Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  She rolled over and rubbed her eyes. Her clock said it was 10:45. The thought of Uncle Tommy brought her fully awake. Guilt washed over her as she recalled her behavior from the previous day. Jumping out of bed, she shot down the hall. “Is Uncle Tommy still here?”

  Mom was the only one standing there, but she nodded. “Just barely. He’s getting in the car right now.”

  Without saying a word, Madelyn raced around her, heading directly to the garage. The car doors were open. Jillian and Daniel were climbing in the back seat, and Uncle Tommy was leaning on the door, watching as they got settled.

  She ran to his side and wrapped him in a huge embrace. “I’m sorry, Uncle Tommy. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what, Madly?”

  Looking up at him, Madelyn could see he was asking a serious question. “For wasting the holiday with you by being grumpy,” she said, not believing that he had to be told.

  He broke into a broad grin and shrugged his shoulders. “You just had a bad day. I sometimes have bad days too.” Madelyn couldn’t help but grin back and hug him again.

  “If you want to get dressed, you can go with us,” Mom offered, having followed her into the garage. What Madelyn wanted was for Tommy to stay longer, but she knew that wasn’t an option. He liked his routines. Being away from the group home for more than a day was something he wasn’t comfortable with.

  “No, that’s okay. I need to get started on the lawn.” Working outside on the garden or the yard was just part of her routine, but today it felt like a self-imposed punishment for bad behavior. She would attack it with vigor.

  After they left, Madelyn hurriedly threw on some clothes and downed a bowl of cereal. They would be gone at least an hour—that’s how long the drive up and back would be, but Madelyn assumed they would stay and visit a bit until he was settled. How much could she get done in that time?

  She started with the mowing. That alone usually took an hour. The day was hot, and Madelyn could feel the sweat drip down her back as she cut swaths back and forth. It went quickly, the grass too languid in this summer heat to put much effort into growth. Dust, kicked up from the parched earth, followed her every movement. By the time she was finished, the sun was directly overhead.

  Despite her late breakfast, her stomach kept growling, but Madelyn was determined to get more work done before she allowed herself more than a water break. After setting the hose to water the garden, she began to gather weeding supplies from the garage. The sound of a car drew her attention. Madelyn glanced up to see if Mom and her siblings had returned, but it was only a sedan, apparently lost since it turned around and sped off. She was both sad and relieved it wasn’t them.

  The patch of dandelions Madelyn decided to attack that day was smack in the middle of the front yard, the ones most visible from the street. Kneeling on the hard, dry ground soon grew uncomfortable as the dandelions stubbornly refused to budge from the cracked soil. A good rain would certainly help, she thought. Maybe in the future she could set the sprinkler on different sections of the lawn before trying to weed.

  The more Madelyn worked, the drier the ground seemed, and the wetter her forehead got. Sweat dripped down her face and occasionally into her eyes, making them sting. But she was determined to finish digging up dandelions in her little area. Dig—pull, dig—pull, went on and on, but most of the roots ran deep into the arid ground. One after another snapped off, leaving long roots buried, the ground refusing to give them up.

  Dig—pull—snap—sweat, dig—pull—snap—sweat, until Madelyn could bear it no more. “Why? Why?” she cried, stabbing her spade into the ground. “Why won’t you come up? I’m trying so hard!” She beat her fists on the ground. Mrs. Burnham was probably watching from her front window, but Madelyn didn’t care. She pounded the hard earth again and again with her fists until her knuckles started to bleed.

  Hunched over, she planted her hands flat on the ground. A drop of liquid fell into the grime on the back of her hand. Madelyn watched it run across her bloodied knuckles, partway down her finger before sliding off the side, leaving an unmistakable path behind. Another joined it, then another.

  She, Madelyn Osborne, was crying. That realization made her cry harder, the tears mixing with sweat to pour down her face in great dirty streaks, falling to the ground to be swallowed without a trace.

  She sat back and let them flow, feeling defeated and yet somehow free. Giving herself over to the tears, Madelyn cried about the dandelions then about missing Dad, and her cries turned to sobs. Finally, the tears flowed for a mom who couldn’t read a simple children’s book—no longer sure if she was angry or sad.

  She was still crying—how long she’d been that way she couldn’t tell—when Mom came upon her. Madelyn hadn’t even noticed the car’s return, nor heard the engine, so lost in the sobs that shuddered her body.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom said, concern spreading across her face. When your child has refused to cry and then is suddenly bawling like a baby, it must be a shock. But Madelyn couldn’t answer her. All she could do was sob harder.

  Mom tried again, this time touching her shoulder and softly saying, “Madelyn?”

  Madelyn twisted away from her touch. “Go away! GO AWAY!” she said without looking in her direction.

  When someone touched her again some minutes later, Madelyn jumped, ready to attack anew, but when she whirled around, she saw it was Jillian. “I thought you might like something to eat.” Jillian was holding out a paper plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that, by its messy nature, had clearly been made by her own hands. Madelyn smiled, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “You look funny,” Jillian said, wrinkling her nose. “Your face is all streaky.”

