The Book of Peach

by Penelope Stokes J.

  A fragment of memory flashed across my mind—an old episode of Star Trek, in which a Romulan vessel is attacking the Enterprise. “They can’t stay invisible forever, Captain,” Spock says. “The cloaking device is draining their energy banks.”

  Indeed. Staying hidden was immensely draining, and what would it accomplish, anyway? They were smart enough to know when I was faking. And for the first time in my life I had friends who’d prefer to see me real and ragged rather than falsely cheerful.

  Dell sat down on the opposite side of the booth, and Scratch pulled a chair up from another table. “You okay?” Dell said.

  “Yeah. Just tired. Exhausted, really. And worried.”

  “How’s your mama?” Scratch said. “Any change?”

  “Not much. She’ll eat when we feed her and doesn’t protest when we move her, but that’s about it. She doesn’t even try to talk. I don’t know what to do. Last night I thought I heard a noise, and when I went in to check on her, she was just lying there in the dark staring up at the ceiling.”

  Dell looked at me, the kind of look that seemed to pierce right through to the other side. “Even when you’re doing the right thing, it’s hard when you feel trapped.”

  My gut twisted. “What do you mean?”

  She propped her chin on one hand and gazed at me. “You were all ready to go home, to pick up your life where you left it, and then this happened.”

  I stared at her. “How did you know? I didn’t tell anyone. I’d only just made the decision when Mama . . .”

  Dell shrugged. “It made sense. The divorce was final, and the division of property had been taken care of. You didn’t need to be here any longer. In Chulahatchie, I mean. Living with your mama.”

  She didn’t have to say the rest: You didn’t need us anymore.

  I felt reproach where she had intended none; it came not from her, but from deep inside of me.

  The truth was, I had intended to do just that—go back to Asheville, pick up my life, and get on with whatever the future held, until my year of exile in Chulahatchie faded to a dim memory, the shadow of a dream.

  I remember once telling my therapist that mental health was vastly overrated. Why do all that work to become self-aware when living in denial is infinitely easier and more comfortable?

  Now, when I stepped outside myself, I saw something that shocked me, something that rattled the bars of my cage and made me shudder with revulsion and disbelief. Could I possibly be that self-centered—perfectly content to accept the love and support these friends had offered, and then when I didn’t need them any longer, walk away without a backward glance? Could I possibly care only about what I needed, about what I wanted?

  Could I possibly be that much like . . .

  My mother?

  And what if—

  The idea sneaked up behind me and swatted me upside the head so hard it left me weak in the knees with my ears ringing.

  What if they needed me?

  I was probably going to regret this for the rest of my life, but the idea sprang from my head fully formed like Athena, the goddess of wisdom; like a vision or a calling. I couldn’t have denied it to save my sorry soul.

  I paused at the front porch and knelt down, taking both of Imani’s hands in my own. “Honey,” I said, “you need to understand that my mama is very sick. She’s been in the hospital and she’s weak, and she might not respond to you—or she might act as if she’s angry. Do you understand?”

  Imani gazed at me and nodded solemnly. “Daddy explained it to me. Your mama’s had a stroke and you’ve been taking care of her, and that’s why I haven’t seen you very much.”

  “That’s right.” I pulled her close and felt the warmth of her little body against mine, the softness of her brown cheek under my fingers. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.” She looked up at me. “I know you’re sad about your mama,” she said. “But you don’t have to do it all by yourself. You’ve got friends who love you, Aunt Peach. We’ll all help.”

  She reached into her pink backpack and brought out a battered copy of The Secret Garden, the one I had given her, the one with full-page color illustrations. “It’s my favorite book,” she said. “I thought maybe I could read it to your mama.”

  Tears welled up in my throat. “That’s real sweet, honey.” I forced a smile, but inside I was cringing. Even half paralyzed with a stroke, my mother was fully capable of eating this precious child for breakfast.

  “Okeydokey,” I said at last. “Let’s go on in.”

