Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  As he plays, Marian sits stiff-spined against the rise. She closes her eyes and enters deep meditation. I find my own private perch and do the same. Focusing inward, I count out twelve beats, breathing in for a count of four, holding it for another four, and then exhaling for the final four-count. I think of nothing but the inhales and exhales, the space between. With the sun beating down, I finally begin to enter the deep state of peace I’ve been struggling to secure all morning.

  My brain settles, my heart slows, and each breath echoes with an internal roar. There is no longer any hint of Reed or Bitsy or Mother or Chief. No concern about layoffs or deadlines, financial security or retirement. No thoughts of my single status or the ticking of the clock. I feel Free, my favorite F-word of all.

  “This next song is for strength,” the flutist says. “This is to help us rise again when life pushes us down. A tune to keep us moving forward.”

  His notes echo across the mesa, drawing me deep. I focus on the scars that linger from a lifetime of betrayals, the paralyzing fear of daring to trust again, and the even greater worry of what may happen if I don’t.

  I keep my eyes closed against the sun, and light and shadow begin to bend behind my lids. Red-orange-black, the spin intensifies. Dots become dashes become lines become spirals, until slowly, ever so slowly, an image begins to form.

  The shape is not static. It is . . . alive, in motion, and while my mind can’t quite reason it, I am being greeted by a woman, a grandmother, it seems. She is smiling, engaging with me as she draws near. Is this what Marian would call a vision?

  With each step toward me, the woman becomes more defined. I have never seen her, and yet I feel as if I know her, as if I have always known her. And she knows me.

  Many names rise for her, each one voiced in waves of echo: Kachina Woman, Hera, Kuan Yin, Mary. Whoever she is, she is timeless and omnipotent, representing all things feminine and calming and wise. It’s clear she has come here today for a reason. She has come here for me.

  She walks in silence, with arms outstretched, sprinkling a trail of white feathers at each side. Then she begins to turn, slowly. The feathers spiral out around her, the soft white plumage clipping the wind and drifting down to the ground. As the feathers fall, she beams joyfully, her raven hair falling long against her back, her eyes aglow with a sacred light. She doesn’t speak, and yet I hear her words: Strong. I am strong.

  When my phone buzzes from my backpack, I hurry down from the ledge, keeping quiet so as not to disturb Marian. In contrast, Chief booms loud from Oxford. “Lovey? You okay?”

  I can’t imagine what his reaction would be if I told him I am at the Sugarloaf summit with a flute player and a ninety-year-old spiritual guide, sunning myself into disorienting visions. He’d be on a plane with the preacher before I hung up the phone. “Of course, why?”

  “Your mother’s worried sick. Says you haven’t responded since last night. She’s convinced you’re pinned in some canyon.”

  I sigh, resisting the urge to add S back to Mother on my contact list. I take a quick peek. Five texts and three missed calls from Smother. “I’m hiking is all.”

  “I figured as much. But while I’ve got you on the line . . .” He pauses, clicking his tongue as he’s always done when he’s searching for a way to word his thoughts. “Lovey, your mother and I, we’re concerned you and your sister just aren’t where you need to be with one another.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “Well, we see the anniversary as a chance to make things right. And that’s what I’m asking you to do.”

  “Why don’t you ask Bitsy to make things right? Why is it always my responsibility to fix all the problems in this family?” I don’t actually say any of this, but I want to.

  “Eva?”

  I step back. Chief hasn’t called me by my given name in decades. Now he says Eva with disappointment, the same way he did when the garden shed smoldered and questions came from every direction—all aimed at me.

  In the distance, Steamboat Rock, Cathedral Rock, and The Fin frame the scene as Marian meditates and the flutist plays. “I’ve tried, Chief. Many times, especially in the last few months. I just called her last night, in fact, hoping to talk about the party.”

  “Well, try again, Lovey. This is important. To your mother. And to me.”

