A Woman's Grandmother Left Money and Jewelry to Everyone in the Family – But to Her, She Left Only an Old Cassette Tape and Told Her to Listen to It Alone

The faded label on Grandma's cassette held only her name, though everyone else left the lawyer's office carrying money or jewelry. Then her lawyer shut the door, repeated a warning meant only for me, and sent me home to find a machine that could play whatever she'd kept hidden from us all for years.

"That's all she left you?"

My cousin was laughing.

I looked at the cassette in my hand.

It was gray, with a faded paper label and PENNY written across one corner.

"That's all she left you?"

"I suppose so," I said.

The lawyer cleared his throat.

My grandmother's apartment had been left to her children. Her jewelry was divided among my cousins, along with several modest financial gifts.

Her jewelry was divided among my cousins.

There was the pearl necklace she wore to church.

The gold bracelet that always caught on her cardigan.

A pair of earrings I remembered her putting on for my grandfather's birthday dinners.

I hadn't expected anything expensive.

Still, I'd imagined she might leave me something familiar.

I hadn't expected anything expensive.

Her recipe box, perhaps.

Or the little clock from her kitchen.

Instead, I had a cassette.

***

"Maybe there's a secret fortune recorded on it," my cousin teased.

I slipped the cassette into its envelope.

I had a cassette.

Grandma Penny had been dead for eight days.

I was still waking up on Sunday mornings and reaching for my phone before remembering there was nobody to call.

I didn't have the energy to defend her choice.

Grandma Penny had been dead for eight days.

When the meeting ended, the lawyer asked me to stay.

The others filed out.

One cousin paused beside my chair.

"Let us know if she mentions anything interesting."

The lawyer closed the door.

"Shannon, your grandmother gave me very specific instructions."

The lawyer asked me to stay.

He sat opposite me.

"She wanted you to listen to that alone."

"Why?"

"She didn't say."

I looked at the envelope.

"Then how do you know?"

"Because she asked me to repeat her exact words."

"She wanted you to listen to that alone."

He consulted a note.

"'Listen alone. And don't trust anyone who asks what's on it.'"

I stared at him.

"She actually said that?"

"Yes." He folded the note and placed it back in the file.

"Did she tell you what she'd recorded?"

He consulted a note.

"No. She only asked me to make sure you received it."

I turned the envelope over.

"Did she explain why I wasn't left anything else?"

He looked down at the file.

"She made that decision herself, Shannon. I can't tell you what she was thinking."

"She only asked me to make sure you received it."

***

Outside, my cousins were standing near their cars, discussing which jewelry pieces needed cleaning.

I walked past them.

One called my name.

I pretended not to hear.

***

Grandma and I had been close for as long as I could remember.

I pretended not to hear.

When I was little, I spent entire weekends at her apartment.

She kept a spare cardigan in the guest room because I always got cold after helping in her garden.

We baked on Saturdays.

Planted flowers every spring.

Went to church on Sundays.

We baked on Saturdays.

As I grew older, the routines changed, but the visits didn't stop.

Sometimes I joined her and her friends for bingo.

Sometimes we walked through the park.

Sometimes we sat in her kitchen reading separate books and saying almost nothing.

The visits didn't stop.

My cousins visited on holidays.

They weren't cruel people.

They had jobs, children, and commitments.

They simply weren't there as often.

Then Grandma became ill.

They weren't cruel people.

During her final hospital stay, I visited before work to read the newspaper.

In the evenings, I brought whichever novel we'd been reading together.

Near the end, she couldn't follow much of the story.

Once, I reached the bottom of a page and realized she'd fallen asleep.

I kept reading anyway.

Near the end, she couldn't follow much of the story.

Now, driving home from the lawyer's office, I couldn't stop thinking about the cassette.

Not because I wanted money.

I would have liked something of hers that I could use.

Something that didn't require finding a machine from the last century.

I couldn't stop thinking about the cassette.

***

At home, I put the envelope on the kitchen table.

Then I called my mother.

She asked how the meeting had gone.

I told her.

"A cassette?" she repeated.

"Yes."

I called my mother.

"Well, Penny was never predictable."

"Did you know?"

"No."

"Mom, why would she do that?"

"I don't know, sweetheart."

I heard dishes being moved in the background.

"Are you upset?"

"Mom, why would she do that?"

I looked at the envelope.

"A little."

"That's understandable."

I appreciated that she didn't tell me the tape must be priceless in some sentimental way.

She simply let me be disappointed.

"That's understandable."

After we hung up, I opened the hall closet.

When we'd sorted Grandma's belongings, I'd asked to keep her old cassette player.

Nobody else wanted it.