  Madelyn laughed and reached up to wipe the tears away. Jillian burst out laughing. “You just made it a lot worse.” Madelyn couldn’t see her face, but the backs of her hands were a dirt and blood-smeared masterpiece. Jillian set the plate on the ground and sat down beside her, following her gaze to her hands. “What happened to them?” she whispered.

  “The dirt, well that’s obvious,” she said, indicating the earth around her. “But the other—the blood, the tears—I … it’s complicated.”

  Jillian looked up into her face and with her hands brushed back the hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “It will be okay. I promise.”

  Madelyn laughed. “That’s sweet, Jilly, but you don’t even know what’s wrong.”

  “I know, but that’s what Mom says to me when I cry, and it always works out.”

  Madelyn put her arm around her little sister and pulled her tight. “I wish it were that simple, but thank you, Jilly.”

  “I love you, Madelyn.”

  “I love you too.”

  They ended up splitting the sandwich, which tasted amazingly good, even though Madelyn wasn’t a big fan of peanut butter and jelly. Then Jillian helped her gather up her things, including the broken off bits of dandelions, and they went inside to wash up.

  Madelyn spent the rest of the day avoiding Mom as much as possible. That included, from time to time, ducking into her bedroom and pretending to be asleep. Upon “awakening” after one of these close calls, Madelyn spied The Hobbit sitting on her nightstand.

  She picked it up and turned it around in her fingers. Earlier in the week, she couldn’t bring herself to read it, and after that, she’d honestly been so caught up in thinking about Mom that she’d forgotten to even attempt it.

  It was just a cheap paperback, but Madelyn liked the feel of the smooth cover in her hands. She brought it close to her face, capturing the scent of paper—subtle but intoxicating. Opening to chapter seven, Madelyn began to read, attempting to disappear into Middle Earth.

  Only it d
idn’t work. With each word, each line, each turn of the page, Madelyn was reminded of what her own mother could not do. This book was supposed to be her connection to Dad—and it was, but it also was a link to Where the Wild Things Are and her mother—her illiteracy, even her deceit. Anger welled up. Madelyn was reading about some man-beast creature named Beorn, but Madelyn kept thinking of an illustration in that other book—the beast with human feet, only in her mind it kept transforming into a beast with a human head that looked just like her mother.

  When Madelyn finished reading the chapters she and Dad had agreed upon for the week, she realized she could recall very little of what happened. She’d read words only, reciting them in her head, simply because she could. Staring at the page in front of her, she sighed. She didn’t know what she could do to change things with her mother, but at least she had Dad—even if he was on the other side of the country.

  With a deep breath, she worked hard to let go of thoughts of her mother. Then she flipped back several pages and once again started to read chapter seven.

  1957

  William, Hazel, and Tommy sat in the seats of the auditorium, proud as they could be. Rachel wasn’t receiving any academic awards, but her high school classmates had voted her the friendliest student.

  The award came as no surprise; Rachel always had one or more friends over every night of the week—working on homework, talking about life, and always interacting with Tommy. Any friend of Rachel’s was a friend of Tommy’s—she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Rachel, for her part, was nervous walking across the stage to accept her diploma. She couldn’t believe it was real, that she was here on this stage with her family watching. She had no plans for any further education—she could get a job and, of course, continue to help out with Tommy.

  It was something she had tried to explain to her friends. Many of them were headed off to college, including Roger Osborne, who was starting to become more than a friend. They had a date later that night, and she was planning to explain herself more fully to him then. She wanted to tell him everything. Then, as he left for college, he’d have a ready excuse if he left her behind as well.

  Just a few more steps and it would be real—accept the diploma, walk across the stage, breathe a sigh of relief. Now, if she could just make it through talking with Roger.

  Week Five – Summer 1975

  Sunday

  Madelyn would love to say that Sunday’s phone call with Dad was a wonderful cleansing experience, that she confided in him everything she now knew, that she admitted her complete loss as to what to do about it. After Madelyn passed the phone to Mom, she regretted that it hadn’t been.

  Madelyn went outside to sit on the front porch to process her conversation instead. Dad had been cheerful, asking about their celebration of the Fourth, even telling her how he had watched fireworks from his hotel room. It was as if everything was right with the world. But, as Madelyn thought of how messed up her side of the world was, it dawned on her that he knew all about Mom, probably always had—and he had done nothing about it. How could she ask him for advice, ask him what to do about Mom, when he had already chosen to do nothing—for years!

  Mrs. Burnham came outside and made straight for her. For once, Madelyn didn’t care. She seemed benign compared to the people around her. “Hi, how are you doing today?” Madelyn said. Mrs. Burnham stopped mid-stride, caught off guard by the friendly words. Madelyn smiled to herself. She’d found the perfect cure for Mrs. Burnham’s usual snide greeting by beating her to the punch with something nice. That hadn’t actually been her plan, but she had to pat herself on the back with the pleasant result. “Come on over, Mrs. Burnham, and tell me about your day.” Madelyn was enjoying watching her squirm, all while being as nice as she could be.

