The Unexpected Visitor

               I can hear the warm fire crackle as flames dance in the ingle before me. I bury myself deeper into the blankets, not for warmth but for its soft and fleecy texture that makes me feel like I am wrapped in a giant hug. Feeling my eyes grow heavier by the second, I try to resist falling asleep but only find myself to be sinking further in. I am just about to succumb to my fatigue when three jaunty knocks bang on my door. Grudgingly, I detach myself from the transient bliss and force myself to the entry. I peek through the peephole on the door to reveal the delivery man clasping onto a small package. I open the door unbothered by my disheveled appearance. “Hello Miss Rossi! I have a delivery with your name on it!” “Hello,” I tepidly reply as I sign for the package. He hands over the box and wishes me a good day. I return the sentiment then close the door to unravel the small parcel. Inside were a letter and a slim yet weighty gold necklace. Intrigue drives me to see what is inside the envelope. I pull out the card to read.

               Dear Elena, I know this is very sudden and I am sorry to intrude upon you like this, but there is something I must do before it’s too late. With your permission, I would appreciate coming to your house in a few days to talk with you. I don’t know how to put this lightly, because in all this time you probably thought I was dead. I am your grandmother. I know you don’t remember me, but I promise to explain everything when I arrive.

               My fingers tremble for a moment and my wide eyes can’t stop careening through the words over and over again. The name signed at the bottom of the note is “Irene.” Irene? As far as living grandparents were concerned, I have none!  Mother never even told me about my grandmother. I didn’t even know her name until now! The words in the letter left me spellbound; it was just as strange to me as believing in the Easter Bunny or Santa claus. I spent hours in front of the window awaiting her arrival. Those hours turned to days, and those days turned into a whole week. A whole week had gone by and still no arrival. Perhaps she’s never coming. Probably got cold feet and decided to hide herself from me again. After all that’s what she did all these years, right? Hide herself and not even bother to reach me all this time until now. And that brought up the question- why now? 

                                                            ***       

               I glance across to the calendar. It’s December 24th, the day before Christmas. I take a sip of my coffee and place it back on the table. It’s just me and my thoughts. Alone. On Christmas Eve. My mother dead with no other living relatives other than my supposedly “long lost” grandmother. “Perhaps it’s a dirty trick someone tried to play on me,” I say to myself out loud. No matter. Real or not, she wouldn’t be arriving at my door any time soon. Suddenly, I hear the crunching sound of heavy wheels rolling on gravel at the front of my house. I scoot my chair back and pull the curtain to reveal an old woman stepping off a taxi, carrying nothing more than a small suitcase. She thanks the driver and hands him a tip. Not sure whether to run outside and greet her or wait for her to ring the bell, I stay at the window in self-conflict. I can see her more clearly now as she walks up the driveway. 

She wore a long coat that passed her knees, perhaps too long, with a scarf draped around her neck. Her face is slightly rosy from the bitter wind, and lips pale but eyes that sparkle behind the glasses that rest on her nose. Somehow I get this sense of familiarity, with each unbalanced step forward betraying the appearance of almost the spinning image of my mother. I find myself walking towards the door and opening it, staring at this bizarre old lady in amazement. She looks up at me, studies my face for a brief moment, then slips a warm smile. At first I can’t find the words to say anything, so she goes first. “Hello dear. Would you mind taking my bag up those stairs? I’m not as young as I used to be,” she says light-heartedly. Her words are tainted with a strong accent, yet she has exceptionally good grammar. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out, so I just give an awkward smile and take the small luggage from her. With time to calm myself after bringing the baggage upstairs, I hurry back down the flight of stairs and invite her in. “I’m sorry, come in,” I stammer. 

I lead her into the kitchen and pour her a cup of coffee. She accepts it graciously. I’m not sure what to think. My expressionless face hides the fact that my heart is racing and I can’t help but wonder if it might jump out of my chest. “Elena.” Her words interrupt my thoughts and I’m suddenly aware of her presence again. “I know I have a lot of explaining to do, and I can’t stay here for long. Well, don’t you have questions? I know I would if I were you, dear. I won’t hold anything back.” I swallow hard, and finally make out what I want to say. “I- Mother would never even mention you. What are you even doing here?” I fidget with my hands as she finds her words. “Your mother and I, we used to be very close,” she began. “Then we had this... awful fight, her and I. Neither one of us found the courage to make it right. I moved back to my old house in Italy a short while after, and years later I find out-“ She pauses. I can see the tears in her eyes as she looks down, then look back up to softly continue, “That she is dead.” Suddenly a more serious tone sets upon her face. “But I regret it with every bone in my body, Elena. I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact with you until now. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.” Although I know I should be feeling resentful, I can’t help but feel a sense of warmth and inclination to my long lost relative.  

We talk all day long; her company seems to top this Christmas, and we grow closer and closer as the minutes tick by. She tells me stories such as how she bravely travelled to America after World War 2 as a young woman. Irene includes that the necklace she had sent me was an old family heirloom passed down from many generations. She even talks about times she visited when I was too young to remember. We laugh together. We cry together. I learn that her close friends back in Italy helped raise enough money for her to come visit me. However, my euphoric state of mind is cut short and it feels like a knife stabs my heart when she informs me she doesn’t have long to live. “I’ve come to spend my last Christmas with you, Elena,” Irene tells me. It’s a bittersweet reunion, yet I look at this holiday with a new sense of meaning. A time of forgiving. A hope of reuniting. A feeling of love. That is what makes Christmas special for me. Me and my unexpected visitor.