  I don’t bother pleading my case about Bitsy hanging up on me. Just like I stayed quiet when they blamed me for leaving the gate open all those years ago, setting Chief’s sheep loose in the road. So many things I’ve never explained, like how I wasn’t the one who painted Go Rebs! on the bridge as a teen. A long line of false accusations, Bitsy’s lies that everyone accepted as truths. Instead, I cave, as always. “If it makes you happy, I’ll call again. But it’s not going to make any difference.”

  “I can always count on you, Lovey. Now, let me tell you about the surprise I’m planning for your mother.” He shares a down-to-earth chuckle that stirs all things sweet in my heart. “What’s the one thing she loves most? Other than family.”

  “Easy. Dolly P.” Named after Dolly Parton, Mother’s Cavalier King Charles spaniel is a diva in the most Southern of forms.

  “She counts as family.”

  “True.” I smile, imagining Dolly P.’s one-bark greeting, her own sweet version of “Hello.” “Well, I guess next would be her flowers.”

  “You got it. I’m building a garden. A memory garden. Every bloom will remind her of something. You and Bitsy being born. A vacation. Our first date. You get the idea. I’ve been working on this for a while. We’ve got a lot of good memories. But in order to make this work, we need to take a road trip or two. All of us.”

  “Listening.” I lean against the rock face, its surface warm and rough.

  “We need to go as soon as possible. That way I can do the big reveal at the party, like on those HGTV shows your mother watches. I was hoping you might fly down early.”

  “How early?”

  “Tomorrow.” He doesn’t laugh.

  “Tomorrow? The party isn’t for, what . . . more than three weeks from now?”

  “Not even a month of your time, Lovey. You’re long overdue for a visit home anyway.”

  I look toward the sky and try to muster some courage. For the first time in my life, I tell my father no. “I’m sorry, Chief. I can’t.”

  He clears his throat, as if he’s taking extra effort to guard his words.

  “Look, I’d love to take a month’s vacation with you, but I’m in the middle of a very important campaign right now. Jansana. It’s huge.”

  He doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve said Jansana, the world’s fourth most profitable athletic brand. “Lovey, we know you’ve got a lot of responsibilities, and we admire you rightly for it. But people get out of work all the time for emergencies, and, well, this is what I would call a family emergency.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?” I say this in jest, but in response, Chief’s laugh is forced, a sound much more like a cough.

  “Because your mother wants you here. Needs you here. That’s reason enough.”

  A long, tense pause spreads between us. Chief speaks first. “Look. I know it’s not easy for you to leave work. But your mother . . . she . . . I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  My blood pressure rises to premeditation levels as I imagine the worst. “Is she okay?”

  He sighs, clicks his tongue again. “Have I ever asked you for anything?”

  I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.

  “Listen. Fifty years is a lot to celebrate, and, well . . . she’s a bit nervous is all. It’s an emotional time, and we need you here with us, together. You know what I always say, Lovey. Family First.”

  “That’s why you need me to rush down there? Because Mother is emotional?” I’m not sure if I’m relieved my mother is just feeling overly sensitive, or if I’m angry with Chief for implying something worse. Relieved, I’m definitely relieved.

  “Is that a yes?” Chief laun
ches the question as if he’s throwing a touchdown pass, expecting the best from his receiver. No wonder he won so many awards back in the day. He won’t settle for anything less than a win.

  “It’s a yes-I’ll-ask-my-boss,” I mutter, unwilling to let my father down no matter how frustrating the situation.

  “Atta girl.”

  With that we say our good-byes, and I make a quick escape back to the summit. My father’s favorite F-words echo with every step: Family First.

  FIVE

  Early Tuesday morning, Mother has me on the line before I’ve even left for work. “Lovey? Please don’t ever worry me like that again. You head off into those mountains and then you don’t even answer your phone? Send proof of life. That’s all I ask.”

  I move the yoga ball to the corner of my Phoenix home studio and roll up my mat. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Take me off speaker. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

  Even at forty-five, I do as she says. “Influential,” that’s how Chief describes her.

