My Sweet Annie

18

When Ana and I had finished our lunches, we put our plates into the dishwasher and then drifted back into the dining room. I patted one of the banker's boxes. "I should figure out what's in these. Which one should I start with?"

"Mmm, obviously 'et cetera sentimental stuff,'" Ana said.

"That's what I was thinking."

"Do you mind if I stay for another hour or two? I'll give you some privacy and head back upstairs."

"Of course. Stay as long as you want. Just scream bloody murder if you need something," I quipped. Her eyes lit up with amusement, but I hastened to add, "Actually, don't. I'd probably pee myself."

Laughing, Ana headed back upstairs. I waited until I thought she was back in the studio. It wasn't that I felt like I needed privacy from Ana when it came to Gran's things. She was kind, and I knew she'd cared about my grandmother, too. I'm not sure I'd have been ready to share my grief with anybody, though.

Mom probably should have been the one going through all of this stuff, as Gran's daughter, but part of me was glad that I was the one tasked with it. There would no doubt be some healing in handling Gran's things, but I knew that my mother was still nursing the open wound of her guilt at letting her fight with Gran go on so long unresolved. I had enough of it myself. Regret. Wishing I'd called more. Wishing I'd visited more. Wishing...

I took a deep breath and lifted the lid off of the box labeled Etc. Sentimental Stuff.

The contents had been packed with care. The first things I took out were a pair of light blue ceramic picture frames. Inside were photographs so faded they were in pale sepia tones. They were both of babies in fluffy white dresses. At first glance I thought they must both have been the same infant. I didn't recognize them, but when I turned the frames around, I found cursive script, neater than Gran's, to tell me who was whom.

Royal James Haas - 6 mo. - Dec. 1931

Ruth Margaret Haas - 8 mo. - Dec. 1937

A bundle of letters came next, tied together with brown twine. The return addresses told me that they were from my great grandfather, James Haas, who had written from Pontiac Correctional to my great grandmother, Helen. There were eight or ten envelopes, yellowed with age, and I was astonished to see them, to hold them.

All I knew about my great grandfather was pretty much what Gran had written in the diary entry I'd recently read: he'd been imprisoned for armed robbery and had never made it out of jail. Gran had never liked to talk about him.

There was a small brown book, no larger than my open hand. After I picked it up and saw how old it was, I took a napkin from the napkin holder on the dining table and used it to cradle the book, afraid to touch it with my bare hands. The cover was embellished with faded gold, and the first page inside read, Die Bibel oder die ganze Heilige Schrift des Alten und Neuen Testaments. I knew enough to recognize it as German, and it wasn't a leap to link "Bibel" and "Bible," but how Gran had come into possession of such an old German Bible was a mystery. Was our family German? It seemed crazy, but I'd never even asked.

Nestled in the corner of the box was a glasses case of black leather with a gold snap. I opened it to find a pair of horn rimmed glasses. When I lifted them out of the case, one of the wings stayed behind. Gran had worn glasses. I wondered if these had been hers, although why she would have kept them after they had broken was a mystery.

Next came a larger book with a red cover, titled, DAILY JOURNAL. My heart skipped a beat. Gran had mentioned she'd kept a diary as a girl, but there was no way I would be lucky enough to have found it.

But I was. When I opened the diary, I couldn't help but grin.

March 30th, 1951

Today is my birthday. I turned thirteen years old. I received this diary from my Aunt Lenore. Royal said he can't wait to read all I have to write. I told him if he tries to read my diary I'll kick him in the knee. He can be such a pain in the neck...

I closed the diary and held it in my hands for a moment, thrilled at the prospect of getting insight into my grandmother's life as a girl. I almost didn't want to keep looking through the boxes—I wanted to sit down and read what she'd written right away. But it gave me something to look forward to, some momentum to keep me going.

There were lots of precious, sentimental things in that box. I went through everything slowly, seeking to understand each new thing I touched: where had it come from? What had it meant to my grandmother?

When I had been through the contents, I put everything back inside with the same care Gran had used to pack it, with the exception of the diary. That, I kept out so that I could read it later on.

I couldn't bear to look through the pictures on my own. I'd wait—maybe I'd take the box over to Uncle Royal's apartment when I went to have lunch. I would rather look through the photos with Mom and Tim, but that was impossible until I went home. I could do a video call, but it wouldn't be the same. Part of the joy of going through photos was touching them, passing them around, reading what was written on the back.

Just as I was reaching for the lid of the box of documents, there was a creak in the hallway upstairs. A moment later, I heard Ana coming down the stairs behind me, her footsteps descending the squeaking steps. "How's the painting going?" I asked.

The footsteps stopped.

The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled. I lifted my head, my hands freezing on the box and my breath catching in my throat. "Ana?"

Silence.

I turned around, flooded with cold fear.

There was no one on the stairs.

I was rooted to the spot. I could see nothing—no one—and yet I knew I wasn't alone. I could feel something standing there at the foot of the stairs, watching me.

I could feel her watching me.

Suddenly, she moved. I can't describe it: I didn't see it so much as feel it, this force or presence rushing toward me. I flinched backward on instinct, raising my hand to shield myself.

Upstairs, Porkie began barking frantically.

In the living room, something slipped and fell off of the end table next to the couch, slapping onto the hardwood floor: it was Gran's dollar store diary, the green, wire-bound notebook.

Then, that oppressive presence dissipated. All at once, I felt alone again. I sank to my knees, catching my breath.

Gran?

I could hear Ana speaking upstairs, but I couldn't make out her words around Porkie's hysterics until she raised her voice and called into the upstairs hallway: "Sorry! She just woke up from a dead sleep and freaked out!"

I closed my eyes, trying to summon my wits, trying to think of something to say. A moment passed during which I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

"Tabitha?" Ana called.

I shook my head, curling my fingers into my thighs.

"Tabitha?" I could hear her footsteps in the hall now, pursued by Porkie's clattering claws. "Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," I said to myself as Ana started down the stairs.