I'd taken it because I remembered her playing music while she baked.

It was still in the grocery bag I'd carried home.

Nobody else wanted it.

I set it on the table, found the power cord, and plugged it in.

The cassette had SIDE A written in faint blue ink.

I pushed it into the player.

Pressed PLAY.

For a moment, there was only a low whir.

I pushed it into the player.

Then a child's voice shouted:

"I planted a flower!"

I sat very still.

It was me.

Not the voice I heard when I spoke now.

A little girl's voice, high and impatient.

I sat very still.

Grandma laughed.

"What kind of flower, Shannon?"

"The purple kind."

"That narrows it down."

"The one with the purple."

"Oh, that one."

I laughed aloud.

"The purple kind."

I'd been about six.

I could picture the garden behind Grandma's apartment.

The old metal watering can.

The soil that got stuck beneath my fingernails.

I'd been about six.

On the tape, Grandma asked whether I'd remembered to water my flower.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"How much is a lot?"

A pause.

"All the water."

Grandma asked whether I'd remembered to water my flower.

Grandma made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough.

Then she laughed again.

"Oh, Shannon."

The recording ended.

I sat listening to the empty tape for another few seconds.

Then I rewound it.

I sat listening to the empty tape for another few seconds.

I wanted to hear her laugh again.

I played the whole thing twice.

On the third listen, I noticed something.

Grandma hadn't corrected me.

She'd asked another question.

And another.

I wanted to hear her laugh again.

I'd answered every one.

I turned the cassette over.

SIDE B.

There was a longer pause before Grandma spoke.

Her voice was older.

A little rougher.

"Shannon, sweetheart. I hope that made you laugh."

I turned the cassette over.

I covered my mouth.

"I've had that recording for years. Your grandfather made it when you were little. He thought it was funny that you could talk about one flower for twenty minutes."

A chair creaked.

"I never could remember what those purple flowers were called."

"Your grandfather made it when you were little."

She paused.

"There's something I should've told you a long time ago."

I leaned closer.

"When you were six, I heard you talking to your mother one afternoon. You said you thought people liked you better when you were quiet."

"I heard you talking to your mother one afternoon."

I frowned.

I didn't remember saying that.

Grandma continued.

"I don't think you meant anything terrible by it. Children say all sorts of things. But I remember wondering why you thought you had to make yourself smaller for people."

I didn't remember saying that.

A little rustling came through the speaker.

"So the next weekend, I asked you to help me plant flowers."

I looked toward the window.

"You talked the entire afternoon. You told me about your teacher, your shoes, a bird you'd seen, and those purple flowers."

"You talked the entire afternoon."

She chuckled.

"I don't believe I finished a single sentence."

I could see her now.

Kneeling beside the garden bed.

Letting me pour too much water.

Listening.

"You always thought you came to keep me company," she said.

I could see her now.

I reached toward the player.

"That wasn't how it started, dear."

The tape hissed softly.

"I liked having somebody who wanted to talk to me. And I liked that you didn't seem worried about saying the wrong thing."

I sat back.

"I liked having somebody who wanted to talk to me."

For years, I'd remembered those weekends as something I did for Grandma.

I hadn't considered that she'd invited me because she thought I needed somewhere to talk.

Then her voice changed.

"Now, I need to tell you about something I got wrong."

She thought I needed somewhere to talk.

I stopped the tape.

I didn't mean to.

My finger simply landed on the button.

The sudden silence was awful.

Grandma had apologized to me before.

For burning cookies.

For forgetting to save the newspaper crossword.

The sudden silence was awful.

Once, for giving my birthday card to the wrong granddaughter.

But this sounded different.

I pressed PLAY again.

"As you grew older, I got used to you coming around. I loved it, Shannon. I truly did."

This sounded different.

She cleared her throat.

"After your grandfather died, there were days when the apartment felt terribly quiet. Sometimes I'd mention that when you called."

I remembered her saying things like:

It's so quiet here today.

I haven't had anybody to talk to all morning.

"There were days when the apartment felt terribly quiet."

I'd usually offered to visit.

She continued.

"I didn't always think about what those words might make you feel you had to do."

I stared at the player.

"You were nineteen when your friends invited you away for a weekend. Do you remember that?"

I'd usually offered to visit.

I did.

A cabin by a lake.

Four friends.

Two nights away.

I'd been excited until Grandma called to ask whether I was coming for Sunday lunch.

I'd told my friends I couldn't go.

I'd said I had family plans.

I'd told my friends I couldn't go.

Grandma continued.

"You told me you'd rather come over. I believed you."

I looked down.

"I found out later you'd wanted to take that trip."

The cassette clicked faintly.

