by Nan Rossiter
They’d arrived early, hoping to have lunch in Quincy Market, and after perusing the menus of several outdoor cafés, they picked a sunny table and ordered Waldorf salads, mint iced tea, and a slice of peach raspberry pie to share. Afterward, they happily discovered that they still had time to look around in the shops. In one boutique, Mia had found a lovely silk scarf for Isak; at an outdoor stand, she’d purchased a pair of beautiful turquoise earrings for Rumer; and finally, in a little bookstore at the end of the building, aptly named The Bookend, she’d discreetly tucked away a small package for Beryl. Then she’d happily declared, “I’ve officially started my Christmas shopping. I only hope I can remember where I’ve put these things when Christmas gets here.”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Beryl had said, putting her arm around her, “I’ll remind you.” As they’d turned to go, Mia bumped into a display of books, sending a whole stack tumbling to the floor, but when they knelt to pick them up, a friendly voice called, “Don’t worry. It’s my fault. I knew they were too close to the counter.”
Beryl stood up, balancing the books in her arms, and when she saw the source of the voice, her face lit up. “Micah?”
A slender man peered at her over round horn-rimmed glasses, looking puzzled, and then smiled shyly. “Beryl!” He looked over her shoulder and saw Mia too. “And Mrs. Graham!” Happily surprised, he came around the counter to give them each a hug. Beryl hugged him back warmly, but Mia pulled away, looking startled and confused.
Beryl quickly came to her rescue. “Mum, you remember Micah Coleman. He worked at the shop when he was in high school.”
Mia searched the tan face and ocean blue eyes and nodded. “My shop?” she asked uncertainly.
Beryl nodded and Micah took off his glasses. “Does this help?”
Mia studied his face again and shook her head. “Please forgive me. I’m having trouble remembering my own name these days.”
Micah nodded thoughtfully. “It was a long time ago.”
Beryl smiled. “It’s so good to see you. How long has it been?”
Micah put his glasses back on and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Twenty-five years?” he mused, raising his eyebrows.
Beryl shook her head in disbelief. “It can’t be—we aren’t that old!”
Micah laughed. “You might not be, but I definitely am!”
“I didn’t know you were in Boston. Have you worked here long?”
“When they let me… .” He grinned at the girl working the register. “Actually, this is my store.”
Beryl looked surprised. “Wow! It’s very nice. You’ve done a lot with a small space.”
“Thanks,” Micah replied, his shy smile returning. “All those years ago—working at Tranquility—inspired me to start my own business.”
Beryl glanced at the clock above the register. “Oh, Micah, I’m sorry we have to rush off—we have an appointment.” Micah nodded, taking the books from her.
Mia tilted her head politely. “It was very nice to see you again, Micah.”
Micah smiled warmly. “It was very nice to see you too.”
Beryl gave him a hug. “Can’t believe it’s you!”
“Me too,” he said softly. “Hope you’ll stop by again.”
“We will,” she promised.
Reluctantly, they’d left the shop and hurried to the doctor’s office, the memory of the day and their chance encounter quickly slipping away—giving way to the anxious thoughts they’d been trying to keep at bay. They each whispered hopeful prayers that somehow all their worrying was for nothing. But later that afternoon, after a myriad of written and oral tests and a review of Mia’s health records, the doctor gently confirmed that dementia—most likely Alzheimer’s—was slowly stealing Mia’s mind and memory. Mother and daughter listened quietly, nodded numbly, asked the few questions that came to mind, although there would be many more later, graciously accepted pamphlets and slips for new prescriptions, made another appointment for further testing, and escaped into the late-day sun to hold each other close and weep—never wanting to let go.
At last, Mia had pulled away gently and held her daughter’s lovely face in her hands. Searching the glistening cornflower blue eyes that mirrored her own, she’d smiled sadly and said, “Berry, dear, you’ll just have to remember these wonderful days for both of us.”
The decision to seek long-term care had been heartbreaking for all of them, but Beryl had struggled with it the most. Without hesitation, she’d offered to move back home, but Mia wouldn’t hear of it, and Rumer and Isak agreed. They insisted that Mia would not want Beryl to take on such a burden for an indeterminate length of time.
