Not Just A Story

A story about the death of a family member and how it helps a young college girl examine her shaking faith.

She sat on the front steps impatiently running a long index finger along her cell phone screen. Weatherbug. No email. Nothing new on Facebook. Two quick games of Candy Crush. One boring game of Scrabble.

"C'mon, Mom," she tapped her foot on the cracked cement as she checked the time once more. "Where are you?"

Looking up toward gathering storm clouds, she noticed two women in flowing black dresses and corny-looking hats tromping through the flower-specked grass. Each was carrying a pie.

"Good morning. I'm Alberta. My sister Bessie and I wanted to come by and pay our respects after Ms. Dief's passing," the older woman announced.

"I'm Tamara," the young girl said. "Tamara Jenkins." She awkwardly gathered both pies in her arms. "She was my great-grandmother."

"Oh, you were the one she was so proud of!" Bessie beamed as she straightened her hat. "She would go on and on about you going off to college and all. Used to talk about you all the time!"

"Really?" Tamara was in disbelief. "I hadn't really seen Nana in years. Not since I was little actually." She looked down at the small front porch fondly, remembering the jumping games she and the neighborhood children used to play.

"Such a shame," Alberta twisted the beautiful pearls at her neck. "She was a joy. Well, we don't want to overstay our welcome. We'll see you at the funeral this afternoon, then?"

Tamara nodded and smiled sweetly even though she didn't feel it. "Thank you for the pies."

As the women walked away, her mother pulled into the drive behind the wheel of a brand new Lexus. "Sorry I'm late, honey, but my meeting ran long."

Rolling her sea-green eyes, Tamara shoved a pie into her mother's hands.

"I'm just ready to get this over with," she said with a snort. "I really don't even know why I need to be here."

Balancing the cherry pie in one hand and fishing house keys out of her purse with the other, Carla Jenkins slowly opened the front door. "I thought you might want some of Nana's things for your dorm or to hold on to them for your own place after graduation."

Flipping on the living room light, Tamara blinked as the dust and faded wallpaper was harshly illuminated. "Why would I want any of this? It's so old and musty. It wouldn't fit in with any of my stuff at all." Running a long manicured finger along the top of a chipped wooden coffee table, Tamara scrunched up her nose in disgust.

Carla Jenkins ignored her daughter as she noticed the old Bible and Nana's bi-focals sitting on a flowered ottoman. "I should've visited more often," she said. "But I travel so much and have so many responsibilities."

"I know," Tamara agreed, a touch of sadness in her otherwise uncaring voice. "How long has it been since you've seen Nana?"

"Oh, five, maybe six years. I don't know." Carla plucked an old black-and-white framed photograph from the fireplace mantel.

"Who's that?" Tamara peered over her mother's shoulder.

"That's Granddaddy. You wouldn't remember him. He died right before you were born." The older, slightly taller female began to chuckle. "Something that was always odd about Nana," she began, a far-away look in her eyes, "was after Granddaddy passed away she never brought in his tattered old jeans from the clothesline. She said that when they flapped in the wind when it kicked up she knew Granddaddy was watching over her from Heaven."

Tamara turned her back and stared at some old dishes in the massive china cabinet that consumed an entire wall of the country kitchen. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Mom."

"What's that?" Carla asked absentmindedly.

"About Heaven and God and stuff." Tamara cleared her throat nervously. "I'm in college now. Heck, I'm twenty-years-old. I just don't believe in it anymore. You know, kind of like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Carla asked her, oh so grown up daughter. "Where do you think Nana is right now? Where do you think she's going to be?"

Tamara scuffed a high-heeled toe along the hardwood floor. "She's dead. She'll be in the ground. She'll turn to dirt. The end. That's all she wrote."

"Tamara Jean!" Carla was shocked. "You were raised in church. Vacation Bible School, church camp, Sunday School! How..."

"Look, can we talk about this later?" Tamara interrupted. "I'm so ready to get out of here." Tamara walked swiftly into another room.

Dejectedly but trying to move forward, Carla picked a brightly colored quilt from the double bed in the spare bedroom. "How about this for your bed this winter?"

Shaking her blonde head negatively, Tamara quickly moved into the sitting room. "Oh God! I remember this furniture. It always scared me to death!" Her eyes widened as they scanned over the polished cherry wood armrests of the antique chairs. Dragon heads with flaring nostrils and forked tongues taunted and teased her.

"Nana's mother had that shipped here from Poland," Carla explained. "It is kind of creepy."

"It always reminded me of the Devil," Tamara trembled.

"So, if there is no God, can there still be a Devil?" Carla inquired.

"Mom, please," Tamara pleaded. "There are things I know. I know about this furniture because I remember it. I know about Granddaddy's jeans because I remember the story. I remember Sunday School and camp and everything but I just, I don't know. It could all just be a story."

"But it's not a story, it's ..."

Her mother's words faded as she unlatched the back screen door and stepped out into fresh rain-scented air. She clutched at her throat with a pale hand. "Lord have mercy," she muttered hoarsely.

Walking toward the taut clothesline she grasped the legs of a pair of faded jeans. Hot tears welled and tumbled onto freckled cheeks. Scrawled onto a scrap of paper pinned to the material was a short note:

"Many thought I was insane
'Cause I kept your tattered jeans
But they'd keep my faith intact
'Til I got my own golden wings.

You are the love of my life
And I never wed another
My heart split wide in two
When I lost you and my brother.

I know you've built a mansion
'Specially just for us
You and God have my soul
As my body returns to dust."

"See, it's not just a story," Tamara Jenkins' mother yelled above the roar of the howling wind, her skirt twirling about her knees and the flapping of the tattered jeans.

Author's Note

Please give an overall review on this short story. Thank you!

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I do enjoy your stories. You are a great storyteller. I like the characters and the wisdom shared.
"I know you've built a mansion
'Specially just for us
You and God have my soul
As my body returns to dust."
The above words stood for me. Thank you for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote

[MelissaAndres]

Thank you, Coyote! Your kind words mean a great deal to me. One of my grandmothers lived until the age of 94 but my grandfather died several years before she did. Every year we thought would be Grandma's last year but she kept going. One day she said, "I know Grandpa's building me a house in Heaven." My father's response was: "He must be building you a mansion!" I kind of worked this story around that comment, actually.

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good tale and you are welcome.

[MelissaAndres]

You have been too kind!