Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Eyeing the Monday morning edition of the Paradox Press, she flipped through the pages until she landed on the “Letters to the Editor” section. There at the top was Renée’s searing diatribe against medical marijuana and the dispensaries creeping into Paradox. Thanks to the digital age, one could write a letter on Saturday, email it and see it published on Monday. And given Renée’s penchant for using high-strung volatility to get what she needed – not to mention having a friend who worked at the paper – it was no wonder the letter was given a bolded banner headline: Local Women’s Group Says ‘Just Say No’ To Pot In Paradox! Betty scanned the letter counting how many times Renée overused exclamation points, and saw that the first name on the list at the end of the letter was “Elizabeth Cragen.”

  “For Lord’s sake,” Betty muttered to herself. Good proofreaders were becoming as rare as a bucktoothed rooster.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Dr. Hancock appeared. “Hi, Betty.”

  “Hello, doctor,” she said, forcing a weak smile.

  “Christ, Betty. It’s Roger.”

  Yes, of course it was Roger, Betty silently agreed. But that was fine for backyard soirées and Christmas parties. Formality was formality and the man hadn’t diligently toiled to reach his position to be called anything but “Doctor” in her eyes.

  He peered down at the newspaper in Betty’s hands. “Ah, you saw Renée’s letter!”

  “I signed it, but the idiots spelled my last name wrong. Turned a ‘v’ into a ‘g.’”

  “They were probably stoned, huh? So, what’s happening with the neck?”

  Betty momentarily bristled at his terminology. “The neck” sounded like it wasn’t even attached to her body. She precisely explained what she was feeling, down to the finest twitch. She was about to delve into further detail when he moved forward and began pushing his fingers and thumb into her neck. Betty let out a contained exclamation of pain.

  “Sorry about that. How long has this been going on?”

  “How long? Well, let’s see, we moved from Houston in 1980…” She pondered a bit more. “It was definitely happening prior to that –”

  “No. I mean recently. It hasn’t been this bad for over thirty years has it?”

  She wanted to answer the question correctly so as not to make herself appear too sickly or weak. “Well, no, not this bad. But I guess I’d have to say that I’ve had issues with my neck and tension since I was a child.”

  “Okay.” He continued to push his thumb into her neck, not really interested in what she revealed. “It could be serious.”

  “Really?”

  “I could run some tests. On the mild side, it could just be a spasm and on the other end, it could be structural and you might need surgery, given the length of time you’ve had the problem.”

  “Surgery? No, no, no. You know, there might be a connection somehow to the flutter I sometimes get in my right ear.”

  “Flutter?”

  Oh, God, now she was starting to sound like she was falling apart. “A beating rhythm, like a –”

  “Let’s take a look,” he interrupted, probing Betty’s ear with an otoscope. “It appears that one of your ossicles is prominent. You could have had it since you were a child. Have you ever fallen on that ear or been hit on that side of the head?”

  “No. No, thankfully that’s one thing I have not experienced.”

  He stood back. “Uh-huh. Well, fixing that ossicle will require surgery.”

  This was getting to be far too much for her to absorb. “It comes and goes,” she feebly offered, not wanting to sound like she was completely deteriorating. “But when it does come, it can keep me awake. Just like my neck spasms do –”

  “How is your sleeping in general?”

  “Oh, I sleep just like a baby. I wake up every two hours screaming,” she deadpanned.

  He regarded her with a confused expression. “Screaming, huh? Nightmares?”

  It was a joke but come to think of it, yes, there were nightmares. The trivial ones had something to do with putting on a large party and running out of butter. But the worst nightmares were the ones she couldn’t remember – the ones that left her cold and terrified and desperately alone.

  “How long ago did Frank Sr. pass away?” he enquired.

  The question came out of left field. “Just over three years ago, but –”

  “Well, that’s got to be a big part of your tension, right?” He leaned back on the examination table, clipboard in hand. “Anxiety? Depression?”