“It’s not a burden,” Beryl had argued. “I want to do it. Besides, she’s so young.”
“And so are you,” Isak had responded. “Who knows how long she’ll need care. She’s going to need someone around the clock, and there’s no respite—or life—for a long-term caregiver.”
“We could have a nurse come in too,” Beryl had suggested, but her sisters had both been so adamant that she’d begun to wonder if they felt guilty because they weren’t willing to do the same. Instead, they insisted it would be better to find a facility that specialized in caring for Alzheimer’s patients. Beryl had strongly disagreed—they could not put Mia in a nursing home. They’d argued bitterly, tearfully, and in the end, she’d felt as if she’d had no say in the matter and wished she’d never told them about her mother’s decline. Her heart had ached with regret and sorrow.
Beryl plugged the fridge in and it hummed to life, its cheerful light illuminating clean, white walls and bare glass shelves. She stocked it with the produce and dairy she’d bought: a head of romaine, cucumbers, carrots, celery, eggs, cheddar, milk, half and half, and then, in an afterthought, she slipped one of the bottles of chardonnay in the door. Rumer was coming in that night and Isak the next day. Together, they’d plan Mia’s service and begin the overwhelming task of going through her belongings. They’d be staying at the house all week; then their families would arrive on Thursday or Friday. Beryl put the remaining bottles of wine on the counter and, beside them, lined up a fresh bag of Green Mountain Vermont Country Blend coffee, oatmeal, brown sugar, raisins, a bag of walnuts, bread, the apples, her tin of tea, two golden heirloom tomatoes, and the beeswax candles she’d brought from the shop. She washed her hands, remembered the rings, and climbed the worn, narrow stairs to the quiet bedroom that looked out over the front yard.
Golden sunlight streamed through the windows in long slants, creating a pattern of crosses on the wainscoting and across the faded Amish wedding quilt that had been on her mom’s bed for as long as she could remember. Beryl sat down, held out her hand, and wondered for the thousandth time if she’d ever wear rings of her own. She looked at her tan, slender fingers and thought of her mom’s hands. Over the years, she and Mia had often held their hands up palm to palm or side by side and marveled at their sameness: Not only were they the same size and shape, but they both had small bumps on their right middle fingers from holding their pencils too tightly, and they both kept their nails neatly trimmed, like crescent moons, and unpolished, except for special occasions, like the times they’d painted on clear gloss for Rumer’s and Isak’s weddings. The bride and the bridesmaid had both teased them, “You two are really living on the wild side!”
And it wasn’t just their hands that were the same. Beryl wished she had a penny for every time someone had asked them if they were sisters. Mia had always been petite and athletic and, by the time Beryl was in high school, she’d grown into her mom’s mirror image. It was only in recent years—as Mia’s hair had become more salt than pepper, and smile wrinkles had crinkled around her friendly eyes—that there was a noticeable difference again. Beryl smiled at the thought; then an unexpected wave of grief swept over her.
“Oh, Mum,” she whispered, “how am I ever going to manage without you?” Through the blur of her tears, she noticed the countless tiny bright polka dots dancing on the walls. S
he slipped off Mia’s diamond and the dots spun and sparkled like fireflies playing in the shadows. She wiped away her tears and slipped off the wedding ring too. Squinting, she tried to make out the inscription, but it was too delicate and worn to read without her glasses. She walked over to her mom’s bureau, slid open the bottom drawer of her jewelry box, and carefully placed the rings in the front corner. As she did, a ray of sunlight fell over the drawer and a flash of blue caught her eye. She stared at the shiny object: a large sapphire ring tucked in the back of the drawer. She picked it up and held it in the light; it was the same sparkling blue as Mia’s eyes, but Beryl had no memory of her mother ever wearing the ring. She looked in the drawer again and saw a card. It was made from a folded piece of watercolor paper and on the outside was a beautiful painting of a tawny red female cardinal. Beryl studied the delicate illustration and then opened the card and read the long, elegant script:
For my Mia,
This stone reminds me of those amazing
blue eyes that see right through me!
