by Beverly Banks
[TW: death]
Imagine losing someone but having the chance to hold onto a piece of them.
Then that piece is stolen and ripped away from your life.
The loss of the last memory, the last chance to somewhat ease the pain that now encompasses the entire body. When a person’s loved one, someone who is very important to them, dies, the last thing they need is to experience another loss.
I know what that’s like.
I’m sharing this because I hope no one will ever feel this ache. I hope the only way anyone reading this will understand the pain is by reading my account of it, not by experiencing it for themselves.
There is a quiet voice that I’ve been hearing in my mind for a long time now. This voice tells me every day that all of this could have been prevented. Hindsight is a troubling entity, no? We all know best once we know the future. Once it is too late to do anything.
On March 3rd, 2017, Edison Li died. He was my grandfather and, in all meanings of the word, my best friend. He fought Alzheimer’s for many years. I am fortunate enough to say that he never completely forgot who I was. Something about that makes me happy in a strange way. Like the universe telling me that all those years spent together couldn’t be wiped away in a second by a disease. What my grandfather did forget was how to build. In fact, the last thing he ever built was a box, with me.
I replay that September day in my mind all the time. I’m afraid that if a day goes by and I don’t think of it, I will wake up one morning and not be able to recall every detail. That I may forget. Forget the polo he was wearing, forget the weather outside that day (sunny with clouds and slight wind–our favorite). To me, the only way to keep something in existence is for someone to know about it. To always remember.
My grandfather called me and invited me over that morning. I remember feeling surprised because throughout all the years, I would show up to his house anytime. There was never a formal invite.
When I arrived I couldn’t find him anywhere in the house. Eventually, I found him in the work shed.
“I’ve got a project for us.”
On the work table, he had laid out blocks of wood and some tools.
“You and I are going to build something together that you can put your most precious items in, within reason.”
My grandfather taught me how to use these three specific tools for cutting glass safely and neatly. We made a small rectangle. We decided to paint the glass pieces blue and pink. After that, we cut the wood and built the box around the size of the glass. We liked the idea of building the project around its heart.
I now realize the box will never serve its intended function. My most precious items are the memories of someone, and those can’t be put in a box.
He died about six months later. On March 5th, 2017, we arrived home after hours of a painful, exhaustive, quiet funeral full of fake smiles, being polite and thankful to people we didn’t even know, and forcing down food. The moment we opened the front door, we were greeted to broken windows and the back door ajar. Our neighbors didn’t see the commotion because we live at the end of the street and many were away on spring vacation trips. You know, they say when you go to a funeral of a close relative to have someone watch the house. Apparently burglars check these things online so they know who to rob next. But you never think that will be you, so you don’t get someone to house sit.
We had no energy left. We were emotionally, mentally, and physically drained. The worst part was looking around our home, the one safe place we had, and seeing broken glass all over the floor from the windows. Seeing our furniture turned over and items thrown about, broken. After we filed the police report, the stuff stayed on the floor for a day or two. None of us had the will to clean it. But after we started cleaning up, we realized something strangely amazing. Almost every single one of our possessions were accounted for. All the electronics: television, computers, chargers, etc. were there. There was just one thing missing. The worst thing they could have stolen. Something irreplaceable.
Now it’s October 2018. It has already been well over a year since I last saw my grandfather.
I’m parked on the street in front of a stranger’s home.
My dad sent me to this yard sale: “Here’s a list. If at least three of these items are there, let me know and I’ll head over there myself.”
Looking down at the list in my hand, I try to read his handwriting.
I squint toward the tables a few feet away. Is there any way I can just look from the car?
Well now the woman is waving to me so I have to go out there.
I shut the car door and lock it.
“Hello, hello. Welcome, welcome.”
“Hi,” I answer. I don’t think I need to say it twice.
“If you see anything just ask me for the price.”
I take a look at the list:
CDs/Records
Tools
Jewelry
Encyclopedias/Dictionaries
Valuables
How do I know if something’s valuable? If it has a cobweb on it? None of this stuff, except for the jewelry, is here. On top of the tables are several tea sets, some videocassette tape movies, other random knick knacks. There are several clothing racks of old dresses and coats that I don’t think my dad will be interested in.
