by Irene Brand
“There was the day Aunt Ruth brought home a white, feisty poodle, and we became best friends. Then, one year, when Uncle was home, we went to Florida for the Christmas holidays. I loved the ocean. I have no complaints about the way I was treated—they were both good to me.”
When Linda became tired, and pain was evident in her face, Violet read to her until she fell asleep. One evening, as she sat quietly watching the erratic rise and fall of Linda’s breathing, Violet pondered a question that had plagued her for years. Was Linda a murderess, or had she been unjustly imprisoned? During these quiet evenings with her mother, Violet had decided beyond any doubt that whatever the circumstances leading to Ryan Conley’s death, she knew that the gentle, lovable woman who was her mother was incapable of murder.
While it was true that Violet was becoming friends with her mother, whenever Violet tried to turn the conversation to Linda’s emotions or her life before imprisonment, Linda closed her eyes and pleaded fatigue. It was frustrating that Linda would not talk about her personal feelings. It was obvious that her mother was proud of the woman Violet had become, but why wouldn’t she tell her so?
At school, after the first week, the tension and turmoil leveled off. No more pupils withdrew from her classes and her closest friends on the staff were friendlier than ever, as if to make up for the defection of the rest of the faculty.
Larry still continued a neutral stance. When he had occasion to speak to Violet, he was friendly enough, but he never inquired about her mother nor did she receive any messages by E-mail. After a week or two of this treatment, Violet stopped him one day when she met him in the hall. School was over for the day and very few people remained in the building.
“I expected some people to treat me as if I had the plague,” she said, “but I’m surprised that you’re one of them.”
He flushed. “I haven’t contacted you because I supposed you would be busy at night now.”
“I am busy, for I think it’s my duty to spell my aunt in the evening and let her go out shopping, to see a movie, or anything to get away from the house for a few hours, but I can still talk on the telephone. Or you can stop by—we don’t have to go out any place.”
“Fine, I’ll do that,” Larry said, but when four weeks passed, and he hadn’t, Violet stopped expecting him to contact her. When she mentioned his behavior to Nan, she said, “His mother has pulled in his reins. You don’t think that Olivia Holland will allow her son to keep company with someone having a scandalous background do you? And forgive me for saying it—that isn’t my opinion, but it’s the way she would react.”
“I imagine you’re right, but I can’t help being disappointed in him. I thought he really liked me.”
“No doubt he does, but he won’t cross his mother. And if he did marry someone his mother didn’t approve, I would surely hate to be in his wife’s position. Mrs. Holland is not above revenge.”
Violet tried to prevent her feelings from affecting her teaching, but she couldn’t find the joy she had formerly known in her profession. No one at school actually mistreated her, but there was a standoffishness that she had never noted before. Sometimes she wondered if this was real, or her imagination. Then when she learned that Larry was dating another woman on the staff, she was really miserable. Without Nan’s company during their lunch period, she wondered if she could have lasted out the day, but Nan had a common, down-to-earth approach to life that usually kept Violet from feeling sorry for herself.
Most of the time Nan didn’t mention Violet’s problems, but chatted about the students, school gossip, or her own family, but the day before Thanksgiving when they had an extra long lunch period so the students could enjoy their festive turkey meal, she said, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re really looking peaked! Aren’t things going well at home?”
“Better than I expected. My mother doesn’t seem to be in much pain. If the pain gets too bad, she can push a button that releases small dosages of a pain-killer. Aunt Ruth says that she uses it sparingly. I’m learning a lot about my mother, and one of the things is that she has strong self-discipline. I suppose that was the reason she had the strength to reject her family—she didn’t want us suffering for her problem.”
“That would take a lot of self-control,” Nan agreed. “When I’m in trouble, I want my husband and other family to rally around me.”
“I don’t sleep very well though, wondering if she will die before the night is over, and when she does die, how I will be able to pay the funeral expenses. I’m more troubled though that she won’t lower her defenses and speak of the past—her life in prison, how much it hurt her to be punished so unjustly.”
“It would be difficult to discuss,” Nan said sympathetically.
“It’s like having a stranger in the house. When I was a child, I longed to have a mother like the other children at school. Now that I have her at last, there’s nothing to give her. We talk occasionally, but we never say anything about matters that should be important between a mother and daughter.”
“My mother is such a part of my life that I don’t know how I could have dealt with a situation like yours.”
“But you grew up with a mother’s love—I’ve never had that, and at my age, it seems difficult to attain. I know that sounds disloyal to Aunt Ruth who devoted her life to giving me a good home. But when I knew I had a real mother, I always wanted more.” Violet walked around the room and looked out the window.
“I think one of my problems is that I’ve lost my privacy which is very important to me. I’ve always spent lots of time alone. There was no other child at Aunt Ruth’s, and I entertained myself. After I went away to college, I had my own apartment, and I’ve lived for a year alone in my own home. Now, besides my mother and Aunt Ruth, there’s always someone else in the house when I go home at night, and while I appreciate the work they do, after a harrowing day here at school, I miss walking into the peace and quiet I’ve grown accustomed to. Two months ago, I thought my life was settled, but it’s certainly in a shambles now.”
