Mimi's Grudges

Mimi had a drawer in her kitchen dedicated entirely to things she couldn't forgive.

It wasn't an actual drawer labeled Things I Can't Forgive. She wasn't completely unreasonable. It was the third drawer beneath her silverware organizer, the one that stuck whenever the humidity climbed above sixty percent. Inside were birthday cards, old photographs, newspaper clippings, a broken porcelain bird, a Christmas ornament shaped like a pear, and several envelopes containing letters she had never sent.

There was also a handwritten list.

Mimi called it her inventory.

It was organized alphabetically, which she considered perfectly reasonable. If she was going to hold a grudge, she saw no reason to be disorganized about it.

There was Arthur Bell, who had borrowed her favorite casserole dish in 1998 and returned it with a crack.

There was Mrs. Henderson, who had once told the entire neighborhood that Mimi's hydrangeas looked diseased.

There was her cousin Lorraine, who had eaten the last piece of chocolate cake at their grandmother's eightieth birthday party despite knowing Mimi had been saving it.

And then there was her sister, Margaret.

Margaret occupied an entire page.

Mimi hadn't spoken to her in eleven years.

That particular grudge was not something Mimi considered negotiable.

Mimi was seventy-two years old, lived in a little blue house with white shutters, and had a reputation for being the sort of woman who could remember an insult longer than most people could remember their passwords.

She was not particularly unpleasant. In fact, most people liked her.

She baked excellent apple pies, watered her neighbors' flowers when they went on vacation, and knitted blankets for the local animal shelter. She remembered birthdays, sent thank-you cards, and kept a tin of homemade cookies on her kitchen counter.

But Mimi had a peculiar talent for remembering the worst thing anyone had ever done to her.

And she rarely let them forget it.

If someone mentioned Arthur Bell, Mimi would say, "Oh, the casserole thief."

If anyone complimented Mrs. Henderson's garden, Mimi would smile sweetly and remark, "Well, some people have a talent for making things look better than they are."

She never explained herself.

She didn't have to.

Mimi believed that forgiveness was something people demanded when they wanted to escape the consequences of their behavior.

And she had no intention of allowing anyone to escape.

The trouble began on a Tuesday.

Mimi was making soup when someone knocked on her front door.

She opened it to find a young woman holding a cardboard box.

"Hello," the woman said. "Are you Mimi?"

"Depends who's asking."

The woman smiled nervously.

"My name is Clara. I'm Margaret's granddaughter."

Mimi's hand tightened around the door handle.

Margaret.

The name landed in her chest like a dropped stone.

"I see."

Clara glanced at the box.

"Grandma passed away last week."

Mimi said nothing.

"I'm sorry," Clara continued. "I know you haven't spoken in a long time, but she asked me to bring you something."

Mimi looked at the box.

"What?"

"Her recipe books."

Mimi almost laughed.

"How thoughtful. Your grandmother always did have a talent for giving people things they didn't ask for."

Clara looked uncomfortable.

"She said you would probably be angry."

"Your grandmother was occasionally capable of recognizing obvious things."

Clara nodded.

"She also said you would probably tell me to leave."

Mimi stepped aside.

"Well, she's apparently still making decisions for other people."

Clara entered.

The box contained six handwritten recipe books, several loose photographs, and a small wooden jewelry box.

Mimi recognized the handwriting immediately.

Margaret's handwriting had always been beautiful. Slanted, elegant, and annoyingly consistent.

Mimi sat at the kitchen table while Clara unpacked the contents.

"Grandma said these belonged to both of you," Clara explained.

"They belonged to her."

"She said you helped her write them."

"I helped her cook. There's a difference."

Clara pulled out a photograph.

Two little girls stood in a garden, their arms around each other. One had dark hair and a missing front tooth. The other had blonde curls and a solemn expression.

Mimi looked away.

She recognized the photograph.

She was the blonde one.

Margaret was the dark-haired one.

They had been inseparable once.

They had built forts in the backyard, stolen apples from the neighbor's tree, and spent entire summers making up ridiculous recipes that their mother had been forced to taste.

Margaret had been the brave one.

Mimi had been the sensible one.

At least, that was how Mimi remembered it.

"Would you like to know what happened?" Clara asked.

Mimi stiffened.

"I know what happened."

Clara hesitated.

"Grandma told me her version."

"Then you have heard enough."

Clara placed the photograph on the table.

"She said she was sorry."

Mimi looked at her.

"She had eleven years to say that."

"She tried."

"Not hard enough."

Clara lowered her eyes.

Mimi stood and carried the empty soup pot to the sink.

"Would you like some lunch?"

Clara blinked.

"Actually, yes. Thank you."

Mimi sighed.

"Well, at least someone in your family has manners."

The argument between Mimi and Margaret had begun over something seemingly insignificant.

