I click on the calendar and scroll back through each month for the last five years. Each block tells me I’m going to write the story Niko had asked me to—January, February, March. They all tell me the same thing. But I hadn’t done any of it. Hadn’t even started.
Now, she’s gone.
I spear my fingers into my hair and massage my temples.
I’d been too busy chasing my promotion to follow through on the promise I’d made to my grandmother. One thousand words she’d asked for. That was all.
I’m a writer.
I can sneeze a thousand words!
But I never did. Never even had opened a clean Word doc to start it.
Niko had questions, so many of them that I never knew where to start.
My years as an investigative journalist should have equipped me with finding the answers to her questions then. But I was rusty. I was too busy. I was preoccupied with chasing the more glamorous bits of my job. The ones that no longer required me to get my hands dirty.
I’m thirty years old now.
I have a spectacular apartment on the Upper West Side.
I’ve landed my dream job.
The thunder outside roars and the lightning sizzles.
Maxine, chief editor and my boss, wanders around her massive office applying mascara without looking in the mirror as she does it. I can’t help but consider what level of skill that takes, and I wonder if she has a backup plan just in case she stabs herself in the eye. Maxine rattles out orders to her assistant and then gets on the phone. I know it’s only a matter of minutes before she makes her way in here to harass me.
And I take it. Every barked order and ridiculous demand.
You see, Maxine is a large part of the reason why I have this job. Not disregarding the hard work it took to obtain this position, but she mentored me along the way. We even hung out on the weekends. She took me to all the lesbian hotspots around the city. We drank. We partied. I’d most certainly had a moment or two where I wanted to kiss her. But, as much as we knew we had that brewing chemistry, we never crossed that dangerous line. If we had, we knew our jobs would be on the line and I definitely didn’t want to be that gal in the office who my coworkers think only has the fancy title because I’d been rolling naked in the sheets with the boss.
No, thanks.
“Kat,” Gunther, my personal assistant, calls out when he barrels into my office.
The boom of his voice causes me to flinch.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Is it hangover day?” He frowns and drops a box on my desk.
BANG.
Groaning, I spin around in my chair and force a smile. “No, it shouldn’t be.”
“Shame.” He starts peeling away the tape on the box.
I’m practically blinded by his over-the-top neon-green, plaid outfit, but I say nothing about it. I’m not one to critique fashion. After all, I’m wearing holey jeans, a white T-shirt, yellow socks, and Crocs.
“Mondays you should be fresh, Kat. Not red-eyed and reeking of tequila.”
“I know.” I get back to massaging my temples.
In less than two tugs on the tape and the work of a pair of scissors, Gunther has the box open. He peers into it, curious, as though he’s looking down the rabbit hole. He squints, reaches in and pulls out another box and shakes it around indicating there’s another box in that box. A box in a box in a box…
My headache comes back full force.
Gunther gets to opening the second box and pulls out the third and final one.
I pop a few more acetaminophen. “What is it?” The words come out garbled around the pills I hold between my teeth as I reach for water to toss them back with.
“I don’t know, Kat.”
I toss the pills back and freeze when my eyes fix on the box.
“It’s beautiful.” Gunther touches the white lace which covers it. His mouth falls open as he examines it.
“Who is it from?”
Gunther rummages through all the paper to find the delivery confirmation. “Well, it was mailed to you a long time ago. Not sure why it’s just getting here, Kat. It’s from a Niko Sato.” He examines me. “Your…”
“Grandmother,” I whisper, edging closer to the box, peering at it. Reaching out, I pull the top off it.
Gunther’s unruly blond hair gets in my way. “They look like something I’d wear.” He jerks back, shifts his weight to one hip and giggles. “They’re beautiful, Kat.” He presses a hand to the center of his chest.
“Yeah, I know.” I brush my finger over the lace.
Gunther shoves me a card. “It was stuck on the top.”
I take it in my hand and peer down at the words.
Beautiful girl, when this reaches you, surely, I am gone.
Most people have diamonds or homes or cars they can never let go of.
But me, I have these.
They are all I have ever adored.
I’ve never even touched them, only have opened the box to stare at them, too afraid that my hands will taint their purity and past. They once belonged to my mother, Atsumi. I’ve told you about her. This is all I have left of her. My father kept them. I’m not certain why. I’ve never been good at finding the answers, Kat. I was never brave enough to search. To close that piece of my heart that will always remain burning and broken for the mother I wish I had known. And though I never had the pleasure of knowing her, I hope that with your bravery you may.
I press the card to my chest and swipe away the tear that trickles down my cheek. Gunther is already sobbing Erica Kane style. I toss him an annoyed glance.
His hand flaps around. “I’m sorry, you’re crying, so I’m crying.” He wipes his tears.
I shake my head and adore the pair of gold ballet slippers in the box which are surrounded by lace and silk fabric. They’re stunning.
They’re old, immaculately made and well-preserved.
I’d heard many stories over the years from Niko about how her mother was a ballet dancer in Tokyo after the war. But they were only stories, she’d said. Only secondhand information people had given her because she’d been separated from her mother as a baby.
I’m still touching the ballet slippers, still weeping.
Gunther guards me, obscuring me from view as people amble by my office.
It’s a small mercy, one I’m grateful for.
I pull one of the slippers out, feeling something powerful wash over me like an essence. It tugs at my heart, wakes me up, shakes me out of this wretched beast of a hangover. My eyes narrow when I reach into the silk fabric and find a slip of paper with old ink scribbled across it in Japanese script: For you, Mayako, my beautiful girl, you.
“What does it say?” Gunther asks. “Is it something romantic?”
I smile. “Yes, it is.” I tell him what it reads.
“That’s sweet.” He smiles.
“Yes,” I breathe out, spin around and gaze out through the glass at the stormy weather.
The cursor on my screen is still blinking, waiting for the words I’ll never write.
Maxine is still wandering around in her office, bossing people around, making hand gestures like crazy.
“Who is Mayako?” Gunther questions.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t know.” I glance over my shoulder at him.
But I’m going to find out.
One thousand words…