“Need help finding?”
Startled, I instinctively feel a bit annoyed because she won’t let me just look around in peace. I turn to the woman and I instantly feel bad. I really can’t be mad. She has a friendly face. It’s kind of puffy, especially under her eyes. Her skin’s the color of milk tea. Wrinkles marking the years she has lived, the pains and joys she has felt. A few freckles or moles. She mostly has white hair now but I can tell it used to be dark brown, almost black. She’s tiny, much shorter than me.
“Uh, my dad sent me here. Do you have any books for sale like encyclopedias or something? Or tools?”
“Oh sure, sure. Come in. I didn’t want to put the books outside incase of rain.”
I’m surprised that worked. I was ready to say, “Okay thanks anyway, bye!”
We go inside and the smell of her house hits me at once. It’s not that classic old home smell that people expect, like a mixture of dust and moth balls. This home smells like lavender, chamomile tea, and fresh laundry honestly. Is there a single word for that? Seriously, this scent could be sold in an aerosol spray.
“Sit, sit. I’ll go find the books.”
I take a moment to look at the waving cat on her shelf. The small television. There’s a harp in the corner of the room. The wood panel walls are quite homey. The couch I’m sitting on is a faded beige color. I look to my left at the small mahogany wood table beside the couch.
That’s when I see it.
I can’t bring myself to look away. The last time I did, it was taken from me. I will never let that happen again. I promise, grandpa. My heart is pounding so loud, I can feel it in my ears. I can only hear the clicking of that waving cat on the shelf.
Leaning closer to the item on the table, I see its finer details of which I know all the stories. The small line of hot glue where we attached the glass into the opening of the box. The small pink and blue fragments. Everything becomes blurry in the room. My face heats up, then my entire body. I feel the stream of tears piling in my eyes, daring to fall. A mark of anger that shocks me. The only other time I’ve felt this way was the night after the funeral. The night where all except one item was left behind. The box my grandfather and I made together, left in my room on my shelf, was gone. I thought it was safe. But now, over a year after that box and my grandfather left for good, I sit staring at it in this stranger’s home.
Maybe I should leave before she returns. I want to yell at her for taking the last piece of my grandfather that I had. Yell at her for breaking into my home while my family and I were at the funeral. I can’t believe this tiny old lady was involved. Maybe she hired a team to do it. She couldn’t have been alone. I don’t get it. Why not steal something of monetary value?
Leaving is not an option. I will not move from this couch. I’ve been wishing for a moment like this. Granted, I thought it would be in an interrogation room after I convinced or bribed the detectives to let me do the questioning. Or at least watch from behind the one way glass. Never had I thought I’d actually be confronting my tormentor in her very living room. I owe it to myself to make her explain. I wipe my eyes as I try to slow and control my breathing.
She returns with some books in hand. “Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.” My voice sounds constricted. I take a deep breath.
I gesture at the box, “Where did you get this?”
She pauses to look at it after putting the books on the table in front of me. I can’t imagine what she’s going to say.
“Oh this?” she lets out a noise that sounds like a mixture of a laugh and a sigh. “A friend gave it to me.”
A friend gave it to her. She has an interesting way of rephrasing “Oh, I broke into your family home when I knew you would all be at a funeral so I could turn the house upside down and steal the one thing you care about.” I cannot believe she is looking at me and lying like that. She doesn’t even know the box is mine. Well, I mean, I guess I understand. I wouldn’t want to tell any stranger the truth either.
“Are you sure someone gave that to you?”
“Why yes. My friend. He was a good man. This was like his goodbye gift to me.”
Now she’s not taking her eyes off the box. It’s like she’s talking to herself and I just happen to be in the room.
“Who was he?”
“Eddie.”
I don’t want to say anything else. I don’t want to ask the first question that burst into my mind the second she dared to say my grandfather’s first name.
“Eddie? Is that short for anything?”
She looks back at me. Her cold, dark eyes piercing into my being.
“Why, yes. Edison. Edison Li.”
“Why are you lying to me?” I stand up and look down at her.
