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Home>Writings> Short Story: The Chestnut |
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~ The Chestnut ~ It was sunny as I stepped outside of school on that fateful October day... usually, around that time of year, in our small town in upstate New York, the weather was supposed to be cool and crisp-- but it wasn't, it was bright out, and actually warm. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I walked down the steps. Some of the other students stopped in groups to talk, chattering about their plans for the weekend, but I hurried past them, up to the street corner, looked both ways, and crossed the street. My mother stood at the corner, waiting for me, her dark hair illuminated by the sun, the hem of her denim dress blowing in the breeze. Nearby stood her cousin, Annette. And then, I knew. It had happened. Slowly, I walked up to them. No words needed to be said. Inside, I felt very strange--she was gone, Grandma, my second mother...gone...yet her suffering was also gone, and that wasn't something to be sad about. I was experiencing an emotion that had no name. All the weeks of anxiety, grief, sadness, all the weeks of watching her slip away from us, when all we could do is stand by and watch in misery...the waiting was over, and it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me...but it was also a relief. My mother must have said something to the extent of, "Grandma passed away today," but I didn't hear her, or, if I did, I don't remember her exact words. We walked down the street to my grandparents' house in a daze, with Mom carrying my backpack for me. Before I knew it we were standing in front of the two-story, white house with forest- green shutters, the place where I had spent a great deal of my time as a child. The shrubs in the front yard, the ones that my grandmother had always trimmed herself, the small flower bed which she had tended to with such care, the front step, where I had sat on many a summer afternoon with her, eating ice cream and talking... I was lost in a world of memories, where everything had a dream-like quality to it--the colors were more vivid, the sounds were a bit fuzzier...a series of images flashed through my mind...
...Grandma gathering white lilacs from the tree outside the kitchen window, and arranging them ever so gently in a crystal vase... ...the two of us picking wild strawberries, with Grandma giving me the biggest ones... ...sitting at the piano together as we played a duet... ...spending our mornings together, cooking breakfast together, listening to the birds chip outside the window...
I was brought back to reality in a painful jolt as Mom suggested we head inside. Cars filled the driveway and lined the street. Still in a daze, I walked up the sidewalk, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. I saw a sea of faces, mostly relatives, the majority of which were my grandmother's aunts and uncles. We had all been gathered together just one week before at the funeral of my great-grandmother...and now even more memories came back to me. I could see the stubborn, defiant face of my great-grandmother, and her consternation to leave this world before her daughter did. Her great-grandchildren had all called her "Non," a shortened form of Italian nonna, which meant grandmother. Non had wanted nothing more than to die before her daughter did, and I firmly believe that she would still be alive today if Grandma hadn't gotten sick. Everyone was so loud and talkative, and I just wanted to be alone...Grandma was gone, and I wanted some time to myself. The hospital bed where she had spent her final days was gone, that wretched hospital bed which I had come to hate...it was the ultimate symbol of her mortality. To me, my grandmother had always seemed invincible. She would live forever, and she would always be with me. Now, I knew better. Tears welled up in my eyes and I thought angrily, She wasn't old, she wasn't even sixty, how could this happen, how?! I glanced over at my grandfather, sitting in a chair in the corner of the living room. All during Grandma's illness he had seemed so strong, so capable, even though his rheumatoid arthritis made it hard for him to walk, he had still seemed able to take on anything for Grandma...and now, I was shocked and terrified to see the tired, worn-out old man sitting there in the chair. Is that really Pop? I asked myself numbly. Anxious to get away from the noise, I stumbled into the kitchen, but this was even worse. Several well-meaning friends of my uncle's gathered in the kitchen, talking even louder and smoking cigarettes, flicking the ashes into the kitchen sink. I was enraged. These people, laughing and carrying on as if they were at a party. If I were an outspoken person I'm sure I would have exploded on the spot, yelling at them at the top of my lungs. But now, as I look back, that probably wouldn't have accomplished anything, anyway. I elbowed my way through the congregation of disrespectful partygoers and found myself at the kitchen sink. Seeing that it was full of dirty dishes, I immediately ran some water and added some Palmolive dish soap, the kind Grandma always used. As the people around me smoked and laughed, I washed the dishes. I was deep in thought, wondering what would happen now, feeling as dead as my grandmother was. "Hey, you're a good worker. Whenever I ask Meghan or Kelly to do the dishes, they splash water all over the entire kitchen just so they don't have to do them." I turned, and saw Annette leaning against the counter next to the sink. Her dark, sparkling eyes seemed to smile at me, and though I couldn't find it in me to smile back, the sight of her did raise my spirits. Annette was actually my grandmother's cousin, though she was my mother's age. But my great-grandmother came from a typical Italian family with many children...and so Annette's father, Uncle John, had been born around the same time as my grandmother, though he was her uncle. Therefore many of the "cousins" were actually cousins of our parents, even though they were our age. It may sound confusing...but then, most things are. "Come on," Annette said to me. "What do you say we go for a walk?" Setting down the dishtowel, I glanced at my watch. "Okay. Bren won't get home for at least an hour yet. Let's go." We stepped outside, and again I noticed how nice it was out. