Fine China

It wasn’t that dying was out of the question. It was just that her demise was always conveniently in the ever-advancing future, and envisioned by me as being under much less dramatic circumstances.

The full weight of her absence hadn’t yet made its impact. I was in that fog that descends when something shocking happens; sounds become muted and distant and slightly fuzzy and you feel coated in numbness.

Later, when the reality came into focus, it would sneak up on me, as if it had planned its exact moment to reveal itself. I would be in mid-dial that day, calling her to share news of some unexpected good fortune, as I always did, on the many occasions when luck went my way. When that moment hit, I continued to press her numbers, in the warped and futile hope that phoning might somehow produce her, alive and well. I was careful to hang up before it connected, as I had for the past two days, not wanting to face the devastation of an unanswered ring.

It wasn’t like I was lacking in family and friends. As I said, I’m lucky. But some people are the glue that holds the best of our random bits together, in the novel that becomes our life, and she was the one who made my highlights appear in bold font. She taught me to iron (be careful), to make pastry (not too much flour when you’re rolling it out), to be polite to others (they might have had a bad day), and to apply the same work ethic to planting petunias as I did to final exams. There was no compromise where diligence was concerned. She had finished school in Grade Eight but read more books than anyone I knew; an opportunity lost by a recent world that undervalued the potential of young girls. She was strong, daring and walked at an intense clip that implied a much younger woman. She was positive to her core and lived a life unencumbered by entitlement. She was so much more than just my grandmother.

But, I digress.

On the day that she unexpectedly left us, in favour of the Great Beyond, the clues that she left behind told the story of her final, typical morning. Her Royal Albert teacup and saucer remained expectantly on the kitchen table, the soaked and patiently waiting tea bag still anticipating her second cup. A trace of crumbs from her signature Empire cookies offered evidence of her daily ritual, completed. The saucer was chipped, so she considered it acceptable to use it for informal occasions. Its ceramic flaw had ironically set it free from the rest of the Petit Point set. It was the lucky one – shaped by its mishaps and fragile, but still strong and beautiful and liberated, and open to living life’s possibilities. In contrast, the remainder of the exquisitely matched china collection clattered its presence from deep within the formal dish cabinet when passersby walked on the aged wooden floors – as if calling out to be saved from their confinement.

The silenced radio had its dial tuned to CFRB and the next unsuspecting user would be startled by the blare, several degrees above a comfortable volume.

The heavy front door remained open, left ajar by our distracted group upon arrival, and the sun was streaming through the glass of the screen door. Its cheerfulness seemed to mock our feelings, incongruous with the mood inside her hollowed-out house.

The saucer sat atop her ever-present, small, black notebook – witness to all household events, past and future, from budgets to birthday party plans to daily grocery lists. Most of it was legible only to its user, as if written in code to hide the secrets within it. The saucer propped it open at her final communication with her devastated family – six hastily scrawled words that pinpointed the moment when our lives changed forever: “Saturday 9 am: gone for a walk” in her distinctive cursive.

Otherwise, as always, all in her bungalow was neat as a pin.

The officers were as respectful as one might expect under the circumstances. They solemnly took notes and applied the listening skills that they had dutifully learned. Reflection, validation, appropriate body language – but to us, they still felt like intruders. We wanted to blame someone for our grief, and they were collateral damage; mere messengers, taking notes and following the unfortunate trail of my grandmother that winter morning. They had been called to the river trail when a dog-walker saw her easily identified coat and hat at the water’s edge. She was almost 90 years old, but still, put her name in her belongings. You never know when you’re going to leave something behind on the TTC. Her optimistic nature assured her that any lost items would find their way home, provided they were properly labeled. The walker’s 911 call quickly led to a welfare check and the empty house.

The police explained that they would continue to search for her body in frigid depths of the river but that it was difficult for divers during this cold snap, particularly as the ice was a hazard. Based on past cases, they were sure that we would have closure, so to speak, within a week or so. In the meantime, they asked us to be patient and to make any necessary arrangements.

That was four days ago, and we were growing impatient.

