Winter Passing

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  As Carole peered into Grandma Celia’s room, Darby noticed how the late-night shadows heightened the circles under her mother’s eyes.

  “You should have called me sooner. I would have come, you know.”

  “I know, but you have a life too, and I didn’t want you to cancel that photo trip.”

  “Grandma’s more important. Have the doctors said anything more?”

  “Well,” her mother admitted, “they say she’s at the two-week stage. I try to prepare, but even though I see her decline, I’m not ready. There are so many things I still want to do with her. Things I want to know about her. I’m not ready to lose my mother.”

  Darby looked over her mother’s shoulder toward her grandmother. I’m not ready to lose her either.

  She wanted to pull her mother into her arms. Instead she placed a hand on her shoulder. Even that slight touch seemed to break something within the older woman as a quiet sob erupted. Darby patted her awkwardly, as if her hand was out of rhythm to the beat of a song. This was not her mother’s way. While love had always been given freely in this house, sorrow and tears were kept to the privacy of their hearts. Darby fought her own grief and fear, remembering the only other time, outside of a romantic movie or a memorable event, that she’d seen her mother in tears. While playing hide-and-seek with her younger sister, seven-year-old Darby was under her mother’s bed when she heard sobbing. Her father had left that morning, but Darby expected him to return. He always had before.

  “Mommy, why are you crying?” she asked as she slid from under the bed. “Is it ’cause of Daddy leaving?”

  “Yes, honey.” Her mother had turned away.

  “I’m sad too. But Daddy said he’d write lots and lots of letters while he’s working in Texas.”

  Her mother wiped her eyes. “I just wanted you raised with a daddy. Not without one like I was. . . .” She’d wrapped her arms around Darby, and the tears broke out again.

  Darby hadn’t known her father was more than just working in that place three states from their Californian home. He’d found a new woman to build a family with. Darby received a few letters, but eventually they stopped. Soon after, Darby, her mother, and sister had moved into her grandmother’s home in Sebastopol, a stone’s toss north of San Francisco.

  Somewhere over the years and conversations with her mother, Darby surmised that much of her mother’s sorrow wasn’t from the loss of her husband, but from the loss of a father for her children. Her many comments about never knowing her own father emphasized that point.

  Now Darby’s mother cried again. Darby’s father had disappeared almost as if he’d only existed in a dream. But this time it was Grandma, the solid rock of the family. The anchor that kept everyone grounded. Darby had never lost a loved one to death, especially someone so close to her heart.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” her mother said as she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Darby.”

  “This is Grandma we’re losing. That’s reason for tears.”

  Her mother breathed a long sigh and smiled. “Grandma would say, ‘Look, you’ve gone and watered the carpet.’”

  “She’s right. And tomorrow we may find a bean stalk here. I never did find those magic seeds of mine.”

  Carole chuckled. “I’m so glad you’re here. You could always handle hardships better than your sister. Maureen tried to help, but she was so emotional and with the kids running around, well, I’m afraid she was more of a burden than a blessing.”

  “I’m here for as long as it takes.” Darby nodded toward her grandmother. “Clarise can handle everything at the studio, and I’m caught up on my deadlines for a while. I’ll take night watch. After all, you never were a night owl. I don’t know how you’ve handled it these last months.”

  “I’m simply thankful for some help now.” Her mother patted Darby’s hand, then took a step down the hall.

  “Mom?” Darby hesitated. “Grandma keeps calling for someone. Who is Tatianna?”

  The hallway had little light, but Darby could see the weariness in her mother’s expression. “Honey, I don’t know. Grandma has called that name during her bad spells for weeks. She also says words in German. I’ve started to ask a dozen times, but I haven’t. She has so few good moments.”

  “Grandma’s never mentioned her before?”

  “I’ve never heard the name Tatianna until last month. And Grandma has never mentioned her except in her sleep.”

  “Okay. Now you need to sleep.”

  “Good night, honey.”

  When her mother disappeared into the darkness, Darby turned back to Grandma’s bedroom. She stared at the shadows that now hid her grandmother’s face. After a lifetime of family and love, why were Grandma Celia’s last thoughts possessed by a stranger?

  Darby leaned over the edge of the bed and touched her grandmother’s skin-and-bone arm. She remembered how Grandma Celia would pat the mattress and gather Darby into her bed whenever Darby had a bad dream. It was Grandma who always soothed away her troubles with a story during a tea party or while brushing Darby’s long, brown hair.

  “Princesses didn’t have dirt-colored hair and eyes,” Darby had whined at age five.

  “No, but our princess has dark gold strands that look like sunshine on the mountain. Our princess has eyes like a tender doe in the meadow and a pretty heart-shaped face.”

  Tonight it was Darby who lowered the bed rail and gathered her grandmother in her arms. “I love you, Grandma.” She closed her eyes to the shadows surrounding them while one question returned to her mind: Who was Tatianna?

  Hallstatt, Austria

  His wooden cane slipped in the loose rocks and the flashlight’s beam made a wild dance as the man caught his balance and limped onward. The shuffle of his footsteps along the road harmonized with the mournful song of a cricket. One sang and another more distant joined the tune.