"I heard you telling your mother you hadn't wanted to disappoint me."

"I found out later you'd wanted to take that trip."

I remembered my mother telling me I was allowed to go.

I remembered insisting it was fine.

I remembered spending that Sunday at Grandma's apartment, laughing over a terrible bingo story.

It hadn't been an unhappy afternoon.

That was what made the memory difficult.

I remembered insisting it was fine.

"I was so proud that you loved me," Grandma said. "I was ashamed that I'd let you believe loving me meant never disappointing me."

I pressed my fingertips against the edge of the table.

Grandma had never mentioned the cabin trip.

Not once.

Grandma had never mentioned the cabin trip.

"I tried to do better after that. You may remember I started making more plans with Mabel and the others."

I did.

Sometimes I'd call and Grandma would tell me she couldn't see me on Sunday.

Come Tuesday. I've got bingo.

I'd occasionally been offended.

Not seriously.

I'd occasionally been offended.

Just enough to wonder whether she'd grown tired of me.

"I enjoyed those afternoons," Grandma said. "And I enjoyed knowing you had things to do without me."

She paused.

"Although I still think that one fellow you dated was a complete waste of a perfectly good Saturday."

I laughed.

"Grandma."

"I enjoyed those afternoons."

She'd hated that boyfriend.

Apparently death hadn't improved her opinion.

Then she said, "There's another recording I want you to hear."

I looked at the cassette.

She'd hated that boyfriend.

"It's an old message you left on my answering machine. I used to play it back while I had this recorder running. I didn't know I'd caught my own voice afterward until I listened."

A click.

The sound changed.

"It's an old message you left on my answering machine."

My own adult voice came through, thin and distant.

"Hi, Grandma! I can't come Sunday. I've got something planned. But I'll see you Tuesday, okay? Love you!"

I waited.

Then I heard Grandma.

Not speaking to me.

Speaking in the room after she'd listened to the message.

I heard Grandma.

A small, surprised laugh.

"Well, look at that. My girl has somewhere she wants to be."

A pause.

I bent over the table.

I couldn't even remember what I'd been doing that Sunday.

"Good for her."

The tape clicked softly before her voice returned.

"I liked our Sundays, sweetheart."

A pause.

"I liked the Tuesdays too."

Then the tape clicked off.

"I liked our Sundays, sweetheart."

***

I didn't move.

Eventually, I reached for the envelope.

There was no hidden note inside.

No second gift.

Just my name written in Grandma's familiar handwriting.

There was no hidden note inside.

I wished she'd left me her pearl necklace.

I wished she'd told me all this while we could still sit together in her kitchen.

And I wanted to hear that little laugh again.

I rewound the tape.

Before I could press PLAY, my phone rang.

I wanted to hear that little laugh again.

It was the cousin who'd laughed at the lawyer's office.

"Shannon? Did you listen to it?"

I looked at the cassette player.

"Yes."

"What was on it?"

"Shannon? Did you listen to it?"

I thought of Grandma's warning.

Don't trust anyone who asks what's on it.

"It's Grandma talking."

"About what?"

"Us."

"It's Grandma talking."

My cousin went quiet.

Then she asked, "Did she say anything about the jewelry?"

I rested my hand on the cassette.

And suddenly I understood why Grandma had wanted me to hear it alone.

"No," I told my cousin.

"Did she say anything about the jewelry?"

"Could I hear it? Just to be sure?"

"Grandma left me something private. I'm keeping it that way."

I ended the call.

***

The following Tuesday, I returned a borrowed book to Grandma's bingo friend, Mabel.

"Could I hear it? Just to be sure?"

"She talked about you constantly," Mabel said.

"I worried she was lonely."

"Sometimes. But she didn't spend her days waiting for you, sweetheart."

"Really?"

"I worried she was lonely."

Mabel chuckled.

"Once she brought the wrong glasses to bingo and insisted every card was printed incorrectly."

I laughed.

I could almost hear Grandma arguing with the caller.

"Once she brought the wrong glasses to bingo."

That evening, a friend invited me away for the weekend.

Sunday included.

I started typing an excuse.

Then I remembered Grandma laughing at my answering-machine message.

I deleted the excuse and typed:

"I'd love to come."

I started typing an excuse.

Before leaving, I asked Mom whether I could take a cutting from Grandma's garden.

She helped me choose one of the purple flowers.

When I returned Sunday evening, the little plant was waiting on my windowsill.

Its soil was dry.

I watered it.

Its soil was dry.

My phone lit up with another invitation for next Sunday.

I glanced at the cassette player on the shelf.

Then I texted:

"Count me in."

I moved the plant closer to the sunlight and left the tape where it was.

"Count me in."