Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “Morning,” I say, my voice still tight with fear from the news of Mother’s diagnosis.

  “Didn’t know if you’d be talking to me today.” Fisher speaks from the ground where he transplants a butterfly bush from a friend’s backyard, a “pass-along,” in Mother’s terms. Then he injects an awful British accent: “One must first reach down if he wants to rise up.” He covers the base with soil, then mulch, before finally standing to greet me. “I didn’t make that up,” he confesses. “Just like to sound smart is all.” Then his eyes open wider with concern. “What’s wrong, Lovey?”

  Three workers are within earshot, and I need to keep this conversation private. “Can we talk?” I look toward his truck, and he gets the hint.

  Without resisting I let him take us for a drive. He heads back toward the pine flats while I sit quietly in the passenger seat, eyeing parcels that have been stripped bare by a recent tornado. Fisher doesn’t rush me. Instead, he keeps the radio off and winds us along the rural back roads while I sort my thoughts. Blacktop gives way to gravel, from which a myriad of red-dirt routes branch out. They’re built for powerful pickup trucks and off-road four-wheelers, but the only visible tracks I spot are from the deer, coyote, and dogs who follow the moonlit paths at night.

  The road curves beside old slave cemeteries and generational family lands where stories of moonshine outlaws and Union troops still move through the pines. Every acre carries a secret, every homestead hides a shame. Fisher drives and I stare out the window. Despite her scars, I drink Mississippi in like a long, cold sip of something sweet and familiar. I ran away from this place as fast as my feet could take me, and now all I want in the world is to call her home again. To go back and gather all those lost years, spend them here with my mother.

  Fisher’s steady patience brings me a sense of peace. Reminds me of a phrase Mother used to say: “Only those who love you most can hear you when you’re quiet.”

  “Mother has cancer.” I say this plainly, half-numb from the shock of it all. “Chief told us this morning. Says it’s too far along to fight. She’s refusing treatment.”

  “You mean no chemo? Radiation?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Plans to make the best of the time she has left.”

  “How much time?”

  “Not much, it seems.” I stare out at the fields where Fisher, Finn, and I used to ride three-wheelers before they were deemed illegal. I still wear an oval scar on my leg from the scorching muffler. “That’s why they wanted me home. I knew something wasn’t right.”

  Fisher listens with an empathy reserved for the most genuine of hearts, his deep-blue eyes solemn and sincere. “It’s good you’re home, Lovey. She needs you here.”

  “I’m not ready for this. I can’t . . . I can’t lose her.”

  As much as I want to release the hurt, I don’t dare cry. That would make it all too real. “I also have this situation with work.” I clench my teeth, steel my voice. “I need to fly back today or I could lose my job. Lose everything, really. Not that any of that matters anymore.”

  We pass a few tree stands and corn plots before Fisher parks the truck in the drive of a private hunting lease. Bright-orange No Trespassing signs dot the oaks and a pipe gate shields the ATV trail. He lowers the windows, cuts the engine, turns my way. It’s not our property, but we sit here anyway, surrounded by towering trees and the never-ending songs of nature.

  All of a sudden I’m drenched with a deep and intense rush of fear. My mother is leaving me. I will be alone in this great, big, terrifying world. My breath becomes fast and heavy, my heart races. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

  Fisher puts his hand on my knee, pressing his palm soft against my jeans. “I’m with you,” he says, holding steady until I finally settle. When he offers a long, true gaze of compassion, my heart cracks open, and an ancient love comes spilling through. “I’m sorry I said no, Fisher. I’m sorry I left, all those years ago. Why did I run? Why’d I leave everyone who loves me?”

  He leans near, sliding across the bench seat. “You broke my heart, you know?”

  I don’t respond, but I do know.

  “I mean, I understood. You had some sorting out to do.” His words are measured, careful, and kind. “But I couldn’t chase you, Lovey. No matter how much I wanted to. I had Finn here, and Mama. I couldn’t leave.”