  It took Mrs. Burnham a few moments to decide how to proceed, but eventually, she came over and even sat down next to Madelyn on the edge of the porch. “Hi, Madelyn.” She didn’t seem to know what else to say.

  “So, you didn’t tell me how your day was.”

  Mrs. Burnham furrowed her brow and took a sideways glance at Madelyn, apparently trying to determine if she was serious. “It was quiet, but quiet is good,” she finally responded.

  “That’s nice. I was just talking to my dad. His day was quiet too.”

  “I miss him,” Mrs. Burnham said quietly. Madelyn turned to look at her. A tear was forming in the corner of her eye.

  “Why?” Madelyn said.

  “Madelyn, your father is kind. He’s one of the few people that wished me a good day as he drove off to work or asked about my flowers during the summertime.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would have.” She smiled and reached over to squeeze Madelyn’s hand. They sat that way in silence, watching the clouds overhead waft by, hoping in vain that one of them might drop some moisture down upon them.

  “You know, I like your hair—without the wig,” Madelyn finally ventured to say. She was going to add that she’d seen it when they brought over cookies, but since that wasn’t the friendliest of exchanges, she thought better of it.

  Mrs. Burnham turned to face her, neither smiling nor frowning but eventually nodding in quiet acknowledgement.

  “What happened to Mr. Burnham?” Madelyn said it softly so Mrs. Burnham could pretend not to have heard if she didn’t want to answer.

  When she didn’t stir, Madelyn figured that was the case—until she began to speak. “I was a wartime bride. We were in love. Under normal circumstances we would have married about a year later, but with the war … well, Johnny got called up, and that settled it. We had a quick wedding. It was beautiful. We had even pulled together flowers—roses, like in my front yard.” She stopped, and Madelyn wondered if that was all she was going to say.

  When she started up again, her voice was small and hard to hear. “I was so proud watching him march in uniform before heading out. After some basic training, he was shipped out to Europe. I never saw him again.”

  Madelyn didn’t know what to say. After a lengthy silence, she said, “My grandpa served in World War II, but I guess we were lucky because he came home.”

  Mrs. Burnham wiped away her silent tears and said, “It’s been a long time since I talked to anyone about Johnny. I wished we’d had more time together, that we’d been able to have a family. But you know what they say—if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” Without another word, she stood up and walked back across the lawn and into her house, the air of loneliness thick in her wake.

  Monday

  The next day brought with it some bills for July along with a bank statement. Madelyn was so caught up in writing checks and balancing the checkbook that she didn’t hear Jillian enter the room, not even aware she was standing in front of her until she cleared her throat.

  “Hi,” Jillian said, smiling.

  “Hi, Jilly. You surprised me. What’s up?”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About Mom. You’re acting funny around her—I mean differently than you usually do. Did you figure it out?”

  “You know Mom can’t read?” Jillian just nodded and smiled. Madelyn’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know, Jilly? Did she tell you?”

  “No, I just figured it out. Ever since I learned to read, I could tell Mom didn’t know how. She doesn’t follow the words. Half the time, she doesn’t even look at the book.” She giggled a little like this was funny instead of deadly serious.

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Because it wasn’t important.”

  “What do you mean it was
n’t important? Do you know how much you can’t do when you can’t read?”

  “Well, I figured out a few things. I help when we go to the store. I can’t read everything, but I read the things I can. It must be kind of scary for her.” She wasn’t upset, and Madelyn couldn’t figure out why. “She’s not stupid, you know. She just didn’t learn to read for some reason.”

  Jillian made it sound so simple, but it couldn’t possibly be that simple. “Does Daniel know?”

  “Nope. Mom doesn’t even know that I know. I figure she’d be embarrassed.”

  . . .

  Later, when Madelyn watched her mom struggle to sign the checks for the bills she’d written out, she kept thinking about what Jillian had said. She didn’t know if it changed anything, but maybe it should.

  Wednesday

  Madelyn was in the garage Wednesday morning when someone said, “What are you doing?” By the question, she half expected Mrs. Burnham to be standing there, but the voice was all wrong. When she located its source, she saw Zane standing there.

  “Hi, I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. What are you doing?” he repeated.

  Madelyn had the hood raised on the car, and she was a mess. “I’m just checking the oil and other fluids in the car.”

  “What?” he said, clearly surprised.

  “My dad and I do it all the time.” She showed him the oil dipstick in her hand for emphasis.

  “Oh, you know how to do that?” When she nodded, he said, “I don’t.”

  “It’s not hard. Do you know how to change a tire?” He shook his head. “I’ll show you sometime then,” Madelyn said, closing the hood.