Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  NINE

  “I promised to make an altarpiece for Sunday services,” Mother says. “Don’t let me forget?”

  “I’ll help,” I say, eager to work the flowers with her again, a hobby we spent hours sharing throughout my childhood. As the hummingbirds sip nectar, Mother’s mention of church leads me to think of Marian and her magnetic energy out in Sedona. They may come from opposite ends of the spiritual spectrum, but both of them press me to leave the past behind. To forgive Reed and Bitsy. To heal and move forward. Why can’t I let things go?

  I keep a gentle rhythm, swaying my chair against the moss-kissed porch. Part of me feels at ease here at home, as if everything can pick right back up where I left off. The other half still feels like the outsider, always looking in on a family living life without me.

  The creaks of the planks take me back to simpler times, when my sister was speaking to me. When Fisher and I would spend long summer days exploring these woods as if we were Tarzan and Jane, John Smith and Pocahontas. The roles were clear, and I was never alone.

  “Life used to be so easy,” I say to Mother, who rocks steadily beside me. Dolly P. rests on her lap, spoiled and loving it. Above us, the Lady Banks wrap the arbor while carpenter bees inspect the last of the fading blooms. Their nearly scentless display reminds me of the tabletop rose from the Reed Incident. I do my best to avoid the trigger, focusing instead on the incessant buzzing of the bees, their flight paths blurring the memory.

  Under the magnolias, Bitsy still hasn’t left the hammock. “I don’t know which is worse,” I confess. “Her verbal assaults or this threatening silence.”

  Mother sighs. “Do either of you even know what you’re angry about anymore?”

  I don’t bring up the Reed Incident or Bitsy’s criticisms. Nor do I mention the time she stole my boyfriend, turned my friends against me, or reported me to the teacher for cheating. Love keeps no record of wrongs. If only it were that easy!

  “I don’t know, Mother. It’s almost as if this is the norm now. Like we just kept pulling ourselves through the muck, and then one day, we woke up and realized we had lost hold of the rope. Maybe there’s no turning back.”

  “Nonsense. Sisters need each other.”

  “She doesn’t need me, Mother. Look at her. She’s never needed me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Lovey. She’s always needed you. Even if she didn’t act like it, you can’t just run off to the other side of the country and leave people behind.”

  I exhale, hoping not to sound too defensive. “I’ve called her every week, Mother. For years. She rarely answers. Won’t return my calls. Won’t even let me see the kids. I’m not the one causing this tension. Never have been.”

  “She pushes people away is all. That’s her nature.”

  “Anyone who won’t do as she says.” I turn my attention toward the hammock. “Besides, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was the one who needed her?”

  I leave it at that, unable to bring up Reed and his traumatic betrayal. I don’t mention the number of times I realized his lies went much deeper than I had even begun to imagine. The nights I cried, wishing I had a sister, someone to stand up for me. Someone to help me reclaim my worth. But Bitsy abandoned me when I needed her most, leaving me to wonder if perhaps my sister is not so different from Reed. Both of them, liars.

  Thankfully, Dolly P. saves us with a bark as Chief’s old Ford comes rumbling up the lane. It’s a sound that settles every fear. A sound so comforting, so healing, even Bitsy stands from the hammock and makes her way to the porch.

  She wears a preppy floral sundress fitted to her petite figure and anchored by a dainty pair of strappy heels, as if she’s just stepped off the pages of a magazine. Stopping by her Volvo, she grabs a straw handbag to coordinate the Southern belle ensemble. Even her soft blonde curls fall perfectly atop her shoulders, with no sign of gray beneath the dye.

  “You look beautiful.” I offer praise, always a good place to start with Bitsy, who glares at my loose linen tunic as if I’ve been sleeping under a bridge all week.

  She holds her designer bag in the air. “Draper James. I’m addicted.” She doesn’t mention my weight loss, but she does give me a long once-over. Fat. At least that’s one F-word I can scratch off my list.

  Chief parks his truck beneath the shagbark hickory before heading for the roomier SUV. “Sure is good to see all three of you in one place this morning.”