“I can’t understand that need,” Nan admitted. “I grew up in a household of five siblings, besides my parents. The house was always filled with our friends. I wasn’t married a year before my daughter was born. I’ve never been alone—it would scare me to death to spend a day by myself.” The warning bell rang, and Nan said, “Time to go.”
Pastor Tom came daily for short visits, and when Violet fretted to him about her mother’s spiritual condition, he assured her, “Linda is all right. She has a deep and abiding faith—she is looking forward to the release of death so that she can go home to be with her Lord.”
Roger came almost every night. He always looked in on Linda, and she seemed to like his visits, although she seldom responded to anyone else. Depending on his schedule, sometimes he would stay only a few minutes, on other evenings he might be there for an hour. Violet realized that he observed her closely, and his concern was evident in his eyes. Except for Nan and Roger, Violet put up a front to prove that she was coping easily with a difficult situation. Those two friends knew her too well, so she didn’t try to hide her feelings from them.
Thanksgiving Day was a quiet time for Violet’s household, however. She had insisted that the church women not bother with them, and Ruth prepared a small dinner that was supplemented by the pumpkin pie and cranberry salad delivered to them by one of the congregation. Since Pastor Tom was a widower without children, they asked him to share their meal, and Linda sat at the table in her wheelchair, but she ate very little.
The next day at noon, Roger came by. “I’ve been out to the farm,” he said. “I’ve set up wood for a fire in the fireplace, and the house is nice and cozy.” He handed her a set of keys. “Go out and spend the afternoon by yourself. You can read, take a walk, do whatever you want to. No one will bother you.”
Why was Roger the only one whose concern could bring tears to her eyes? “How did you know?” she murmured.
He tapped his head and
smiled. “Intuition.”
“I’m not sure I can find the way to your farm.”
“I’m not working today. I can drive you out there and then come back for you when you want to leave.”
“Give me ten minutes. Aunt Ruth just made a pot of coffee. Help yourself.”
She went in the bedroom where Ruth was changing Linda’s bed. She explained what she wanted to do. “If you don’t mind staying this afternoon, I’ll spell you all day tomorrow, and you can have the day off.”
“That will be fine. I can join the other after-Thanksgiving shoppers.”
From her wheelchair, Linda said weakly. “You should never have brought me here. I’m too much trouble. I tried to tell you.”
Violet knelt by her mother’s chair and took her hand. “No one is complaining. Aunt Ruth and I wanted to bring you here. No one coerced us into taking you. We…” Violet stumbled over the unfamiliar endearment “…love you and want to take care of you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Linda returned the pressure of Violet’s hand, but she said nothing. Oh, if only once, she would say she loves me! Violet thought.
She was already dressed in jeans and a bulky red sweater, so she chose some heavy socks and winter boots, and put on her fleece-lined jacket. Violet entered the kitchen just as Roger finished his cup of coffee.
Violet’s spirits lifted as they left the city limits and headed into the open country.
“I know you want to be alone,” Roger said, “but the drive will give us a few minutes together. We never have the chance to speak privately anymore. What’s on your mind, Violet?”
“I don’t want to dump all my worries on your shoulders.”
He patted the broad, muscular shoulder beneath his denim shirt. “Aren’t they big enough?”
Violet grinned. “Well, all right, if you’re fishing for a compliment, I’ll admit your shoulders are impressive, but my mind is so muddled that I don’t know which is the worst. For one thing I just lied to my mother. I told her I loved her, and that isn’t the truth. I feel sorry for her and respect her, but…don’t really think I love her.”
“That isn’t unusual, I’m sure. Love usually comes by shared relationships and experiences. You’ve known your mother only a few weeks.”
“But what about a bond between mother and child that supposedly can’t be severed?”
“I believe a mother’s love is a unique gift from God, one that is equaled only by the love Christ has for His Church. But your situation is different. Given time, that love would grow.”
“But I’m not going to have that time—she’s getting weaker, less lucid, every day. I’ve resented her rejection of me for years. Even now, if she reached out to me, I might be able to respond, but she makes no overtures. I try to talk to her, but we never get past superficial topics like the weather, or what type of soup she’d like for lunch,” Violet said with frustration. “I actually believe she would have been happier to have died in prison.”
“But you wouldn’t have been, and you know it.”
Violet nodded her head in assent as Roger pulled off the highway onto his private road. “I’m also unhappy at school. No one actually mistreats me, but most people give me a ‘good letting-alone.’”
“Including your principal?” he said gently.
“Especially my principal,” she answered, “but that doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I’ve been wondering why I ever bothered with a man who exhibits such a lack of loyalty and intestinal fortitude.”
Roger stopped in front of his house, stepped out and reached his hand to Violet. She slipped under the steering wheel, took his hand and jumped to the ground. “I’ll light the fire and then leave you alone,” he said. “What time do you want me to come back?”
