The important stuff

I was standing in front of a storage unit with a ruby-red roller door. Number 87 B. I had a key in one hand and a letter in the other. I read the letter again. It was dated nine years ago.

My darling Nina,

If you’re reading this, it means I’ve finally moved on. Don’t be sad. I’ve had a long, full life.

I left this storage unit and the secrets inside to you, as I know your mother would not handle it very gracefully. It’s strange how one’s offspring can be so different from you, but that you can find a kindred spirit in a grandchild instead.

Do with the contents as you see fit. I just want you to keep the important stuff. You’ll know when you find it.

You’re forever in my heart,

Nana

I wondered what I would find. What kind of secret would my mother not approve of? 

Well, a range of things, to be honest. She would not approve of Nana smoking, drinking, dancing… Oh, wait. What if Nana used to be a stripper? 

I giggled at the thought of my 87-year-old grandmother shaking her booty. 

No. No way. I looked at the letter again, before folding it up and tucking it away in the back pocket of my jeans. I bent down, put the key in the padlock and turned. 

Nothing happened. I turned it again, using a little more force this time. The shackle budged slightly. I pulled on it, and it reluctantly opened. After removing the padlock, I took a breath and then lifted the roller door. 

Surprisingly, there was less dust than I expected. I had a picture in my mind of dust bunnies making a run for it as the roller door opened, but alas.

My eyes took in the jam-packed room, filled to the brim with furniture. I wasn’t sure whose furniture it was, though. When we moved Nana to the old age home several years ago, she took a few things with her and ordered us to have a yard sale for the rest. We were all allowed to keep one item only, but the rest had to go. Nana’s words. I decided on an antique-looking chest of drawers, which was still standing in my bedroom.

What secrets were you keeping, Nana?

In the middle of the room, smaller pieces of furniture were standing packed and stacked, with a narrow walkway right around it. As if someone had built an oversized puzzle, but only the outside frame and a square on the inside. A furniture maze if you will.

“A-maze-ing”, I said out loud.  I couldn’t help myself. Cringeworthy, I know.

I entered the walkway from the left, squeezing through sideways. Wooden chairs stacked on top of each other were standing next to an old display cabinet. It was empty. Next to it, an old white-doored fridge. One of those with a single top-to-bottom door and a long silver handle.

I’m not the praying type, but if someone is listening, please don’t let there be a body in here, I thought. (I refrained from opening it, just in case).

Next to the fridge, a few rows of boxes were stacked halfway to the roof. I decided that would probably be a good place to start looking for secrets. In the middle of the room, back against the wall, a long rectangular (probably dining) table stretched from the boxes, all the way to the righthand corner. A double bed base and the mattress was stacked vertically on top of it. More boxes underneath. To the right of this tower, a headboard was propped against the other wall. An intricately hand-carved work of art. ‘They’ didn’t make furniture like that anymore. I traced the carvings as I made my way back to the front of the storage unit. 

I took a closer look at the pieces of furniture in the middle. There were two bedside tables, of which the doors were also hand-carved. A coffee table, a bookshelf, a two-seater couch covered in Victorian-era floral design. A matching single-seater. A dressing table, chest with drawers and another coffee table. Lastly, standing right in front was a small desk with two drawers. I pulled the drawers open and found a single photograph in one of them. It was of our family. Nana, grandpa, my mother and her two sisters, and most of their kids. I looked to be about ten, but I had no recollection of this photograph. I turned it around.

My dearest J,

A photo of the family. All that’s missing is you.

Love, Em

Em was short for Emily, Nana’s first name, but who was J? Was Nana having an affair? My curiosity was piqued. I checked the desk for any secret drawers but was disappointed to find it had none. I couldn’t imagine Nana gallivanting around with someone else. It’s funny how we think once people get older that they somehow need less. Less love, less affection, less space. We move them out of their homes, away from their friends, their hobbies, and their lives, and we expect that they should be grateful for the ‘sacrifices we made’ for them.

I looked up at the stacks of boxes and started walking over. A piece of the dining table was sticking out underneath the double bed, and I climbed on top of it. Starting with the box closest to me on my left, I opened it. It was full of ornaments I had never seen before, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap. I opened a few of them. A small version of the Eiffel Tower from France, a ceramic windmill that said ‘Made in the Netherlands' underneath. An elephant carved out of wood, probably from somewhere in Africa. When I was satisfied that there was nothing else in the box, I manoeuvred it, and myself, back to the ground and set it down in the walkway, to the right. I climbed back onto the table and started on the next box. I worked through three more boxes of souvenirs and two boxes of books before I found it. The box that held Nana’s secret.

The box wasn’t marked. It was heavier than it looked and when I opened it, I could see why. Underneath the collection of letters, there were about four or five photo albums. As curious as I was, as badly as I wanted to open the photo albums, I opted to read the letters first. They were bundled together in a semi-chronological sequence, starting in 1954. I did the math. Nana would have been about nineteen years old. I opened the very first letter.