  “Now, tell me you’re coming to Mississippi?” She ends every sentence with rising intonation, her way of keeping the conversation going. The porch swing creaks, and I picture Dolly P. curled snug in her lap. If she knows today marks three years since the Reed Incident, she doesn’t say. No matter how badly I’ve needed her emotional support, she avoids the subject with all she’s got in her.

  Here in Arizona, morning has already broken through, highlighting the overstuffed bookshelves that anchor each wall of my exercise room. “I really need to get ready for work, Mother. I can’t possibly ask for leave if I can’t even get to the office on time.”

  “Good point, Lovey. But . . . keep me posted?” She blows me a kiss before disconnecting, and I file this in my brain: Ideas for an Air Travel Campaign—when long distance just won’t do.

  I hurry outside to water my plants before the heat rises. A modest stucco adobe built beyond the urban edge of the city, my Phoenix home is smaller than my Sedona shelter, but this one, too, is fronted by bright bougainvillea. I planted them years ago, and now the blooms turn pink as watermelon, rising up from terracotta pots to frame the door. Their thorns form a fierce defense. Makes me wish I, too, had a shield of sharp barbs.

  It wasn’t so long ago that Reed and I discovered a pair of elf owls in the front yard saguaro. With rounded heads and white brows, they are nearly as small as sparrows. The pair’s puppylike yips would fill the air with a sweet sort of mewing, and their loyal devotion seemed to symbolize our future. Mates for life.

  But now it’s their defensive strategy that impresses me most. The way they tuck themselves inside the cactus, high above the prowl of predators, perched more than twenty feet aboveground with a wall of thorns separating soil from nest. It’s a nearly fail-proof design, but even they have a backup plan.

  1.Surround yourself with a wall of defense.

  2.Go limp when attacked.

  3.Flee when you have the chance.

  The first to arrive at the office, I take a look at my planner. Tuesday, May 17. Three years, and the cut still bleeds. I open my lower desk drawer and uncover a stack of framed photos. After Reed’s confession, I pulled these memories from my shelf, shutting the hurt behind lock and key. Today, I take a peek for the first time in ages. The blow is brutal.

  One of the images shows us smiling in Oahu, the knee-high pineapple fields sprawling behind us. We’d shared a fresh bite of the tropical fruit, and then he’d kissed me, laughing and saying I tasted like paradise.

  The photograph is stacked with others, all snapped during exotic trips to Santorini, Nepal, and Bali. That was before I started storing vacation days and spending too much time at the office. With one look I’m dragged back three years. The weekend I had just turned forty-two, and the night I thought Reed would propose.

  May 17, 2013

  I’ve driven almost an hour to meet Reed near the Tortolita Mountains north of Tucson. He’s reserved a table for two at Stem, an upscale destination that’s earned rave reviews.

  With a glance in the mirror, I fix my hair, grateful I have yet to find any gray. I add a smidgen of blush and a quick stroke of mascara, hoping to draw notice to my Irish green eyes. “Lucky eyes.” That’s what Chief calls them.

  It’s nearly seven when I reach the patio, and a waiter is already lighting flames for sunset. An insufferable group of businessmen call to him, demanding drinks “before the sun goes down.” The waiter nods, moving to the outdoor bar where he serves them shots of tequila followed by cerveza. The men brag about their first-class flight status and early-morning tee times, so I tune out, focusing instead on the arid swell of sagebrush. The mountain peaks are subtle, rising slow above scatterings of wildflowers, most on the tail end of bloom. Saguaros shadow the horizon, like titans, with flashes of red-tipped ocotillos leafing out from recent rains.

  Reed is late—again. A pattern that’s worsened in recent months. I pace, poolside, where the smooth surface breaks only for the bright-orange torch flares. The flickering flames serve a fair match for the sun as the golden globe dips low behind Dove Mountain.

  In response the earth sings out in passionate notes, morphing from a timid silence into an aria of melon, tangerine, and pomegranate. Foraging bats add their faint, rhythmic clicks, and my heart hums in response. I am tuning in to the screech of a barn owl when the smell of Reed moves through me. Calvin Klein. A scent I chose last Christmas, not that he needs any tricks. He kisses my neck before speaking, and this is all it takes. It’s been four years since his hospital hired our firm to handle a fund-raising event. Four years, and he still gives me chills.