  Betty wasn’t ready for all this. “Yes.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Hard to pin that down. It’s more like anxiety wrapped in a crêpe of depression.”

  “Crêpe of depression? Never heard that one.”

  It was so much easier to see her mental issues personified in food. “Yes, well it’s far more akin to a crêpe than a pancake. Does that make sense?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “I can’t really choose whether it’s anxiety or depression. Why does it matter?”

  “It matters because it will determine what medication I prescribe for it.”

  “But I’m not here for anxiety or depression. I came in for my neck –”

  “I know. But it’s important to cover all the bases.” He brought out his prescription pad. “I’m going to start you on a generic anxiety drug. Perfectly safe. Just make sure you read through the insert regarding the side effects –”

  “What about my neck?”

  “I’m getting to that. I’m also prescribing a muscle relaxant. Same deal. Read the insert. You may experience dizziness, confusion, blurry vision, headaches, and insomnia. But all in all, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Insomnia? Wait, the neck spasms cause insomnia. This drug for the spasms might give me insomnia?”

  Roger scratched another note on his prescription tablet. “We’ll throw some Valium in the basket. Just don’t overdo it. And check the –”

  “Insert,” Betty added. “Right.” She wondered how many trip points to Maui Roger would earn from the pharmaceutical company thanks to her visit. “Mother’s little helper,” she said, trying her best to sound cheerful.

  “What’s that?”

  “Valium. That’s what they called it back in the day.”

  “I see. Okay, you can start the muscle relaxant right away. Take three a day and one before bedtime.” He continued to rattle off how and when to take the Valium and anxiety drug. The pharmacy was located three stories down from his office so, as Roger said, Betty could “get on the program pronto.”

  Betty dutifully filled the prescriptions and popped the first muscle relaxant. She wasn’t ready to commit to either the anxiety drug or the Valium. Within twenty minutes, she felt a slight lessening of her neck pain but an uneasy sense of detachment also set in. She pulled into one of the many burgeoning farmers’ markets that filled the now empty mall parking lots outside of Paradox and figured a walk might help clear the disconnection. A half-hour later, with her plastic basket in hand filled with bags of organic lettuce, beets, cilantro and arugula, she felt somewhat better. She heard a discordant voice over a loudspeaker, abrasively insisting that people “wake the hell up” and “practice tolerance.” Moving closer, Betty noted the banner above a folding table and chairs under a white umbrella. It read, Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance, whoever the hell they were. Betty bristled as she walked by the group, realizing what had once been a pleasantly provincial gathering of Colorado farmers, had now been ingloriously usurped by a liberal fringe element wearing homemade moccasins and tattered tank tops. “Activists,” she murmured to herself. It was a label she deplored and seemed to unite those who had a bug up their ass with those who enjoyed too much free time.

  Just as Betty returned her plastic basket to the stack and was quickly hastening her departure, her cell phone rang. She checked the Caller ID and saw it was Peggy’s home phone number.

  “Hello?” she said, a hint of appre
hension in her voice.

  “Hey, Betty?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me. Peyton. We met yesterday?”

  This was far too forward for Betty. “How did you get my cell number?”

  “I called the number on the back of the box of chocolates from The White Violet, and it was forwarded to this number.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes. Why are you calling?”

  “I’m sitting here with my aunt, and she’d like you to come over.” A shrill bleat from one of the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance punctured the air. “What in the hell was that?” Peyton asked. “Where are you?”

  “I’m attempting to escape a gaggle of misinformed liberals.”

  “Dude, that sounds totally treacherous. So, can you motor over here ASAP?”

  Betty arrived on Peggy’s doorstep fifteen minutes later. The muscle relaxant appeared to be in full swing as the nurse led Betty down the hallway toward Peggy’s bedroom. Seated on one side of Peggy’s bed was Peyton, while the elderly gentleman Betty noted the day before sat on her other side. The aura in the whole room felt completely different than it had just twenty-four hours prior. Peggy was softly talking to her nephew and even smiling. Gone was the struggle and moaning.

