A Mother's Love

by Marian Unn

  Chapter 13

  Weeks would pass, and still no word would come from the person who was to take me home.

  I saw a doctor come a few times though. I would wait downstairs with the other children as the doctor and Father went up to treat one of the sick children. Yelling would often be heard between the two; however, when they came down, they would be exchanging smiles and low laughs. He was a curious fellow, Father Quetell. Though a somewhat serious man, he was gentle and very kind, humble as well, despite his forwardness. Still, it was impossible to see his humility and not smile at him. He was such a man.

  We had Mass occasionally; it was on the second floor so that we could hear if someone was coming to the door and pack up quickly if they did. It was also easier for the sick children to receive communion, the one thing Father could cook. He showed me how to make it, but always insisted on doing it himself, saying it was something he had always done and would forever do. Oh, how I must say he looked very fitting in his priestly garments, and though only two or three of the children were old enough to receive communion, he presented it so grandly in that room! I was appalled he had allowed them to have such a ceremony in the room as it was before. He told me they cleaned it when they could, but when they could not, God was forgiving. I could only agree with him on this matter. Indeed, God will be just in such circumstances, I suppose. Still we could try our best to make it somewhat chapel like, if only for a short while.

  On the third Sunday night since I had arrived, I called all the children together. “Now, although it is disagreeable, the extra chest should not be the holy table. But seeing as there is little we can do about that matter for now, I propose we try our best to decorate the room next Sunday.”

  “How do we do that?” one of the boys asked. It was Verdan. I told him and the others about my hometown chapel. “It was not much bigger than this room, but oh how grand it was to me!” I told them of its simpleness, of the little wooden statues of the stations, and of the old wooden benches and Father Bart.

  “We know Father Bart!” said Meryl, a little girl not much older than four. “He used to come here every two months, but we haven’t seen him in a really, really, really, long time.”

  “Well, I hope he comes again that I may meet him.”

  “Actually,” Quetell said, walking in, an opened letter in his hand, “He should be arriving sooner than we all think.” As the children gathered round him, he handed me the letter.

  “I cannot read, I am-” I began to hand the paper back to him but paused, examining the strange symbols. They came out in perfect words in my mind as I read them? “Actually, it appears I have discovered a new skill. Apparently, I have learned to read. I suppose it is one of those many things I have forgotten.”

  Not in the least bit surprised, he nodded. “Read it,” he gestured toward the paper. “Ah! But, before you do, I think it is only fair to inform you that I wrote to him about your being here. We both thought it would be better for him to guide you home than strangers. Our names are different and the letter coded—No, perhaps that is not the right word.” He mulled over it for a moment, “Never mind, you are a bright woman, you shall figure it out easily I am sure.”

  I smiled with appreciation and continued to read the letter.

  Dear Mr. Alerstone,

  I am so pleased to hear that you have procured one of those red flowers! I myself seem to be lacking lately in that particular color of flower in my garden. I used to have one, you know, but I wasn’t able to ever really identify its type. It looked to be a lily, but there was something peculiar about it, for it smelled like a rose but had the stem and leaves of something like a daisy. A very confusing and dainty flower it was. Twas a shame that the flower was gone before I could even identify it! But tis the nature of flowers to bloom, be picked, and then wither. However, sometimes the flower will wither before it is picked. I can only wonder which occurred first, for I have many visitors and there are many different plants and creatures in my garden. I can only wonder if it was picked or eaten by some animal. But what I fear the most is if it had withered without its gift being given to anyone. Well, it did give to something. A little mushroom grew next to it, and I was wondering if it could have taken the flower’s nutrients. I suppose it probably did, for the bigger the mushroom grew, the more the little red flower bent on its stem. I suppose that would be a worse ending to such a beautiful little flower than anything else. I know, I should’ve probably picked the mushroom, but I think it best to let nature take its role as it does. For it is more beautiful, I think, for the world to move naturally with a little bit of help every now and then. In this case, my role is the watering of the flowers, though I know I will subsequently help the mushroom that feeds off them.

  In any case, as a lover of flowers, I would love to come see this red flower of yours that sounds so similar to the one I’ve lost. I shall be arriving in about a week, if that is fine and good. Oh! And do not worry, I have left a splendid gardener to watch over my precious garden while I am away! Please look forward to my visit, and be sure to care of that flower till I get there! I do wish to see it at its prime, just after it blooms.

  Your dearest friend and eternal gardener,

  Mr. Zben

  Reading it once more, I turned to Father Quetell, “You overestimate my cleverness.” I spoke softly to the Father. “All I truly understood from this was that he is coming in about two days from now, according to the date on this letter at least.”

  “Read it once more,” he said. For a third time I read the letter, but it made no real difference, “I only understand that I am supposedly this little strange red flower?” I looked to see his reaction and he nodded, a patient man he was indeed.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “This mushroom is supposedly killing me or harming me in some way or form? But I do not understand the withering or the animal eating it, or-”

  “That is simply to build the story. It is unnecessary. You spotted the major point right away without even realizing it.”

  “The mushroom,” I whispered, with a quizzical expression. “The mushroom is, or—” I frowned, “was a person whom I have forgotten. And this person was supposedly trying to kill me? Or was that person simply killing me by living, as the mushroom can only live by killing the flower.”

  Father Quetell sighed, the little children gathered at our knees, and before the Father could speak, a little boy pulled at my skirt, “I’ll rip up that mushroom for you good and quick! The stupid thing won’t see me comin’!” Verdan swung his little fist through the air. “Me, too! Too! Too!” they all echoed after each other, swinging and pretending to pluck the invisible mushrooms around them.

  “Thank you all,” I hugged them. “I will truly miss you all.” Their hugs growing tighter, one whispered, “Don’t go, Momma.” With those little words, my heart strings were stretched to their limits. It took all my strength to hold back the tears that threatened to overflow from my eyes.

  “I must,” I moaned, “I must. For if I do not, how will I ever find out who I am? Or about what has happened to my family?”

  “We can be your family!” the little girl, Isabella, said. “We can be family!” “Yeah family!” “Family!” they each said their own thoughts which all amounted to the same argument for me to stay.

  “You already are.” I pulled back from them for a moment, looking into each of their eyes, I smiled. “You already are my family, but imagine my other family. How worried they should be about me?” I wondered why I had said ‘should be’ instead of ‘are.’ But just as I had time and time again when this feeling came over me, I pushed it away, frightened of how true it may or may not be. “Imagine how they must feel. Understand that I must go to them. Who knows,” I blushed, “I may have as many children as there are here! I may have forgotten each one, and they might need my love right now, just as you need my love. Do you understand?” My voice trembled along with my fingers as I spoke and gently combed back Isabella’s h
air from her face.

  “I understand,” Isabella whispered, bobbing her head to emphasize that she did. “So do we,” the others echoed after her.

  “Then let us have a splendid few more days together. I shall even bake a cake!” I smiled softly. “How about that?”

  Their little heads and solemn eyes bobbed slowly in agreement with our deal. But they are children and are not prone to keeping solemn little faces, and so with shining tears still on their cheeks, they began to cheer and lick their lips. The promise of cake, a rare delicacy for these children, brought smiles to their faces where frowns had been only a moment before.

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