I hung up the phone, tears welling up in my eyes. In a hurry I grabbed my wallet and shoved it in my right-hand back pocket. My phone stuck out of the left one. I touched the wallet. It was secure. Then my phone. I pushed it down as far as it could go. The keys clinked as I pulled them off the second hook of the key rack. I didn’t even have to look at them to know that they were mine. I kissed our dog’s curly, fluffy head for comfort and told him I’d be back. It wasn’t quite true as I would probably be spending the next two or three days an hour away. My partner, Sarah, would be there to take care of him.

In the car on my way back to my hometown I recounted all the memories I had of my grandmother. I had shut off the radio so I could think clearly and focus on what I wanted to as I prepared myself for what lay ahead. My grandmother, still lucid but on her deathbed had asked for me. I had been waiting for the call. It wasn’t a surprise. My grandmother had been sick for the last month with, first, an uncontrollable cough which then turned into Pneumonia. After treating it with two different types of antibiotics and with her being in her nineties they gave my mother a silent small shake of their heads. It wouldn’t be too much longer. They had “done all that they could for her.” 

The hills and farmlands rolled by on my left and right sides, sending calming visions of nature’s beauty. I thought of how many more years she had lived past my grandfather’s death. She was- I corrected myself - IS a strong woman. A fighter. I sped down the thruway praying I would make it in time, even though I knew she wasn’t dying today. They gave her a week or so. My heart told me it wouldn’t be that long. I wish I had talked to her on the phone before I left, let her know I was on my way. I still had things that I needed to say.

I pulled into my grandparents’ driveway.  A huge tree shaded the front yard. I had climbed up many times in my youth for a quiet place to read books. I’d sit, cradled in the crook of two large limbs, supporting my back against the trunk. The tall blue house with white shutters framing every window.. The house that she had grown up in. The house they had raised their children in and sleepovers with their grandchildren. Four sleeping bags laid out in the front TV room with Grammy sleeping in the recliner and Grandpa up in his bed. Grammy stayed up and let us watch TV, Ben Hur usually until late at night. I was always the last to fall asleep. The youngest. Her favorite. After my brothers and sister had fallen asleep, I would climb in the chair next to her and snuggle and we would talk about the movie, the plot, the characters and the message it was conveying.

I grabbed my suitcase and locked my car. At the door was my mother waiting to kiss me hello. “How is she?” I asked anxiously. I was fearful that I was too late by the look of despair in my mother’s eyes. Her eyes filled with tears, she sniffled and wiped her nose with the handkerchief she had in her hand.

“I’m not sure how much longer but she’s still talking.” She wiped her swollen eyes and sniffled again. With a shaky hand she picked up my bag. “Go see her, I’ll take your bag to your room.” 

I rushed down the hall to the first-floor bedroom where they had moved Grammy a few years ago, since her legs wouldn’t allow her to climb the stairs anymore. I opened the door to Grammy’s room quietly, but she was sitting up cheerfully. 

“Hi, my little love. I’ve missed you,” she said between swallows. Her mouth was dry. “Would you bring me those ice chips?” she croaked as a coughing spell came on. 

I moved to the cherry wood table next to the green winged back chair, picked up the dish and brought them over to her. Some were melted liquid slushing in the bottom of the bowl but there were enough to refresh her so she could slow down the cough. I sat on the bed. I put one in her mouth and rubbed her back until the fit was over. 

“I get dry,” she said. I nodded.

“Now that you’re done,” I joked, “Hi, my Grammy. I’ve missed you too.” 

I smiled, kissing her cheek and snuggling in for one of her loving hugs. When I sat up, we smiled at each other. No tears, I told myself. I wanted to be happy with her and talk to her, update her on my life, talk about old times and laugh. I wanted to confide in her. Tell her my secret before she passes. I needed her to know, or I would wonder the rest of my life if she would be able to accept me for who I truly am. I needed reassurance; I needed acceptance. I felt guilty that it was about me when she was the one who had so little time left.  

