The Last Will and Testament of Cora Mae Redding

The lawyer’s cavernous office swallows me whole and I feel lost.

“Sandra Redding?” Don Blasingame asks.

I nod, hugging myself as I eye his extended hand. His fingers curl away, and the proffered hand instead points to a chair. I slide into the leather seat and cross my legs, tugging down my short skirt. My purse hangs heavy on my shoulder, and I shrug it off and drop it to the floor. In it is a full bottle of Halcion, pills supposedly to help me sleep. More than enough to see me to the end.

Without preamble, Blasingame reads my grandmother’s will. Her death had seemed as shadowy as a dream, but even as the reality of it crashes down around me, my heart is a stone.

Somewhere in the narrative, I lose the thread.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “What’s a contingent gift?”

“In simple terms, it means she left most everything to charity, but that amount—”

“If you say she didn’t leave me any money, I’m good with that. You don’t have to keep reading.”

Nana was always big on helping others, but I’m not surprised she didn’t leave me anything. I’m past the point of help.

“Ms. Redding, you’re the sole beneficiary of your grandmother’s estate, up to twenty-thousand dollars, contingent on the following: she included a small black notebook of some two-hundred pages, and for each page read, you will receive one hundred dollars. Should you tell me to stop reading, any monies accumulated up to that point will be your inheritance, the remainder going to charity.”

I’m filled with a mixture of curiosity and dread, but the thought of twenty thousand dollars to journey out of this life on is appealing. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

“Bear with me. I’m to start with the last entry.” He opens the back cover and flattens the page, then begins reading in a measured tone.

Dear Bug,

Looks like we won’t get that chocolate shake after all. I am thankful, though, for every phone call. Last thing I wanted was for you to feel ashamed to be around me. You have nothing to be ashamed about. You will always be that special little girl I met thirty years ago. I am still so proud of you. I know life hasn’t turned out the way you wanted. If I could give you one gift, it would be this: you are not your mother. If your heart ever finds the truth of that, there will be no stopping you.

I’m guessing Nana wrote this shortly before she died of cancer. My face flushes with regret. I abandoned her the last fifteen years of her life.

One page and a hundred dollars, and I wonder if the cost to my soul is worth it.

Dear Bug,

I was thrilled to hear from you today. While I have every material possession I could desire, I’m lacking one thing: my Bug. I know your job situation won’t allow you a visit, but in this old woman’s dreams, you walk in the front door with your suitcases and after we get you settled in, we go down to the ice cream shop for a chocolate shake and it’s as if no time has passed at all.

$400.

This is four years before my Nana died. I have every intention of going to visit her, but I don’t want her to see me. Not like this. There’s no going back.

Dear Bug,

It’s been two months since you ran away. Your father is not interested enough to look for you, and the police are no help. I’ve been up to Minneapolis twice and spent a week each time looking for you. I won’t let you go so easily. I know sometimes you have to run away to find yourself. Please, God, keep my Bug safe.

$1,200.

I pick up the phone a dozen times to call Nana and hang up each time before talking to her. Ten years go by before I do talk to her. I say I’m doing good, conveniently omitting my dependence on alcohol and codeine to make it through the day. I am my mother.

Dear Bug,

I want to tell you I’m sorry. No woman wants to confront the truth that she’s failed as a mother. I can’t help but feel I’ve failed both you and your mother. The courts say you’re to go live with your father, a man who in your fifteen years has never bothered to see you one time. I wish to God I could take all that pain from you. Last thing you said to me was how you hated your life. I don’t blame you one bit for being angry. Just remember, anger is a dead-end street. I’d give anything to see my Bug smile again.

$3,000.

After my mother dies, I spend a year with an indifferent father who feels put upon to feed, clothe, and shelter the daughter he never wanted. When I turn sixteen, I run away. Each day on the streets, my mother’s shadow grows, until there’s no light left inside me.

Dear Bug,

Your mom told me about the fight at school. I normally don’t espouse violence as a solution, but when the system won’t protect you, you have to protect yourself. If you don’t stand up to a bully, they will continue to make your life a living hell. I hope you cleaned that bully’s clock! Don’t ever feel bad for standing up for yourself.

$3,900.

When I tell mom how the bully cornered me and I fought back, and how I’d been suspended for three days, she beats me black and blue. She says Nana is disgusted with me and I feel two inches tall. When I burst into tears, she says I’m weak, that I’ll never amount to anything.

I believe her.

