Not dead

It all started a year ago when my grandfather returned from the world of the dead. To be fair, he had never died, "just" disappeared, but for my mother, who saw him convulse in a hospital bed until the flatline appeared and lived without him for decades, both things were the same: he was lost and dead...

Twelve months ago, my mother argued with my grandmother during a phone call, which was nothing new but triggered an unexpected event. Who would have told us, her close family, children, and husband, that a discussion about good manners would move into an exchange of opinions on how to raise children... though that was not new either. The unexpected thing was my mother disappeared for ten days after that call. I am sure my father knew where she was. He did not call the police or worry crazy around the house as people do in the movies when something like this happens. He was not in the best of moods, but that was no surprise, considering I have two younger siblings and two dogs to care for. Mum left, and Dad continued life with us as if nothing had happened.

Ten days after leaving without a note, my mother returned home, bringing a card box with her. There was no suitcase with her stuff or presents for us, just a box. When I saw her crossing the doorstep, I thought she had aged ten years in those ten days, but I said nothing. Dad always says it is dangerous to speak with women about their age, and I had more pressing matters to ask about. The night of her return, I saw the contents of that box. I went to my parent's bedroom and sat beside her on the bed. The box was open, and there were papers, letters, and photographs on the floor I had never seen before. There were faces I did not recognize and stories I had never heard about. Not yet. I asked where she had been and why she had not said goodbye or called during those days she was elsewhere. She told me she had things to do, face to face. I did not understand why face-to-face interaction was necessary for someone who does so much online, but I knew better than to ask. She was about to tell me anyway. My mother had a plan when she left: to gather the few things she still had at her mother's place and to stop my grandmother from being a pain in her life. She was supposed to pick up her stuff, tell Grandma she did not want to live under her thumb anymore and leave that place where she had grown up, never to return. But life sometimes surprises us more than expected, and she found a terrible truth between photographs and letters: her father was alive.

The first time my mum opened that box, she found things she recognized from visits to her father's house many years before, when she was a child. It made no sense to see them again, not at her mother's place. If anyone had the right to those things, it was her, not her mother... but those were not the only things that bothered her. There were more: a few letters that made no sense because they seemed to be written by her father, much later than his date of death. My mother confronted hers. What was supposed to be an argument about boundaries, limits, and the right to choose a way of life turned into something much nastier as if that could be possible.

They argued for two hours straight until no more tears or voices were available to keep yelling at each other. That's how my mother described it. My grandfather had not died, not for real. He was involved in some shady business with some shady people and had faked his death to run away from them. Despite his relationship with his daughter's mother being less than ideal, she turned out to be the only person who could help him to keep the secret. For decades, she helped him, and a couple of times a year, he let her know things were okay with him, sending her proof of life: old photographs and letters, little trinkets, and toys, and eventually, a few lines telling her how much he missed their daughter. I think that's what hurt my mum the most, the idea of her dad telling everyone how he loved her... everyone but her.

That night, I knew where she had been during the first days of her leave, but it took her weeks to tell me about the rest of her trip. She left Grandma's place and took the box with her. She took a train and took the same route she had taken many years before to visit her father's family. Unfortunately, they were as bad as she remembered. Even the children, who were then grownups, had become the spitting image of their parents: full of hate and resentment, greedy, and far away from someone worthy of trust. Mum always says that death brings the worst of people, especially when there is money involved. Unfortunately for her, Grandad had a little treasure, and many people were interested in it once they thought he was gone forever. An hour after her father's funeral, her uncle took her to the train station and told her to worry about nothing, which turned out to be a way of saying, "We'll take it all from you." After that, they never spoke to each other until my mother popped up in front of her uncle and aunt's door, asking for help to meet her father... and then, they called her crazy. They did not know what had happened. They were so clueless as she had once been until they weren't. They asked her, demanded to know the truth... ironic, she thought when she left the place and promised to forget about them.

Two days. I knew where she had been for two of the ten days she was away, but Mum only told me about the rest one week ago when we discussed the summer holiday plan.

"We should visit our friends on the beach, like last year," she said to Dad, even though we had not done such a thing the previous year. She had been there on her own.

One week ago, when I heard my mother talking about the beach, I ran to the shelf where my mother kept the cardboard box. I took it to my room and checked each and every item. The last envelope I found came from a place I knew, and when I opened it, I saw a photo of my mother sitting beside a man, smiling at the camera, looking happy. I recognized the location: a bar on the beach I had visited since I could remember. I recognized that face, my grandfather's. I knew where she had been.

I put everything back in the box, the box on the shelf, and ran downstairs and out to the garden, where I found my mother reading something.

"I know what you did last summer," I told her.

My mother smiled and gave me the paper she was reading.

"He would like to meet you," she said.

Little did I know that paper would change my life forever.