  I give my father a hug and he matches it. Then Mother and I make a final sweep of the house before piling into the oversize vehicle. When I climb into the back beside Bitsy, she stares out the window, trying to avoid the fact that I actually exist. It’d be funny if it weren’t so obnoxious. Oblivious to Bitsy’s act, Chief announces his hearty, “All systems go,” and we hit the road.

  As we reach the end of our narrow lane, a pickup truck is pulling in. Without room for both vehicles to pass, the driver is forced to stop and reverse back out to the county road, waiting for us to exit. Chief lowers his window and steers near the truck. Sure enough, Fisher smiles from behind the wheel, Oaklen Landscape and Design inked across the door. My skin buzzes, a charge I haven’t felt in years.

  “We’re heading out,” Chief explains. “Need anything?”

  “No, sir.” Fisher treats my father with utmost respect. Beside him, two younger employees fill the bench seat, dressed for a day in the heat. Mother has no idea they’re here to work on her memory garden. She thinks they’ve come to handle an issue with the fence, redirect some water runoff before the big party, but when she asks him about the job, Fisher simply nods and asks, “Did Lovey make it in yet?”

  Thank goodness he can’t see through the tinted glass because my cheeks feel so warm, I’m probably pink as a stargazer lily. When Chief lowers my window from his front control panel, I have no choice but to offer a greeting. My voice comes out like one of Dolly P.’s chew toys, squeaky and strained.

  “Good flight?” Fisher leans his elbow over the window, his tanned arm stretching from a faded blue T-shirt, his bicep bulging beneath the slack cotton sleeve.

  “It was.” I nod, and five spectators watch for sport. “Thanks for helping my folks.”

  “Sure thing.” That smile again! Matthew McConaughey’s got nothing on this man. “It’s good to see you, Lovey. You haven’t aged a day.”

  Bitsy snorts, but I tilt my chin with a bashful note of gratitude.

  “Let’s catch up while you’re here?” He looks at Chief, then back at me, as if he’s asking my father’s permission.

  “Sure.” I’ve turned pink again, and this time he sees. He may not be the same boy I loved all those years ago, but at his core, I get the sense he hasn’t changed all that much. Kind, respectful, forgiving. How could I have steered so far off course?

  Chief slowly accelerates and wishes the crew a good day. As my window lifts, I can’t take my eyes off Fisher’s smile. “I’m kind of surprised he still lives in Oxford. Figured since his folks lost their farm, he might hightail it.”

  “Nobody in their right mind ever leaves this town,” Bitsy says. “You know that.”

  “Well, he did go on to State after baseball.” Chief reminds us that Fisher studied landscape architecture in Starkville once he got his business degree from Ole Miss.

  “Starkville. Doesn’t count.” She’s probably rolling her eyes.

  “I left too. Remember? For the pros.”

  “Sure. But even if people do leave for a while, they always come back.” This one’s from Mother, who gives me a look as if I’ve broken all the rules.

  I let it slide because Fisher has left a peace in me that even Bitsy and Mother can’t combat. With his genuine soul, he was like a big brother when we were kids. Until he became more than a brother, kissing me behind the Ole Miss stadium my sophomore year in high school—a night I’ll never forget.

  “Hasn’t changed a bit,” Mother says. “Still cute as ever.” Then she beams at me. “He’s still single too, you know
? Never did settle.”

  “He’s not exactly single, Mother,” Bitsy chimes in. “He’s dating Blaire Dayton. Nearly a year now. Talk of marriage all around town.” Then she looks right at me and turns the sword. “You blew your chance with that one. Trust me.”

  What Bitsy doesn’t understand is that I stopped trusting her long ago. I don’t give her the thrill of a reaction, even though the thought of Fisher with a girl like Blaire makes my stomach churn. I can’t imagine a worse match. I haven’t seen Blaire in years, but all I can think about is her standing near our porch as kids, lifting her nose in the air and asking us all why we’re so dirty. She was the alpha of Bitsy’s mean-girl tribe, and I can’t imagine why in the world Fisher would show her any interest.

  “You ask me, he probably could have continued playing baseball,” Chief says. “Minors at least. Likely more.”