  “Hey, hi there,” Peyton softly said, motioning Betty closer.

  She held back, a knee-jerk reaction she’d acquired over recent years.

  Peggy slowly turned her head, and when she saw Betty standing helplessly in the doorway, smiled warmly. “You came over,” she said, somewhat floating above the words but focused on Betty. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Peyton stood up and waved Betty to his spot on the bed. “It’s okay.”

  Betty sat on the bed. Her box of chocolates was covered. “Had a chocolate?”

  “I did,” Peggy sweetly replied, taking Betty’s hand in hers. “They were spectacular as always.”

  “It’s the honey,” Betty said, feeling terribly ill-equipped for this impromptu visit. Peggy stared at her, a caring smile lingering on her face. A ball of emotion welled up in Betty’s throat, which she valiantly tried to swallow. “I’m so happy to see you feeling better, darling.” She turned to Peyton. Tears rolled freely down his young face. Looking at the elderly man, Betty introduced herself. But he kept his focus on Peggy.

  Peyton leaned closer to Betty. “That’s my grandpa,” he whispered. “He doesn’t talk much.

  Peggy stroked Betty’s hand. “It’s so beautiful, Betty.”

  “What’s beautiful?”

  “Everything…it’s all connected. It all makes sense now.”

  Betty cocked her head. “What makes sense, darling?”

  “Life. Death. It’s just a circle, isn’t it? I understand it now. I just can’t explain it with words. I don’t think words are invented that can describe it. But it’s there. And I feel like…like if I could dive into this moment and into the stillness, it would all make sense. There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Nothing.”

  Betty looked into Peggy’s eyes. In all the years they’d known each other, she’d never seen her so at ease and filled with true contentment. “I think you’ve reached a turning point, darling. It’s all up from here!” Betty felt that damned ball again in her throat.

  Peggy chuckled and then broke into a soft laugh. “Yeah, you betcha. All up from here!” She stared off into the distance, a smile forming. “I’ll be dancing tonight, Betty. I’m going to be free.” A tear fell down her face, but it didn’t come from sadness.

  Betty leaned forward and kissed Peggy’s cheek. “Fight the good fight, dear,” she whispered.

  “No. No more fighting,” Peggy gently whispered back to her. “Just love.”

  Betty stood up, feeling a little unsteady. She wasn’t sure if it was the muscle relaxant or the emotional toll she felt at that moment. “I love you, Peggy.”

  She made it into her car just before the floodgates opened. She sobbed uncontrollably for fifteen minutes. But somewhere within the grief, she knew her tears fell for the pain she’d held at bay far too long. Deep within that well of emotion, she wept for the weighty regret that boiled in her gut. Was life just a series of broken promises and neglected dreams, put to rest by a deathbed enlightenment of what living was really all about? Was this the way she would wind up her time on earth?

  Betty was still contemplating this terrifying prospect later that evening, after her third muscle relaxant and clutching her first bourbon. In a slight haze, she was just about to pour her second drink of the night when the doorbell rang.

  Chapter 7

  “Didn’t you read the insert?”

  Betty opened the front door and was startled to see Peyton standing there. “What are you doing here?” The ice in her glass of bourbon clinked on cue.

  “Aunt Peggy died two hours ago.”

  Betty felt her heart sink. She held onto the doorknob for support. “Oh, dear God…”

  “You okay?” Peyton took a step closer.

  “Yes…yes, of course, I’m fine…”she mumbled. Everything seemed foggy and discombobulated. She turned from the door and wandered into the living room, taking a seat at the dining room table.

  Peyton walked in, gently closing the door behind him. He looked around the room, briefly fixating on several objects before returning his focus to Betty.