I could see the exhaustion and slowing down of the woman before me. I admired her. I longed for more time. Then I worried if revealing myself was appropriate. Was it the last thing I wanted her to remember about me?

“Phoebe, I’m glad you are here. I wanted to sit and talk with you. I want you to have a couple of my things and I’ve had your mother write them down.” 

She spoke as I took off my jacket and laid it across the back of the chair. I laughed aloud remembering all the times as a child I would say I liked something, and she would say “put a piece of masking tape on the bottom and write your name on it then.” I asked if she remembered that, and she nodded as the coughing began again. I brought her a cup of water and she spit into the lacey handkerchief she always kept in the sleeve of her nightgown. She reached with shaky hands for the water and I kept my hand right with the cup to make sure she didn’t drop it. She lifted it to her lips and took a very small sip. This seemed to help. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she continued, “I also want you to have my bible when your mother passes. It will stay with her for now.”

“OK,” I said with a grin.

“Now I want to hear how you are doing.” She leaned back against her pillow coaxing me with a grin and the folding of her hands in her lap which always indicated she was ready to listen.

“Well, everything is pretty much the same,” I began. “You know, my classes are almost over and I’ll finally have my degree. I have a cute little apartment. I wish you could have made it out to see it but… It’s ok. I love it.” Then hesitating, I decided it was time to just say what I really wanted to and pray she would still be okay with me.

“Grammy,” I began again. I slid closer to her and settled down on the bed facing her. I rubbed the soft pink and green blanket and stared at it.“I need to tell you something. No one else knows. It’s between you and me. Promise?”

“Of course!” she exclaimed. Mother had said that she was so good in the mornings, refreshed from a good night’s sleep finally. The cough medicine not only helped to calm her lungs, it medicated her enough that she fell into that deep REM sleep within seconds.

“Grammy, I’m a Lesbian. I live with a woman, and I have never felt this kind of love for anyone.” I paused waiting. 

She sat still, looking as if she were lost in a memory. 

“Are you mad at me?” I blurted. “Do you hate me?” I began to sob. Her focus came back to me, and she grabbed my hand and rubbed the back of it with her smooth soft fingers.

“Absolutely not!” she exclaimed. “I love you for you, sweetie, and as long as you are happy then I am happy for you.” 

I smiled, wiped my tears, and told her all about my new love and the life we had started together. She smiled and laughed when I said my girlfriend reminded me of her. Grammy was the one person who showed me unconditional love and was the person I went to all my life.

“You know,” Grammy started and then with a small bit of hesitation, “I know how it is. Let me say one thing and that’s all I want to say, no questions…” she paused. I saw her eyes glisten with familiar happiness. However, then a clearing concern came over her face. She looked me in the eyes. Taking my hands, she began again. “You need to know to be careful. It is hard to get out of a relationship with a woman. Even if it is only for two years. And don’t you repeat this because I WILL deny it until my last breath!” 

My heart thumped with excitement. A smile rose across my face with acknowledgement. The stories my mother told me were becoming truth, not just stories of an angry child who blamed her mother for the split up and loss of her father. 

The story went that my grandmother had divorced my mother’s father when she was 7 years old and had taken up with a young, tall woman named Monty. Monty was the niece of the old woman who lived in the apartment below Grammy when she had been on her own. She had left her parents’ house and lived with her husband in this apartment until she threw him out before going back home at the constant begging of her parents. It wasn’t right or safe for a woman to live on her own, especially with two young children. So, Monty moved in. They shared the bed in Grammy’s room. They fell in love but society in the 1940’s did not accept this type of relationship and after 2 years they went their separate ways. Much to Monty’s heartbreak and my grandmother’s fears. So, in a vague way she had admitted it to me. At least I thought so.

“Monty?” I asked.