  “But Finn wouldn’t leave Mississippi, so they went to Starkville together instead.” And there it is. With one fell swoop, Mother has shot straight to the heart of this tender topic. She might as well put it to words because we’re all thinking about Finn and the fire.

  “How is he?” I ask, a ball of steel in my throat.

  “Finn? He’s good, Lovey.” Chief tries to settle any worries. “Studied landscaping with Fisher. They run that company together now. They’ve made it work.”

  “He’s got three kids,” Mother adds. I don’t let on to the fact that I already know this. That I’ve always kept tabs on Fisher and Finn, allowing the what-ifs to rock me to sleep sometimes. “His son’s in class with Mary Evelyn. Isn’t that right, Bitsy?”

  Bitsy continues to stare out the window, offering nothing more than a stark, “Yep.” Six years older than Finn, she was late to the game of parenthood, putting Whitman through two years of medical school only to watch him drop out. Then waiting for him to earn his MBA before finally starting fertility treatments. It’s yet another parallel she shares with Mother, who waited for Chief’s NFL days to end before launching our family—a plan few understood at the time, but one I have always admired.

  “What’s this song?” Bitsy changes the subject. “Can’t for the life of me get it out of my head.” She hums, sprinkling the melody with a few scattered lyrics, “kicking around . . . hometown.”

  “Pink Floyd.” I am stunned. Bitsy never would have listened to that kind of music when we were kids. Floyd. Grateful Dead. That was my crowd. And Fisher’s. “Basically my personal anthem all through high school.” I used to play it on repeat while she stuck to Casey Kasem and his American Top 40.

  “Trip’s too.” Bitsy sighs. “Plays it nonstop.”

  “Guess he takes after his aunt Lovey.” Chief catches my eyes from the rearview. My temperature must jump two degrees at the thought of my nephew having something in common with me.

  “I’d love to see him,” I say with as much restraint as I can manage. I learned long ago, the more I push, the more Bitsy pushes back. “Mary Evelyn too, of course.”

  “They’ll be out of school soon for summer,” Mother says. “Plenty of time for you to catch up.”

  “Not really.” Bitsy crushes my hopes. “They’ll both be leaving for camp after finals next week.”

  “Shipping them off again?” Chief’s disappointment is clear. I observe carefully, surprised to see my father challenge Bitsy on any level, especially when it comes to her children.

  “It’s good for them,” she argues. “Makes them more independent and, besides, they love it. Soccer camp has given Trip a real advantage with the scouts, and Mary Evelyn is getting serious about dressage. It’s time to kick it up a notch. Especially since we’ve paid about as much for that new horse as we did for our house.”

  “Well, I just don’t get it. Seems to me they can do all those things right here in Oxford.” Chief holds the line.

  I stay quiet, but Mother intervenes. “We would love to have more time with them, Bitsy. And they haven’t seen Lovey in years.”

  My sister exhales. Then says, firmly, “They’re going to camp.”

  With that, the exchange is silenced, so I search my phone until I find the Pink Floyd playlist. Chief helps me connect to the sound system, and I sing along to the band’s classic hit about the rapid passage of time. Before I know it, Bitsy joins in. Together, we croon about being stuck in a small town, getting another day closer to death. This is all it takes to snap me back again, when the four of us would pile into the living room for impromptu Saturday-morning dance parties or late-night games of Name That Tune. I can’t help smiling, and surprisingly, my sister is too, as if the music is chipping away the wall between us, drawing us all together the way a familiar melody tends to do.

  Mother grins contagiously, nodding to the rhythm, and Chief seems to be sitting a few inches taller as we continue from song to song all the way to Batesville. We scroll through our favorite childhood tunes, straining to hit Frankie Valli’s high notes for Mother and crooning along with Sinatra for Chief before taking a hard 180 for a Willie Nelson classic that resonates with all of us. Slowly, tensions subside, and mile by mile we begin to behave like a united family again.

  When Chief turns south on the interstate, I pry for hints. “Jackson?”

  “You’ll see.” He enjoys the glory of the guess and won’t budge.

  Now that my sister has lowered her defenses, normal conversation might be an option. I start with my heart. “Catch me up on the kids. How are they?”

