Susannah's Garden

by Debbie Macomber

  “I’ll be here for three or four weeks,” Susannah told her. “It all depends on how things go with Mom.”

  The waitress returned with their Diet Cokes.

  Carolyn picked up her drink. “If you get a chance, stop by the mill and I’ll give you the grand tour.” It would be fun to show her friend the improvements she’d made, even if Susannah didn’t understand their importance.

  They talked for another fifteen minutes, and Susannah tested her French, which after all these years was surprisingly good. Carolyn remained fluently bilingual. Toward the end, Carolyn’s mother had spoken exclusively in her mother tongue.

  “I remember that my conversational French improved according to how much wine I drank,” Susannah said, laughing.

  Carolyn grinned. “Mom made me learn French as a child. I grew up speaking both languages.” She rarely used it now, but she certainly didn’t regret having the ability.

  “Have you gone back to Paris since high school?” Susannah asked.

  “A few times. My grandparents died in the war and I only had one aunt, who never married. My mother didn’t want me to lose my heritage and I’m grateful for the time I had there, but my life is in Colville.” Carolyn knew why her mother had insisted she study in France. She’d been hoping her daughter would meet a nice French boy and fall in love with him. Unfortunately, Brigitte hadn’t realized how closely the nuns watched over their charges at the boarding school. Any chance of meeting boys inside—or outside—those convent walls had been virtually nonexistent.

  Susannah checked the time. “It’s nine o’clock. I’d better go. Mom’s probably waiting up for me.” She took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve made arrangements to take her to visit a couple of assisted-living facilities tomorrow.”

  “She doesn’t know yet?”

  Susannah shook her head. “I thought I’d broach the subject over dinner, but I couldn’t do it. Mom was so pleased to have me with her and so excited about going out to a restaurant, I didn’t have the heart to upset her.”

  “She misses your father, doesn’t she?”

  “Dreadfully. Which is understandable—they knew each other their entire lives. Mom’s completely at loose ends without him, but that’s not the worst of it.” Susannah shook her head. “As we were driving back to the house, Mom got very quiet. She said she had something important to tell me. She claimed that my father had come to her earlier this week.” Susannah closed her eyes for a few seconds. “Her neighbor had already told me about this. But to hear Mom describe it…”

  “She’s missing him so much that her mind must be conjuring him up,” Carolyn suggested.

  “That was my reaction at first, too, but then Mom told me he walked her home. This wasn’t some momentary visit, some trick of the mind. Her hand nearly left bruises on my arm, she was so adamant. My mother says she spent at least half an hour with my father.”

  Shocked, Carolyn couldn’t come up with anything to say. Except that Mrs. Leary was obviously in bad shape, and Susannah already knew that.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, Susannah walked through her mother’s garden, seeking a moment of peace. It was something she often did at home during the summer, wandering through her own garden, assessing the state of her flowers, inhaling their fragrance, making plans for the day. She noticed that Vivian’s plants and flowerbeds were in reasonably good condition—better than she’d expected.

  Afterward, she returned to the house for coffee, hoping there’d be some milk or cream. She opened her mother’s refrigerator and was appalled at what she found. The cheese had grown moldy. A tomato had shriveled up and shrunk to half its original size. Containers filled with leftovers crammed the shelves, most of them several days, if not weeks, old. Along with that, Susannah saw a number of small tinfoil packages; she assumed these were bits of meat. She had no intention of finding out. Almost everything should’ve been discarded long ago.

  The coffee perked in the old-fashioned pot behind her. Of course she hadn’t discovered the carton of milk she’d wanted but the door of the fridge held many small bottles and jars, some of them unopened. Just how many types of mustard could one woman accumulate? Susannah counted twelve different varieties—at least eight more than she’d seen during her visit in March.

  “I didn’t hear you get up,” Vivian said, coming into the kitchen. She tied the sash of her housecoat around her waist. Susannah noticed that her mother had taken to shuffling her feet, as if her slippers were too heavy for her. She took tiny steps and looked so much older than she had even a few months ago.

  “Good morning, Mom,” Susannah said cheerfully.

  Her mother brought down a cup and saucer from the cupboard and set them next to the coffeepot. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well.”

  Her mother nodded. “Do you need something?”

  Susannah glanced back inside the refrigerator and remembered her father shouting at her as a kid to close the refrigerator door. “I was looking for milk,” she said.

  “I have lots of milk.” Vivian seemed surprised that Susannah hadn’t found it. “I’m positive I got some just the other day.”

  Susannah moved a number of plastic containers onto the counter and sure enough, an unopened milk carton rested at the back of the top shelf. Bringing it out, she placed it on the table and reached for her cup. The smell alerted her the moment she opened the milk. When she saw that the expiry date was over a month ago, she dumped the thick, lumpy liquid down the drain, running water to lessen the foul odor.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Vivian asked.

  “It’s gone bad.”

  Her mother’s face twisted with displeasure. The narrowed eyes and pinched mouth was an expression Susannah remembered well from her childhood. It was the same frown she got when she’d misbehaved.

  “I think we should take that carton back to Safeway and demand a refund. They sold me spoiled milk.”

