All That's True

by Jackie Lee Miles

  Bridget tells Donna she’s going down to Table Grace and will be back in time for dinner.

  “Can you walk Rudy?” she asks, not waiting for an answer, and climbs into the car.

  Beth is amazed that there are so many people standing in line waiting for their box of groceries. “Where do they all come from?” she asks, finding it hard to believe that there are lots of people whose circumstances reduce them to accepting charity. She’s been living on another planet where money grows on trees. But she joins right in and is happily sorting and handing out boxes along with the rest of us. I watch as she smiles and pats the wrist of a small woman with three straggly children clustered around her, two girls and a boy.

  “Lemme see,” the little boy says. He stands on tiptoes and peeks into the box.

  “I put extra macaroni and cheese in for you,” Beth says. “Do you like macaroni?” This boy’s face lights up like a lamp. It pinches at my heart to see Beth so loving and happy to be helping. Maybe I’ve judged her wrong all these years. Maybe there’s a streak of goodness in all of us and it just has to have an opportunity to come out and say, Hey, I’ve been here all along! Look at me!

  When we get home Beth takes my arm and pulls me into the parlor.

  “You know what I’m going to do?” she says. Her eyes are positively dancing in her head. “I’m going to auction all of the wedding gifts!” Mother has been after her to get busy and send them back. “And I’m giving all the money to Table Grace. Isn’t this just the greatest idea?”

  I have to admit it is.

  “It’s worth almost getting married over,” Beth says and she’s grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The lady in charge of Table Grace calls the newspaper when she finds out that Beth is auctioning her wedding gifts and giving them the money. The following day a reporter shows up at our door and gives my mother a nervous breakdown.

  “Why in the world would you want everyone in Atlanta to know what’s happened?” she says to Beth.

  Beth stares at my mother and says, “Absolutely everyone we know in the states of Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and South Carolina knows what happened. They witnessed it first-hand. Why does it matter how many strangers will know?”

  Which is a very good question.

  Beth lets the reporter in and shows her to the parlor where all the gifts are stacked from floor to ceiling. This photographer the reporter brought with her starts snapping away with his camera. He’s like seven feet tall. It’s a good thing our ceilings are extra-high.

  “I’m Natalie Carson,” the reporter says, “Atlanta Journal-Constitution.” She hands her a business card and holds out her hand for Beth to shake. Beth takes the card and shakes her hand, before extending one arm to the sofa.

  “So what can I tell you?” Beth asks as they sit down. The sofa rests in an alcove surrounded by windows two stories high. The parlor is large and round. It’s located on the right side of our house, with a turret roof that my mother fell in love with the moment she laid eyes on it.

  “Tell me everything!” Ms. Carson says.

  Beth looks at her like she’s been told she’s been crowned Miss Universe. She scoots up to the edge of the sofa.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Well,” Beth says, “actually, I’m doing great.” She gives a little half-laugh. It’s obvious she is enjoying herself. She tosses her head and her hair sweeps to one side. “Of course when it happened, I wanted to die of shame.”

  “Are you still in love with the runaway groom?”

  “Oh, let’s talk about something else, okay?” Beth clears her throat and waits for the next question.

  Ms. Carson asks how it came about that she decided to auction off her wedding gifts and how she plans to go about it.

  Beth explains all about Table Grace and her visit to help pack food boxes. She mentions all the little children hanging onto their mothers with their tiny faces so hopeful.

  “I hired a company who specializes in auctions,” Beth explains. “They’re taking care of everything.”

  Beth is very organized. Maybe it’s good she’s becoming a philanthropist. A person could do worse things with her life.

  ***

  My mother is up and down with this drinking business, but for now, she has stopped. At least, I don’t see her going to the liquor cabinet and she is no longer stumbling around the house. She’s also taken an interest in gardening.

  “Would you like to help me, Andi?” she says.

  I think that I better, to be supportive. “Sure,” I say. “What are we planting?”

  “Herbs,” she says and flashes a smile that could melt the sun. Rosa loves herbs and shops every other day for them so they’ll always be fresh for whatever she’s cooking. I think of her happily plucking from the garden everything she needs and get a little excited about my mother’s idea.

  Of course, I have no understanding of herbs and how we are to go about planting them and unfortunately neither does my mother. We go find Henry.

  Henry gives us a crash course on herb gardening. There’s more to it than I counted on. Henry says what we’re looking for is culinary herbs.

  “Perfect in the kitchen,” he says. “Sage, thyme, marjoram, basil. You can do it.”

  I’m not so sure.

  He goes on to explain that there are a variety of herbs to consider, annuals, biennials, and perennials. “The annuals bloom one season and die—anise, basil, dill.” His voice trails off. “Biennials live two seasons but they only bloom the second season—caraway, parsley. Perennials bloom every season once you get ’em going. You can have chives, fennel, thyme.”

  “All right,” my mother says. “How do we start?”

  “Well, you need to decide the size of the garden. That’ll depend on the variety you want,” Henry says. He takes off his straw hat and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm.

  “And you need to consider drainage and soil fertility. Drainage is the most important. If it doesn’t drain properly you won’t have a crop.”

