Then I noticed a tiny inner fold near the waist. Inside was an envelope. My name was written on it. The handwriting was Grandma’s, but shaky. MUCH SHAKIER THAN THE WRITING ON CARDS SHE HAD SENT ME YEARS EARLIER. I opened it. The first line said: « For the baby I hope I live long enough to meet. » I couldn’t keep reading. I put the letter down and covered my face.
MARK CROUCHED BESIDE ME. « You okay? » I nodded even though I wasn’t. Grandma said, « Read it. » « Out loud? » « If you can. » I LOOKED AROUND. My mother was crying. My uncle was pretending not to. Half the party had gone quiet. I swallowed and began.
« My darling girl, « YOU ONCE TOLD ME YOU WERE FRIGHTENED YOU MIGHT NEVER BECOME A MOTHER. » « I did not know what to say because there are some pains you cannot fix by finding the correct sentence. » « So I went home and did the only useful thing I could think of. » « I started a dress. » I stopped. The garden blurred. I REMEMBERED THE CONVERSATION. I had been 34. Two years into trying.
We had just learned our first round of fertility treatment had failed. I hadn’t told most people. But I’d told Grandma. WE SAT IN HER KITCHEN. I said, « Maybe this just isn’t going to happen for me. » Grandma had reached across the table and said, « Maybe. But today isn’t every day. » That was all. She hadn’t told me to relax. Hadn’t said it would happen when I stopped trying. HADN’T PROMISED ME A MIRACLE.
Just: Today isn’t every day. Apparently, afterward, she had gone home and started sewing. I kept reading. « I did not make it because I knew you would have a baby. « I MADE IT BECAUSE HOPE NEEDS SOMEWHERE TO SIT WHILE IT WAITS. » « If no baby ever wore it, that would not make your life smaller. » « You were never waiting to become enough. » « But if one did come, I wanted that child to have something made before she was even known. » I couldn’t read for a moment.
Mark took my hand. GRANDMA WATCHED ME. Her eyes were wet. I continued. « I finished most of it when I was 94. » « Then my hands got worse. » « I left the sleeve because I thought perhaps one day you could finish something I started. » I LOOKED AT THE UNFINISHED DRESS. « I’m terrible at sewing. » Grandma smiled. « I know. » Everybody laughed. That helped. I WENT BACK TO THE LETTER.
« The other dresses belong to your mother and to you. » « Three little girls. » « Three different times. » « If I am lucky enough to meet yours, put her in whichever one fits. » « Do not save them so carefully that nobody gets to live in them. » « CLOTHES ARE MEANT TO WRINKLE. » « Children are meant to stain things. » « Love is not improved by keeping it untouched. » I lowered the page. That sentence hit me harder than anything else.
Because I had spent Lily’s first year afraid. NOT CONSTANTLY. But enough. After losing a pregnancy at 14 weeks, I had treated joy like something that could be punished if I trusted it too much. When Lily was born, I counted breaths. I checked the monitor every ten minutes. I woke Mark because I thought she felt too warm. THEN BECAUSE SHE FELT TOO COLD. I researched every rash. Every sound.
Every strange diaper. I had wanted her for so long that sometimes having her felt less like receiving something and more like being handed something breakable. Grandma had noticed. OF COURSE SHE HAD. The letter continued. « And one more thing. « Stop looking frightened every time that child climbs something. » « You climbed everything. » « Your mother was worse. » MOM SAID, « THAT IS A LIE. » Grandma immediately said, « You climbed onto a garage roof at eight. » « I was retrieving a ball. » « You used the drainpipe. » « I was resourceful. » Even I laughed.
THEN I REACHED THE FINAL PARAGRAPH. « If I am there when this is opened, somebody give me the baby. « If I am not, tell her I waited a very long time to meet her. » « And tell her I was glad she came. » I couldn’t finish the signature. I folded the letter against my chest. THEN I CRAWLED ACROSS THE GRASS AND PUT MY ARMS AROUND MY GRANDMOTHER. Carefully. She felt frighteningly small.