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping...at once I thought about how unfair it was that Grandma wasn't able to share this day with us. And then, I thought, Wait. Maybe Grandma had something to do with this, maybe this a sign that she is all right. However, this did little to raise my spirits--sign from Grandma or not, she still wasn't here to share it with us. We walked around the block, past the church and then the court offices. We didn't talk very much, as I'm sure Annette knew that I didn't feel like it. I looked at the people in the cars that went by...people going on with their lives when a very important one had just ended--I was mad at them for being contented and jealous of them for being able to go home to sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, grandmothers... When we came to the corner, I noticed a chestnut sitting on top of the fire hydrant. Absently, I picked it up, not really realizing what I was doing. "Want a good luck charm?" I asked Annette, again not sure why I did so. She smiled, and accepted the chestnut. "Sure." She slipped it into her pocket, and I promptly forgot about it. When we arrived back at the house, things had quieted down...somewhat, at least. I remember sitting in the living room with my parents, my Uncle Jim, and my grandfather as our priest came and spoke with us, and then the funeral director, to make the last-minute arrangements. For some reason I ended up at the piano, and I began to play. However, I soon stopped, as every song seemed sad and more than once my grandfather began to cry, which reinforced my horror. Pop had never cried in the past, and to see him cry now...it was nearly more than I could handle. I remember nothing else until my Aunt Brenda--whom I fondly called Bren--arrived home from work. An extremely high fever at a young age had damaged her brain, affecting her speech and reasoning, but she was by no means "stupid," as many people thought she was. In fact, in my opinion she was more clever than most of the other people in our family. She stepped off of the van which brought her home from work every day, and immediately I saw on her face that she knew something was wrong. She glanced nervously at the cars, and then, hesitantly, started up the driveway. She swept a lock of midnight-black hair back behind her shoulders, the expression on her face becoming more and more puzzled by the minute. In the midst of all the unfairness of the situation, no one else attempted to go to her--I was happy that I was given that one privilege...but of course, it wasn't actually a privilege at all... I was vaguely aware of my Uncle Jim walking towards the van, to tell the driver what had happened. "Bren..." I said, my voice unsteady. She looked intently at me, as if hoping that I wouldn't say what she expected me to. "Ma's gone...she died..." I knew by the look on her face that it was just what I had done. Brenda pushed past me, into the house, only saying, "Oh." When she stepped inside, she stopped, staring at the spot where the wretched hospital bed had sat only that morning. Aware that we were being watched and trying to ignore the fact, I hugged her. "She isn't suffering anymore, Bren," I told her. "Ma isn't sick anymore." "Not sick?" she repeated. I shook my head. "No. She's all better now." And to my surprise, Brenda breathed a sigh of relief. "Good." Most of the family friends and even some of the family itself did not think that Brenda was capable of understanding death, and for some stupid reason they did not think it would affect her. I suppose that this is because they did not spend as much time around her as I did...she was more like a sister to me, I had grown up around her, I had seen nothing different about her, and, most importantly of all, I knew that she did understand. She knew exactly what was going on. Now her tears came freely, and she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. No one, including myself, made any attempt to follow her. She needed some time alone...we all did. Like me, my aunt had been extremely close to my grandmother. Grandma was her link to everyone else, her guiding light, her helping hand. And now that light was gone, the hand was out of reach. I knew just how she felt. * * * A few days later we all sat in church, at Grandma's funeral. My mother had written a beautiful eulogy, but she wasn't sure that she could read it aloud herself. So it was Annette who volunteered to read it, and when the time came, I heard her rise from the bench behind where I sat next to Brenda. She stopped when she came to me, looked down, and smiled. "I'm nervous," she whispered. "You'll do fine," I assured her. She pulled something out of her pocket and showed it to me. I smiled--it was the chestnut. I had totally forgotten about it. "I'll hold it, for good luck," she added, and then she walked towards the altar. I could hear only the faint, swishing sound of her dress as she walked. Weeks later, Bren and I were walking down the street, taking one of our afternoon walks which we so enjoyed, when we heard a car horn beeping somewhere nearby. A car pulled over to the curb next to us, and when the driver stepped out, we saw that it was Annette. She gave us both a big hug, and we talked and even laughed a bit. Annette told me that her daughter Kelly had been cleaning out their car, and that she had come across something sitting in one of the cup-holders. Puzzled, she had held it up to her mother. "Mom, why in the world are you keeping a nut in your car? I'm gonna throw it out..." "No!" Annette had said quickly. "That's my good luck charm, don't touch it!" And to this day, Annette still has the chestnut. At the time, it had seemed so insignificant, just a nut sitting on a fire hydrant that we happened to pass by. But now...I think that it was more than that. It was a symbol, a symbol that we all need a little help now and then but that life will go on, and that we must go on with it. I can almost picture my beloved Grandma, on her way to heaven, stopping at that street corner to place the chestnut on the fire hydrant, where she was sure we would see it. |
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� Mission � Parents� Note � Teens in the News � Original Opinion & Fiction � Message Board � |
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