The Lost Name

 By Cyrene W. 

Andi started up the stairs two at a time. The attic was a place of mystery, where more than once she had discovered chests of clothes and other items from her grandma’s childhood. Normally she would have been out with the horses, but, on this damp and dreary Sunday afternoon, she was eager to see what the attic might hold this time.

The trapdoor groaned—as usual—on its rusted hinges as she yanked it open at the top of the stairs. She stepped into the dusty space and breathed the familiar smells of wood and antiques. Her eyes fell upon familiar bookshelves and old crates filled with mysterious items, and piled boxes full of clothes and old rags. Today, however, in the far-left corner, next to an old trunk, something curved caught her eye. Only a small bit of the item was revealed beneath a pile of old cloth and cobwebs.

Whatever could it be? Cautiously, Andi walked forward. She bent down to identify the object as a small painted cradle and excitement brewed in her chest. Delicate carvings were etched into the cedar wood; designs she had never seen before. She sucked in her breath, hesitating to touch it—unsure whether the extra handling would crumble the ancient masterpiece. Finally, with great care, she brought the wooden frame into the dim light that shone through the window on the roof.

She rubbed a soft hand across the wood, brushing away the layer of cobwebs. It’s so pretty. She stood there admiring it for a moment, pondering whose it had belonged to, when small words sprawled across the side caught her eye. She squinted to catch what it said.

“Mercy Ann.”

A frown furrowed her brow. She sifted through past memories, but the name meant nothing to her. She wondered why she had never been told of this girl before. Was this bed made for a child she had never known? 

She searched for more clues. The trunk was her first destination. There, she found a baby quilt and a pair of soft pink pajamas. She sighed at the beauty of the soft fabric. But this still didn’t tell her how the cradle had been in the attic.

Perhaps Mom will know. She picked up the quilt and clothes and was about to put them in the cradle when she saw something tucked inside the cradle. She leaned down and pulled it out. Turning it over in her hand she realized it was a homemade journal.

With a new excitement she slumped back down, the floor boards creaking beneath her weight. She was sure she had found a clue as to who the cradle belonged. Blowing the dust from the leather-bound book she, careful not to rip the worn cover, turned to the first page. The once soft flour-sack paper was now crinkled and stiff.

The words, written with faded blue ink, swirled across the sheet. She read the first entry with interest. “‘Today I got a little cradle. I’m very excited, for now I’ll have a place for my baby to sleep. She has been sleeping with me, and I’m glad she’ll have the comfort of her own special bed. I’m hoping to make a new blanket for her, too’.”

So, this must be the child’s mother. Andi scanned over the page, but there was no way of knowing who this mysterious woman was. On the next page there was a drawing of a sleeping child in a small cradle. The cradle that now sat empty at Andi’s side.

 “Andi?” Mom’s voice called from downstairs.

She jumped up and hurried to answer, forgetting the journal was still in her hands. “What is it?”

Mom was in the kitchen preparing supper. “I want you to—” She turned sharply at the sight of the book. “Where did you find that?”

Andi looked down. “Oh, in the attic.” Then she blurted, “Mom, there’s an old cradle with this journal in it, and I was wondering why you’ve never told me you had a family member named Mercy!”

Mom looked surprised. “What?”

Andi frowned. “The cradle said there was a baby named Mercy, but I didn’t know anyone by that name.”

“Andi. Where did you find that?” Mom asked again, wiping her hands off on a towel. 

“In—in the cradle. Who’s is it?”

Mom sighed and brought a confused Andi into the living room. “That was your great-grandmother’s, Andi.”

Her eyes widened. Her great-grandmother had had a little baby named Mercy? Why hadn’t she been told this? Perhaps Mom restrained herself from telling me because she thought I wouldn’t understand, she found herself thinking angrily. She quickly checked herself, feeling ashamed. There must be a good reason, she thought instead.

Mom was continuing. “When my grandma was young, her family was poor. The journal was the only gift she had gotten in her life—other than the cradle you found in the attic. Her father—my great-grandfather—built it for her.”

Andi looked down at the worn book and felt like it would fall apart in her hands. She didn’t get any of it. “Why did great-grandmother say she got a cradle for her baby?”

Mom laughed softly, a dimple appearing on her left cheek. “Grandma had made a doll, whom she named Mercy.” She sighed. “I’m sorry if you got confused, but you shouldn’t come to conclusions without knowing the facts first.”

Andi looked once again at the precious book and had to smile. That explained a lot. It was hard not to jump to conclusions, but she decided it was much easier not to. One thing she knew for certain, the attic no longer felt full of forgotten junk; it felt full of stories—waiting for someone to ask the right questions. She couldn’t wait to be the first one.