Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  Brynn is enjoying the exchange, so he shifts to her. “Might want to bring your friends with you more often, Brynn.”

  I’ll tease her later for being on a first-name basis with this cad. When he makes another play, I nudge Brynn toward a table where we can talk in peace.

  “Why do you do that?” she asks, a drink in each hand.

  “Do what?” I brush crumbs from the chair and plant myself facing the exit.

  “You won’t give the man a fighting chance.”

  “Been there. Done that.” I survey the room, eavesdropping on various conversations just enough to escape my own.

  She blows her bangs from her eyes, revealing a tinge of pink dye in the under layers. “And?”

  “And it’s not worth it. You just haven’t learned yet.” I silence the drum of guilt. Maybe I shouldn’t press such a jaded view onto a girl who is still naive enough to flirt with a bartender. And yet, part of me feels obliged to warn her of the wicked ways of the world.

  Brynn downs a long sip of one margarita. It’s the color of iced tea, a brackish tint that reminds me of Sardis Lake back home. Throughout my childhood our family’s party barge served as a perch for lazy summers on the water. For the first time in years, I long to go there again, to swim in those warm, calming currents and let the Southern sun sing to my soul. Brynn may not yet understand the games people play, but she has been right about one thing today. I am homesick!

  I glance at the bartender, who is already seducing another patron. Seeing my case is proven, Brynn takes aim. “How old are you again?”

  “Forty-five.” I look her square in the eye, refusing to admit the number is bothering me. What I’d give to go back in time, start again.

  She nods toward the corner where an old man watches the door, his eyes glazing over with defeat. “Eva, you know I love you. But listen. It’s been, what, three years? Since the Reed Incident?”

  “Wow. We’re calling it the Reed Incident now? My life, the screenplay.” The mention of his name pulls my gaze deep into her margarita.

  “Well then. It’s time to pen a happy ending. I have a friend. His name is—”

  “Brynn, I know you mean well. But don’t get too invested in this script.” Before Reed, I’d been on dates with every kind of man imaginable: doctors, farmers, teachers. An engineer. One guy who had made millions by patenting a specific kind of gate latch. Another who had spent two decades traveling the world with nothing but a backpack and camera. But that was before.

  “There’s a lot more to life than work, Eva.”

  “You think?” I laugh. She doesn’t. “I’m good. Really. I spend my weekends in Sedona. I teach yoga. And I’ve got wonderful friends like you.” I give her my best cheese-smile, which reminds me of my sister’s kids and how long it’s been since I’ve seen them.

  Behind her, our coworkers arrive, cheering as they distribute party hats to strangers around the room. A friend from sales toots a plastic horn and shouts to all within earshot. “Happy birthday, Eva!” Their revelry induces a round of applause from folks who have gathered for a little Friday fun.

  “How did you know I wished for flowers?” I smile, accepting a beautiful bouquet and offering hugs in return. “Are these . . . Michaelmas daisies?”

  “Asters, yes.” Our marketing guru nods proudly toward the others, who obviously relied on her for the gift.

  “I thought they bloomed in fall,” I say, impressed.

  “Special order.” She winks, eyeing Brynn’s drinks. “And speaking of orders . . .”

  As our coworkers make a dash for the bar, I am taken back to Mother’s porch where clusters of French hydrangeas overlap the wooden planks, the same purple-blue color as these asters. I pass the flowers to Brynn for inspection. “See? I’ve got friends.”

  “Everyone adores you, Eva. No doubt.” She looks again at the lonely old man, then at me. “But it’s not the same. My sister hasn’t dated since her husband split. I’m just saying, I don’t want you to end up alone.”

  “I’m happy, Brynn. Honestly. Very happy.” Once again, I spin the truth.

  For the next two hours I lace my way through Arizona’s maternal curves, restless as a child. Mile by mile, I trade city lights for stars, stretching toward Sedona. As the pregnant moon lures me, my pulse begins to slow. My mind steadies.

  It’s after nine when I finally steer away from blacktop, tucking my Audi beneath the contemporary yellow awning that welcomes me home. No matter how exhausted I am each weekend, turning into this drive rejuvenates me in a way nothing else does. Friday . . . one of my favorite F-words.

