“Come here you weasel,” my grandma rubbed my head, “it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep!” I remember whining.
Then she rubbed her chin, just like my grandfather does. “How about I tell you a bedtime story? It will be a special one.”
I yawned. “You always tell the same stories.”
She frowned. “Oh no, this isn’t like all the other ones I’ve told you, Radley. It’s something that truly happened to me.”
“Really?” I yawned again. I never thought she would have anything interesting to tell. She was always sitting on the couch knitting another ugly Christmas sweater, even in the heat of July.
“Why yes I do,” she nodded, leading me towards my bedroom with all of my favorite toys.
Tucking me into bed with my superhero action figure, she gave me a kiss on my forehead, then she began like this:
“Before I met your grandfather, I met another man while I was in college—”
“What’s college?” I interrupted.
She smiled. “It’s where you’ll go some day, to get an education so that you can get a job.”
“What’s education?”
“I will tell you another time. You’ll know when you get older,” she replied, clearing her throat before continuing:
“I met a man in 1945—who went by James—when I was in school. It was my first time being away from my family, and I was afraid. I didn’t know where to go or who to call when I needed help.
“But this man, Radley, was always willing to lend a hand when I dropped my books or got lost. He was a charming student, with big brown eyes that would melt your heart; a tall, tanned figure; and wide shoulders sculpted by hard labor, his mousy hair messed up by the wind’s fingertips. All of his girl classmates wanted him; my teacher had to shush them when he waltzed into the class.
“We would talk every day after school, but despite being my friend, he flattered me about how gorgeous my beautiful-blue-ocean eyes are, about how each curl was like a rose that bloomed on my shoulder, or how my cheeks are like the sweetest cherries when he told me another corny pick-up line. So I came to dislike him, because I’m not the only girl whose heart was captured by his honeyed words. More often than not, I would wonder when he would tire of me, and if anyone could fill the void that would create.
“One day, when he confessed to me his love for my innermost being, I told him to get lost because I knew he was a ladies’ man, and I was so infuriated that I turned to leave for what I thought was the last time. Did you know what he told me then?”
“What, Granny? What did he tell you?”
“I know I have a lot of bachelorettes seeking to be my wife, Charlotte, but I could never dream of another woman. When I heard you talk for the first time, I knew I’d never meet another woman like her again in my life. I want you, Charlotte, and only you.”
“That’s it?” I asked. It was then that I decided I would never complain about grandma’s bedtime stories ever again.
“Why yes, but it changed my opinion of him. From that day forward, he was my ‘boyfriend.’
“He took me to go stargazing one winter, watching the sky bless us from above with a myriad of stars that I’ll never forget. It was on that night he told me again why he loved me. He said it was because I had a kind heart in a world of stony ones, and because my brain wasn’t stuffed with straw. When I asked him about that incident, he said he had forgiven me.
“Then he leaned in a little and said, ‘Is it okay if I kiss you?’
“I told him yes, and it was the best kiss I’ve ever had, even better than the one on my wedding day. I still get butterflies thinking about it.”
“Wait, you mean—”
“Yes. Yes, it was. Don’t tell him.”
Fortunately, I didn’t. At the time I planned on spilling everything after Thanksgiving and Christmas.
“Pinky promise?” she extended it to me, her finger hanging in the air by an invisible thread of hope.
“…Okay,” I said, locking pinkies with her.
“Good,” she smiled. “I know this is a lot for you to understand, Radley.” She turned away for a moment, taking a sip of tea before returning to me. “I loved him, more than anyone else. I would’ve married him, if he didn’t have to go back to visit his ailing grandfather and his old farm.”
“Why, what happened?” I asked.
She paused. “I think this is where our story has to end. I’m surprised you haven’t fallen asleep yet.”
“But I haven’t heard about what happened to James.”
“Perhaps another time.” She stood up, tense, and said, “Nightie night, your parents will be home soon. I will tell them how wonderful it was looking after you.”
It’s been years since then, but I still remember that story. She died just a year later, leaving behind her unfinished knits and sweaters for my grandfather. It’s better he didn’t know; if I ever told him, I would shatter the heart that took him three years to piece back together.
“
Emily Nguyen is a writer who loves to put her thoughts and crazy daydreams into words that she can’t say aloud. In her spare time, she loves arts and crafts, like crocheting and sewing.
Featured image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.