Their mother had died in the winter, leaving behind a small house filled with thirty years of memories.

Mimi wanted to keep it.

Margaret wanted to sell it.

Mimi believed the house should remain in the family. Margaret believed neither sister could afford the upkeep.

They argued.

Then they argued some more.

Eventually, Margaret signed the paperwork without consulting Mimi.

The house was sold.

Mimi never forgave her.

But there was another part of the story.

A part Mimi rarely discussed.

The night before the sale, Margaret had called her.

She had explained that the house was falling apart, that the roof needed replacing, and that the property taxes were overdue. She had begged Mimi to consider the practical realities.

Mimi had refused.

She accused Margaret of caring more about money than their mother's memory.

Margaret had cried.

Mimi remembered that.

She remembered hanging up.

And she remembered the satisfaction she had felt when Margaret called again the next morning.

Mimi hadn't answered.

She had decided that if Margaret wanted to destroy their family home, she could do it without Mimi's blessing.

The house sold three weeks later.

Neither sister attended the closing.

Neither sister called afterward.

Eleven years passed.

Clara visited again the following Thursday.

Then the Tuesday after that.

Eventually, she became something of a regular visitor.

She was twenty-six, worked as a schoolteacher, and had inherited her grandmother's habit of talking too much.

Mimi found this irritating.

She also found herself looking forward to it.

Clara asked questions about Margaret.

Mimi answered some of them.

Others received a pointed silence.

One afternoon, while helping Mimi organize the pantry, Clara discovered the inventory drawer.

She pulled out the handwritten list.

"Oh my goodness."

Mimi turned around.

"Put that down."

"Is this a list of people who have upset you?"

"It's a list of unresolved matters."

Clara read the first few entries.

"Arthur Bell?"

"Stole my casserole dish."

"Mrs. Henderson?"

"Insulted my hydrangeas."

"Your cousin Lorraine?"

"Chocolate cake."

Clara stared at her.

"How long have you been keeping this?"

"Since 1986."

Clara laughed.

Mimi did not.

"These aren't funny things," Mimi said.

"I know."

"People think they can just do whatever they please and expect everyone else to forget."

Clara considered this.

"Do you think they remember?"

Mimi frowned.

"What?"

"Do you think all those people remember what they did?"

Mimi looked at the list.

"Some probably do."

"And the ones who don't?"

Mimi opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Clara gently placed the paper back in the drawer.

"Do you think they spend as much time thinking about it as you do?"

Mimi looked offended.

"Of course not."

Clara nodded.

"That sounds exhausting."

Mimi slammed the drawer shut.

"You're a very impertinent young woman."

Clara smiled.

"Grandma said you would like me."

Mimi turned away.

"Your grandmother was frequently mistaken."

But she was smiling.

A week later, Clara brought Mimi a small wooden box.

"I found this in Grandma's bedroom," she explained.

Mimi recognized it immediately.

It was the jewelry box from the original package.

She had never opened it.

Now she turned the little brass key and lifted the lid.

Inside were two silver rings.

They were inexpensive things, tarnished with age, each engraved with a tiny flower.

Mimi's breath caught.

She remembered them.

She and Margaret had bought the rings at a county fair when they were sixteen. They had promised each other that no matter what happened, they would always be sisters first.

Mimi picked up one of the rings.

Beneath it was a folded letter.

Her name was written across the front.

She opened it.

Dear Mimi,

I don't know whether you will ever read this. I have written it several times and thrown it away because I never seem to find the right words.

I miss you.

I miss the little girl who used to steal apples with me. I miss the woman who knew exactly how I took my coffee. I miss having someone who remembers the things I remember.

I know I hurt you when I sold the house. I should have waited. I should have found another way to explain things.

But I also need you to know that I was frightened. I couldn't afford to keep it, and I didn't know what else to do. I thought selling it was the only way to keep us from losing everything.

I have spent eleven years wondering whether I should have let the roof collapse just to keep you from being angry with me.

I hope someday you can understand that I wasn't trying to erase our childhood. I was trying to survive the present.

I love you.

Your sister,

Margaret.

Mimi read the letter twice.

Then a third time.

She sat very still.

Clara quietly left the room.

That evening, Mimi opened the inventory drawer.

She read the list.

Arthur Bell.

Mrs. Henderson.

Lorraine.

Margaret.

She picked up the pen beside it.

For a long time, she stared at the paper.

Then she crossed out Arthur Bell.

Not because he had returned the casserole dish.

He hadn't.

She crossed out Mrs. Henderson, whose hydrangeas had probably died years ago.

She crossed out Lorraine, who had once apologized for the cake and had apparently forgotten the incident entirely.

Then she reached Margaret.

Her hand stopped.

The ink blurred.

Mimi put the pen down.

She wasn't ready.

And for the first time, she realized that perhaps she didn't have to be.