  He tried to keep his steps quiet as he trudged along the narrow lakeside road. At the end of a cement wall, he found familiar steps leading up the darkened mountain. Higher, through blind turns and covered walkways, he headed toward the church spire that was silhouetted against the moonless night sky. He was almost there. His chest grew tight with the raspy breaths that fought the frozen air. The last turns up the mountain, the steps he once could run up with stealth, now stole his strength. He rested at the wooden gate, leaning heavily against his cane. When he pushed the gate open, its familiar creak welcomed him to the sentry of headstones and soft red candles that lit his way.

  He moved forward, past names he didn’t need to read. He knew them all by heart. With great care, he climbed the steps to the upper level of the cemetery and plodded toward a large, white structure. The graveyard and church were cut into the mountainside just like the village below. When autumn leaves crunched beneath his boots, he stopped abruptly and bent before the grave, looking for any weeds. None. He’d made sure the rectangular patch would be well cared for in his absence. He sat on the edge of the concrete border and laid his cane on the ground.

  “I—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve come again.”

  He examined his work and smiled. Such passion of youth had stirred him to spend hours on the wrought-iron headstone. Other headstones were iron or wood, but he could not purchase her marker. He had to do it himself, to feel the metal turn in his hands, to sweat, to cut his hands and bleed as she had—though so much less than she had. He’d needed to carry the finished work on his back—his cross to bear forever. Though friends believed the war had turned him crazy, he’d needed the work to survive the day and the day after that, until he stood here now all these years later. For his work was more than a headstone; it was his memorial to his young wife. It was the closest thing he could have of her. For no, she wasn’t here. Her body didn’t rest beneath the earth. That had tormented him in the beginning. For there was nowh
ere he could go to find it, except to take a bit of ground from the place where she’d died. That was all he had left of her and so he brought only dirt to where he could visit and feel close to her again.

  The old man removed his tweed hat and set it on the edge of the cement. He strained to rise and limped toward a stone faucet capped into a mountain spring. He turned the handle, and water gushed loudly into the tin watering can. He closed the valve and carried the can to the grave.

  “Let’s give those flowers some water,” he said to himself, glad that the pansies and fall daffodils appeared healthy. The man reached to yank some dead petals from the rosebush that grew around the base of her headstone, and a thorn pricked his gnarled finger. He opened the iron cover plate to see her name. His fingers traced the neat letters on the metal, leaving a smear of blood around the curve of the C.

  “I feel this could be my last visit,” he told her tenderly. “No, it’s not our anniversary already. I just needed to come tonight. You’ve been in my thoughts so often lately. But it won’t be much longer until I can’t hike this trail. I won’t have to wonder and fear. I’ll know everything for certain. And we’ll be together—at last. And, my dearest, I’m very ready to be with you again.”

  In the red candlelit night, the man studied the last blooming rose on the bush. Its petals were perfect. The pale yellow roses continued to blossom well in the early autumn days. It seemed they knew this would be the last chance for him to see them grace her grave. So for one last time, he’d see his final offering of love.

  The man bent to place his lips upon the cold metal nameplate. Just one more look at her name before he closed the cover. That name he loved so well, even after all these years. If he suspected correctly, soon he’d speak her name, and they’d be together again. Forever.

  Chapter Two

  The window shade jolted upward and morning pierced the room.

  “Wake up, honey.”

  Darby groaned and squinted in the brightness. “Mom, I just closed my eyes. Do I have to go to school today?” She grinned with her hands shielding her eyes.

  “You probably did just go to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you. . . .” Her mother’s features came into focus. “But Grandma’s having an exceptional morning, and I knew you’d want to talk to her.”

  Darby kicked off the quilt. “Can I see her now?”

  “She’s waiting.”

  Darby hurried from her old bedroom back into Grandma’s down the hall.

  “My Darby. Finally, you are here.” Grandma Celia sat up slowly. Daylight heightened the sallow coloring of her skin. “You’ve kept an old woman from her grave so you could traipse the mountains for weeks at a time.”

  Darby smiled. This was the Grandma Celia she knew, though the name Tatianna still echoed in her mind. Grandma’s lively expression kept away her questions. At least for now.

  Darby moved to the chair beside the bed. “Who hooked me on the mountains with years and years of her Austrian Alp tales?”

  “Not me.” Celia looked at her innocently. Darby always loved the woman’s soft German accent, though Grandma Celia denied she even had one, saying, “I w-worked too hard to sound American.” Darby would try not to laugh. Grandma sometimes tried so hard to sound American with her proper English, emphasizing slangs and especially accentuating the Ws in an effort not to pronounce a V sound, that she actually sounded more foreign in her efforts.

  “You’re just jealous that I found a way to make money hiking among the pine-scented forests.” Darby reached for her grandmother’s hand. “And what’s this about keeping you from the grave? It looks like you have enough spunk to chase the Grim Reaper away for the rest of eternity!”

  “W-well, let me tell you.” Grandma pointed a trembling finger at Darby. “Mr. Reaper and I have developed a nice relationship. You know, he’s been misunderstood over the years. I’ve found him a pleasant fella once you get to know him.”