My mother, Jane, to everyone but me, and I sat in our living room, a depleted wine bottle between us, making lists. Lists of people to call, lists of possible accounts to close, lists of things to do, because it made us feel less helpless. We had mostly ignored messages and calls since that day, trying to avoid both distractions and reality. However, as we sat, our persistently ringing phone conveyed a sense of urgency on the part of the unidentified caller. Maybe they had found her. My mother picked up the phone and touched the speaker button so that we could listen to any news together. She greeted the caller.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Jane? Where on earth have you been?!”

“Mama? Mama? MAMA?!”

“Of course, it’s me. Why do you sound like that? I’ve been trying to reach you for a few days, but the power’s been out, right across the Snow Belt because of the squalls. It’s been off and on, since the day I arrived. Aunt Audrey’s cottage has one of those silly phones that doesn’t work in power outages. How can a woman who lives alone not have a phone that works during power outages? I told her…”

“MAMA!”

“Janie, what’s wrong with you? I’m trying to explain.”

My mother and I stared at each other in stunned disbelief. I moved my hand to my mouth, sweeping my wine glass across the table, soaking the unfortunately placed magazines.

“Mama, where are you?”

“What do you mean? I told you that I’m with Aunt Audrey and the power…”

“Mama. We thought that you died. We thought that you drowned. You’re not home. Your clothes were found by the river. We thought…”

My mother dissolved into tears and I continued the conversation.

“Grandma, we understand that you’re at Aunt Audrey’s, but, you left without saying anything and then your clothes were found, and we thought that you drowned. The police have been here.”

My exasperated grandmother interrupted.

“I left a note at my house. It was on the kitchen table. I’m sorry if I left a mess, but I left in a hurry. Audrey ordered me one of those Uber car things. I still don’t understand how they work. It must have cost a fortune for a two-hour taxi ride but I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, given what’s happened. She said to come right away and that she’d explain later. I thought that she had a medical issue, like last time, so I left everything and grabbed a few things to put in a suitcase, and then the Uber car was there – so I locked up and left.’

“What note, Mama?” My mother’s apoplexy had subsided.

“The note in my little black notebook. I said that I was gone for a week. I was going to call you when I arrived and knew how Audrey was doing, but then the power went out and…”

“Grandma. The note that you left said that you were gone for a walk. A walk, Grandma. And your clothes by the river…”

“No, no, no. The note said "week". I was gone for a week, not a walk. I really do need to improve my handwriting. I thought that I’d better leave some word at home, in case the Uber driver kidnapped me. You never know. But he was a very nice man. He has a nice wife and he used to live…”

“Grandma! Your clothes; why were your clothes by the river?”

“Oh, last week I did take some old clothes and blankets down to the river where the stray cats live. I felt so badly for them because cold weather was coming.”

My mother and I sat in stunned silence while my oblivious grandmother continued.

“Oh, and we haven’t discussed why Audrey called me. You won't believe this. She received a letter addressed to the two of us, from a lawyer for your great-grandpa’s estate. The lawyer’s retiring and, as they were closing up his law practice and going through his thousands of files, he found some misfiled documents. It turns out that our dad had a life insurance policy worth $40,000, and it was never claimed. Audrey and I are getting $20,000 each! Can you believe it? I can’t wait to share it with the two of you. Maybe we’ll drive around the city in one of those Uber cars and then have dinner somewhere nice.” For someone who had worked since she was 14, and for whom restaurant meals had been an unthinkable luxury, a nice dinner in a restaurant was Grandma’s endearing idea of extravagance. It was another piercing reminder of the gratefulness that she instilled in me for the easy life that I had inherited.

The following week, the three of us sat together at Grandma’s kitchen table, flirting with queasiness brought on by too many Empire cookies, still stunned from the emotional adventure on which Grandma had inadvertently taken us. We drank tea from china-cabinet teacups that had been liberated on an epicurean day pass. We talked about the possibilities that her windfall might present. My mother and I know that, when Grandma does finally leave us at some point in the ever-advancing future, an untouched $20,000 will likely be found in her account, paying tribute to her resilient optimism. For her, there would always be future opportunities to enjoy it, like the well-protected cups from which we were drinking at that moment, anticipating adventures to come.