  “Now, Mom…”

  “It’s just like those big chain stores to take advantage of a widow. Well, I won’t stand for it.”

  “Mom, it’s too early in the morning to get upset. Drink your coffee and we’ll talk about it later.” Susannah figured it was pointless to explain that Vivian had bought the milk six or seven weeks ago and then forgotten all about it.

  As her mother poured coffee from the sterling silver coffeepot, her hand trembled. Susannah had to bite her lip to keep from stepping forward and taking over. When Vivian finished, she sat down at the kitchen table, seeming rather pleased with herself. Susannah could only suppose it was because she’d managed without spilling a drop.

  “I had a nice visit with Carolyn Bronson,” Susannah commented, as she joined her mother at the table.

  “Who, dear?”

  “Carolyn Bronson. Remember, you saw her recently and she gave you her phone number? We met last night at the pub where the old A & W used to be.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How are her parents?”

  Susannah found this sporadic forgetfulness frustrating—and sad. But if she reminded Vivian that both Mr. and Mrs. Bronson had died, she might upset her. In any event, she had more pressing subjects to discuss. She decided to be intentionally vague. “I’m not sure, Mom.”

  “Mrs. Bronson is a funny one.” She leaned closer to Susannah and lowered her voice. “She’s always putting on airs because she’s French.”

  “Carolyn was one of my best friends all through school,” Susannah said mildly.

  “I tried to be friendly,” her mother continued, ignoring her remark. “Went out of my way, in fact, but apparently I wasn’t good enough for the likes of Brigitte Bronson.”

  “Carolyn sent you her best.”

  “She was a sweet girl.” Vivian sipped her coffee and again Susannah noticed how her mother’s hand trembled as she lifted the cup. “Unlike her mother…”

  Susannah didn’t want to get involved in a mean-spirited conversation about Brigitte, but she knew what Vivian meant. Alt
hough nothing was ever said, Susannah had always had the impression that Carolyn’s mother didn’t approve of their friendship. As an adult, she was able to analyze those feelings, understanding that Mrs. Bronson was a woman whose unhappiness made her cold and resentful.

  Susannah waited until her mother had finished her first cup of coffee before she brought up the subject of assisted living. “You must be rambling around this house all by yourself,” she began casually.

  Her mother stared at her. “Not at all.”

  “Are you lonely?”

  A soft smile turned up the edges of Vivian’s mouth. “I was until your father came back to see me.”

  “Mom—” Susannah bit off words of protest. She was afraid that her mother had lost her grip on reality and grown comfortable in her fantasy world.

  Vivian studied her as though waiting for Susannah to comment on her father’s visit.

  “Actually, Mom,” Susannah said, gathering her resolve. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

  “What is it?” her mother asked.

  “Mom,” Susannah said, praying for the right words. “I’m concerned about you being here all alone, especially now that Martha’s quit.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, calmly dismissing Susannah’s apprehensions. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Would you consider moving to Seattle?” That would solve so many problems, but even as Susannah asked she knew it was futile.

  “And leave Colville?” Her mother appeared to mull it over, then shook her head. “I can’t. Much as I’d love to be closer to you and the grandchildren, I won’t leave my home.”

  Susannah knew that change of any kind terrified Vivian.

  “Doug and your father are buried here,” her mother went on.

  “Mom—”

  “My friends are close by.”

  Most of whom were dead or dying, but Susannah couldn’t bring herself to mention it. “I’d be able to visit far more often,” she offered as enticement, hoping against hope that her mother would see the advantages of moving.

  Vivian sipped her coffee and allowed the cup to linger at her lips a moment longer than usual, as if she was considering the prospect again. Slowly she shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear, but this is my home. Seattle is way too big a city for me. I’d be lost there.”

  Susannah reached across the table and took her mother’s fragile hand. “That’s something else we need to discuss. Mom, I’m afraid this house is too much for you.”

  “What do you mean?” An edge sharpened her voice.

  “I worry about you here all alone, trying to cope with maintenance and—”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Who’ll shovel the sidewalk when it snows?”

  “I’ll hire a neighborhood boy.”

  “What would you do if a water pipe broke?”

  “The pipes aren’t going to break, Susannah. Now stop being difficult.”

  Susannah didn’t feel she was the one who was being difficult. The more she thought about the problems faced by an elderly person living alone—especially an elderly person losing her memory—the more worried she became.

  “I don’t know why you’d want to come all the way from Seattle to talk such nonsense to me,” Vivian said in a querulous voice.

  Susannah remembered what Mrs. Henderson had said about her attempt to discuss assisted living back in March. That had probably influenced today’s response—if Vivian even remembered the earlier conversation. Regardless, Susannah had hoped that by pointing out a number of practical issues, she could get Vivian to realize on her own the advantages of moving into an assisted-living complex. Clearly that approach wasn’t going to work.

  “Mom, I think we need to sell the house.”

  “What?” Vivian banged her cup against the saucer, her eyes wide. “For the last time, Susannah, I am not leaving my home. I am stunned that you would even suggest such a thing.”