  My mother is nodding her head, taking in every word. She’s wearing a straw hat, too, with a wide brim, along with cotton blue jeans turned up at the ankles and a crisp white man-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She has on rubber mules. I try to imagine her on her hands and knees weeding through her herbs, plucking the fragrant leaves from their stems and placing them in a basket looped over her arm. The sun would be shining brightly. I see her turn and wave to me as I leave to go to Bridget’s. There she is, my mother, sober and active and obsessed with her garden. It makes a little dent in my heart and rests there snug and warm. Even so, I’ve completely lost interest in this project. It sounds way too complicated. I was thinking that you just stick the seeds in the ground, put some water on them and let them grow.

  “Well,” my mother says and brushes her hands together like she’s already been digging in the dirt. “It’s something to think about. What do you think, Andi?” She turns to me. In an instant I realize I’m supposed to rescue her.

  “I—I—I—” I’m not sure what to say. “We could read some books on it and then decide if we’d like it. How about that?”

  “That’s a splendid idea,” my mother says and turns and walks back into the house through the portico.

  I’m pretty sure she’s lost interest in starting an herb garden, too. It’s strange, but there’s a bit of sadness that gathers in the pit of my stomach. I think of my mother and me producing a sumptuous crop of herbs for Rosa to use for all our meals. I see us together, digging in the dirt, laughing and harvesting our crop. The thought of it works its way into my chest and forces a big sigh out of my mouth. Then I realize it doesn’t even have anything to do with the herbs. It’s the thought of being together and her taking joy from being alive and being with me and being sober.

  Chapter Fifty

  It’s a good thing I didn’t get into gardening. I’m on a major new project. St. Lucy’s is hosting a babysitter
’s class complete with CPR training. I think of Joshua and immediately sign up. The classes will run every Friday afternoon for three weeks and then it will be time to leave for the cruise, so I’m going to be wall-to-wall with stuff to do. Saturday mornings I still have altar class and mostly hate it as much as always. But the sitter class sounds very exciting. After I sign up I get this handbook. It’s filled with really cool information. Did you know that there are specific things to check on if babies are crying? Naturally, I know to first check and see if their diaper is wet, and maybe it’s time for them to eat. But you are also to check to see if a thread from clothes is caught around their fingers or toes. I would never have thought about that.

  I invite Bridget to join the class, too. She’s not a Catholic, but you don’t have to be to take the class. You just have to pay the fee. It’s twenty-five dollars, which is a lot, but then you get the use of a life-like baby doll and diapers and clothes to practice on and you also get CPR training, so maybe it’s really a bargain. They teach about taking care of older children too and cover things like leaving the house as orderly as you found it. The manual says the easiest way to do that is to not put things down, but put them away. It also says to stay awake until eleven or twelve unless you’ve been told otherwise. That’s in case a baby or one of the kids wakes up and you need to be alert to hear them. Today we’re practicing diapering a baby. Bridget is much better at this than me.

  “How do you know how not to make it too tight?” I ask her. My diaper completely falls down to the doll’s knees when I pick her up.

  “Here,” Bridget explains. “Just put two fingers on the tummy when you fold it over their stomach and then sort of pull it snug against your fingers and pin it in place.”

  I try that but my diaper still does not look as good as hers. Mine droops a bit on one side. I’m not concerned. Every baby I’ve been around has had on Pampers. They’re a snap to put in place.

  Next, we practice burping a baby. They say the best and easiest way for a beginner is to place the baby over your covered shoulder and gently pat the baby’s back between the shoulder blades. I think most people know this, but our instructor insists we practice it. Her name is Mrs. Evans. She’s like eighty years old. Where they found her do not ask me. I have no idea. It wasn’t from Sunny Meadows nursing home, that’s for sure. I’ve never seen her before, so she can’t be from our parish either.

  “Remember to burp the infant once or twice during a feeding and also afterwards,” she says, holding one of the dolls up to demonstrate.

  I have this part down pat and am anxious to move on to the next part, which is the CPR.

  “Pay attention, now, girls,” Mrs. Evans says. “This is critical.”

  Of course, she’s right about that. If you come to a situation where you need to do CPR, basically you’re in trouble to begin with, like did you let the baby crawl around on the floor and swallow a button, or something?

  “The first thing you do is clear the airway,” she explains. She has one of the baby dolls lying on its back with the head tilted backwards.

  “For a baby or a very small child, place your mouth over the child’s mouth and nose, making an airtight seal. For an older child, cover the child’s mouth with your mouth, also making an airtight seal. Pinch the child’s nose closed.”

  She looks up at us to see if we are paying attention. We are.

  “You won’t of course pinch a baby’s or small child’s nose closed, your mouth will be placed over it.”

  I think about when Joshua had a sneezing fit and snot was running from his nose. I prefer never to put my mouth over a child’s nose.

  “Now, give slow, gentle breaths into the child’s mouth, one every three seconds. Pause after each breath to take in a replenishing, oxygen-rich breath.”