  Bitsy pulls her phone from her bag and begins to fill in the missing years. Birthday parties, summer camps, first-day-of-school snapshots.

  “I should be part of their lives,” I half whisper, struggling with the depth of this divide.

  “You should,” she says, as if it’s that simple. As if it’s all my fault.

  “Did they get the letters I’ve sent? The presents?”

  She nods.

  “I’ve tried, Bitsy. I’ve really tried.”

  My sister says nothing. Instead, she stares at the photos and pretends she’s done no wrong, as if the entire situation is out of her hands and I’m the only one who can fix it. The old, painful wounds begin to throb within me. Why doesn’t Mother say anything? Why won’t Chief defend me? Once again, no one stands with me. I’ve been screaming my truth since childhood, but no one hears.

  TEN

  “You were right, Lovey. Jackson.” Mother stares at a row of homes lining the shade-draped street. Much like the historic houses that flank Oxford’s square, each dwelling is anchored by hefty porch columns that have surely seen their fair share of social gatherings in a not-so-far-away past. When we turn a corner, Mother points to an abandoned storefront. The original signage can still be seen, faded and hand-scripted across worn brick. “Mr. Fieldman used to own that place. The nicest man. He’d let us choose a mint if we could answer a riddle.” After a sigh she adds, “It’s true what they say. Gone in a blink.”

  As Chief steers us through my mother’s childhood, I’m sad to see that these once-posh neighborhoods have now become some of the most underserved parts of the city. Bitsy’s voice crinkles with concern. “Where on earth are you taking us?”

  “The long way around.” Chief doesn’t seem bothered by the poverty. My sister, on the other hand, wears her thinnest smile while staring at a slew of upturned garbage cans littering the lane from the morning’s pickup.

  I look beyond, to the treasures that remain. “Brings back memories of Grandpa and Grandma.”

  Chief smiles and turns down the familiar boulevard where my grandmother always welcomed us with warm cookies and even warmer hugs. Their large antebellum porch was once an active social hub of Jackson, hosting high-society garden parties and Easter egg hunts. Now the yard is overgrown, the house in disrepair. “Oh, Jim,” Mother says with tension in her throat. “My parents put so much into this home.”

  I focus on the positive. “Needs a little TLC is all.”

  Bitsy looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. With some missing shingles and peeling pa
int, there’s no denying the house is in poor shape, but it’s certainly not the worst on the street. I find the neglected yard enchanting, a place where nature still gets to decide what grows and what doesn’t.

  “Look, Mother. The French hydrangeas.” If there’s anything to lift Mother’s spirits, it’s flowers, and they do bring a smile. I lower the window and snap a photo, the bountiful blue blooms just beginning their display. “I used to hide in those bushes.”

  “You sure did.” Mother perks up even more. “If I called you to help with the dishes, you were out the door lickety-split.” She is laughing now, and the sound of it soothes me. “I had done the same thing, of course, when I was a girl. Loved those flowers more than any other. Mama would send me out with a box and some snippers. It was my job to gather cuttings for her luncheons, and I was proud to help.”

  “I’m glad you remember that.” Chief pulls into the driveway. “Welcome to the first part of your surprise.”

  I eye Bitsy, hoping she won’t ruin this.

  Chief and Mother lead the way across a path of mossy stones and past-bloom clovers before tackling the overgrown porch steps. A chaotic mass of honeysuckle wraps the column, welcoming us with her intense fragrance.

  “Your grandpa used to say these flowers smelled like danger.” Chief moves a vine to the side so we can pass more easily. “He didn’t care for all the stinging insects they drew to the porch.”

  “True, but none of us ever got stung, even when we’d pick the blooms to make a batch of homemade jelly.” Mother leans in to smell the bright-orange trumpet flowers, and from the smile on her face, it’s clear she’s been transported.

  Without waiting for a knock, an elderly woman steps out to greet us. Her wrinkled hands and slow steps suggest she’s likely in her nineties, but she seems more sturdy than frail, even with a hunch in her spine. While her body can’t compare to Marian’s, I get the sense her spirit would hold up in equal measure. Her hair matches the mottled planks of the porch, and I liken her to the overgrown yard—wild and strong and full of purpose.