  “Wait a minute,” Betty said, still not all there. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “I found your address on my aunt’s Christmas card list. Did a MapQuest locator and motored over.” He sat down across from her. “Seriously, dude. Are you okay?”

  “God, why does everybody keep asking me that?”

  “I don’t know. You might want to explore that. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  “Oh, please. This is only the start of my second.”

  Peyton furrowed his brow and took a quick gander around the room. He spotted the white “Rx” prescription bag and the single orange tube lying next to it. Getting up, he checked the label. “Hey, Betty, how many of these did you take?”

  “Two…no, wait…three.”

  “Didn’t you read the insert? You’re not supposed to drink when you take these. That’s actually kinda dangerous.” He quickly walked back to the table and grabbed the glass of bourbon from her hand.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Peyton was already in the kitchen. Betty followed, gaining a modicum of mental precision but still faltering.

  “I don’t need to watch two people die today,” Peyton casually said as he tossed the bourbon into the sink and set the glass on the counter.

  “Hey, kid. You have a lot of nerve!” Betty noted that she was slurring her words. “You don’t just come into someone’s home and…” Her stomach heaved. “And…”

  Peyton saw it coming before Betty had any clue. He pushed her toward the sink just in time. Without missing a beat, he rubbed Betty’s back and grabbed a paper towel, handing it to her when she was done emptying her stomach into the polished sink.

  Betty dabbed at her mouth, embarrassment plainly evident. “Oh, Lord sake,” she whispered. She swished her mouth with water and spit it back into the sink.

  “Nice kitchen,” he commented.

  Betty was still bent over the sink. “Thank you very much. Would you like to buy the house? I’ll make you one helluva deal.”

  Peyton smiled, holding his hand protectively on Betty’s back. “No. I’m good. I live with my grandfather. How you doin’ there?”

  Betty slowly stood up as her head spun. “You can cut off a dog’s tail, but you can’t sew it back,” she mumbled.

  “Huh? You sound delirious.”

  She leaned on the sink. “It’s an old Texas saying I grew up with. It means think first before you make a bad mistake that can’t be corrected.”

  “Hey, your doctor made the bad mistake of giving you those pills. You just didn’t read the insert. The side effects are ridiculous! This might sound rando
m, but by any chance is your doctor Canadian?”

  Betty managed to lift her head to look at Peyton. “Canadian? I…I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’ve had some bad luck with Canadians in my short life. I’m not really sure what it is. They just don’t feel fully committed to their own existence, and they seem to project that onto others.”

  Betty considered his observation and smiled. “Is that right?”

  “That’s been my experience. Let’s go in the living room and sit down.” He led her back to the dining room table and helped her into a chair. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your teeth?”

  Betty looked at him, confused. “Nothing happened to my teeth.”

  “You got veneers on them. Were you in an accident where your teeth got bashed in?”

  “No! It was something I had done to improve my smile.”

  “Shit. You did that on purpose? Dude, how bad was it before?”

  “You really are quite the charming fellow, aren’t you? You don’t have to stay with me. I’m fine.”

  “No worries. I’ll hang for a bit.” He scanned the living room again.

  Betty gathered her thoughts. “Did…did Peggy suffer at all at the end?”

  Peyton smiled and shook his head. “No, not at all. It was beautiful. I came here to tell you that you helped make that happen.”

  “Me?” Betty’s head started to throb as a headache worked its way into her orbit.

  “Aunt Peggy and I had always been tight, but the cancer made her pretty mean toward the end. And the pain…well, it was awful. She couldn’t talk or focus enough to tell us what she needed. She’d been there for me when nobody else was, and I promised I’d be there for her, no matter what. She always accepted me for who I was even though I thought different.”

  “Ly,” Betty corrected, holding her head in pain.

  “Dude, you really should have read that drug insert. Confusion is another one of the many side effects.” He leaned forward and touched her hand. “My name’s Peyton, not Lee.”