  I opened the front door and we went inside. Imani paused in the foyer, looking up at the massive stairway that curved up to the second floor. “This reminds me of Granddaddy’s house,” she whispered.

  “Did you like living with your granddaddy?” I asked.

  “It was all right. He bought me lots of things, but he almost never played with me because he was working all the time.” She grinned. “I like living at Aunt Dell’s river camp a whole lot better. Daddy takes me fishing, and we dig for crawdads.”

  I understood perfectly. “I grew up here,” I told her. “Later I’ll take you up to my room and let you play with my big dollhouse. But right now there’s someone you need to meet.”

  I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, where Tildy was drizzling white icing onto a coffee cake that smelled deliciously of butter and cinnamon.

  “Don’t even ask,” she said with her back still turned toward the door. “It’s your mama’s favorite, and nobody gets so much as a crumb until she says so. I thought I might be able to tempt her to eat something.”

  She turned around, grinning, and her eyes widened at the sight of Imani. “Well, who do we have here?”

  Imani went suddenly shy at the sight of this six-foot black woman towering over her. I nudged her forward. “This is Imani Greer,” I said. “Imani, say hello to Mrs. Matilda Brown. We call her Tildy.”

  Imani mustered up her courage and held out a hand. “How are you, Miz Tildy? I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Tildy shook her hand. “Likewise. And to what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I’m here to see Miz Rondell,” Imani said. “I’ve come to help her feel better.”

  Tildy threw back her head and laughed. “A miracle worker in our midst! How old are you, child?”

  “I just turned nine years old.” Imani gave her a curious look. “Don’t you believe in miracles, Miss Tildy?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I reckon I’ve never seen one.”

  “Maybe you have seen one,” the child said, “and just didn’t know it. Daddy says sometimes coincidences are just miracles in disguise.”

  “Mercy, mercy,” Tildy said to me. “A miracle worker and a philosopher.” She leaned down to Imani’s level. “Have you ever seen a miracle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just exactly what kind? Water turned to wine? Somebody walking on water? Lazarus being raised from the dead?”

  Imani giggled. “No.”

  “Then what, pray tell?”

  “Mama and Daddy being together again,” Imani said.

  Tildy straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “Cain’t argue with that kind of logic.”

  “Where’s Mama?” I asked.

  “On the back verandah. I brought her out; thought maybe the fresh air would do her good. It’s such a shame. Your mama always loved the spring, and this is one of the prettiest ones I can remember in a long, long time. Too bad she can’t appreciate it.”

  I left Tildy to finish the coffee cake and took Imani out back. Mama was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, staring out into the yard toward the river. Her good right foot pushed against the bricks of the porch to keep the chair moving; her paralyzed left leg simply flopped with the motion, and her left hand, drawn up in a claw, lay motionless in her lap.

  “Mama?” I said.

  She turned her head in my direction. Her face looked normal on the right, but on the left her eye sagged an
d her jaw drooped. A thin string of saliva dripped onto her chest from the left side of her mouth; she couldn’t feel it.

  The rocking stopped. I saw her good eye rake me up and down as I stood there holding the hand of a little black girl. I felt disapproval roll off of her like waves headed for shore. I was just about to take Imani and go, when the child broke away from me and ran toward Mama.

  Without waiting to be invited, she climbed up into Mama’s lap, pulled a tissue out of the box on the table, and wiped away the spittle. Then she took her hand and stroked the left side of Mama’s face—gently, tenderly.

  “Miz Rondell,” she whispered, “my name’s Imani, and if you’ll let me, I’d like to be your friend.” She smiled into Mama’s ruined face. “I brought a book for us to read.” She pulled it out of her backpack and showed it to Mama. “The Secret Garden. It’s all about a girl who needs a family, and a sick boy who gets healed because his friends love him.”

  Imani wriggled her little body into a comfortable position and laid her head on my mother’s chest with the top of her head fitted under Mama’s chin. I held my breath. Mama hesitated for a fraction of a second, then her right arm came around the child and held her close, and the right side of her face twitched into a half smile.

