Everyone said my 101-year-old grandmother would never be able to come to the party. She came, and the bag attached to her wheelchair contained something I wasn’t expecting at all.
« Not yet, » said Grandma.
Her voice was little more than a whisper, but I stopped immediately.
She placed her hand on mine.
« Wait until everyone is here. »
I looked around me in the garden.
« Everyone is here. »
Grandma shook her head.
« Your mother. »
I turned around.
Mom was inside, helping to prepare the cake.
My uncle went to get her.
For some reason I don’t know, my heart started beating faster.
I still had no idea what was in the package.
My grandmother was sitting in the shade of the apple tree, with my daughter, Lily, sitting on her lap. My husband, Mark, had one hand behind Lily’s back, as my grandmother no longer had the strength to hold her safely on her own.
It didn’t seem to bother her.
She kept staring at Lily as if we had all disappeared.
« She has your ears, » she said.
I laughed.
« That’s not really a compliment. »
« Those are beautiful ears. »
« They’ve come unglued. »
« Yours too, by the way. »
» Exactly. «
Grandma smiled.
Then she placed a finger on Lily’s cheek.
« It was worth the wait. »
It almost made me break down.
Mom went out with the cake knife.
« What do we do? »
Grandma pointed at the package.
« Sit down. »
Mom frowned.
» For what ? «
« Because I’m 101 years old and you still don’t listen to what we tell you. »
My uncle laughed.
Mom sat down.
I removed the tissue paper.
Below, there was a wooden box.
Not new.
Made of dark walnut, scratched at the corners, with a small brass clasp.
I recognized her immediately.
» Oh my God. «
Mom leaned forward.
» What ? «
« Grandma’s sewing box. »
When I was little, this box was placed next to her armchair.
Buttons in a compartment.
The needles in another.
Spools of thread sorted by color.
And always, at the very bottom, wrapped in kraft paper, something I was never allowed to touch.
I looked at Grandma.
« Did you bring this? »
« For Lily. »
I had tears in my eyes.
« Grandma is one year old. She doesn’t know how to sew. »
Grandma gave me a look.
« You didn’t know how to sew at one year old either. »
That was true.
I opened the clasp.
The top shelf still contained buttons.
Dozens.
Made of mother-of-pearl.
Wooden.
In blue glass.
Tiny red buds shaped like flowers.
Below, there were pieces of folded fabric.
I raised the first one.
A little white dress.
Embroidered yellow flowers around the collar.
It took my breath away.
I knew it.
Mom whispered, « No. »
That was the dress in the photo.
The photo that Grandma had kept for years next to her armchair.
Me, at four years old, standing on her front steps.
Dressed in this dress.
I touched the seams.
« Did you keep it? »
Grandma looked offended.
« Of course I kept it. »
« For 38 years? »
« Things don’t deteriorate just because people get older. »
Mother was crying now.
I laughed through my own tears.
Then I lifted the next layer.
Another dress.
Smaller.
Pale blue.
Mom let out a scream I had never heard before.
She reached out towards the dress.
« My dress. »
I stared at her.
» What ? «
Grandma nodded.
« Your mother wore that when she was two years old. »
Mother put the fabric to her mouth.
This dress was over 60 years old.
Hand-sewn.
Tiny covered buttons ran down the back.
I looked at Grandma.
« Did you make these two? »
» Yes. «
Then she pointed at the box.
« Continue. »
Underneath Mom’s dress, there was something wrapped in tissue paper.
I opened it carefully.
A third dress.
More recent.
Made of cream-colored linen, with tiny green leaves embroidered along the hem.
It wasn’t finished.
One sleeve was sewn on.
The other one doesn’t.
A row of pins held part of the collar in place.
I held my breath.
Mom said, « It’s hers. »
I looked at Lily.
Then to Grandma.
« Did you do this? »
« I’ve started. »
» When ? «
She looked away.
« Years ago. »
Mom’s eyes widened.
« How many years? »
Grandmother ignored it.
« Look in the pocket. »
I couldn’t see any pockets.
Then I noticed a small crease inside, near the waist.
Inside, there was an envelope.
My name was written there.
It was my grandmother’s handwriting, but shaky.
Much more shaky than the cards she had sent me years earlier.
I opened it.
The first line read:
« For the baby I hope to live long enough to meet. »
I couldn’t continue reading.
I put down the letter and hid my face.
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