The next day, I drag out of bed at noon and there’s no sign mom’s been awake. I creep into her bedroom and find her cold, stiff body. I’m crying again, for what should have been and never was. Sightless eyes stare at the ceiling, and her mouth hangs slack. I think of those stiletto words stillborn in that lifeless chest and relief floods through me, then a guilt so bitter I sink to the floor.

I can’t stop sobbing.

The police find me curled in the corner.

Dear Bug,

I’m so proud of you for entering your painting in that art contest and winning first place. Fifty dollars! That painting is my favorite in the whole world! You have real talent and ability. I can’t wait to see what you create in the future.

$4,500.

After we cash the check, Mom informs me the contest judges made a mistake. I’d really come in last place, and the money must be returned. In the alley behind our house, I stomp on my painting until the frame cracks and the canvas tears, imagining it’s my heart. God only knows what my mom blew the fifty dollars on. After that, any time Nana brings up art, I change the subject.

A hot tear slides down my cheek as Nana’s notebook peels away the calloused layers of my life.

Dear Bug,

I write this as an apology. I sued the courts for custody of you and your mom convinced the judge that she’s a fit mother. They’ve ruled in her favor. Your mom vows I’ll never see you again. This is so much worse than any outcome I could have imagined. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.

$14,800.

The year I don’t see Nana, Mom tells me I’ve been such a bad girl that Nana can’t stand to be around me.

Blasingame asks if I need a glass of water and I mumble a terse, “No.”

Mom’s need for a cheap and available babysitter overrides her threat to keep Nana away. She pawns me off at Nana’s anytime she feels the need to be free of me, which is often. Most of those evenings, Nana and I can be found at the ice cream shop, laughing over a couple of chocolate shakes.

Dear Bug,

I came over today to bring you a gift. Just because. I’m worried you’re not getting enough to eat, so I also brought food. Your mom was in a “mood” and I’m sorry for the fight that happened. Something meant to put a smile on your face, and I left with you in tears. Just know this. I will never not love you or want to give you good things. You deserve happy moments in your life. Just because.

$17,000.

This page settles on the first crystalline memory of my life. I see mom and Nana fighting in the cramped kitchen of our trailer house. You think I can’t raise my own child? Quit butting into my life! I’m clutching the snow globe that Nana brought me. It’s a snowman standing in front of two frosted evergreens, and I love it. When I shake it, snow swirls all around. Mom hurls the aluminum containers of food against the wall, and then she snatches the globe out of my hand. She waves it in Nana’s face, and for a terrifying moment I think she’s going to hit Nana. The globe shatters against the wall and my heart shatters with it. This fight is all my fault.

The remaining pages shine a light on my dark prehistory.

Dear Bug,

I hope it’s okay to call you bug. I think it fits: cute as a bug! Today you took your first steps, and what an event it was. Walking is for mere mortals. You had to run! All the way across the living room to your mother, knocking the glass of water out of her hands. She shouldn’t have yelled at you, and she should have been paying attention. But for a brief moment I saw the gleam in your eye and the smile on your face. No doubt about it. My Bug is special!!!

$19,400.

I can’t recall the last time I felt special, but the love radiating from those pages seeps in, and my heart remembers.

Dearest Sandra,

I bought this notebook the day I found out your mother was pregnant. This will be a journal of sorts, just between us. Today is March 16th. You were born a few hours ago, pink and screaming for all you were worth. I can say with all honesty you are the most beautiful baby. Sandra Mae Redding. See, we already share a connection. I suspect we’ll share a good many things! For now, just know that you are in every way positively perfect!!!

$19,900.

My whole life, mom’s voice has played back in my head: You’re momma’s little mistake. You ruined my life. You look like that son-of-a-bitch father of yours. You’re worthless! An endless loop poisoning every good thing in my life.

“This last is written on the inside cover,” Blasingame says.

You are not your mother.

$20,000.

Blasingame closes the notebook.

“The journal is yours. I just need your account information to transfer the money.”

I am not my mother. My beautiful Nana who loved me has reached out from the grave and poured some essential part of herself into me. Two hundred pages all saying the same thing: I am not my mother!

“Ms. Redding…?”

I want to cry, and I want to laugh. In the end I do a little of both.

“Twenty thousand to an addict like me would be a death sentence. I can’t take the money.” I fish the bottle of Halcion from my purse. “I’d appreciate it if you’d dispose of these.”

His eyebrows arch, but he takes the pill bottle without question.

“On second thought, I think I will take a little of that inheritance. Four dollars should just about do it.”

“Four dollars?”

“Isn’t that the going rate for a large chocolate shake?”