Always, David
Beryl frowned and murmured, “Who is David?” In recent months, she’d sometimes heard her mom say that name, but she never knew why—the only Davids she knew were a long-lost uncle who’d actually been a family friend and a boy from Virginia who’d sat across from her in the third grade. She turned the card over, hoping for a clue, but the back of the card was blank. She studied the handwriting again and then happened to look out the window—just in time to see the stout little dog marching toward the pond.
“Oh, no,” she murmured. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she shouted, knocking loudly on the glass. But the determined canine trundled on purposefully, as if on a mission. Beryl dropped the ring back in the drawer and flew down the stairs, out the door, and across the lawn. “Flannery O’Connor, get your butt back here.” To her surprise, the wayward dog, now standing shoulder-deep in murky brown water, had a sudden change of heart and plodded back through the mud to stand in front of her. Then she closed her droopy eyes and, like a slowly rumbling earthquake, began to shake her whole body—from her big, blocky head all the way down to her curly, pathetic excuse for a tail.
Beryl leaped back, but it was too late—her pink oxford was splattered with mud. She looked down at her blouse and then up to heaven. “You’d better not be laughing, Mum!” she said, admonishing the wispy clouds that were drifting across the sky. As she did, she noticed a flock of geese winging high above, barely visible, their ever-changing formation floating through the heavens like a shimmering silver strand of Christmas tree tinsel. Beryl watched in amazement, heard their faint honking, and suddenly realized that her beloved mom, who’d always smiled at adversity, would be having a hard time suppressing her laughter. Beryl could almost hear her cheerful voice, “I’m sorry, Ber, but you should try not to take everything so seriously. Life is much too short—and full of wonder!” Beryl shook her head and considered the possibility that her mom had somehow teamed up with God to strategically place that flock of geese—and Flannery—in her life to help her get through this.
She thought back to the rainy spring day, ten years earlier, when Mia first brought Flannery home. At six weeks old, she was so small that Mia had tucked her into the front of her raincoat to keep her dry, and when that sad, wrinkled face had peeked out over her zipper, Mia had grinned impishly. “I just had a feeling!” she’d explained. Beryl had taken one look at the homely face and teased, “What feeling was that—sympathy?” In retrospect, she couldn’t help but wonder if that day had been part of a greater plan—God’s tapestry, Mia had called it, firmly believing that nothing in life happened by coincidence. The thought made Beryl smile as she walked back to the house with the muddy, wet canine waddling beside her.
On the way, they stopped at the car and Beryl retrieved Flan’s old L.L. Bean dog bed and a bag of Eukanuba. Then they continued to the porch, and she told Flan to sit and stay while she went inside to find a towel. When she came back out, the old dog was busy cleaning herself up with her hind leg over her head. Beryl cleared her throat and Flan looked up indignantly. “You really need to work on your manners,” she said, kneeling down. Flannery sniffed the towel, pulled her rotund self up, and before Beryl had a chance to defend herself, leaned forward and licked her right on the lips. “Yuck!” Beryl exclaimed, falling back in surprise and wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She contemplated running to her car for her Purell bottle but just shook it off, regained her composure, picked up the towel, and started to dry, which prompted the old dog to arch her back, close her eyes, and groan pleasurably—her guttural sounds vibrating with every movement of the towel.
“Oh, my goodness, Flan-O, you have absolutely no shame,” Beryl teased. Finally, she announced, “Good enough,” opened the screen door, and Flan trotted in like the old dame who owned the place. “That’s what I love,” Beryl said, “a dog with attitude.”
