Page 47 of The Ring
I knew she was coming—she always comes for my birthday—but Anthony had told me she was arriving tomorrow, probably because he knew I’d spend all day waiting for her, unable to do or think about anything else. And he was right to do so.
Ever since I found out, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been trying to distract myself—scrolling through my phone,moving some of Anthony’s books, staring at the white walls, and at the daisies on top of the console table. He’s not someone you’d expect to have flowers in his office, but he always has daisies in the same spot, in an interesting-looking flower pot that seems to have a drawer, but you can’t open it. Still, nothing seems to work.
After a few more minutes of complete boredom, I hear noises coming from downstairs and know they have finally arrived.
I dash down to receive them, Anthony trailing behind, but at a leisurely pace. It’s almost as if my grandmother had the same idea, because I bump straight into her and my aunt halfway down the stairs leading to the first floor, where Anthony’s office is located.
“Rose,” my grandmother says the moment she sees me, “come here and hug me.”
She’s the only one who calls me by my middle name. She does so because she loves that I’m named after her. Her name is Vivienne Rose Tipton.
I do as I’m told and hug her.
Like always, she smells of Chanel No. 5. Her light brown hair falls gracefully over her shoulders, elegantly styled. She’s wearing a splendid fur coat, and her fingers, neck, and arms are stacked with jewellery. I love my grandmother dearly, and she is exactly how I want to be and look when I reach her age.
“Hmmm, my favourite granddaughter,” she says, embracing me in a warm hug.
Anthony catches up to us and first greets Aunt Miranda with a hug. They share a very close relationship—she’s one of the people he’s most attached to. From what I understand, this is partly because Aunt Miranda was around a lot during Anthony’s childhood.
They finish hugging, and I go to hug my aunt while Anthony takes my place and greets our grandmother.
My aunt looks a lot like my mother before all her cosmetic surgeries. Brown hair—though my mother dyes hers often, her natural colour matches my aunt’s—hazel eyes, tall. But on the inside, she’s everything my mother isn’t: dependable, mature, and grounded. Sometimes I wish she had been my mother instead. She would have been an amazing mother, but she never had kids or got married. Maybe she didn’t want to. If she really wanted a child, she could have adopted or gone the sperm donor route, as Nate’s mum did.
Even though they look so much alike, they can’t stand being in the same room together. My aunt harbours a deep, personal hatred for my mother. I don’t know the reason. And even though I’ve wanted to ask, I never have. It feels like it’s one of those family things you’re not supposed to ask about. But I’m sure my aunt doesn’t lack reason. I hate my mother most of the time, too.
“And my favourite grandson,” my grandmother says as she finishes hugging Anthony.
“You only have one grandson,” I remark.
My maternal grandmother has five grandchildren: three daughters from Uncle Roland—Caroline, Elena, and Heidi—none from Aunt Miranda, and then Anthony and me from our mother. I’m the youngest of all the grandchildren, and Anthony is the only grandson on both sides of the family.
My father is an only child, which is somewhat ironic, considering that my paternal grandparents had a love story-like relationship, from what I’ve been told. My paternal grandfather passed away before I was born, so I don’t have any memories of him or them together. In contrast, my maternal grandparents had a completely different dynamic; they practically hated each other but still managed to have three children. As mygrandmother once put it,“He was a misogynistic bastard, but the sex was incredible.”He passed away the same year I was born, so I don’t remember him.
Anthony ruffles my hair. “You get jealous easily.”
“I do not,” I say, offended, as I fix my hair.
“Even if I had more grandsons, your brother would still be my favourite,” my grandmother chimes in.
Anthony looks at me triumphantly, and I stick my tongue out at him in response.
“How about you both stop acting like twelve-year-olds,” my grandmother says jokingly. “And instead we go sit in the living room so I can give you your birthday presents,” she adds, turning to me. “Which is probably the only reason I got such a warm welcome.”
We all begin walking up the stairs. “That’s not the only reason,” I insist as we reach the living room, trying to sound convincing—though it might be one of the main ones.
“In that case, she can save the gifts and give them to you on your actual birthday next week,” my aunt teases.
“Well, shecould,but if you already have them on hand, why wait?” I say, and they all burst into laughter.
The four of us settle down in the living room, and my grandmother pulls two vintage Cartier boxes from her bag. She’s just as obsessed with jewellery as I am. Her collection is amazing, and every birthday and Christmas she gives me a couple of her pieces. I love modern jewellery, but there’s something about vintage pieces—they have their own story, they’re more unique, and the fact they’ve lasted this long says a lot about the craftsmanship that went into creating them.
She hands me the first box, which I know by the size contains a ring. “It’s a piece you were eyeing the last time you visited.”
That narrows it down to all of her jewellery—I eye all her pieces when I visit.
I open the box, and inside is a Cartier Trinity ring—but it’s different from the usual ones. Each band has a ribbed texture, a beautiful twist on a classic piece. It is a special edition made in the 1980s.
I set the box aside. “Thank you, Grandma, I love it.” I give her a hug.