  It’s been a couple years since I put an offer on this adobe. Once I caught my breath from the Reed Incident, as Brynn has coined it, I needed to escape the habitual haunts we had shared in Phoenix—when he wasn’t living his double life, that is. As soon as I saw this place, I made a bid. My heart would have it no other way. The earth-toned construction of the southwestern one-story, the century-old cacti dotting the yard with thorns, the bright-pink bougainvillea that bloom all summer. It was too much to resist, especially nestled against Thunder Mountain, one of the peaks Walt Disney supposedly had in mind when he constructed his trademark roller coaster. I like to think he could never really replicate the “Happiest Place on Earth,” but I give him credit for trying.

  I drop my keys in the kitchen where I’m greeted by a picture of Bitsy’s children. They stand, suntanned and smiling, in front of the namesake amusement park ride. Now at fifteen and twelve, they have each grown more than a foot since that photo was snapped, but despite my pleas, Bitsy no longer sends me pictures. If it weren’t for Facebook and Mother, I’d never know if Trip had won his high school soccer game or if Mary Evelyn had landed the lead in the middle school musical. Of all the cruel things Bitsy has done, stripping me of her children is by far the worst.

  June 2013

  Oxford, Mississippi

  “One more twist.” I work my fingers through my niece’s long curls. It’s her tenth birthday, and she’s eager for friends to arrive. I wrap the final loop, layering another daisy into her floral crown. “Perfect!”

  Instead of smiling, Mary Evelyn holds a pensive stare. “Mama says you can’t come to my birthday parties anymore.”

  “What?” I stiffen. Bitsy has been particularly cold to me since I arrived two days ago, my spirit and my heart both broken by Reed. As usual, she can’t feel an ounce of empathy for me and has opted, instead, to pounce while I’m weak.

  “Says y’all can’t get along.”

  “Aw, she’s just blowing smoke.” I wave it off with a sigh. “Nothing will ever keep me away from you.” I wrap her in my arms and pull her close, determined not to let Bitsy harden this sweet soul.

  I shake the memories away, avoiding the hurt. Little did I know Mary Evelyn was right. It’s been nearly three years since Bitsy let me attend the birthday parties. Three years since I was abandoned not only by the man I loved but by my very own sister too.

  Moving through my weekend routine, I give a scant dose of water to the succulents and take inventory of my meager food supply. After a steamy shower, I fluff my pillow and fall across the bed. Alone. As an owl hoots from the cottonwood, I count the nights since I’ve been held close by someone I love.

  I grab my planner from the nightstand and remove the sticky note: Reassessment due. I can’t put it off any longer. I open the tab and review last year’s entry.

  1.Fat: I will lose the final ten pounds and run a half marathon.

  2.Finances: I will land an A-list client, securing early retirement.

  3.Fiancé: I will fall in love with a better man and learn to trust again.

  4.Family: I will make peace with Bitsy and regain my role as aunt.

  Using my highlighter, I code Goal #1 (Fat) in green. Indeed, this goal has been met. I write Spa day and promise myself a reward for that shiny half-marathon medal that now hangs in my closet next to my size 6 skirts.

  Replacing the green with yellow, I color
Goal #2 (Finances) to show it is nearing completion. I’ll submit the final details to The Trio this week, and then we’ll put ink to the Jansana contract. While the real reward will be retirement, for now I write, Car wash and detail, promising myself this small prize in return for hard work.

  Next, Goal #3 (Fiancé). I sigh and scratch a big red line, nixing it completely. I no longer believe this one is possible.

  Finally, Goal #4 (Family). I eye my phone. Three more texts from Mother.

  7:32—Fly home and help us plan the anniversary party?

  8:07—It’ll be much more fun if we do this together. Right?

  9:13—The Lady Banks are almost gone. Let’s get you here!

  This last one is typical of Mother. Throughout the year she sends a steady flow of photos and garden updates. From winter’s camellias to summer’s impatiens, the months are tracked by bloom. I scroll back through old messages, feeling more homesick than ever, especially when I read a series from early spring: Daffodils onstage. Then, Take a look at these marvelous Japanese tulip trees. And her favorite, Forsythia!