Dearest J,

I have been trying my utmost to process what happened between us. 

Please meet me at the park on Sunday, we should talk about this.

Sincerely,

Em

I opened the next letter and read it.

My lovely J,

As I spend more time with you, I find myself wanting to spend even more time with you. My heart expands when I am with you, then it contracts back unto itself when I have to leave.

I don’t ever want to leave again…

Yours, in love,

Em

I skipped a few letters and started on the 1955 bundle. There were only two letters in this one.

Dear J,

I don’t know if we’ll be able to go on like this for much longer. 

Papa introduced me to the son of one of his friends, and they expect that I shall marry him.

We are to go on a date this weekend, but all I want to do is to see you.

Hope Paris is good to you.

Missing you,

Em

I returned the letter to its envelope, and only then noticed the Parisian address on the front. The next letter had the same address on the front, for the attention of J. Miller. It was a longer letter, with breakup vibes.

To J,

Since I have not heard from you in seven months, fourteen days and a fair number of hours, I am assuming that you have found someone else to keep you busy.

It seems I was mistaken to think that we could ever be together. I am writing now to let you know that I will be wed in a few weeks' time, to Raymond Jones. He’s kind, and takes good care of me, and the union will please Mama and Papa.

I hope you are happy, even if it is without me.

Kindest regards,

Emily Kinkaide (soon to be Jones)

I felt a hint of sadness and wondered what happened to ‘J’, our mystery guy. I looked at the bundles of letters and realised that a few years were missing. The letters started up again in 1960.

My dearest J,

How lovely it was to see you again, even after all these years. I had no idea that you could still make my heart race with your smile. That listening to your voice would force time to stop. I didn’t even know how much I had missed you until today. I had closed that part of my heart off. 

I had to, for my own sanity.

I need to see you again.

Forever yours,

Em

Oh my. I was completely swept up in this love story, but I had questions and no Nana to answer them. I took out another letter, this one a month after the previous one.

J,

I have to leave, I can no longer stand the sight of him. I want to wake up next to you and fall asleep with my head on your chest. Everywhere I go, I want to share my stories with you, but when I turn around it’s not you that I see.

I am completely miserable without you.

Yours, and yours only,

Em

Did Nana want to leave grandpa? I never knew. They had always seemed happy, or content at the very least. I opened the next letter. This was better than any soap opera could ever wish to be.

My darling J,

I told Raymond how I felt and though I can see it hurts him, he came up with a practical solution.

Just hear me out. It might be our best chance at spending at least some time together.

What if each year, we took a month off and spent it in some foreign place? Just you and I? 

For all intents and purposes, it would make no sense to divorce him. They would take away my children. This way I get to see my children grow up, and I would have a month with you each year. I would understand if this was not enough for you.

If there was any way I could give you more, I would. 

Please consider my proposal earnestly.

With love,

Em

I put the letter back in its envelope. Did Grandpa allow Nana to see someone else? Would I ever be that mature? Probably not. I just stood there for a few minutes, before I decided that I had to know. I took all the letter bundles out of the box and set them down on the table. I took out the photo albums, put them down on the table too, and then sat down next to them. The photo albums were all marked in decades. 

The sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties. The last photo album was just marked 2001 - present.

I opened the album marked 1961 - 1970. There was a photo of Nana on the first page, looking shy. She was gorgeous back then, even if I had to say so myself. The next few pages had photos of Nana with a tall brunette. I was confused. The photos were marked, Emily and Jacqueline, 1961, Paris. Then the photos were marked, Emily and Jacqueline, 1962, Norway. Emily and Jacqueline, 1963, Scotland. On it went.

It took me until the last photo to confirm my suspicions. In it, Nana was cupping Jacqueline’s face, a look of pure love in her eyes, and Jacqueline looking back at her, with a doting warmth. I could see they adored each other.  In later photos, I could see that the furniture was Jacqueline’s. I looked through all of the albums, a silent witness to a great love that was never allowed to be. I watched them grow older in the photos, but the way they looked at each other never changed.

So many things made sense now. Nana’s yearly trips that we all thought were like a girls’ weekend away. Except that it was usually a month, and apparently there was only one girl ever. My mother’s bitterness over Nana’s absences. Nana’s sacrifice, for her children. I was sad that Nana had to hide who she was. At the same time, I was happy that she at least got to spend some time with Jacqueline. I sat there for a little while longer, my heart full of warmth that Nana had shared her secret with me. 

I packed the photo albums and the letters back into the box, adding the letter Nana had left me, too. She had asked me to keep the important stuff, and I knew this was it.

“I got you, Nana. I got you”, I said softly and closed the roller door behind me.