Grandma's Gift

My daughter is fascinated by my bracelet. Scarcely a week passes without her commenting, “nice bracelet, Mom.” It seems odd to me, for it is rarely clean, and the filigreed edges are bent, digging into my wrist as I type. At this point, it has become an extension of my arm--a heavy reminder that I am loved.

My in-laws presented it to me years ago, with more lecture than ceremony, as an engagement present. Djin, a four-foot-two Indonesian tsunami of willpower, chided me in broken English. I gathered that while purple velvet was hardly a proper substitute for red silk, a wedding without the bride wearing gold was unthinkable. She could not be responsible for that kind of bad luck.

Her husband, Li, bragged that their gift was an original, hand-crafted in Thailand. Silently skeptical in my ethnocentrism, I googled it. I learned it was Baht gold, and most likely worth more than my clunker. I concluded that the humble gentleman who spoke seven languages was obviously suffering from Alzheimers.

My husband assured me that the frugal couple knew exactly what they were doing. It was traditional, and to give it back would be an insult. Since they are both gone, I cherish it, and never take it off. You see, that would be bad luck.

Li died a few months months before the wedding. He appeared in my dream, looking dapper in a pinstriped suit. He said he felt great--and then he fell on me. Now, you might think that would be horrifying, but even asleep I recognized the symbolism: the responsibility for caring for his wife now “fell” to me. I did not see it as a sign until the next day, when I found, in his closet, a gray pinstriped suit with the tag attached. He finally had an occasion to wear it.

As you might expect, Djin wanted to join him; she didn’t want to be a burden. What did she have to live for? When the wedding wasn’t enough, we pulled the "live to see your first grandchild" card. Reluctantly, she gave her word.

Everyone knew her heart wasn't in it. It was difficult watching her soul slide away from her body, but she refused a nursing home, so we did the best we could. Toward the end, she wasn’t really here: she mimed knitting, writing, and cooking while speaking into the ether.

In her last hours, I held her hand and forced energy into her tiny body. She only looked unconscious, for she immediately squeezed my hand to give it back. Finally, we stopped the life support. I tried to remember “God Will Take Care of You” in Indonesian, but settled for the only words I could sing through tears.

There is a woman, who weaves the night sky.
She can spin—watch Her fingers fly.
She is with us, beginning to end….
She changes everything She touches, and
Everything She touches changes…

When we returned home, the carved statues of Chinese deities that guard the entry gained new meaning. After the dry hospital, I expected a “wet cat” smell--but the scent of roses was overwhelming. I knew it was Djin's thanks to me for trying, and a reminder that she was finally happy. One year and three days after her husband died, she joined him.

Of course, I grieved, but I was also angry. She had broken her promise-she would never meet her grandchild. I’m not sure with whom Djin was conversing, but he obviously had insider knowledge. I found out after the funeral that I had conceived on her birthday, three weeks prior. That knowledge gave me optimism through a difficult pregnancy. Somehow, Djin's kept promise meant the baby would be fine.

The miracle arrived three weeks late on a warm autumn night--at 10:42 p.m. according to Li’s favorite atomic gizmo. She looked around calmly at friends and family gathered in the bedroom, and, according to the legend, rolled her eyes wide, as if to say “How did I get here again?” We sang Doodle into the world with the tune I had used to ease Djin out. To this day, she falls asleep when she hears it.

As soon as my daughter learned to speak, she began telling stories about the grandmother she has never met. She claims to fly through the ceiling at night to visit the pink house surrounded by roses. Susu, our white cat, is there, with a red dog, which I assume is my husband’s retriever, Mango. Months before my hospital stay she said: "Grandma says bad air in your belly will make your arms sick." Sure enough, the burning sensation in my veins was not a heart attack, but, along with gas, a symptom of gallstones. Even my husband, an atheist, has a hard time reconciling such coincidences.

My sweet daughter recently presented me with a special drawing. I assumed it would be the normal nest-like map to a friend’s house. This time, there was no need to fish for information—I recognized the barbed circle as my bracelet. But, I asked what was inside.

"A human fairy with wings."

My gratitude was not expressed with theatrical mommy gasps, but genuine tears.

She calmly described her masterpiece. "Remember? I gave you that bracelet for a long, long time.”

"Your grandmother gave me this, sweetie."

“That's right, Mom. Grandma is an angel from heaven, just like me.”

Unfortunately, the more refined my daughter's speech becomes, the less she speaks of Grandma. When she does, I listen intently, and ask open-ended questions. I don’t want to indoctrinate her with my beliefs, or prematurely erase the wonder and imagination that birthed Tinkerbelle as her "sister". I just want a glimpse of what heaven might look like, through the eyes of one who has been there recently. And, if such two-way communication is possible, to relay my thanks for Grandma's gift; not so much the shiny trinket that is a symbol of her love, as the priceless treasure who embodies it.