  “You considered it?”

  “Are you kidding?” He draws back and I lift my head.

  Our eyes stay focused on each other, and I almost think he’ll kiss me. So I turn away. “What happened to me, Fisher? How do I find my way back?”

  “Maybe that’s what you’re doing.” He moves to hold my hand, and I feel a healing begin within me, all the way down to my deepest wound. He shifts to his British accent again, quoting gardening lore as a nod to Mother’s quirky habit: “Maybe you’re finally realizing where your roots should be planted.”

  My breathing slows, and it’s a relief to feel the light break through. “That’s what we say in yoga. Root down to rise up.”

  “I know you’ve got a whole big life out there in Arizona. But there’s a whole big life right here for you too. All you have to do is say you want it.”

  As we drive back to the farm, I stay on my side of the seat, asking Fisher to fill me in on his relationship with Blaire. “It’s not what you think,” he explains. “It’s not what anybody thinks.”

  “Say more, please.” A long pause fills the air, and I sense he is hiding something. “What is it? Full Monty here, Fisher.”

  “You really want to know the truth?”

  “Nothing less.” I hold eye contact.

  “Okay.” He sighs. “I honestly never pictured my life without you, Lovey. When you left, it . . . it broke me. Really broke me.”

  “You don’t look broken to me.”

  He sighs again, shrugs. “I’ve found a way to get by. But . . . you know.”

  When I wait for more, he continues. “I go to work. I go home. Rise, rinse, and repeat. Finn’s got this great wife, kids. And I’m just the fun uncle who never settled down.”

  “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you, Fisher.”

  “I know.” His voice is heavy, and I wish so badly I could go back, make different choices.

  “It had nothing to do with you. You understand? I was suffocating in Bitsy’s shadow. And the whole issue with the fire. Felt like there wasn’t any room for me here.”

  “I get that now, I do. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s been a long road is all. When my dad left . . . It took a lot for me to give marriage a shot.”

  I nod, and my heart hurts from such knowing.

  “You were the one thing I believed in, Lovey. And then you bailed too.”

  He doesn’t have to remind me how much he suffered when his father left. I walked it with him, watching both brothers wrecked by their father’s rejection, the crippling damage of feeling unloved, unwanted by the man they loved most. The futile struggle of trying to keep their mother happy once her heart had been destroyed. The childhood trauma that made them tougher than they should have been—old souls.

  “We were so young, Fisher. I figured you’d move on, be happier without me. I couldn’t see.”

  “Well, I could see it all, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “Never would listen to anyone. Too stubborn for my own good.”

  He laughs. “True.”

  I fidget with the armrest, then the glove box, anything to avoid the facts. “You really haven’t loved anyone else?”

  He stays quiet.

  I lean against the window, looking his way. “Blaire?”

  He turns toward the woods. “She’s just somebody to hold, Lovey. And I’m the same for her.” He stutters through the next attempt. “We . . . I guess we got tired of doing life solo, and we don’t mind each other’s company. But it’s not a thing, not really. It’s just . . . I don’t know what to call it.”

  “I’d like to
hear Blaire’s version of the story.”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “She’ll tell you the same.”

  “Then why is she talking marriage?”

  “I don’t know. I think . . . I guess she’s giving up on finding the life she wanted. She’s not a bad person. She’s just lonely is all. We both are.”

  These words spin around us, between us. How do I tell him I’ve been lonely too? Outside, the wind picks up and the taller trees bow to the breeze. “So is that the plan? Marry Blaire?” My throat tightens through this sentence, and a fog of defeat weighs heavy on my bones.

  “No.” He hesitates. “I mean, she wants to, I guess.”

  “She wants? What about you?”

  “No.”

  He can tell I’m not buying this. “I’m not lying.”

  Another awkward pause.

