These Days

I sit on the couch, perched on the edge, listening. My black skirt and blouse itch my skin and I wish that this wasn’t real. I wish that all of this wasn’t necessary, that it is just a horrible dream.

But it is very, very real.

Four days ago, my grandmother, Gianna Lombardi, died peacefully in her sleep. The loving wife of the late Giovanni Lombardi, mother Stephano and Angelo, grandmother to five, and great grandmother to one, Gianna leaves behind a close-knit Italian family, many of whom still reside in the Old Country.

Or at least, that’s what her obituary says.

It makes her sound like a housewife, which can’t be further from the truth. She worked five days a week up until her husband had his first stroke. She was 70 and died at 89.

“To my only granddaughter, my bambino, my Brianna,” her lawyer, whose name I never bothered learning, says. “I leave what I’ve always promised her.” A murmur of question erupts around the room, my family wondering just what my grandmother and I talked about on our many afternoon excursions. “I leave the lake house and her box in the cellar.”

I smile to myself. That was what we talked about. Grandma GiGi was always fascinated with the afterlife and it was a topic that often arose while we shopped around the Village or on the subway.

It doesn’t matter what the lawyer says anymore. Everyone wants to know why I get a house and a box. For once, I have one up on my family. Or maybe, Grandma GiGi is still wreaking havoc.

“We can sell the house,” my mother says quietly to me later that afternoon as we clean the kitchen from the luncheon we hosted in her mother-in-laws honor. “We’ll take a trip up later this summer and get it appraised.”

I don’t say anything. I expected this.

After my parents gained their footing in the interior and architectural communities, they whisked my older brother and me away to a City. Not a little, small town business was Thundering Designs anymore. No, it became the company to have decorate your fancy penthouse apartment or your third home along the coast.

New York City was nice, but it wasn’t Thunder Bay.

The house in Thunder Bay was one I had lived in for the first decade-plus of my life. While my grandparents chose to remain in New York City, my father wanted his children to grow up in the place where he had the fondest of memories. But of course, the minute the next best thing came along, it was time to leave. It was like that with a lot of things with my father. He found a hot new wife a few years later and started another design company with her.

My mom tried to be the same, but she was no good at it. In all honesty, I wonder why we haven’t redone the lake house already.

She traipses in, gliding along in a slinky black dress. Melanie is young enough to be my older, older sister. She’ll turn 39 in two weeks. Okay, so maybe not my sister, but it’s too close for comfort.

“I wonder what’s in your box, Brianna,” Melanie insists upon my full name. As if it wasn’t annoying enough, her voice just adds to it.

“She can open it later,” my mother tactfully hands her a broom and ushers her out. “As I was saying, you and I will go up for a few days and check the place out and maybe put up some new curtains, make the beds…” her voice trails off.

Again, I don’t bother responding. Maybe it’s because my throat is raw from the crying and I still might have the hiccups, but I sit down at the kitchen table where for so long, I sat with my grandmother, and I pick up the box my brother had retrieved from the basement for me.

It’s a nice sized, old-fashioned suitcase made of brown leather with a heavy clasp. I rest it on my thighs, hands running over it. Do I want to know what she’s kept in it all these years?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother watching me curiously. I don’t know if I want to have her around for the inevitable tears. She already thinks I’m unstable, wanting to transfer schools for my senior year. No, I’ll wait until I’m alone.

******

“Jared,” my mother’s voice brings me out of my half asleep daze. “Come back to us, hon.”

I jerk up in my seat, bringing my eyes to meet my mother and father. “Sorry. What?”

She smiles, knowing I haven’t heard a word of what they’ve said. “I said Marc gets in on Wednesday with Lindsay and Michael. You’re going to pick them up.”

“Why can’t Jordan or Eric do it?” I grumble, picking up my cereal bowl.

“Jordan and Heather are going into town to get food for the picnic on Friday and Levi and Parker are both sick,” my dad says in a way that says no argument should be made. He finishes his coffee before getting up and walking down the hall, calling over his shoulder. “Run down to the storage barn and grab some of those rain tarps, eh?”

I really needed my own place.

I slip on a pair of sneakers, realizing they’re too big and not mine. Jordan’s, I realize, though I don’t know why they’re here. He has his own place to dump his shit. I continue walking, trying not trip, in search of whatever crates my dad needs.

After rooting through half of the decrepit structure, I come across two crates of blue, waterproof tarps. With them stacked atop each other, I begin the walk to the house, passing the shoreline, when something catches my eye.