“No questions,” she whispered as my mom walked in through the door with more ice chips.

“Mother, you need to rest now.” She waved me out of the door, but Grammy waved me back with a big swallow.  I bent down to hug her and with our warm cheeks snug together, I felt her breath tickle my ear.

“I love you,” she whispered. “You be the best you that you can be and let love in no matter what it looks like to others. Be stronger than I was.”

“Thank you, Grammy,” I whispered back as the tears came to my eyes. “You have always loved and taken care of me, and I will always love you for that and remember our times together.” 

She put her hands on either side of my head, pulled me forward until she could reach, and kissed my forehead.

“We have had good talks, always…” she said out loud as I stood up. “But now my little love I am tired… “

***

After the funeral, everyone gathered at Grammy’s house to mourn over food and drinks. I cried until my eyelids were swollen, looking like someone had put shellfish in my food - my worst allergy. I slipped away from the crowd, stopped in my room to change into my usual jeans and T-shirt, then climbed the creaky stairs to the attic door. Her words repeated over and over in my head. I wanted more answers and I wanted proof. Where would Grammy have left it when she didn’t want anyone to know the truth? There had to be something. 

The attic was dusty, as attics tended to be. . I dug through boxes and the steamer trunk, not stopping to put anything back. Nothing! My frustration grew but I was determined. I lifted things, moved things, separated the boxes, looked through, but found nothing that might hold the key. I scanned what was left. Boxes labeled “Kids’ Toys.” Grandpa’s clothes hanging on a moveable rack. I slid it to the other side of the attic with the ‘gone through’ pile but one of the jackets swung wide and something hard hit my arm. Ouch! I grabbed my arm. That was going to leave a bruise. I opened more boxes until there was nothing more. I had been through it all. Frustrated, I headed for the door pushing by Grandpa’s clothes. 

“Ouch!” I spit out again as the hard item in the jacket pocket hit my other arm now. I stopped and pushed the other clothes away from the dark blue, scratchy wool jacket. I reached into the pocket and pulled out three things: a ring, a letter, and a notebook.

Leafing through the notebook, I recognized it as my grandmother’s journal. On the first page, in my grandmother’s handwriting, the years 1948-1950 were written. For those two years, my mother always told me Grammy was friends, and probably more than that, with “that lesbian, Monty!” She’d spew the words with hatred and the hiss of a snake. That is always the biggest conflict I have had with coming out. ‘Mom, I’m a lesbian, just like that fucking lesbian, Monty. Do you hate me now too?’ I would rehearse in my head. She would hate me. Disown me. Compare me to Monty and God knows what type of person Monty was. I glanced at the notebook. Maybe this will tell me and give me the facts about the relationship my grandmother hinted at but would never directly admit to. I had a feeling Monty was not all that bad.

I sat on an old dusty chair not caring if my jeans were full of dirt once I stood up again. My mind was totally focused on the notebook. I opened the cover and read how the affair had started:

January 8th, 1948. I met a woman, a few months back, who has become a fast friend. She and I have spent as much of each day together as possible. She plays with the children and stays late talking with me after their bath and being tucked into bed. She is very well educated and has taught me many things I was ignorant about. I know that I enjoy being with her more than anyone else and I’m afraid I am developing feelings for her that are more than friendship. However, I was taken aback last night as she leaned forward while we were paused in conversation between topics to talk about. I had been looking at my hands and when I looked up our eyes met, and she softly kissed my lips with hers. My mind is in an upheaval about what is right and wrong. Yes, I will admit… I feel I am in love with her.

“I knew it!”  

I needed to know all about them and their relationship. I read on about how grand their first year was together. outings to the theater and to bars for drinks. Laughing when men made passes at them. They had a secret, and it was just for them. They began to share my grandmother’s flat and her bed. They talked about the future. They talked about buying a house in the country where no one would be the wiser and the children, my mom and uncle, would have room to run and play. I looked at my phone and realized I had been in the attic for over an hour.