  “Look, I’d do anything for Blaire. But . . . life just put us together is all. And, well, maybe now life is telling us it’s got a better idea.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Yes, I understand.” I can barely say a word between The Dragon’s accusations from the other end of the phone. She’s trying to upset me, put me into an emotional spin so she can say I’m unable to handle the Jansana campaign. But I’m no longer the naive girl I was before the Reed Incident. I see right through the players of the world now, and their moves are all the same. I stay calm and deliver the facts. “My mother has been diagnosed with late-stage cancer, and I will not leave her.” I put her own tactics to work for me here, ending with an authoritative, “You understand.”

  “That is unfortunate,” she says, not an empathetic note to be heard.

  I move around the house, listening to The Dragon roar. With phone in hand, I straighten Mother’s sheet music and cap the pen she’s left unopened near her crossword puzzle. Anything to take my mind away from the devastating prognosis as I try my best to focus on work.

  “I do believe it would be wrong to remove me from the campaign, but you’re the boss.”

  “I’m glad you understand these decisions weigh heavy on me, Eva. They do.”

  “Of course.” I tread cautiously. “My concern is that Brynn and I have developed strong relationships with The Trio. They trust us. Changing that dynamic at this stage could jeopardize the deal.”

  “But you aren’t here to maintain that relationship. That’s the problem, you see?”

  As I’ve learned from a life with Bitsy, I don’t react.

  “I have to look out for the firm as a whole. Jansana is our top client. We can’t take any risks. So in light of the current situation, I have no choice but to step in.”

  “And I have no choice but to accept your decision, but as you’ve said, with the layoffs and restructuring, Apogee is unstable. Our clients sense this, and they’ve been paying close attention. I imagine The Trio would appreciate some consistency, to settle any uncertainties they may be having about the partnership.”

  “What are you saying, Eva? Spit it out.”

  “If I’m off the project, then Brynn should take the lead. The Trio would feel less rattled if they keep at least one of us on the campaign.”

  She hesitates, then adjusts to maintain power. “Of course I’ll leave Brynn on the team, but I’ll take the helm. She’s far too young to handle this.”

  Pressure builds against my ribs, and I am careful to slow my next inhale. “So that’s it then? Brynn and I spend almost a year on this campaign. We bring in the biggest client of the year. We scramble to push a rushed production through at the last minute. And then you step in and take over at the end. Just like that?”

  “Don’t get emotional, Eva. It’s beneath you. Go take care of your mother.”

  I find Mother in the garden, deadheading roses while Dolly P. and Manning rest at her feet. Like the dogs, I too long to be near her, so we work close together, capturing fragrant petals in a bowl for potpourri.

  “We need to show Mary Evelyn how to do this,” I say. “Thank goodness Bitsy nixed their plans for camp. So glad they’ll be here all summer.” Then I tell her what she’s longing to hear. “I canceled my flight.”

  Mother looks at me, holds her breath.

  “I’m staying.” I smile.

  She exhales, grabbing me with renewed strength as she pulls me into a long, tight hug. “You don’t know what this means to me, Lovey. You don’t know.”

  I may not know how my mother feels as she clings to me in the rose garden, fully aware that her own final breath is coming due. But I do know one thing. I know, without a doubt, I have made the right decision by leaving The Dragon to her lair and keeping my feet planted close to home. If there’s one thing I have done right in my life, it is this.

  I open the mailbox and am surprised to find a letter from Arizona. Marian’s handwriting is slanted, indicative of left-handers who were forced to adapt to the right-handed tools of that generation. One thought of Marian, and I’m back in Sedona, soaking up the desert sun.

  May 15, 2016

  “Morning!” Marian parks her bike and joins me in the herb garden. Without hesitation she kneels to help me work. “I’m on the search for a rental home. Know of anything? Something near the trails.”

  “You’re moving?”

  “No. I’m opening a studio.” She begins to pull weeds. “A simple place for yoga. The arts. I’ll need a partner. You interested?”

