Author's note:
This story is fiction; all characters and situations are fictional and any relationship they may bear to any living or dead person is purely coincidental.
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As the casket was loaded into the hearse, my parents, two siblings and I stood with the many mourners who had come to celebrate my Grandpa's life and to commiserate with the family after his death. As I thanked the many friends and relatives, barely known or recognized aunts, uncles, second and third cousins, my mind drifted back to that time when Grandpa and I had become so much more than just relatives as we shared ourselves with each other, each recognizing and meeting the need of the other in a beautiful relationship. The tears I shed were only partially those of sorrow; they were also tears of joy for the love that we had for each other; the joy of what had been outweighing the sadness of what could be no longer. My thoughts drifted back, through the months to the time it all started . . . .
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I was looking forward to getting out and doing some real interviewing. Since I'd started my journalism course, all we seemed to have done was sit in a classroom while lecturers went through seemingly endless hours of theory, from the history of journalism right up to the present day. We watched demonstrations of interview techniques and practised interviewing each other, but I really needed to get my teeth into something more substantial.
Like most students on the course, I knew that I was born to be a journalist and was simply kicking my heels here until I could be let loose on the world to demonstrate my inborn talents for cutting edge revelations of the latest corruption in the halls of power or the sexiest scandal to hit the White House. Phil, my new boyfriend who just happened to sit next to me on the first day of the course, and with whom I moved in after the first week, agreed with me, knowing instinctively that the goals I had for my glorious future were very similar to his own. Our ambitions and confidence fed one another's and we quickly became lost in our own world of fame and fortune as our nightly erotic explorations of each other became more stimulating and enjoyable.
I prided myself on family devotion, tearing myself away from Phil every Sunday to spend time with my parents and, increasingly, with my maternal grandfather. Grandma, his wife, had died several years earlier and, although in his mid-eighties, Grandpa insisted on living in the same house they had lived in for the past 52 years, the house Mom knew as home before she'd married Dad.
"Oh, Maggie," my Grandpa would say when I expressed my frustrations about journalism, "You're so like your mother was at your age. Always wanting to run before you can even crawl, let alone walk. Your opportunities will come to you if you're patient, you'll see. It must just be a family trait. My Maggie, was just like you too."
I recalled that Grandma's name had been Margaret, shortened to Maggie, and my Mom had been named Elizabeth Margaret after her, and I'd also been named Margaret after my Grandma, so it seemed I was the end product of several Maggies, all of whom had my characteristics.
Once in a while, on a Sunday afternoon, Grandpa took out a box of old photographs and leafed through them, reminiscing about people and places I barely remembered. One photograph I did remember, however; it was a black and white photo of a slim, youthful woman dressed in a semi-formal dress and seeing it was almost like looking into a mirror. I could almost recite by heart the words Grandpa would say as he held it in his slightly shaking hand and a tear trickled down his cheek, to be wiped away impatiently by his gnarled hand.
"Maggie, darling, how wonderful to see you again," he always began, then he looked up at me as though this was the first time I'd seen the photograph or heard his words, "This is your Grandma, my darling wife, in Paris on our honeymoon," he would begin, then he'd continue to himself as though I wasn't there, "Oh, did we ever kick up a storm on that trip, eh Maggie. Made love together every night, we just couldn't get enough of each other." He'd then look at me guiltily and smile. "But you're just young, sweetheart, you couldn't know about such things yet."
"Oh, but I do," I'd reply, "I'm 19 after all and I have a wonderful boyfriend and we live together. We've been together for several months now, Grandpa. I know exactly how you and Grandma would have felt."
He'd look at me dubiously through his thick lenses, as though trying to understand how another young couple could possibly have enjoyed the love and ecstasy that he had experienced with his Maggie so long ago.
This ritual happened every few weeks. During that time, I became aware of how much Grandpa was missing the love he had shared with his wife. It was more than simply sharing a house; it was sharing each other. Neither was complete without the other, almost to the extent that he seemingly had difficult functioning as a person without his beloved Maggie. I wondered if that was what happened to couples who became so close over such a long period of time, almost as though they lost their individual identity and shared complementary parts of a single entity. I wondered if it was in my power to bring back that oneness, the sharing that had been so precious to Grandpa.
When he showed me that photograph of Maggie on honeymoon a few months before his 87th birthday, on the spur of the moment I asked if I could please borrow it for a day. He was understandably reluctant and would not allow me to remove it from him.
"It's all I have left of my Maggie," he said tearfully, "Even though I know you would take great care of it, if anything did happen to it I know we would both feel really bad."
"Well, would it be Ok if I was to photograph it please?"
"Oh yes, my dear, of course that would be just wonderful. Then we could each share Maggie." He chuckled at the thought as I used my cellphone to photograph Grandma's photo. Once I was home, I printed out the photo of her on her honeymoon then began planning my surprise. Over the next few weeks I drafted patterns of a dress that was as similar to the one in the photo as I could find. I also found out that it was in pale blue fabric with white trim, and every evening I would spend time cutting and sewing to make the dress. Phil was my assessor, holding the printout of the photo as he watched me try on the partly finished product until at last the whole dress was finished, ironed and ready to wear.
"Sweetheart, you look so much like you're your grandmother in the photo that it's totally uncanny," Phil informed me as he hugged me close, "I can see why your Grandpa was so in love with his wife. You look good enough to eat, in the nicest and naughtiest possible ways."
Without any discussion he picked me up in his arms and carried me to the bedroom.
"Not on the bed," I protested, "You'll crush it."
He set me down, standing up, then proceeded to carefully unfasten each button and peel the dress off my body, hanging the dress on its special hanger, before picking me up again and placing me tenderly on the bed. We made love for several hours, his ardor obviously stimulated by thoughts of the newly-wed Maggie who had worn the original dress.
Grandpa's 87th birthday was on a Sunday, my normal visiting day. Mom and Dad phoned him in the morning and wished him a happy birthday, explaining that they would not be able to visit but would catch up later in the week, but they let my siblings talk with their grandfather and wish him a happy birthday before they all went on a preplanned outing, one which I had declined, much to their annoyance. My parents were not taking my insistence on my independence well.
Later that morning I prepared a delicious lunch and carefully placed it in a cane basket, a replica of the type used many years earlier. I then meticulously groomed myself, arranging my hair to closely resemble the style Grandma wore in the photograph, then donned the new dress and presented myself for Phil's inspection.
"You look gorgeous," he told me, "So much like the photo. I'm sure Grandpa will be totally amazed."
"Well, I sure hope he is. I'll be very interested to see how he responds to my surprise."
I drove carefully around to Grandpa's place, avoiding creasing the dress or upsetting the basket of birthday lunch balanced on the passenger seat. Once there, I checked my hair in the mirror before walking up the pathway and knocking on the door. Grandpa opened it, no doubt hoping that I would be visiting on his special day. Instead of the usual quick hug as I entered the hallway, this time he stopped and looked, staring at me, his eyes running up and down my body, then tears began streaming from his eyes as he embraced me, burying his face into my neck as sobs racked his body.
"You're back, oh, Maggie, you're back. Why did you have to go? Why did you leave without me? Oh, Maggie, it's been so long, such a long, lonely time. Oh, my darling, you look wonderful. You don't seem to have aged a day since we married."
