The Gift of the Twin Houses Read online

  As if that were not enough, the house and I were excited with the prospect of Deidre and Sophia coming to stay and wanted to welcome them with all our love. All in all, it promised to be an unforgettable week.

  Tom and Conrad had moved Angela’s bedroom set into our house and transferred my old one into the room where I kept my unpacked boxes. That room now needed to be readied to receive our guests and grandchildren when they stayed with us.

  The first order of things on this day was to unpack all of the forgotten boxes and decide what to do with their contents. I looked forward to this activity, wondering how the new Sarah would react to her own memories. Filled with expectation and hope for new discoveries, I entered the room.

  Unable to decide which box to open first, I unsealed all of them at once, and then stepped back, waiting to see if any of them would ask to be attended to first. I found this particular behavior somewhat out of the ordinary for me. Why couldn’t I just move systematically through each box? I’d always been a well-organized, practical person, had labeled all the boxes, knew what each contained. Yet now I felt indecisive, all of a sudden I feared finding something unexpected.

  I was experiencing the same emotions as when I’d first stepped into the attic. I had a premonition that something was about to happen.

  I waited, but none of the boxes asked to be emptied first. I went to the closest one and began to take out its contents, grateful to have only nine boxes to deal with. Something kept tugging at me, and I didn’t know what, so the faster I got through them, the sooner I’d encounter whatever may catch my attention.

  The first box contained many of the knickknacks I’d gathered through my life, buying them either on a trip or on a weekend shopping stroll through an outdoor mall. I liked to promenade through the outdoor malls, feeling the fresh air and the sun as I gazed at the many displays. The items I took out of this box did not affect me at all. I simply remembered when and where I purchased them, and the recollections were pleasant. I noticed they were all nice, decorative possessions such as flower vases, small figurines, a couple of ornamental plates from Italy, a handful of little statues, ornamental boxes of all sizes from Mexico, and many more such items. I couldn’t understand why I’d put them away. They were not only beautiful but also irreplaceable. I placed them throughout all the rooms in the house and knew I would enjoy telling the stories of their origin to my grandchildren.

  After I emptied the first box, the other ones were not as ominous. I’d found a purpose, and as a result, unpacking each item and finding its place in the house became an enjoyable prospect. What a delight to find in several of the boxes the books that either my nana or my mother had enjoyed, which I now looked forward to reading again. Somehow, now that I had welcomed my gift and cherished the stories of the past, my family’s books brought with them not only the tale within the book but the memory of its readers and their reactions to the book.

  By the time I finished unpacking the last box, I realized that I was crying. I don’t know when I’d started crying. They were noiseless tears, slowly rolling down my cheeks and dropping on my lap. I think the tears must’ve started when I held in my hand the things that belonged to my parents and my nana.

  The ache wasn’t about the items themselves but about their loneliness, about their abandonment.

  Nana had died shortly after she turned eighty of natural causes. She’d told us over the years that when she turned eighty, it would be time for her to move to her next life. She didn’t want to risk being a burden and not be able to care for herself. She’d mentioned that so many times to us that as her eightieth birthday approached, we were all prepared.

  That year I visited with her all summer long and was able to stay there all through the fall, thanks to a sabbatical to conduct some research at the University of Boston. I lived with my nana all those months up to the time she passed away. It was a peaceful death, with all of us around her, and she felt happy and content. All her affairs were in order, and in the end, we had no doubt in our hearts as to her satisfaction with how she’d lived her life. How she knew she would die after her eightieth birthday remained a mystery. This premonition of hers was not logical and didn’t make any sense. My skepticism had run rampant after she became ill, and I’d interrogated all her physicians to ensure it wasn’t something she had done to herself. But they all confirmed that she had died of natural causes. She’d caught a cold that turned into pneumonia, which caused her death. Nothing more.

  As she prepared for her eightieth birthday, she taught us the value of not burdening your family with the decisions of what to do with your possessions when you are gone. Guided by Nana, my mother, father, and I went through all of her belongings. She told us about them only if we asked. She intended to give us whatever possessions we really wanted while she was still alive. She wished to donate the rest to some of her trusted charities or to individuals of her choice.

  No one in my family has ever been a gatherer, so it was not a hard task. We each took with us what we wished, and I helped her give away the remainder. When all was said and done she felt relieved that everything had found a home and a future.

  I’d heard some of my friends talk about how hard it had been to go through their loved one’s possessions after their passing, and how awful it felt deciding what to do with their clothes or their collections or their relics. My nana took care of that for us. She made it easy, and as I unpacked her effects, I realized how selfish I’d been when I put them away. My neglect of them was inexcusable.

  My parents told me that they’d learned an important lesson from Nana and would do the same for me when their time came. The turn of events that followed, however, was so unexpected that they were never able to execute their plans.

  My paternal grandmother was next to go, followed by her husband a short year after. Both died of complications from existing maladies, heart for my grandmother and cancer for my grandfather. My father, their eldest son, inherited their estate in Mexico much to the chagrin of his siblings. With Nana gone and the winters in Boston growing colder, my parents decided to move to Monterrey.