  I look up from planting basil, assuming she’s joking.

  “There’s only one kink,” she says, steady as ever. “I don’t want to charge for the classes.”

  “No fees?”

  “None at all.” She looks up to make it clear there’s no changing her mind.

  I pat fresh soil around the base of the basil and grab a second batch from the pots. “How would you afford the property if you don’t charge your clients?”

  She shrugs as if it’s a minor detail. It isn’t.

  “Maybe there are grants available, private donors. What’s the hook we could use to get funding? Sell me on this.”

  “The hook is that I don’t believe our modern approach is working.” Marian turns her attention to the thyme. “We go about everything in the most unnatural way. Childbirth, food, medicine, even death. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  I nod. “You’ve got a point.”

  “We need to get back to the natural order of things, when elders would guide us through the healing.”

  “Elders? You mean the elderly?”

  “A bit more complex than that. Not all elderly are equipped to be elders. Some have never managed to mature, despite their age.”

  “So you want to partner qualified senior mentors with younger people who are in need of direction?”

  “Exactly.” She smiles. “A way to pass on wisdom learned from life. Think about it. Rehab, therapy, prison. We convince people they are broken, unworthy. We cut them off and tell them they have to find a way to fix themselves before they can come back and be a functional part of society. But that’s when they need community support the most.”

  “So what’s the answer? Therapy?”

  “I’m not sure that works either. If all we do is talk about our pain, we keep reliving the same moment, often becoming more traumatized with each repetition. We have to do more than just talk about what we are feeling. We have to examine why those emotions keep rising.”

  “And you think elders are the answer?” My brows are pinched.

  “In most cases we just need someone to believe us. To care. I see so many broken people today. Lost souls everywhere.”

  When Marian asks if I know anyone who fits this description, I don’t mention Reed. Instead, I describe my struggle to maintain peace with Bitsy. “I’m not saying she’s a lost soul. I’m just not sure how to reach her.”

  “Big sisters think they know everything, don’t they? I had one too. Never could do right in her eyes.” Marian looks toward the layer of white-gray clouds in the distance. They are growing darker, signaling a rare midmorning storm. “But you
know what? I’d give anything to have another day with her. Even just one more day.”

  Marian’s advice comes back to me now as I read her letter. It’s a brief note, with thoughtful updates about our yoga class, my Sedona garden, the unusual weather. Apparently, she’s still on the search for studio property, and she tells me to hurry home so I can help her turn her ideas into an actual retreat center.

  I’m brainstorming funding options for Marian’s studio when Bitsy meets me in the yard. “The kids are ready to go. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Just checking the mail is all.” I hand her a magazine as penance, and she opens the new edition of Garden & Gun. “Bitsy, don’t you think Mother should get another opinion?”

  “It’s her choice.” She keeps her gaze on the page. I might as well be talking to the pecan tree beside us.

  “She should at least give treatment a try, don’t you think?”

  “You just can’t stand not to have control of the situation.” She moves toward the house. I follow.

  “You have to stop attacking me at every turn.”

  “Attacking you? Please.” She rolls her eyes, sneers. “You’ve always loved to play the victim.”

  “What is it, Bitsy? Why are you so angry?”

  “Me? Seriously? You’re the one who is angry,” she snaps. “Listen to yourself.”

  “I can’t even talk to you,” I say, frustrated. “Everybody else gets nice, happy Bitsy. I get this.”

  She stares at me with heavy lids. “Poor you.” Hate. Pure hate.

  “Don’t you think you’re being impossible? One minute you act like I’m a villain, and the next you accuse me of playing a victim. Truth is, I’m neither. I’m just trying to help our family reunite before it’s too late. And I can’t do this on my own.” I block the front door, holding the knob. “You may not love me, Bitsy, but I know you love Mother. Let’s call a truce while she’s still with us. Then you can do whatever you choose.” I extend my hand, hoping to find common ground. “Deal?”