I grabbed the items and decided to read more later after we were done cleaning out Grammy’s house. My mother would look for me if I didn’t make an appearance after a while, and I didn’t want to share this with her. I’m sure my grandmother meant for me to find it, meant it to be only for me. Back in my bedroom, I hid all three items in the case of my pillow. Rushing back to the attic, I quickly started moving items next to the stairs to take down. This way my mother would not know I had just been up there reading. When done, I slowly went down the stairs again. I reached for the door handle…

“Rita?” a voice called, “Rita!? Where are you? We are going to be late!”

“Coming!” I heard myself say. Puzzled by this involuntary response I swung open the door. I felt a cool breeze on the skin of my legs. Startled, I looked down and saw my Grammy’s favorite dress. I let go of the door and felt my breast, my belly, my hips. These weren’t mine. I turned quickly to find the attic, but it had been replaced by a bedroom in her flat. Grammy’s flat.’ What the hell was going on?’ was all I could think. Hesitantly, I moved to the full-length mirror and saw a beautiful, voluptuous young woman with black hair. My hair is blond, my hips are straight, and my breasts have never been this big. Somehow, I had stepped into the patent leather, high heeled shoes of my grandmother.

“There you are,” the tall, gorgeous brunette said standing in the doorway. She came up behind me wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her chin on my shoulder. I looked at her reflection in the mirror. 

“One last look? No worries. You look beautiful!” she snuggled into my neck and playfully blew in my ear.

“Ick!” I replied in my grandmother’s voice. “Oh, go on now, you!” I pushed her away and she giggled. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door of the flat. We were close in the hall, and she leaned over and kissed me passionately.

“You are the most wonderful person I know, Rita. You are the love of my life.” 

Small tears showed up in the corner of her eyes. I playfully kissed her and pulled her out the door. 

“Come on, Monty, you sap. Let’s go dancing!” 

We were out the door and outside when we let go of our hands and Monty pulled my arm under hers as many women friends did in those days. We danced until dawn, again as friends did. I did not feel afraid or embarrassed by this, only excitement and love.

 I spent three days living my grandmother’s life. Snuggling, giggling, and loving Monty.there was fear and worry when Monty went to work. Would someone notice us in the morning? A little peck on the front stoop. “Goodbye, see you tonight.”

Or overhear my children at the park ask, “Mommy what time will Monty be home? She said she’d do the puzzle with me.”

Would she come home beaten up by some guy taunting her that she just could resist putting him in his place for calling her a “lezzie.” Would she change her mind about us and not come home at all? Of course, after work, Monty would be home to have dinner and play with the kids, pull me to her side and kiss me playfully.

Then one morning, after Monty had left, the doorbell rang and there was my great-grandmother.

“Mother!” I said, startled,. “What brings you around?” I said as I moved, hastily picking up anything that spoke of Monty’s presence.

“You know exactly why I’m here.” She spoke sternly. I felt my heartbeat quicken and my hands began to shake. Grammy was afraid of her mother, I realized. “I’m telling you again as I said last week. Enough is enough! I will not tolerate this. No daughter of mine will be a … a Le…” She couldn’t finish. She turned to my mother. “Judith, now that’s not how you tie your shoes!” she barked and untied my mother’s saddle shoes. “Do them again the right way.”

My mother’s lower lip quivered.

“Mother, stop, please. That’s how they taught them in school. Bunny Ears. They catch on faster and it’s the same so what difference does it make.” My voice was stern, but my fortitude was still weak.

My great-grandmother stood up and huffed off to the door.

“I’ll give you until Wednesday or I will follow through. That’s a promise!” 

She stormed out the door and my knees buckled. I slid down onto the sofa. I covered my face and cried. A few minutes before Monty was to be home, I washed my face and reapplied my makeup so she wouldn’t know I had been crying. Oh, I loved her so. How could I do this to her? I was heartbroken about my grandmother’s decision. I had packed the children’s bags with clothes and toys. Leaving enough out and in the drawers so as not to cause suspicion or alarm the children. I hid them under their beds out of sight.