  My father had already retired from Gillette, and caring for the family estate was a good way to keep his young mind occupied. I think he also longed for his birthplace, and my mother was happy to accommodate his hankerings. My mother missed Nana terribly, and everything around Boston reminded her of her absence. They both loved Mexico, so the decision to move south proved to be a simple one.

  I helped them with the move to Monterrey during my summer break from teaching. That’s when they asked me to take anything of theirs that I liked. I just couldn’t do it. I believed they needed to take all of their possessions with them. After all, those things represented their lives in the United States and would help them reminisce with fondness about their time in Boston.

  I felt quite adamant about it, mostly thinking of my father’s comfort. My paternal grandparents’ estate was filled with expensive and beautiful things not only from Mexico but also from around the world. Therefore, a bit of Boston and the simplicity of their own belongings would be a nice reminder of what was important to them. In the end, other than some of my mother’s books and a handful of knickknacks they boxed and mailed to me later on, I didn’t take anything with me.

  Maybe I had started crying when I remembered how much I would regret this decision in later years, but at the time it felt right.

  After their move to Monterrey, I visited my parents every summer. I enjoyed spending time with them, and I loved Mexico, its architecture, its colors, its food, and its people. I have fond memories of those trips. However, in terms of possessions, that’s all that remains from my parents.

  They died in a car crash five years after they moved to Monterrey. The horror that ensued began but a few minutes after the funeral with the reading of their will. The vultures descended upon the estate. Watching the sibling rivalry and the fight for control was revolting. I didn’t want to have anything to do with these people, even
if they were my aunts and uncles. I had nothing in common with them, and after observing their despicable behavior, all I wanted was to be as far from them as possible. That is exactly what I did. I told my lawyer to give my portion of the estate, whatever it turned out to be, to the Catholic Charities in Boston under my parents’ names. I left Monterrey after giving those instructions and never went back. Nor have I ever had any contact with my father’s siblings. I was notified of the donation when it happened, and that part of my past came to an end.

  Now it had resurfaced, and deep sadness enveloped me. The tears had stopped, but as I placed each memento of my past life throughout the house, it pained me to remember. Each item brought with it a memory of how it had come to be in my possession, my life in Boston, my trips to Mexico, a purchase made or gift received from Nana, Mom, or Dad. How sad that I possessed so few things of my familial heritage. Now I understood why I’d packed them away. I’d told myself that my life was cluttered and needed a bit of scarcity. But in reality I had hidden the pain of the sudden loss of my parents and the aftermath of the greed that followed.

  I finished unpacking all the boxes and readying the room in a daze, not remembering the details. I finished right before dinnertime—simple tasks that should’ve taken but a few hours had obviously taken much longer.

  The minute Conrad came in he said that he felt a sense of melancholy permeating the house. He walked in the kitchen just as I was taking the bread out of the oven. After I closed the oven door and placed the bread on the counter, he held me tightly in his arms.

  I cried quietly in the safety of his embrace.

  “Remembering your folks, I guess, from the look of the lovely things you’ve spread around the house.”

  I nodded.

  “C’mon, lets open a nice bottle of wine, and I’ll build us a fire and light the Christmas tree, and you can tell me all about your day.”

  Like a small child that has been hurt and needs tender loving care to feel better, Conrad took me under his protection and gently guided me out of my sorrow.

  “Well, Sarah, it looks to me as if, in terms of your possessions, you have what really matters to you, and from what you’ve told me, what really mattered to your parents and your nana.”

  “Yes, but it’s so puny compared to your heritage.”

  “Ah, my cinnamon beauty.” He said it so gently I felt as if I could dissolve in his arms. “No sense in comparing. All families are different. Your family was made up of folks who came from different parts of the world and left you with many assets that aren’t physical. Just look at you speaking Spanish, French, and English. That’s an impressive legacy.”

  “It isn’t really, just luck to have my parents and grandmother.” No sooner had I finished that sentence than I felt the weight of remorse lift.

  “That’s my girl,” he said, and kissed my nose.

  I smiled. Conrad, my future husband, had made me whole again, helping me appreciate the richness of the legacy from my parents and Nana. I finally understood that their bequest shouldn’t be valued in the quantity of their possessions but instead in the quality of their history, in the influence on those of us who had come in contact with them, and the inspiration that the recollection of their lives would bring to future generations.

  “All this talk about Mexico has me hankering for Mexican food,” Conrad said.

  “How about chicken enchiladas in green tomatillo sauce?”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yeah, you can fix the margaritas. I might need a couple. This is my first time making enchiladas. My mom’s recipe is quite simple, and I was planning on making them one of these days. Let’s just fix them tonight.”

  As usual it turned out to be an evening of love and enjoyment.

  The only thing that weighed me down was the impending meeting with Deidre and Sophia. The suddenness of Casey’s visit still had me reeling, and I wondered how much more my “gift” would reveal in the days to come.

  Most alarmingly, I feared that more unsettling scenes awaited me.

  Chapter 28

  Visitors

  Christmas Eve paved the way to the creation of a whole set of new traditions for all of us, and the house was in high spirits.

