View topic - The other member of puzzle's story

Grandmother's Old Dressser

In the back of the basement, in a dusty old corner, lies my Grandmother’s old dresser. I know it as well as I know the neighborhood, down to Mr. Gregory at the old store, who’ll give you a discount if you tell him a good tale. Down to Jake Kyleson, the boy next door I’ll someday marry. Down to the dresser’s old white paint and the half-inch gold lining and the little chip in the corner from where I’d been practicing baseball in the basement.

That old white dresser has always remained a mystery, without handles, yet on each drawer there is a golden keyhole. I always have believed those drawers held an object of great importance, like a family heirloom, or an old book. Whatever might be in there, I’ve devoted a good part of my life to finding the secret behind my Grandmother’s old dresser.

Grandmother was always kind, loving, and thoughtful, like something out of a fairytale. Yet as I grew, I noticed she was always a bit distant, always a bit sad. She carried that sadness with her until the day she died. I was fifteen then.

After that, Father moved Grandmother’s things into the basement, all except her giant library, which proved too much to haul. Half a year later, Father left to join the army. He never returned. That was five years ago.

Now, soon to enter my final semester of collage, I head down to the basement once more. Yesterday night, I’d been skimming through one of Grandmother’s favorite novels, when I discovered a key, pressed between two pages, like a bookmark. Today, I’ve decided to try it on the old dresser.

I reach the dresser. It is now covered in dust and cobwebs. When I was home, I always cleaned and dusted it. I don’t know why, it felt right, like what Grandmother would want me to do.

So I brush the dust off with my sleeve, getting it all dusty in turn. Still, I dust the old dresser off, once more revealing the gleaming white paint, and the shimmering gold. And the keyholes. Taking a deep breath, I insert the key into the first keyhole.

It fits.

I turn the key, hearing a distinct click as I do so. Then I try to open the top drawer. At first, it seems still locked, but then I realize it is only stuck. After wrestling it awhile, I manage to open it.

My first reaction is one of disappointment: the drawer is filled with the old sweaters Grandmother used to wear. I search, but find nothing else. So I try the next drawer.

It is filled with skirts and old pants, some faded with age. I recognized the plaid one I always admired. Still, no odd treasures to find. I feel kind of disappointed. I was expecting more. Still, I head onto the next drawer.

That drawer had socks and other such things. I quickly move onto the next, which has shoes of all kinds. Then I reach the bottom drawer.

It is empty, except for a small wooden box, with the initials, EJ. Emma Josephs. My Grandmother’s name. This is what I was looking for. With shaking fingers, I pull it out.

I carry it to Father’s workbench, unmoved, and uncared for since his death. Brushing away some tools and dust, I set the box down, and open it.

Inside, I find a letter. I pull it out, noticing another beneath it. Taking the first one, I unfold it, and start to read.

To whoever finds this, it starts. My name is Emma Marie Josephs, and I would appreciate if you give these letters to my family. If you are indeed my family, then you should know all the stories I like to spin, the tales I love to unfold. If not, then consider yourself warned. For here, I have spun my final tale:

Let me tell you about my high school years, much different from those nowadays. Back then, children actually learned something more than the teachers’ wraths for overdue homework. I laugh at this, realizing just how often I raced to finish my homework before the bell rang. I suspect much has changed from the schools I know, the letter continued. But one thing that will always be the same is the heart, and the age old romances found between classes, and sometimes, even in class.

For me, it started on the way home, where I met this young man by the name of Kevin Woodman, a sweet blond haired boy with sparkling blue eyes, top grades, and star baseball player. He was new to the area, but already well known, and had a girlfriend from my class named Shelly.

We talked awhile, till I reached home, and then bade him farewell, and put him out of my mind. But the next day, we ran across each other again after science class, and then we ate at lunch together, where he introduced me to some of his friends. Then on our way home, we ran across each other again.

I started to realize I liked him. He was simple, straightforward, and charming. He was smart, and sweet, and I quickly took to thinking of him as a friend, and silently wished Shelly well with him, despite feeling a bit jealous about it.

Then, almost a week later, Kevin invited me to a small party at his house that night. I accepted.

The letter ended there. I placed it down, and then picked up the second one. The scenario my Grandmother’s story painted seemed a lot like mine: I’d met Jake in high school, and we’d gone to the same collage too. He was the top student too, looking for a degree in teaching at the local university. I on the other hand, have always been an average student, with Bs more often than anything else.