The Lombardi house is still there. It’s been vacant for so long. Maybe ten years? I couldn’t remember for sure.

Its neighboring house has a yard of kids running about, playing in the shallow waters of the lake. I smile, thinking about all the times that would have been me and my brothers.

‘And the Lombardis too,’ my brain adds.

Dominic and his younger sister, Bri, had been my older brothers’ and my companions for years. When they’d moved away, it had taken quite a while to get used to not having them around. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen them. Dom was Jordan’s age and Brianna was just a few weeks older than me, if I remembered right. They were both smart asses even back then, but Bri was a real sweet heart.

I try to remember where they’d moved to. Somewhere in the States, I knew that much. Was it Boston? Maybe Philly? It was a major city; it had to be for her parents to move their company there.

As I reach the house, I realize that it’s the longest I’ve let my mind linger on the Lombardis since their abrupt departure from Thunder Bay. I’d long since moved on from the glum feeling I had when I was a young teen without my friend. Or so I thought.

******

That night, I sit alone in the room I would share with my brother on visits to stay with Grandma. He’s downstairs with his fiancée, talking about-what else- the wedding.

Having abandoned my fancy clothes and washed away my red lipstick and black, waterproof mascara, I sit in yoga pants and a ratty t-shirt with the box on my lap. Making sure the door is closed and tissues are on hand, I unlock the suitcase, hearing a familiar click. I lift the lid tentatively, slowly.

At the top is an envelope with my name on it, written in GiGi’s familiar handwriting. Beneath it are so many photos, I have to dump the contents on the bed to find anything else. What was once on the bottom is now atop everything and I lift it carefully. This object is light and delicate. A gold chain with two charms hanging off it- an anchor and a ship steering wheel.

I hold it in my palm, staring it at for a few long minutes. I set it aside before I can figure out why it is so familiar. I turn my attention to the photos littering the bedspread and pick a few up.

I find myself coming face to face with a younger me and a younger Dominic. In some, we’re on the boat and others we run through wooded areas. Others still have us sitting around a fire or camping. And in every single one, we are not alone.

In each photo, we are accompanied by at least one boy. Two are blonde and the two others have strawberry blonde locks. It is obvious the four are brothers.

On the back of each snapshot, my grandmother had written the names of who the picture captured. I pick up one that includes all six of us and flip it over.

Dominic, Marc, Jordan, Eric, Brianna, and Jared on the boat- July 2000.

The Staal brothers. Oh, it had been a long time.

I slide my finger across the seal, doing what I can to preserve my grandmother’s delicate script. Out come several folded pieces of paper. As they fall to my lap, I think of what they could be.

Deciding that even my best guesses will probably not even be close, I pick up the thickest sheet, finding it to be stationary.

Brianna,
Do you really think all I would leave you is a decrepit old house and a box of memories? No, I’m not that mean, bambino.

In this envelope, you’ll find a sheet with a number and key attached, belonging to a safety deposit box in a bank in the Village. You know the one. In the box should be plenty of money to finance the refurbishing of the lake house in Thunder Bay. But I don’t want you to sell it. No, I want you to live there. Again.

Do you remember all the fun times you and your brother had there? The two of you would run around with those Staal boys for hours and hours, not a care in the world. Wouldn’t it be fun to do it again?

I understand if you don’t want to do that for me. But I also understand that you certainly don’t want to be roped into your mother’s or father’s companies this summer. So why not have a legitimate excuse? (You always were a terrible liar.)

Go to Thunder Bay again on your own. You haven’t been back since you moved to the city. See the house, spend the night, and come up with a plan to bring it back to life. Can you imagine if you could raise your own children there?

I know I’m asking a lot of you and your 20 year old self. But I know that you are strong and can handle it. I wish that we could do this together, but I think you’ll do a wonderful job.

I don’t want you asking your brother for help, Bri-Bri. Do this much on your own and at the end of the summer, when you might feel like dropping dead from the work, call him, and he’ll help you pick up the pieces.

You’re stronger than you think, Brianna. You’re a Lombardi. Do me proud, as I know you can. I’ll be watching you, my dear, guiding you all the way.

XOXO,
Grandma Gi-Gi

Reading through the letter three times, I finally pause to wipe the tears away. She’s leaving this to me?

Indeed, on another slip of paper is a key and number, leading me to more money than I will know what to do with. The final paper, the smallest of them all, contains just a few, cryptic words.

Corner board loose, outer attic wall.