  “Mother—”

  Without another word, Vivian stood, deposited her cup and saucer in the sink and disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom, muttering as she left.

  Susannah planted her elbows on the table, and cupped her ears with her hands. She closed her eyes, silently praying for wisdom. She hadn’t expected this to be easy, but so far she was getting absolutely nowhere.

  After Vivian had dressed, she came back into the kitchen. Ignoring Susannah, she collected a straw basket and clippers. The garden was in full bloom; irises and roses were two of Susannah’s favorites and they were in abundant display along the white picket fence. The lilacs were pruned and shapely, and their heady scent drifted through the open window.

  Given her mother’s limited endurance, Susannah had been surprised to discover that the garden looked quite good, although the fence was a disaster. The paint had faded and one entire section tilted precariously. Her father would never have allowed that to go unfixed for more than a day. He was a stickler for order, at home and in the courtroom.

  “I thought I’d clean out the refrigerator,” Susannah said, making a peace offering.

  Vivian kept her shoulders stiff as she pulled on her gloves. “If that’s what you want to do, go right ahead.”

  “Mom.” Susannah walked toward her. “We still need to talk.”

  “Not about me moving. That subject is closed.”

  “I need to make sure you’re safe and well.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so concerned all of a sudden. Besides, I’m getting stronger every day.” The back screen door slammed as Vivian walked out of the house.

  Susannah sighed heavily. She didn’t want this to dissolve into a battle of wills between her and her mother.

  It took her forty minutes to clean out the refrigerator. She discarded all the containers; the contents of some were impossible to determine. Among the identifiable remains, she found old tuna fish, green-tinged cottage cheese, rotting fruit and vegetables. Her mother saved every scrap and bit. Rather than leave this garbage to smell up the kitchen, she wrapped everything in plastic and carried it outside to the receptacle by the garage.

  As she returned to the house, Susannah noticed that the shelves on the back porch were filled with dozens of senseless items. Her mother must’ve kept every plastic container she’d bought in the last six months. Piles of aluminum trays were neatly stacked, not for recycling, but for some future use. As a daughter of the Depression era, her mother tended to save everything, but it had never been this bad. Even empty toilet paper rolls were carefully piled up.

  “Mom, what do you intend to do with all this stuff?” Susannah asked.

  Her mother looked over from where she stood in her garden, a hose in one hand, and shrugged. “I’m saving it.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She paused. “I never snooped around your house.”

  “I’m not snooping. Everything’s out in plain sight.”

  “Do I question what you save and don’t save?”

  Susannah had to agree that she didn’t. She went back to the kitchen and wiped the counters. This wasn’t how she wanted the visit to go, but she couldn’t delay the inevitable, either.

  “Would you like to ride down to the grocery store with me, Mom?” she asked when Vivian entered the house.

  Vivian put one long-stem red rose in a vase and set it in the center of the table. “My lettuce is coming up nicely,” she said with satisfaction. “So are my herbs. Rosemary’s my favorite, you know.”

  Susannah nodded. “Maybe we could take a drive around town when we’re finished our shopping.” She strived to make this sound like an enjoyable outing.

  Vivian hesitated, as if she wasn’t quite ready to forgive her for their earlier argument. “That would be nice,” she finally agreed.

  Together they drove to the Safeway. Vivian slipped her arm through Susannah’s as they crossed the parking lot and Susannah had the distinct feeling it was because she needed help maintaining her balance. This was also a silent message to let h
er know all was forgiven now.

  They loaded the cart with food Susannah hoped would tempt her mother’s appetite. She bought macaroons, her mother’s favorite cookie. Asparagus, Ritz crackers and other treats Susannah knew her mother wouldn’t purchase for herself. She quietly put back a jar of Russian mustard Vivian had placed in the cart, but kept the olives.

  They left the air-conditioned comfort of the store. The sun was out in full force and at ten o’clock it was nearly seventy-five degrees.

  “It’s going to be a hot one today,” Susannah said as they transferred their groceries to the trunk of her car.

  Her mother responded with a half smile. “I’m sorry, Susannah, but I wouldn’t do well in Seattle. I know you’re disappointed, but I can’t leave Colville. This is my home.”

  A lump momentarily filled Susannah’s throat. “I know, Mom. I don’t want to take away your home. Please understand that I only want what’s best for you.”

  “I’m the one who knows what’s best for me.”

  “Of course you are. Assisted living doesn’t mean you’ll lose your independence. I—”

  “Assisted living? Why bring that up?” Cutting her off, Vivian climbed inside the car and locked the door.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Susannah said under her breath. She finished unloading the groceries, closed her trunk and parked the cart.

  Opening the driver’s side door, she slid into her vehicle. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a look, would it?”

  Her mother refused to answer.

  “Mom, please don’t be so stubborn.”

  Vivian turned her head away and gazed out the passenger window. In all her life Susannah had never seen her mother behave quite like this. Susannah had always viewed her mother as a subservient and obedient wife, the passive partner in that marriage. She couldn’t remember her mother going against her father’s dictates even once. Her father, the judge, ruled the home and his family. What he said was law.