Jake sometimes seems just like Mr. Perfect. And me? I’m just Leah Krandon’s daughter. Nobody special. And for Jake to love me, well…he’s already asked me out, but every time, I’ve turned him down. I’m not good enough, simply put. Maybe once I’ve got my degree in medicine I’ll be good enough. Till then…

Pushing that thought aside, I open the next letter and start reading.

Well, that evening, I headed out to Kevin’s house. He was holding the party out in the forest, so the authorities wouldn’t see all the wine and beer that had been brought.

Needless to say, I got a little tipsy. While it wasn’t uncommon to have alcoholic beverages at a teens’ party, I must admit I’ve never had the head for the stuff. At the party, I don’t remember doing anything too embarrassing, or if I did, none of my classmates ever mentioned it. Now when I got home. That was a different matter.

I wince, knowing just how my Mother would react to such behavior. Then I returned to reading.

Well, Mother and Father both were very upset with me, considering I never even mentioned the party to them, even worse that I’d gotten drunk. They had me up late railing a lecture into me about how irresponsible I’d been. To tell the truth, I hardly remember a word they said.

The next morning, I had a hangover. I could hardly eat a bite with how much my head hurt. Mother pronounced it was my punishment, and sent me off to school without a cup of coffee to compensate.

Mandy, an old friend of mine, sympathized, and got me some tea at lunch, along with some Tylenol. Thanks to her, I felt better throughout the rest of the day.

I continued to read the letters, for there had to be at least ten in all. On one of the walks home, Kyle told Grandmother he loved her. She was so shocked, that she’d just stood there for a moment. I’d read on to when Kyle started asking her out, and when he’d broke up with Shelly. Grandmother however, didn’t want to go out with him.

He was too good for me. She explained. He was an A student, that was kind, and liked by everyone. I was just an average, if not below average student that was nearly shy beyond compare. The Prince and The Pauper. We just didn’t make a match.

Blushing, I realize this is exactly like it is with Jake and I. Quickly, I picked up the next letter, reading on. Grandmother eventually left town, and headed to the city to work. Five years later, a doctor at the local hospital, she returned home.

I was surprised at how little had changed. Grandmother wrote. I recognized everything. It was like the town had slept in my absence.
Grandmother had decided to seek out Kevin.

I knocked. After a moment, the door opened, and a familiar face looked at me: Kevin’s Father.

I asked for Kevin, and he shook his head sadly. With great sorrow, he handed me a small box with my initials burned into the wood. Then Kevin’s Father grabbed his jacket, and left the house, telling me to follow.

We walked awhile, until we reached a familiar sight, and my heart dropped: It was the graveyard. Kevin’s Father continued walking, till we reached a grave, marked with Kevin’s name.

Then, Kevin’s Father told me Kevin had gone to war, and returned dead.

The box, he told me, was the last thing Kevin did before he left, and that Kevin had wanted to see me before he’d gone to war.

Back home, I opened the box. Inside was a beautiful golden locket, and letter from Kevin. It told me of how he loved me, and always would. And how he’d left for the war, because he was needed there. It ended with these words: I hoped when I return, we might marry. But if you are reading this, I never made it there. Just always remember this: I love you.

Two years later, I met Markus Josephs. A year later, we married, and I wore the locket. Yet still, I thought about Kyle, and my stupidity.

The lesson of this tale, my dear reader, is this: never let who you love go. Nevermind you might not be perfect. Don’t do what I did, and miss your chance.

It was simply signed: Emma. With a sigh, I folded the letter with a heavy heart. Grandmother’s tale was terribly sad.

Then I looked down at the box. I realized it wasn’t empty, for at the bottom lay a golden locket, shaped in a heart, and carved in flowers. I picked it up, studying the beauty of it. Then I opened it.

A small piece of paper fell to the table. I pick it up, unfolded it, and start reading.

This locket should be worn at your wedding. It stated.

I pick up all the letters, place them carefully back into their box, and close the lid. I pick it up, and set it back into its drawer, and closed it. I re-locked it, and placed the key on top of the dresser. Then, with locket in hand, I ascend the stairs.

The doorbell rang. Somehow, I know its Jake, probably wanting to talk to me. I pause a moment, thinking about my Grandmother’s final story.

Then I make my decision, and open the door.

Two years later, I’m wearing my Grandmother’s locket, Jake at my side as we take our vows, and silently thanking my Grandmother’s wisdom. And the secret of her old dresser.

The high and mighty confused queen of the thirteenth tile on the bathroom floor