The Key

Discovery of a key unlocks a hidden mystery/

The Key

By Scott Spence

My phone buzzed with an alert that I had received a text message. As I retrieved the phone from my jacket pocket, I opened it to find a friendly reminder about the upcoming Memory Cafevent at my grandmother's care facility. A joyful avatar emoji--a smiling, cartoonish figure--danced on my screen to greet me. I recognized the individual who sent these messages, and I pondered what to expect at the announced event. The facilitator was a young woman around my age, I guessed.

The Memory Cafwas a gathering of individuals hosted at the Memory Care Facility in our community. My grandmother lives there now, but does not recognize me when I visit. As her designated caretaker, I need to escort her to these events.

Driving to the facility on the day of the scheduled event, I prepared for the visit with "Neeny," the affectionate nickname for my grandmother, Janeen--the only name I had ever known her by. The facilitator greeted me with a flirtatious smile from her desk. As I proceeded to Neeny's room, the hallway bustled with a crowd heading to the event.

"Hi, Neeny," I said as I entered the room. She wore a lively spring dress, and one of the attendants had gently brushed her hair and applied makeup. She looked at me and smiled brightly.

"Hello. Are you here to take me to the luncheon?" she asked.

"Yes, I am." I looked around the room and noticed a familiar photograph of her and my grandfather Tom, or" Pop," as I knew him, sitting on her dresser. It had been a long time since he had passed away, a victim of Steinert disease, a hereditary form of muscular dystrophy that manifests at age thirty. This resulted in his heart giving out after battling it for several years. The doctor had advised me to get tested, as it was a genetic disorder, to see if I carried the markers. Like an ostrich, I buried my head in denial. There wasn't a cure, and I couldn't cope with the uncertainty in my life. Not entering a meaningful relationship and risking passing on the harmful genes had already affected me enough.

"Are you ready to go?" I asked. She looked at me as usual, not recognizing who I was. She thought I was just one of the attendants, not someone of significance. Pop and Neeny raised me after my birth parents were killed in a car accident when I was pretty young. My birth father was their son. I was left in their care when my parents went to an anti-war protest in the sixties. I don't even remember them. My grandparents were the only parents I had ever known.

We looked for a place to sit when we arrived at the event. The room felt like stepping into a meadow, with faces radiant as wildflowers, though it was uncertain if a bee might sting at any moment. This is how I felt when one of them suddenly approached and confronted me, believing I was someone they recognized. We shared half of a pimento cheese sandwich and a cup of vegetable soup, compliments to Campbell's. I always left these events feeling hungry, but Neeny enjoyed the meal, thinking it was all homemade. The facilitator handed out heavy 8 x 10-inch sheets of white construction paper. The art project for the event was to draw a "happy" picture. She suggested rainbows, flowers, and birds as ideas. Neeny deftly picked up the colored pencils and executed her drawing with grace. When she finished, she held out her drawing like a treasure, her broad smile rewarding me.

Returning to her room, she insisted that I place the drawing in the only available frame--the one holding the photograph of her and Pop. "That's a good idea; I have wanted a better frame, anyway," I said.

A small key fell out when I removed the photograph from its frame. Unsure of its purpose, I placed it in my pocket. Neeny, now pleased with the results, set her new drawing on the dresser.

After arriving at my apartment, I placed the photograph out as a reminder to buy the promised new frame. I also found the small key in my pocket and began to examine it closely. It had a filigree design resembling one on a wooden jewelry box I had kept when moving Neeny into her facility. No valuables were allowed there, so I had taken the box with me. Pulling the box out of a drawer, I inserted the key into the lock and opened it. Inside was an unopened letter addressed to another man. A newspaper clipping lay beneath it with the same man's name circled. The article listed men who had been killed on a troop transport that sank in 1944. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter in Neeny's handwriting, informing him of her pregnancy with their child. The man had never received the letter and was unaware of my father. I am not sure Pop ever knew the man's identity.

Pop was the only father I had ever known. He taught me essential life skills: how to catch a ball, how to swim, how to ride a bicycle, and how to drive a car. He also showed me how to whistle, snap my fingers, and give a firm handshake. He coached me through my first heartbreak with a girl and the pain of losing my dog.

I placed the letter on my patio grill and set it on fire. No one would ever know that Pop was not a father; that news would never be shared. The only good news was that I no longer had to be tested for Steinert disease.

I returned the photograph with its new frame to Neeny the next day.

"Oh, there's my picture of Tom. I wish you could have known him," she said.

998 words