  Conrad closed the store at noon on Christmas Eve, and the entire clan had come to our house in the late afternoon to join in the preparation of an early dinner. We roasted a leg of lamb with the recipe my nana had brought from France. I’d shared with them how every Christmas Eve my family enjoyed a delicious dinner with the leg of lamb as its centerpiece, accompanied by mashed potatoes, buttered green beans, and freshly baked bread. The leg of lamb was roasted in the oven, speckled with cloves of garlic, bathed in milk, and then adorned with rosemary. A salad of cherry tomatoes mixed with diced cucumbers, chopped Greek olives, thinly sliced onions, and sprinkled with virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar accompanied the meal. The spread reflected the beautiful red, white, and green colors of Christmas. They all wanted to taste this meal, so we’d agreed to prepare it together.

  As we fixed each dish, I acquainted them with its French name. I loved to watch every one of them practicing speaking French. Elan and Nina thought it to be a fun game. He had the best pronunciation, but his sister was not far behind. I could see how much I would enjoy teaching them about the languages and customs of France, Spain, and Mexico.

  Around two in the afternoon, as we were baking the bread, a surprise came knocking on our door. One by one, many families living in our town came by the house with gifts or homemade goodies, not only to wish us a Merry Christmas but also to congratulate us on our engagement.

  Many of these people I’d never met, and I liked visiting with them and getting to know them. The house smelled delicious and looked radiant in her

  Christmas colors and lights. Every time the bell rang, it sounded more and more melodious as it announced with joy the arrival of more well-wishers.

  Being someone who typically shied away from social functions, I found myself, to my surprise, utterly at ease talking with every person who came to the house. I had a sincere interest in them, their families, their histories, and their traditions of the season. Conversation between all of us came easily, and we spent a pleasant afternoon discovering one another. Not only did I feel welcome among them, but also I felt that they were earnestly seeking my friendship. A new experience for me, given that never had I encountered such a warm welcome into any type of social environment, and their sincerity and openness was disarming. Conrad and his family were highly valued and loved in these parts. I’d stepped into a world where people not only respected the decision and choice he’d made for his future wife but also embraced it fully, as if they shared in the decision itself.

  It was particularly fun to hear Conrad tell them all about our “French Christmas Eve Dinner” as if it were the title of a movie or book. He took such pride in describing the menu that it was impossible for folks not to want the recipe for each dish. Tom took charge of writing it all down, freeing Alyana to help me in the kitchen while we cooked and visited with our guests. Elan and Nina were great hosts, helping their dad and granddad entertain our visitors.

  By five o’clock the guests were all gone, and we sat down to dinner. It tasted delicious, much better than I remembered, maybe due to the fact that this time my family and I prepared it together. We ate and reminisced about how much fun the afternoon had been.

  When Nina was done with her dinner, she left her seat and crawled onto Conrad’s lap.

  He gently stroked her hair. “All right, little one, what was your favorite part of fixing Christmas Eve dinner with Mama?”

  “The food word game.”

  “It wasn’t a game,” Elan interjected. “We learned French food words. Like at school but fun. I liked saying the words and making the food. That was the best.”

  “I liked the meat taking a bath in milk,” Nina told her granddad.

  “You never thought you’d see meat taking baths in milk, did you? Can you
remember how to say milk in French?” Alyana coaxed her daughter. “Lait.”

  “A bath and a shower,” Elan added. “Mama sprayed it with that big stick with the bubble at the end.”

  “A long, long bath and a shower.” Alyana smiled.

  “You’re right. First the meat took a two-day bath in the milk while it marinated in the fridge, and then while we roasted it in the oven, I sprayed it with milk. Altogether the meat was well bathed and showered.”

  “The French word for meat is agneau, right?” Alyana asked.

  “Yes. You guys are great!” I smiled proudly from ear to ear.

  “How about you, Elan?” Tom asked.

  “Mashing the pomme de terre and then mixing the beurre. I like how you make the r in French. It’s like a roar in your throat.”

  “Like a lion,” Nina added.

  “You both learn fast. We’ll learn more words as we make other foods. Would you like that?” They nodded their approval in unison.

  “OK,” Conrad said, “I vote that we make this an annual meal,” and he raised his hand as if in school. The grandchildren immediately raised their little hands, and of course, their parents did as well, laughing. I couldn’t have been more pleased.

  “Mama,” Tom said, “you sure have the gift of listening. I’ve learned a bunch about some of these folks in just their short visit with you today. Considering that I’ve known many of them all my life, I’m amazed how much I didn’t know about them and how easily they just opened up to you. That’s not easy in these parts. The Northwest is where folks settle to get away from others. People don’t usually share as they did with you today.”

  “It’s the storyteller in her,” Conrad said. “She’s curious about their stories, and she listens with such sincerity that they just unwrap their lives.”

  “C’mon, how could you not listen when folks are talking?” I chuckled.

  “For starters you could do what most people do. They ask you a question, and as you start to answer, their attention goes elsewhere,” Alyana said.