When the children were in bed, I led Monty to our bedroom, and we made love. It would be the last time. I knew it, but she didn’t. She fell asleep in a calm bliss. I heard her begin to snore and slipped silently out of the bed. I pulled the suitcases out quietly so I wouldn’t wake the children yet. I would take them down to the sidewalk, then come back for the children and take the train to my great-aunt’s house. It was the only safe way I knew to be able to leave Monty to keep my children. It was the only way. I set the bags down in the dark and grabbed for the door handle. As I opened the door and leaned my back against it, I turned to grab the bags. Tears streaming down my face in painful heartbreak, I could not see them. Light shown behind me. My vision blurred. It must be the streetlights, I thought. I swung my arms around but could not feel the bags. Where were they? I wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeve. The scent of my fabric softener awoke my nose and I straightened up, disoriented, and looked around me. Darkness still, but no bags. I turned and the light from the ceiling illuminated the hallway and I cried out. “No!”

My jeans and sandals were back on my legs and feet. My chest once again a size A. I was small and my stringy hair back to Miss Clairol blond. “Oh, I miss you Grammy!” I wept as my mother topped the stairs.

“There you are. Good God! What happened to you?” I was full of dust; streaks of tears stained my face. Behind me the boxes heaped up in piles ready to be taken. I took a deep, cleansing breath and wiped my face with a napkin crumpled up in my pocket from lunch.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “There are a lot of stories in that attic!” 

“I’ll call the guys up to start taking those out,” My mother said, not really paying any attention to me now. I went to the bathroom to wash up and went to find the notebook. I opened to the last entry. It read:

May 21st, 1950. I wish I could go back. I’m so unhappy! Mother said I was to bring the children to their father since I was sinful and forcing my children to see daily that Monty and I share a love that my mother has never known. I told Monty and she refused to let me do so or to leave her. She said we would move. The children don’t need their father. But that isn’t true. Little Judy is a daddy’s girl even at 7. She stomps her feet and gets mad when I won’t take her to his work. I’m between a rock and a hard place. Mother says she will call Child Protective Services and report me if I don’t hand Judy and Jim over. I will lose them if they find out I have kept home with a lesbian woman, I can’t hand them over to their father and I can’t just pick up and move out of town or out of the state with Monty and never come back. I have decided to pack up the kids and I. We will go to Auntie Jane’s for a while. I will call my mother once I am there. I know she won’t care about my broken heart. She will only wait until the dust clears and demand my return. I will do so but I will no longer be able to be with my best friend, my love, Monty. I will have to come to terms and move on or I will lose all support from my family. Financial, of course. Never anything more.

I pray to God Monty knows the extent of my love for her and how much this hurts me, but it will be better for her in the end as well. Not having to deal with my family or the kids’ father or my pain if I lose them. Not dealing with resentment, mine and hers. At least this way we leave each other still with love.

I was a mess again! Tears, snot, tissues! I went to take a shower and called Sarah while the water ran. “Sar?” I spoke with a lump in my throat.

“Phebes, are you ok? You sound terrible! I wish you would have let me come with you. Are you ok?”

I sobbed. “My Grammy told me to be stronger than her and I wasn’t sure what she meant until I found her journal from those two years, I told you about.”

“Right, I remember. The girl’s name was Monty, right?”

“Yes,” I replied. I stopped for a minute to catch my breath. “Sarah, can you come out here? I want you to meet my family…” 

My sorrow slowly diminished at the thought of Sarah and I being out to my family, and us being able to live as a couple, freely. I would do it! I was ready to tell my family no matter what my mother did.

“Of course, I will.” She spoke with that loving voice I knew well, and I smiled knowing that she would be there for me.