“Lying?” she looks surprised.
“Edison Li was my grandfather! And that is the box he and I spent hours building together,” my voice breaks and I’m about to raise my voice.
“Oh how wonderful. Eddie was a friend of mine for a long, long time. When we lived in the same neighborhood, we grew very close. We are both second generation immigrants from China–”
Cutting her off, I exclaim, “Well, if you were such good friends of his, why in the world would you steal that box from his family? Some friend you are!”
“I didn’t steal anything. I would never do such a thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Would you stop lying? I bet you never thought the person you hurt most in the world would show up on your doorstep.”
“I’m not lying. Why would I steal that lovely box from your family? I had no idea it meant so much to you. I’m surprised Eddie would give it to me if he knew it was of value.”
I almost need a minute to process what she just said. My grandfather, who was already dead for two days when the box was stolen… somehow gave it away?
“What are you talking about? How could he have given you the box? I left it, in my home, in a secret place, while we went to my grandfather’s funeral. You really should have worked out the details in your story before you tried to tell me a really bad lie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Really, I don’t. All I know is Eddie showed up here at my home and gave me this gift. He told me he was sick and that he won’t be around anymore. That that was the last time,” she sniffs, “I’d see him.”
There’s something wrong here. She doesn’t seem like she’s lying. Plus, I really can’t imagine someone like her breaking into my family home knowing we were at the funeral for her friend.
“I think we have some confusion. Let me explain to you what actually happened. I’ll let you hear it now and you’ll hear it a second time in court. My grandfather and I made this box. This one!” I point to the box. “I left it on a shelf in my room. While my family and I were at the funeral, for my grandfather, for Eddie, some people broke into our house. They broke windows and made a mess. But they didn’t steal the expected, replaceable items like our tv or our jewelry or whatever. Nope. They stole that box and only that box! Now over a year later, I come to this random lady’s yard sale and go into her house and find the box. The one that has been missing and holding a piece of my heart in it is here on your table. How do you explain that?”
She looks at me for a moment in silence. “Are you okay? This story of yours sounds very fake.”
“What is your name?”
“Carol.”
“My grandfather never mentioned a Carol. We knew of all his friends.”
“Well that’s okay. Eddie and I didn’t talk as much after he moved.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s impossible that my grandfather could have given you this box. You realize that?”
“Well I don’t know what to tell you. He gave it to me. Showed up on my doorstep and told me he’s unwell; that he will have to go away for a while and wanted to give me something to remember him by.”
She looks over at the cardboard box in the corner of the room, behind the harp. How did I not notice that before?
“My photo albums! I know I have a photo of Eddie somewhere in here. He never wanted to take a photo with me, but when I bought a disposable camera, I took one of him for the memories.”
She walks over to the box and takes about seven albums out of it before finding the one she is looking for. It has a black velvet cover. She flips through the stained pages. Carol must have lost her mind. We sit there for a moment, complete confusion surrounding us. From the look on her face, I could almost believe she’s just as or almost as bothered by this as I am. Apparently my grandfather was her friend. I feel kind of bad for this poor old woman. I really don’t think she broke into my family’s home.
The only sounds in this room are of that cat figurine and the old, crisp photo album pages. I feel like the room is spinning. I need to think. A new idea enters my mind. A terrible one. But this is the only one that makes any sense. My pulse quickens again and my throat is very dry. I should have said I needed a drink earlier. I unlock my phone and find a photo of myself and my grandfather. I take a deep breath and turn my phone around to show her.
“Is this your friend?”
She looks closer, taking the phone in her hand. She sets the album down on the table.
“I can’t really see,” she turns away and stands up. “Where are my glasses?”
While she’s gone I pick up the photo album and flip to the page where she left off. I gasp.
There’s a photo of a man that looks oddly familiar. Who is that?
The caption under it says “Eddie Li.”
I look up to see that Carol's already back with her glasses. She is holding a hand over her mouth. My phone is in her other hand.
She looks at me with eyes wide and gasps,
“This isn’t Eddie.”
Looking down at the photo album, I realize who this is. I met him for the first time over a year ago. At my grandfather’s funeral.
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