Page 15 of In a Word, Yes

The classic icon of a bygone era. For that matter, thesexiesticon, to my thinking, with its graceful curves and rows of round black keys emblazoned with gold letters.

Welcome to our humble abode, you beautiful thing, you. Please stay forever.

I love you.

Bending, I retrieve the sticky note that fluttered to the floor when I hastily disrobed the typewriter. When Mom discovered the typewriter in the back of Nana’s closet, this note was attached, hidden beneath the dust cover. In Nana’s rickety cursive, two words dance before my eyes—For Lucy.

How long ago had she placed it there, anticipating the day when she would leave this world and I’d remain?Oh, Nana.

In contrast to the heft of the typewriter, the delicate sampler is feather-light. I don’t even have to bring its aged fabric closeto my face to catch a whiff of her scent. Sweet marzipan and spices.

The same smell that surrounded me whenever I sat at her table, punching keys on this very instrument, turning out yet another edition of the Montgomery family newspaper. Evidently Nana, too, never forgot those afternoons when I assigned myself every role from editor in chief to reporter—every byline was mine—to delivery girl.

Seated now, facing the typewriter at my own kitchen table, I’m carried back. To all the silly interviews and reporting on daily events in our home. Which basically amounted to a highlight reel of Vanessa’s successes. Reviews of the high school plays in which she starred. Oh, and who could forget all my coverage of her varsity athleticism? Soccer, swimming, tennis?

I could always count on Dad to contribute a corny joke or a goofy anecdote about something that went haywire at work.

Fingers stained with black ink and sticky with Elmer’s Glue, I typed, I cut, and I pasted, patching together a master copy, which Nana would then take to Kinko’s.

Patching together.

Exactly what it was—my desperate, juvenile attempt to maintain a sense of normalcy and connectedness despite the empty chair at our dining table. Mikey’s. And the other chair that was frequently empty. Mom’s.

A scene plays through my mind as if it happened only yesterday.

“Time to finish up, cara mia, if we’re going to make it to Kinko’s.”

I whined, begging Nana to phone Mom again. I’d been trying for several days to ask her my interview questions,but, of course, she was traveling.

“Oh, sweet one. We’ve already left two messages. If she could pick up,she would. You know that, right?”

“But this can’t wait! I have everyone’s song dedications except for hers!” A special feature I’d been excited to include in the Valentine’s edition.

“Aww,such a sweet idea.” Nana leaned over my shoulder. “Show me what you have so far.”

I sucked in a deep breath and hit the carriage return several times so she could see the lines I’d just typed. “See, Vanessa dedicated thisone to me.”

“‘You Look Good in My Shirt’? Funny name for a song.”

“It’s country. And then I dedicated ‘Glamorous’ to her...” Even vexed as I was, I couldn’t hide my quirk of a smile. “And here’s Dad’s dedication to Mom.”

“‘Crazy for You’? This is a love song?”

“Madonna.”

“Ah. I’m sure she will love it.”

“So, see, I just need Mom’s. Why won’t she call back?” My childish mewling hurtmy own ears but couldn’t be helped. How could I possibly “go to print” without at least her song dedication? How would that make Dad feel? I needed to keep our family together when sadness hung in the airlike dragon tears and Mom wasn’t around to mop it up.

We needed to find our smiles. Our laughter. Each other.

“Tell you what, young lady.Iwill dedicate a song to your father. And thenIwill interviewyou. Oh now, stop with the face. Your mother isn’t the only one whose thoughts matter. You know this, yes? You,too, have something to say.”

I wanted to stiff-arm Nana’s words. No one ever asked my opinion. Was it possible she saw something in me others couldn’t? Not likely. My grandmother was being kindand supportive, was all. Grandmothers are famous for it.

Rain pelted the windowpanes, painting them gray, obscuring the view ofher greenhouse with its year-round supply of pungent herbs.

“‘Blessed Assurance,’ she said, tapping the page. “Put that down,from me to your father. He will know it.” She reached down, wrapped me in her cushiony arms, laid hercheek on my head. “You see, sometimes, Lucia, we haveto carry on. We have to makedo with whatwe’ve got, even if it’s not what we want. Life can be messy, but it doesn’t changethe fact that you are loved. And love, cara mia ... love always requires courage.”