  “Are you giving my daughter a hard time this morning?” Carole entered the room with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my granddaughter.” Grandma winked. Darby, who was watching her carefully, perceived an underlying weakness in her tone.

  “It’s time for your medicine!” Carole said loudly, putting two pills in her hand.

  “I’ve told you before, Daughter, I may be dying, but my hearing is just fine!”

  “Oh, hush, and open your mouth.”

  Darby watched her mother hold two tablets and a glass of water before Grandma’s mouth.

  “I’m not a child either. I can take medicine all by myself, thank you.” Grandma Celia grabbed the pills and swished them down with the water.

  “Grandma, you’re as feisty as ever.”

  “What did you expect? That I would get docile in my last days? Goodness, no! I’m ready to march up to those pearly gates and give Jesus the biggest w-whomping kiss he’s had in the last millennium.”

  “You mean whopping. Here, give me the glass.” Carole took the cup and walked out.

  “No, a w-whomping kiss,” Grandma Celia called after her, then turned back toward Darby. “I like the sound of that better—no matter what it means.”

  “Well, Jesus can wait awhile longer for whatever kind of kiss you give him,” Darby said, crossing her arms. “You aren’t leaving us yet.”

  “Quit that nonsense talk, my dear. Look at me. I’m as thin as a pencil.”

  Darby didn’t want to look at the arms she had stared at the night before.

  “You young whippersnappers believe you must pretend life on earth does not end. But it does, and that’s certainly the way it is. A time to be born and a time to die.” Grandma Celia patted Darby’s hand and sighed. “But I must say it’s an odd place to be, on the threshold of death’s door. You look back and see it all, your whole life. The mistakes, sorrow, joys, triumphs. Then you look ahead and wonder what’s really on the other side.”

  Darby leaned closer in surprise. “Grandma, are you doubting?”

  “Mercy, no! God has w-worked enough in my life for me to know that he is real. But I think it’ll be more, so much more w-what’s the w-word?—immense or spectacular, than I ever imagined. It’s very exciting, with maybe a hint of scariness mixed in.”

  Darby wished she could argue with her grandmother. She wished she could promise a longer life, but Grandma Celia spoke the truth. Celia was dying. But how could her grandmother speak so casually about death and seem almost excited about the prospect? Even with Grandma’s body waning before her eyes, Darby could not imagine life without her.

  Grandma fumbled with the pillow, and Darby noted how even such small movements caused her breathing to labor. Grandma Celia squirmed into a comfortable position, took another long breath, and addressed Darby again.

  “Tell me all about your latest work. Not the boring stuff you do in town, pictures of weddings and snooty-nosed children. I want to hear the mountain adventures! Did the group go to the Trinity Alps like you suggested?”

  “Yes, and it was wonderful!” Darby exclaimed.

  Grandma Celia reached over to move a few brown tendrils of hair behind Darby’s ears, just as she’d done for years. That touch and the excited light in her grandmother’s eyes caressed Darby’s entire being.

  “You remember it was that same hiking club from San Francisco? They told me the photographs have been all the rage in the office of the hiking club’s president. He’s the CEO of a San Francisco insurance company and a hiker in his spare time.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Yes, Grandma. His wife came along and is a wonderful lady. I’ve told you, the good ones are taken.”

  “Oh no. Your man’s out there waiting. He’s a nice fellow, too. I pray for him all the time. He’s sick of you hiding beneath your work and ready for you to meet him.”
/>   “And who is this man?” Darby tapped her finger against her cheek.

  “I’m not certain. But I know he’s out there.”

  “Anyway, let’s stick with my story. The club wanted more photos this year and chose a more adventurous expedition with eight days and a forty-mile trip with some face climbing. It’s a good thing I joined the gym over the summer. The elevation is over eleven thousand feet.” Seeing her grandmother’s smile, Darby tried to conjure up the vivid storytelling that her grandmother always used. “The best part of this trip was this one total city boy.”

  “This isn’t the CEO guy?”

  “No. This guy is in insurance also, but you could tell he only did the trip to get some photos in his office. He wanted me to take his picture like he was hanging from a rock when really his feet were on the ground!”

  Grandma’s laughter brought a smile to Darby’s own face. She felt like a little girl, telling her grandmother about her day’s woes or adventures. After she told her story, Grandma always had a similar tale or story of encouragement. Darby remembered being more enthralled with these stories than with her favorite television shows like Scooby-Doo or The Bloodhound Gang. Nothing compared to Grandma’s vivid tales of the Austrian Alps. Those mountain tellings had bred Darby’s own love for the wilderness and a desire to see the towering peaks of her grandmother’s childhood. Darby had never made it to Europe, probably never would, but the scent of pines and the crisp mountain air tugged at something within her. It was a feeling she could never quite explain—because of the stories. Grandma’s stories lived within Darby now. Yet in all those countless tales, Grandma Celia had never mentioned the name Tatianna.

  “Oh, I wish I could have been there!” Grandma’s laughter broke into a low, rasping cough. “I’d—have pulled a few pranks on that city fella!”