The following Sunday, Mimi baked an apple pie.

She made it from Margaret's recipe book.

She followed the instructions exactly, including the ridiculous amount of cinnamon her sister had always insisted was necessary.

When it came out of the oven, the kitchen smelled like childhood.

Mimi placed two plates on the table.

Then she remembered there was only one person coming for lunch.

Clara arrived at noon.

She took one look at the second plate and smiled.

"Expecting company?"

Mimi adjusted the napkin.

"No."

Clara sat down.

"Of course not."

They ate quietly.

After a few minutes, Mimi pushed the recipe book toward her.

"Your grandmother made this pie better than I do."

Clara smiled.

"She said you made it better."

Mimi shook her head.

"Your grandmother was a terrible liar."

Clara laughed.

Then Mimi looked at the empty chair across the table.

"I used to think holding a grudge meant remembering something important."

Clara waited.

"But I think I was wrong."

Mimi traced the edge of her plate.

"I think I was afraid that if I forgave people, what they did wouldn't matter anymore."

Clara reached across the table.

"But it still matters."

Mimi nodded.

"Yes. It does."

She looked toward the kitchen drawer.

"I suppose I spent so much time making sure everyone remembered what they did to me that I forgot to remember who they were before they hurt me."

Clara squeezed her hand.

Mimi smiled sadly.

"Your grandmother was my best friend."

"I know."

"She was also a stubborn, infuriating woman."

Clara grinned.

"I know that too."

Mimi laughed.

A genuine laugh.

It surprised her.

Three months later, Mimi did something extraordinary.

She cleaned out the drawer.

The birthday cards went into a scrapbook.

The photographs went into frames.

The broken porcelain bird was glued back together, although it remained slightly crooked.

The Christmas pear ornament went onto the tree.

The inventory list was folded into a small square and placed inside Margaret's recipe book.

Mimi didn't destroy it.

She didn't pretend the past hadn't happened.

She simply decided that she no longer needed to carry every unpleasant thing with her.

Some things could be remembered without being relived.

Some apologies could be accepted even when the person offering them was no longer around.

And some people could be missed without being punished for leaving.

On the anniversary of Margaret's death, Mimi visited the cemetery.

She brought two silver rings and a small apple pie.

She placed one ring on the headstone and kept the other in her pocket.

For a long time, she stood quietly.

Then she said, "You know, I was angry with you for a very long time."

The wind moved through the trees.

"I thought if I stayed angry, I wouldn't have to admit that I missed you."

She brushed a little dirt from the headstone.

"I was wrong about quite a few things."

She smiled.

"I suppose you knew that already."

For a moment, she imagined Margaret standing beside her, rolling her eyes and telling her not to make such a production out of everything.

Mimi laughed.

Then she cried.

And neither felt like a betrayal.

That evening, Clara came over for dinner.

She found Mimi in the kitchen, humming while she prepared vegetables.

"What's the occasion?"

"Nothing special."

"You're humming."

"Am I?"

"You only hum when you're happy."

Mimi considered that.

Then she smiled.

"I suppose I am."

Clara noticed the empty drawer beneath the silverware organizer.

"What happened to your inventory?"

Mimi stirred the soup.

"I retired."

"Really?"

"Well, I haven't entirely abandoned the profession. I'm still considering what to do about the woman who keeps parking in front of my mailbox."

Clara burst out laughing.

Mimi winked.

"One must maintain standards."

They ate dinner together, then spent the evening looking through old photographs.

Mimi told stories about Margaret that Clara had never heard.

Some were funny.

Some were embarrassing.

Some were heartbreaking.

For the first time, Mimi didn't tell them as evidence of everything that had gone wrong.

She told them because they were memories worth keeping.

Before Clara left, she hugged Mimi.

"Grandma would have loved this."

Mimi held her a little tighter.

"I hope so."

After Clara drove away, Mimi returned to the kitchen.

She opened the drawer.

It was empty now, except for a small piece of paper she had deliberately left behind.

It read:

People are more than the worst thing they've ever done.

Mimi looked at it for a moment.

Then she added another sentence beneath it.

And so am I.

She folded the paper, placed it beside the silver ring, and closed the drawer.

Outside, the evening settled over the little blue house.

Mimi made herself a cup of tea, sat beside the window, and watched the first stars appear.

She thought about all the years she had spent being right.

All the apologies she had refused.

All the birthdays she had allowed to pass without a phone call.

She couldn't get those years back.

But she could decide what to do with the ones she had left.

Tomorrow, she would call Arthur Bell and ask whether he still had that old casserole dish.

Not because she expected him to return it.

But because she wanted to hear how he was doing.

And perhaps, if he answered, she would invite him over for pie.

Mimi smiled into her tea.

She had spent most of her life keeping score.

It was rather lovely, she discovered, to finally stop counting.