The Gown(19)

The Nguyens had moved on before Heather was even born, but she knew Nan had kept in touch with them over the years. Their youngest son, a doctor, had driven all the way from Montreal to pay his respects.

“Whenever we tried to thank her,” he told Heather and her parents, “she said she knew what it was like to move to a new country and start over.”

Dr. Nguyen’s words had come back to her later, when she was washing the dishes, for the idea of Nan having to start over had given her pause. Of course they all knew that Nan was English, from somewhere near London, and had moved to Canada after the war. Even if she’d never told them, her accent would have given her away.

Growing up, living just around the corner from Nan, she’d never seen a photograph of her grandfather, nor any other pictures of her grandmother’s life in England. She’d asked a few times, when she was little, but Nan had always changed the subject.

Her mother hadn’t been able to answer any of her questions either. “They’re all like that, you know. The ones who lived through the war.”

“Because things were so awful?” Heather had been in high school, and they’d been talking about the world wars in history class.

“I suppose. And because they came here to make a fresh start. Away from the memories of everything they’d lost. So you can’t blame them for not wanting to talk about it.”

As she dried the last of the good china, Heather stole a glance at her mother. She seemed to be holding up well in spite of everything, but her mom had always been good at putting on a brave face.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can finish this off on my own. You should sit down for a bit.”

“I’m fine, honey. I’d known it was coming for a while. And you know, part of me is grateful—not that she’s gone, of course. Only that she stayed herself right to the end. She’d seen so many of her friends fade away, and I know she dreaded it.”

“Like Mrs. Jackson from across the street.”

“Yes, exactly. After that funeral, you know, Mum turned to me and made me promise to put a pillow over her face if she ever went dotty like poor Martha Jackson. Of course I’d never have done such a thing, but I knew what she meant. That’s why we didn’t have the doctors jump in when she got so sick. You seemed upset about it, when I talked to you the morning she died, but—”

“I understand, Mom. Honestly I do. You absolutely did the right thing.”

“I’m glad you think so. Oh—I keep forgetting to tell you. I found something when I was going through Nan’s things. All the overflow from her house that we’d been keeping in the basement.”

“What kind of something?” Heather asked, her interest piqued. “Please tell me it isn’t another box of stuff from Nan’s shop. Sunita’s the only one of my friends who knits, and she’s neck-deep in yarn already.”

“No, nothing like that. Just some pieces of beaded fabric, but she’d written your name on the box, so she must have wanted you to have them. Hold on—they’re in the spare room.”

Heather sank into the nearest chair, her feet aching, and closed her eyes. She’d get up and wipe down the counters in a minute.

“Here we go,” her mom said, depositing a large plastic box on the kitchen table. On its lid, in black Sharpie marker, were the words For Heather in Nan’s handwriting. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

Heather pulled the box toward her and pried off the lid. Inside was a single, tissue-wrapped bundle. Suddenly tentative, she looked at her mother for reassurance, then folded back the top layer of fabric to reveal a rose.

Not a real rose, of course, but rather an embroidered rose, its petals made of stiff white satin, each attached separately to a backing of fine, nearly translucent fabric. Each petal was edged with tiny pearls and even tinier glass beads, all of them sparkling merrily under the harsh fluorescent lights of her mother’s kitchen.

She wiped her trembling hands on the fabric of her yoga pants, suddenly remembering that Nan had always insisted on clean hands when handling precious things. The edge of the fabric had been rolled under, a bit like an expensive scarf, and the stitches were so fine she had to squint to see them. In the bottom corner was a monogram worked in thread that was only a shade darker than the fabric.

“EP,” she whispered. “At least I think it says ‘EP.’”

Holding her breath, she lifted it up, really so she could look at the embroidery better, and saw there was something underneath. It was another layer of thin cotton fabric, the same as the wrapping. This she drew aside to reveal a second piece of embroidery: three star-shaped satin flowers, also decorated with pearls and crystals. Beneath that was a third design, this time of three curving ears of wheat, their grains made of rice-shaped seed pearls. And beneath that was a photograph.

“Hold on,” her mom said. “I didn’t notice that before.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. There’s some writing here on the back. I think it might be Mum’s handwriting. ‘London. Oct. 1947. Waiting for HM.’”

It was of a group of women, most of them seated around one of four long, narrow tables in a large, bright, high-ceilinged room. Heather counted twenty-two women in total, most of them wearing white coats or aprons over vintage-style dresses. Not vintage when the photo was taken, she realized.