Instead of a funeral, Heather’s parents had hosted a gathering at their house. There’d been a bakery’s worth of scones and squares and cookies on the dining room table, and pots of tea and coffee besides. Heather’s mom had thanked everyone for coming, and her dad had recited that poem about the dead person simply being in the next room, and though people had smiled and wiped away tears and nodded their approval, Heather had been strangely unmoved. She suspected her grandmother would have reacted the same way.
The best part of the gathering had been the stories people told about Nan, who’d always been the first to come by with food and flowers from her garden when a baby was born or a loved one died. She’d been an ESL tutor, a Meals on Wheels driver, a hospital visitor, a volunteer at the food bank, and back in the late 1970s she’d quietly taken in an entire family of Vietnamese refugees.
The Nguyens had moved on before Heather was even born, but she knew Nan had kept in touch with them over the years. Their youngest son, a doctor, had driven all the way from Montreal to pay his respects.
“Whenever we tried to thank her,” he told Heather and her parents, “she said she knew what it was like to move to a new country and start over.”
Dr. Nguyen’s words had come back to her later, when she was washing the dishes, for the idea of Nan having to start over had given her pause. Of course they all knew that Nan was English, from somewhere near London, and had moved to Canada after the war. Even if she’d never told them, her accent would have given her away.
Growing up, living just around the corner from Nan, she’d never seen a photograph of her grandfather, nor any other pictures of her grandmother’s life in England. She’d asked a few times, when she was little, but Nan had always changed the subject.
Her mother hadn’t been able to answer any of her questions either. “They’re all like that, you know. The ones who lived through the war.”
“Because things were so awful?” Heather had been in high school, and they’d been talking about the world wars in history class.
“I suppose. And because they came here to make a fresh start. Away from the memories of everything they’d lost. So you can’t blame them for not wanting to talk about it.”
As she dried the last of the good china, Heather stole a glance at her mother. She seemed to be holding up well in spite of everything, but her mom had always been good at putting on a brave face.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I can finish this off on my own. You should sit down for a bit.”
“I’m fine, honey. I’d known it was coming for a while. And you know, part of me is grateful—not that she’s gone, of course. Only that she stayed herself right to the end. She’d seen so many of her friends fade away, and I know she dreaded it.”
“Like Mrs. Jackson from across the street.”
“Yes, exactly. After that funeral, you know, Mum turned to me and made me promise to put a pillow over her face if she ever went dotty like poor Martha Jackson. Of course I’d never have done such a thing, but I knew what she meant. That’s why we didn’t have the doctors jump in when she got so sick. You seemed upset about it, when I talked to you the morning she died, but—”
“I understand, Mom. Honestly I do. You absolutely did the right thing.”
“I’m glad you think so. Oh—I keep forgetting to tell you. I found something when I was going through Nan’s things. All the overflow from her house that we’d been keeping in the basement.”
“What kind of something?” Heather asked, her interest piqued. “Please tell me it isn’t another box of stuff from Nan’s shop. Sunita’s the only one of my friends who knits, and she’s neck-deep in yarn already.”
“No, nothing like that. Just some pieces of beaded fabric, but she’d written your name on the box, so she must have wanted you to have them. Hold on—they’re in the spare room.”
Heather sank into the nearest chair, her feet aching, and closed her eyes. She’d get up and wipe down the counters in a minute.
“Here we go,” her mom said, depositing a large plastic box on the kitchen table. On its lid, in black Sharpie marker, were the words For Heather in Nan’s handwriting. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
Heather pulled the box toward her and pried off the lid. Inside was a single, tissue-wrapped bundle. Suddenly tentative, she looked at her mother for reassurance, then folded back the top layer of fabric to reveal a rose.