  Mrs. Evans leans over the doll and makes like she’s breathing into its mouth. “Look to see that the chest rises when you blow a breath in. If the chest doesn’t rise, the child’s airway may be blocked. We’ll go into that later.”

  Mrs. Evans sets the baby aside and clasps her hands together. “We will be having actual demonstrations when the Red Cross joins us for our next session. Any questions?”

  Not one of us has any. Actually, I want to ask what happens if the baby throws up while you’re breathing into its mouth. I’m thinking by the time you stop gagging over it, the baby will be a goner. I sit there and let the question rest in my brain. I hope I never have to even consider giving CPR, but decide that I will pay attention just in case I do. Maybe the Red Cross covers the part about throwing up. Maybe they’ll explain during an emergency like this you will not even be aware a person has thrown up in your mouth. Your adrenaline is pumping so hard you don’t even taste it. That would be a lot to expect. I think about all the paramedics and what they go through. They should get paid double.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Henry is sick. My mother wants to take him to the hospital, but oh no, he will have nothing to do with that. He says he’s fine.

  “I’ve felt a lot worse than this before,” he says.

  Beth brings him some of Rosa’s chicken soup. She sits on the edge of the bed and spoon-feeds it to him and it is such a beautiful sight, sort of like watching a bird feed another bird. Not that Beth is a bird, but you know what I mean. It’s just so tender it takes your breath away. I can hear Henry as he slurps a little off each tablespoon. He’s so grateful. He pats Beth’s hand and says, “It’s very good,” like she cooked it or something.

  I want to do something for him, anything, so I fold the blankets next to the bed and put them on the chest next to the window. That doesn’t seem like nearly enough compared to chicken soup so I tuck the sheets back in at the bottom of the bed and pat his feet. Henry smiles and it’s more than worth it. Henry has been with us since before I can remember. He’s like a grandfather.

  “You have to get well,” I say. My face is determined, like that will make it so.

  I still think he should let my mother take him to the hospital, but that is still out of the question. I stand by his side and wonder if he is thinking of his wife. Her name was Millie and when he talks about her he always says her name like a little whisper on the wind, it comes out so softly. And I’m thinking that maybe he’s thinking he wants to see her again, even though he has always said he’s perfectly happy, maybe he hasn’t been and he really wants to join her all along. It makes me very nervous.

  “How are you feeling, Henry?” I say. He doesn’t answer. He is sound asleep and looks just like an angel. Henry has that kind of face. Some people absolutely do.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Henry has recovered, which is a major relief as we’re leaving for Cape Canaveral to go on the cruise. Vivian is coming with us. Beth has decided not to join us, even though my father thinks it’s a good idea. There are no more rooms available in order to book a private one for her and she’s not into sharing one with me and Bridget. What a relief. I prayed for ten hours that she would not want to go. Me and Bridget would have extra eyes watching us at all times and we really want to run off and be sort of wild. Not bad wild, but just sort of. We’re going to be touring exotic islands. It just screams at you to let your hair down and go for it.

  The one part that is upsetting is my father and Howard, Vivian’s husband, are not going. I don’t care about Howard, but I counted on my father going to reconnect with my mother. Say, another honeymoon for them, where he’d discover he wants nothing more to do with Donna and what was he thinking, he should have his head examined and my mother is all he will ever need for his entire life and he’s so glad he found out. So right now that is not going to happen, but what really worries me is that he will be spending all of his time with Donna, because Rodger, Bridget’s father, is in England and will be there for two more weeks. My father couldn’t have planned this better if he planned it. And then I realize he did plan it.

  “We can’t let this ruin our trip,” Bridget says. “Just ignore them. Let’s make like th
ey’ve never even met.”

  Right, like I’m going to be able to do that. But for sure, I don’t want it to ruin our trip so I try to put it out of my mind. I get busy finishing my packing. First I hang my certificate I earned from my babysitter’s class on the wall. My mother bought a plain black frame for it to rest in. I passed CPR and it says so right on the certificate. Passing was pretty amazing because the whole time I was thinking about snot and vomit and was having a hard time not gagging when it was my turn to demonstrate.

  “Very good,” Mrs. Evans said when I finished. A major relief is what it was.

  It was exciting to finish the class but mostly because it would be time for the cruise and I have counted on this to be one of the best times of my life. I hope I haven’t jinxed it or something. My mother comes into the room while I finish my packing and starts snooping about in my suitcase, supposedly to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Actually, I’ve removed most of what she laid out for me to put in and have pilfered some really neat stuff from Beth who could care less, when before she would have screamed my head off if she so much as caught me in her room. Since she’s become a philanthropist nothing fazes her anymore. It’s a miracle. I should be on my knees.

  “What’s this?” my mother says and holds up a skimpy striped tank top of Beth’s that I have wanted to wear since the first time she wore it.

  “Ah, I sort of borrowed it from Beth.”

  “Andi, this is not appropriate for a child your age.”

  There you go—she thinks I’m a child and how do you answer that? There is no answer. It’s useless. I watch as she fumbles through the rest of the clothes I’ve packed. She takes out half of what I’ve put in. I was going to look so hot.

  “Where are all the new outfits I bought you?” she says.