  I spin to face him, resisting the urge to run my fingers beneath his shirt right here and now. With my job in Phoenix and his in San Antonio, the wait between visits has become hard to handle. “Just in time.” I smile. “Can you get over this sunset?”

  He turns toward the bar. “I need a drink.”

  I stay by the pool, giving him a chance to wind down from the long commute. By the time he returns, the stars are taking center stage and I’m hoping his nervous jitters may mean he’ll pop the question here, beneath the moon. There’s nothing I want more than to move to the next phase of our relationship, and it would be the ultimate gift for my birthday weekend. He indulges in a long swig of Buchanan’s. On the rocks.

  “Hard day?” I rub his shoulders. “You’re in knots.”

  He sighs. “Acoustic neuroma Wednesday. Got the best of me. Larger than what showed on the MRI. Threw every unexpected curve at us. On top of that, the chief of staff called a meeting this morning. Had to squeeze that in before I left for the airport. I’m beat.”

  “How’s the patient?” Guilt surges. Despite all these obligations, he’s shown up here for me. I pulse my fingers across his neck, but instead of melting in response, his muscle tenses.

  “He was stable when I left.” The hand-cut ice cubes clink as he finishes his drink. “Let’s eat.” He turns and I follow.

  We are led to a romantic corner table, another perfect spot for a proposal. As usual Reed doesn’t miss a detail. It’s what makes him a good surgeon. And a good partner—most of the time. I learned years ago to focus on the positive and let the rest slide.

  As we are seated, Reed explains he’s already read the menu online. He orders for us both, but I brush it off, assuming he’s either exhausted or rushing through the meal so he can take a knee.

  For him, a rib eye, rare, and a full glass of Malbec. For me, he chooses pan-seared trout on a bed of pilaf, served with a side of arugula and a dose of chardonnay. Then he turns his attention to his phone. It’s not unusual, given the nature of his job, but he’s not himself tonight, and I’m struck with a fear that the situation at work may be more dire than he’s described.

  Admiring the silver vase on our table, I press near the single white bloom. I expect it to transport me home to my mother’s garden where the perfumed roses bait me long before I ever reach them. But unlike Mo
ther’s, this one has no fragrance, so I slide the vase aside and survey the room instead.

  The crass businessmen are now discussing stock market trends at their table. They speak loudly, as if we should all be impressed by their lofty returns. Behind them, a young couple sit close together, oblivious to the obnoxious banter. They are holding hands, whispering, smiling.

  “Probably on their honeymoon,” I say, hoping Reed catches the hint.

  At a table by the window, a young redhead flirts with a much older man. She leans closer and his gaze travels down her dress. Tempted, he reaches for the locket that dangles strategically between hems of soft green fabric. As he plucks the charm from its daring divide, light catches his wedding ring—something the young woman is noticeably without as she cups his hand in hers.

  Her high-pitched giggle fills the room, and I try not to judge. But I imagine the man’s wife back home caring for children, paying bills, cleaning floors. I look back to Reed, grateful I am not with that kind of man. I may not have the storybook marriage, two kids, and a double garage, but at least I’ve never been used like that.

  I wrap up the final details for The Trio before Brynn makes it into the office. Ten months on this Jansana campaign, and now all we have to do is sign the contract and put the plans into play. My parents are being persistent, but how can I dare risk losing it all now? Especially with recent layoffs and The Dragon’s itch to make more cuts?

  “Morning.” Brynn tumbles into her chair mere feet from my own. She carries a caffè latte in hand, her name sketched in black above the cardboard sleeve. It’s misspelled, as it has been every day since the good barista flew the coop.

  “Why, hello there, Brine.” I exaggerate the mispronunciation while giving Brynn the best smile I can offer. If there’s anything I learned from a Mississippi childhood, it’s to stash a sorority grin in my pocket, locked and loaded. But Brynn has been my friend for nearly seven years, so even my best Katie Couric impression can’t fool her.