  It’s already near eleven in Mississippi, a little too late to call Mother. But Bitsy, well, maybe she’ll assume it’s an emergency and finally answer. I stare at my phone, trying to find the nerve to put myself in her aim again. Then I go for it. I call, just as I have countless times before. But this time, she answers.

  It’s been months since I heard my sister’s voice on the line, and yet she speaks as if nothing is wrong. She’s good at what I call scratch-off-lottery kindness, the sort that gets your hopes up only to reveal nothing but an empty promise beneath that layer of silver shine.

  My sincerity softens her, so she tones it down a notch, saying, “I suppose I should be the one calling you. Happy birthday, Lovey.”

  “Thanks, Bitsy. I dropped a gift in the mail for Mary Evelyn’s birthday. How are the kids?”

  “They’re asleep.” She offers nothing more and my walls go up, but I don’t dare let her know she has hurt me.

  “Okay, well, I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now. We need to talk about the anniversary party.”

  “It’s all falling into place. No worries.”

  I can tell she is wearing one of those overstretched too-tight smiles that means everything opposite of kindness. I plant my hand between my knees, fighting the urge to bite my nails. “I’d really like to be involved.” I turn to my Notes page, ready for instruction.

  She releases a dismissive laugh. “Come on, Lovey. Have you ever thrown a party? Even once?”

  Once again she patronizes my efforts, as if I’m still nothing more than an annoying little pest, tagging along to ruin her day. I stay quiet. Hosting elaborate client events has become second nature. How can she not know this about me?

  “That’s what I thought. I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is show up.”

  “We really should do this together, Bitsy. It’s what they want.”

  “It’s what who wants? You mean Mother?” Her vocal cords tighten, causing her to sound even more like a cartoon character. Then she shifts to a steely tone. “I’ll tell her you called. Don’t worry.”

  “Bitsy, stop. This is ridiculous.”

  “It certainly is!”

  “Oh, come on. You host incredible events. It’s your thing. I get that. But this is different. We owe it to Mother and Chief. It’s not about us. It’s about them.”

  After a long silence, she yields. “Fine. How do you want to contribute?” She snaps each word like a rubber band.

  “Well, I don’t know. What’s the plan?”

  “See? You have no idea what’s been going on. I’ve been working on this for half the year. At least. Now you want to swoop in at the last minute and take all the credit.”

  “You think I want to steal your spotlight? That’s what this is about?” I adjust the comforter and climb between the soft, cool sheets.

  “You’ve been doing this my whole life, Lovey. I won’t have it.” She sounds like a teenager, huffing furiously through the phone. “You love to fly in just long enough to prance around town as if you’re too good for Mississippi. Too good for us. Not this time.”

  “I don’t think I’m too good for any of you. I just want to help.”

  Silence. Then, “Do whatever you want. You always do.” She disconnects the call. End of conversation.

  FOUR

  “I live for you. I live for you too.” I am greeted before sunrise by the soothing coo of doves, every note a vow that they’ll never have to fly solo through this world. Brynn’s words from happy hour come back to haunt me. “I don’t want you to end up alone.”

  Pushing anxiety aside, I walk a brisk half mile to the base of Chimney Rock where a dozen like-minded souls are waiting for me to lead Seniors at Sunrise. Boulders and yucca plants stake their claim, but I find room near Marian, the feisty ninety-year-old I featured in the Jansana pitch. We spread our mats and begin stretches.

  By the time we’ve finished our sixth sun salutation, the rays are warming us while songbirds offer notes of prayer. I reach my arms high and draw my palms together to strike Vriksasana, but the calm cannot hold me. The same thought keeps rising. I have all these good pieces of my life—a successful career, a loyal tribe of friends, a healthy body, and an active mind. But everyone seems to think I need a man. What if Brynn is right? What if I’m only a half step away from spending the rest of my life alone?

