Today's Reading
I sometimes have trouble deciphering the literal from the figurative, but even all those years ago, I knew enough about human anatomy to understand that no key in the world can unlock the human heart.
"If that's a metaphor, I don't grasp it," I said. "Precisely what does this key open? A locked box? A drawer? A safe, perhaps?"
"It's the key to everything," Gran insisted. "It is all of me. And it is for you."
Gran was so ill by this point that I assumed her mind was addled from pain. Moreover, I knew it was. There were times during those final days when she'd mutter unintelligibly under her breath—Birds of a feather...or A stitch in time...At other moments, she'd suddenly call out to someone she saw in her bedroom when there was no one there but me.
"Gran," I urged whenever she regained consciousness. "This key fits a lock. Where's the lock?"
Her eyes fluttered—open, closed, open. She homed in on me as though she'd never seen me before, and yet I'd lived every day of my life by her side.
"You don't know who I am," she said.
"Of course I do. You're my gran. And I'm your Molly, remember?"
"I remember everything," she replied.
Then one day Gran asked—begged—to leave this world. I pleaded with her, but to no avail. I wanted so much for her to be well, and yet I always knew she would leave me one day.
"It's time," she said again and again.
And just like that, she was gone. By gone I do not mean asleep or on holiday or traipsing to the corner store to fetch a jug of milk. What I mean is: she was dead. Yes, dead. There really is no point sugarcoating these things. It was not easy or simple. She died.
My gran taught me to be direct. She also taught me everything else of substance I've learned in this life. For that, and for her, I remain forever grateful.
Today, I can't stop thinking about her. In a cavernous chamber in my mind, her voice echoes, her refrains repeating in a Möbius loop. Perhaps I'm daft, with a mind as soft as unripened cheese, but there are times when I feel her lingering close. It's as if she's trying to tell me something—to warn me of some calamity or unseen danger ahead. I'm used to this, of course—to being the last to know, to understanding too late. What I'm 'not' used to are warnings delivered from beyond the grave by someone who is most certainly very dead.
* * *
"Molly, are you okay? Molly, look at me. Wake up."
I'm staring into bright lights. Where am I? People crowd around me, shouting and calling my name. Is this an operating room? No, that's not it. The place is familiar, but everything is blurred.
"Molly, listen to me!"
"Open your eyes!"
I know one thing only: something is terribly wrong. Was I in an accident?
Am I dying, my soul rising to meet its maker?
Then I hear it, loud and clear—Gran's voice.
All that glitters isn't gold.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Yes. I remember. I know where I am. I'm in the well-appointed tearoom of the Regency Grand, the five-star hotel where I work as a maid. My beloved fiancé, Juan Manuel, and I arrived early this morning to set up for the day's big occasion—a fine arts and collectibles event with Brown and Beagle, celebrity appraisers and costars of the hit TV show Hidden Treasures. I'm not dying, thank goodness, but I'm also not all right. I'm lying on the floor, and all around me are microphones and iPhones and TV cameras and jostling humanity.
This was not supposed to happen. These cameras were never supposed to be focused on me. But moments ago, a revelation was made that was so astonishing, so absurd it feels like a dream. To my utter horror, I'm no longer the invisible maid toiling in the background but the epicenter of attention. An entire room of lookie-loos surrounds me, and they're shouting at me in a desperate frenzy.
...