“At five o’clock.” He started the fire, put two more logs on and replaced the screen. “There are more logs in that box beside the fireplace, and you should replenish the wood occasionally, but I have the gas heat on, so you won’t be cold even if the fire goes out. You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anything else?”
“No, I’ll be fine. But, Roger, I feel rather guilty. This is your retreat—won’t it spoil it for you to know I’m out here?”
His dark eyes flashed with an emotion she didn’t understand before he lowered his head. He opened the door and stood for a moment looking toward the hills. She thought he didn’t intend to answer her, but he turned, and with an inscrutable countenance, he said, “If I hadn’t wanted you here, I wouldn’t have brought you. Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks, Roger.”
He waved his hand and closed the door behind him.
Violet hadn’t brought a book, so she looked through the bookcase to find something. She didn’t want any heavy reading, but she found an old mystery novel book, and she took it with her to the lounge chair. Roger’s Bible was on the lamp stand, and she opened it first, and a small pamphlet, titled “Learning to Care,” fell into her lap. The Scripture reference was from the book of Galatians: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
According to the writer, “caring is a cultivated act. Basically we are selfish people, and we must learn to love others. If we find it difficult to respond to a person, start doing loving acts for that individual and soon love will come.” He concluded with, “As God’s people, we often learn to care by actions that show our compassion. One of the distinguishing marks of Christians has always been their love for one another. As members of the family of God, we must show an intense concern for the welfare of others, thus presenting to the world an image of loving fellowship.”
After meditating on the words, start doing loving acts for that individual and soon love will come, Violet concluded that she had been fretting needlessly about not loving her mother. Right now, she was doing what was necessary. She was providing a home for Linda in her dying hours and was making her as comfortable as possible. Each day she showed her love by preparing her food, feeding her, reading to her and tucking her in at night. Perhaps as the weeks passed, the tender emotions that she coveted would come. She did hope that she would have the opportunity to ask her mother’s forgiveness for the unkind thoughts which she had harbored all her life. But every time her conversation carried the least hint of the past, Linda changed the subject or closed her eyes as if she were sleeping.
Violet checked the fire to see that it was safe, changed into her heavy boots, pulled on her insulated jacket and went outside. The wooded hill where she and Roger had hiked seemed a long way off, but she decided to walk in that direction, and she set off along the farm road.
She had forgotten to bring gloves, but she borrowed a pair of Roger’s that she found in the closet—much too large for her hands, but they provided the warmth she needed on such a cold day. At first, she let the wind blow freely through her hair, but when her ears began to tingle, she pulled the hood over her head.
Violet felt as if she were alone in a world of her own, except for the rabbit that bounced into her path and, with a quick look in her direction, bobbed its tail and took a flying leap into the underbrush. She heard a pheasant crow in the distance, and a covey of quail startled her when they took wing at her feet.
After walking for an hour, when Violet reentered the warmth of the house, she realized that she had forgotten her cares and worries of the morning. She heated some water and made a cup of hot chocolate, which she carried to the living area and placed on the table. She stoked the fire and added another log before she settled into Roger’s big chair. In the coziness of his chair, she felt as if he had enveloped her in his strong arms and she enjoyed the comfort of his presence.
Violet didn’t realize that she had gone to sleep until she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. She stretched, yawned and opened her eyes to slits. Roger stood beside her chair.
“It’s five o’clock,” he said.
“Oh, dear,” she said, lo
oking at the open book on her lap. She had read one page before going to sleep.
“Let me run to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face. I really feel sluggish.”
He helped her stand, saying, “You looked so peaceful—I hated to awaken you.”
“Oh, but I need to return. I don’t want to overburden Aunt Ruth.”
They hurriedly left the house and sat in Roger’s truck. When Roger turned the truck toward Maitland, he said, “You look better.”
“I am better. Thanks for allowing me to borrow your retreat for the afternoon.” With a oblique glance at him, she added, “Did you plant the pamphlet for me to find?”
He acknowledged it with a grin, and his brown eyes sparkled.
“Well, it worked,” Violet said. “I realize that I’m showing love by my actions, but at this point, I believe I’m exhibiting Christian love rather than filial love.”
“That kind of love is the best anyway, because we can show it to everyone. Often filial love can be selfish.”
“You provided what I needed most right now. I told you once you were comfortable to be around, but I wonder that you don’t make me uncomfortable. It’s unnerving for you to read me so accurately—you know what’s bothering me, sometimes before I even know myself.”
He turned his eyes from the road long enough to gaze at her with piercing intensity. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“No,” she murmured. With Roger, it really didn’t matter. It didn’t trouble her at all that he knew her innermost thoughts and needs.
The days of December always passed rapidly, and this year was no exception. Various programs and activities at school kept the schedule topsy-turvy, and Violet tried vainly to teach the role of the federal government when her students’ minds were on parties, gifts, the long holiday season and their own personal desires.
At home, Linda’s illness seemed to have reached a plateau. She slept most of the time, ate little and seemed to be suffering a minimum of pain. The hospice workers indicated that Linda’s condition wasn’t unusual, and that she could live this way for a few months, but they cautioned against undue optimism. There was no chance that she would recover.