  It’s been a long time since my mind raced like this. I refuse to go back to the black spin of insecurities Reed left inside me, so after an hour of yoga, I follow Marian toward a nearby trailhead, hoping to clear my worries. We enter through the Peace Park where she stops at the Amitabha Stupa, a Buddhist shrine that towers thirty-six feet toward the sun. I step aside as she gives the prayer wheel a spin, the vertical cylinder a blur of inscribed verses.

  Suddenly, I’m a child of the South again, perched in front of a living room television where contestants spin for prizes. How long has it been since I’ve watched The Price Is Right? I’ve come so far from my roots, I can hardly remember visiting my grandmother in Jackson, racing to bid the nearest price. This was a thrilling challenge because if Bitsy and I could work the simple math, we could earn a prize: bouncy balls, Silly Putty, jewelry, even books! Grandma would celebrate the win, making us feel as lucky as the contestants on TV.

  But here in Arizona, I have no television and no family. No tie to those simple traditions that always meant so much. Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling lost, unanchored. Alone.

  As the prayer wheel slows, Marian makes her three loops around the tower, its tapered top glinting bright. At this hour the park is silent, and a gentle breeze pulses the prayer flags. They dangle from the pitched peak of the stupa, speckling the sky with vibrant color.

  I weave my way down the trail where a smaller shrine sits humbly, nearly unnoticed in the underside of the mountain. Known as the White Tara, she is shadowed by a long, thin stretch of Italian cypress and the looming male stupa glowing gold against a cloudless blue. I slow, envisioning all the women who have come here before me. Many have left offerings: cedar beads and oranges, handwritten prayers and stones. Anything to say, “Here I am. See me. Hear my cries.”

  But I don’t want to focus on my fears, so I head back uphill where the sun calls my name. When I round the bend, Marian rejoins me, zipping alongside with a cheerful smile as I try to match her gait. An ideal Jansana model, she’s exactly the kind of woman I strive to be. Confident. Resilient. Strong. A widow for more than twenty years, she’s one of the most independent people I’ve ever known. Perfectly content conquering life’s challenges on her own. If Marian can do it, why can’t I?

  We climb for an hour, as wind chimes ring out from the piñon pines, their hollow notes a bell-toned base to birdsong. When we break for water, Marian labels the landscape, pointing in each direction. “Coffee Pot Rock. Chimney Rock. Capitol Butte.”

  Her water is carried in a dented canteen that
makes my shiny Jansana tumbler seem absurd. She takes only two small sips, while I down half, trying to quench my thirst. “You sure you’re ninety?”

  She laughs and asks my age.

  “Forty-five. As of yesterday.”

  “Your birthday?” Her skin has been weathered by the high-desert sun, but wrinkles don’t seem to bother her. When I nod, she points back toward the shrine. “Some say the stupa is a source of blessings. Prayers answered. Wishes granted. Be sure to put in a request.”

  I’m a skeptic, but I leave her spiritual beliefs unchallenged, telling her about my wish for flowers and the fateful delivery of daisies. She smiles with a wisdom that soothes me, as if nothing could surprise her anymore.

  As we tackle Sugarloaf Loop, Marian labels a warbler here, a towhee there. By the time we summit, she has identified an entire trail of birds, shrubs, and wildflowers. Now she steps off the path toward a cluster of cactus blooms. “Hedgehog.” She leans in for a closer look. A few of the bright-magenta flowers have already fallen against the rocks, a reminder that in a space such as this, time has a deeper measure.

  “You amaze me. You know that?” I scramble to reach the cliff where an early-morning hiker has beaten us to the top. With his shirt and shoes removed, he sits cross-legged, playing his flute to the winds. Like Marian, he seems ageless, and I’m inclined to think these two are on to something by living so far beyond mainstream conformity.

  The flutist bows with a quiet, “Namaste,” and we return his greeting. “This is a song of forgiveness,” he explains. “To help us heal from past hurts and let go of the pain.”

  He’s known for playing from the knoll near Kachina Woman over in Boynton Canyon. A colorful character, he delights tourists by handing out heart-shaped rocks and words of wisdom, but today he’s come here, away from the crowds, and we are honored to listen.