Flan trundled eagerly through the house, checking every room, her hind end wagging. “Flan, what in the world are you doing?” Beryl asked in dismay. Then it hit her—she was looking for Mia. Tears filled Beryl’s eyes. “Oh, Flan, she’s not here.” But Flan, undeterred, painstakingly climbed the narrow stairs and, as Beryl watched, waddled hopefully from room to room, ready to announce her arrival. “Hon, she’s not here …” Beryl repeated, but her words fell on deaf ears. Finally, Beryl sat on the top step, tears streaming down her cheeks, and wondered if she was going to break down every time she thought of her mom. She felt a cold, wet nose press against her arm and looked up. Flan gazed at her mournfully. “I’m sorry,” Beryl whispered, putting her arm around her and pulling her close. “I wish you could understand.” The old dog leaned into her, nuzzled her cheek, and licked her salty tears.
Finally, she carried her back downstairs, set her on the kitchen floor, scooped a cup of kibble into her bowl, and put the bowl near the back door next to her water. Flan sniffed it indifferently, took a little drink, found her old bed next to the stove—where Mia had always kept it—circled around several times, and curled up on its soft, fleecy cover. Beryl shook her head. “You’ve been living with me for three years, and yet, it’s like you never left this place.” She reached into her pocket to make sure she still had her keys and her phone, turned on the stove light, knelt down to scratch Flan’s ears, and whispered, “Don’t be sad, old pie! I’ll be back soon with one of your favorite pals.”
2
Rumer gazed at the Black Foot River as they neared Missoula. “Wake up, Rand,” she said, reaching into the backseat of the pickup to give her ten-year-old son a nudge. “The sun’s makin’ the river look like a golden ribbon weaving through the city.”
Rand sat up, his tousled chestnut hair sticking out in every direction. He blinked sleepily. “Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, unimpressed, before slumping over again.
“Thanks for driving me,” Rumer said quietly. She paused. “I’m still hoping you’ll come. It would mean a lot to me if Rand—and you—were there.”
Will nodded solemnly. “We’ll try, Rumer, but I can’t promise anything.” He pressed his lips together and looked over at her. Her eyes glistened and he knew he was playing a big part in breaking her heart. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her, but lately it felt like there was an invisible wall between them. “I’m sorry about your mom—you know that—but it’ll be at least two grand for me and Rand to come—and we just don’t have that kind of money.”
Rumer blinked back tears, remembering the angry words they’d hurled at each other the night before. “I know, Will, but this is his grandmother. You only go through life once and, believe it or not, there are things more important than money.”
Will sighed in frustration. “Rumer, honestly, I wish things were different, I really do. I wish I could give you everything you want. I wish money wasn’t always an issue with us, but construction is the only thing I know how to do and no one is building anything in this damn economy. Working for a modular home company is not what I had in mind e
ither, but at least it’s a job. The problem is—no matter how many hours I work—it’s never enough.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have moved out here,” Rumer said quietly.
Will looked over. “Maybe we shouldn’t have—maybe you and Rand shouldn’t have.”
Rumer stared out the window, tears stinging her eyes.
Will glanced over. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t know what the answer is anymore.”
Rumer didn’t know what the answer was either. Her profession had changed, too; with so much art being generated by computers, it was even harder for a freelance illustrator to find work. She’d been reduced to waitressing and catering as often as she could—and she hated every minute of it.
Will pulled up in front of the airport terminal and Rumer got out. She reached into the back of the truck for her bags, and Will pulled the seat forward and shook their son’s knee. “C’mon, Rand, wake up. Mom’s leaving and you need to say good-bye.”
Rand climbed sleepily out of the truck. “Bye, Mom,” he said, yawning.
Rumer put her bags on the sidewalk and gave him a long hug. He was as tall as she was. She held him out at arm’s length, searched his face, and tried to smooth down his hair. “Be good for Dad,” she ordered. “And do your homework—before PlayStation!” She looked at Will. “That’s the rule now.”
“Got it,” he said with a wry smile—it was a rule he’d been trying to establish for years.
“Are you two going to be okay?”
“We’ll be fine—right, sport?” Will said reassuringly, putting his arm around Rand’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “Maybe we’ll even go fishing.”
Rand gave his mom a thumbs-up and Rumer eyed them suspiciously. “Promise me you’ll eat something besides pizza and McDonald’s.”
Rand grinned. “Yup, we’ll have Burger King and Wendy’s, too—right, Dad?”
