching noise coming from the same area. I leaned over and turned on the bedside light as I thought that seeing would give me a better indication as to where the sound was coming from; funny how the brain works, believing that light would help me hear better. The now rustling noise was getting louder, and I thought it was weird as the furnace had just kicked on. After listening for a few minutes, I deduced that there was something in the vent making that noise. I got out of bed, my feet slightly recoiling as they hit the cold floor. I grabbed my slippers and sat on the side of the bed quietly listening more intently for the sound; I could feel a burst of warm air coming from underneath the bedside table and realized that that must be where the vent was. I moved the table and could now clearly see the vent that was not longer screwed in, but its edges solely resting inside the wall. I grabbed the edges prying it free without much effort, and looked in the hole. Inside, though hard to see, was a single little black book, its pages rustling from the air passing over it. I grabbed the book gently and placed it on the bed; I put the vent cover back and slid the table back to its original position.

Though slightly tattered, the little black book was still in impeccable condition. The cover was stiff and made a crackling noise as I opened it. Within the pages of the book contained poems, memories and some diary entries. I paused, feeling almost intrusive though realizing that this was the diary left to me; this was my inherited right. These were obviously my grandmother's private and personal memories, yet though it was hidden, she had made it apparent that I was meant to find it.

Her stories started when she was a teenager, a time when she had run away to stay with some Gypsies for a few days until her parents came and got her. She had poems written about a boy; was this perhaps about my grandfather? Diary entries when she had good days and even some when she was utterly fed up with life. Dated in 1948, folded within its pages, was a sketch done in pencil of my grandmother when she was young; it was signed by my grandfather, a keepsake she had treasured all these years. On a page dated July 27, 1954, I came to a single little anniversary card from my grandfather. It read: For our anniversary this year, my love, I give you one crisp dollar bill for each glorified years we have spent together. Wedged in the spine of the little black book, encased in plastic wrap was four Canadian dollar bills. I carefully unwrapped the plastic to see the beautiful bills in mint condition. The Queen in all her younger years and glory, but as I looked at the bills' intricacies, my heart started to pound, for instantly I knew what I was looking at.

A few years back, I had come across a few dollar bills I had put away for safekeeping, hoping that one day they would be worth something since the introduction of the loonie, the Canadian dollar coin. I lost track of where I had put these bills, so when I accidentally found them while cleaning out some boxes, I quickly looked them up to see if I was now rich. Unfortunately, they were only worth a few dollars each, but I did note the bills that were worth a lot of money. In 1954 a dollar bill was made with the Queen's head as usual, but there looked to be a picture of a devil's face within her hair. This upset people, and the bill was soon taken out of print, explaining this bill's rarity.

I grabbed my glasses off the nightstand to ensure that I was indeed looking at this bill correctly. As I held this bill, I realized my palms were getting sweaty as I could clearly see the devil's face within the Queen's hair. I scanned the other three bills, and to my extreme thrill, they were all the devil faced bills. I quickly wrapped them back in the plastic wrap and secured them in the book. Was this what my grandmother wanted me to find. Did she know the worth of these bills? Was that why she hid them in the vent? Perhaps this was due to her mind's paranoia in the last few days of her life? I was unsure if I would ever find out the hidden book's reasoning, but I knew that she meant for me to find it.

Though it would take me a month before I found the proper banknote collector that I could trust, in the end, I made $20,000 for the sale of three out of the four devil face dollar bills. It was a day that would forever change my life, giving me the option to quit my job and follow my passion of becoming a writer.

A few weeks later, while at the bookstore, I was looking for a new diary for myself; there were so many to choose from, leather ones, colourful ones, plain ones I could not figure which one spoke to me. As I turned to leave, not able to make up my mind, a little black book fell to my feet. I picked it up and noticed it was exactly like the one my grandmother had used. At that moment, I knew that it was the book that I was meant to write in, to carry on the legacy of the devil faced dollar bill.

So Here within these pages will be my memories and the final devil face dollar bill vacuumed sealed in plastic, of course. One day I hope this story is read by you; my future grandchild and that the wealth brought to you by this dollar bill will fulfill a dream, liven a life or just put a smile on your face.