  Her right foot jerked, tapped on the bricks of the verandah, and then pushed. The chair began to rock once more. And then I heard it—a low humming. It took a moment for me to recognize the tune, to dredge it up from the depths of my memory.

  It was a lullaby. The one my mama used to sing to me.

  26

  Imani came every day after that. Tildy’s prophecy proved true—the child was both a philosopher and a miracle worker.

  Mama spent most of her time now on the back verandah, watching as April shook out her multihued skirts around grass-green crinolines. The whole universe seemed to dip and sway in the ancient dance of veneration, celebrating the return of spring.

  When she wasn’t sitting, rocking, smiling, humming to herself, Mama was working. Physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy—she did it all, without a word of complaint. Her brain retrained itself to wrap around the language lost to the stroke. By inches her strength returned, until she could get around by herself with the aid of a walker.

  Every afternoon at two thirty, she’d haul herself out to the porch and settle herself in the rocking chair, waiting for school to let out, gripping Imani’s copy of The Secret Garden. What the two of them talked about was beyond my understanding. It remained their secret, and though the temptation was almost unbearable, I never interfered, never eavesdropped, never asked. I did hear Imani call my mother GranDonna once, and I saw the tender embrace as they said good-bye.

  I should have wept for joy. But instead something inside roared and flamed, a fury I never knew was in me. I hadn’t expected to glimpse such intimacy, hadn’t known my mother had it in her. And my reaction stunned and shamed me.

  Why?

  I can’t get past the question. It haunts me, rubs me raw, like a rash I can’t rid myself of. How can my mother, who has spent her life criticizing me and making me feel as if there is something fundamentally wrong about me, now give herself so freely and lovingly to a child not her own? A black child. A child who, before the stroke, she would have crossed the street to avoid. Now she rocks Imani on her lap and braids her hair, sings to her, holds her as if that warm little body were a life preserver that could keep her from drowning.

  I ought to be glad—glad that Mama is alive, glad that this dear child, whom I love as if she were my own, could be the catalyst to bring my mother back to herself.

  Isn’t that what I wanted? Isn’t it what I hoped for, when I brought Imani to Belladonna that first day?

  True, I was multitasking, finding a way to spend time with Imani without neglecting Mama. But didn’t I hope that somehow Mama would respond to her, the way Alzheimer’s patients respond to little children or therapy dogs? Didn’t I pray that this would be the outcome—if not a miracle, then at least a glimmer of light in the darkness, a sliver of moon, the wink of a star?

  I’m ashamed of my reaction, but I simply can’t help it. It makes me furious to think that my own mother couldn’t find it in her heart to love and cherish me, and yet she can do it for Imani. What gives her the right to withhold love from her own daughter and offer it to a stranger? How is it that I am so unlovable?

  The white-haired old fool would probably say that we’ve finally dug down to the core issue, the essential fault line in the foundation of my being. He’d consider it a great victory. But he’s not hanging on to the mountain by his fingernails, grappling for dear life (or not so dear). I’m the one who has to sit by and see my own mother betraying me with every lopsided smile and one-armed hug she gives to another little girl.

  As a child I resented my mother’s critical spirit and wished she could be loving and accepting and encouraging and approachable, the way some of my friends’ mothers were. As an adult, I backed away from her, trying to shield myself, to protect my heart from being hurt any more. I thought I had dealt with the pain and that the only thing left was the anger.

  Now I realize: The anger is the pain. Anger is nothing more than a smoke screen for hurt and fear. It keeps the pain at bay, keeps the fear pushed down. But at the end of the tunnel, there it is again. If I stay good and mad, I don’t have to admit my vulnerabilities, don’t have to face the truth that I’m afraid and wounded and that those wounds have never really healed.

  And how could they heal? They’ve never been exposed to light and air. They’ve been bandaged up, scabbed, grafted over. But the poison remains, festering below the surface, oozing, spreading its tentacles into other relationships.

  How might my marriage to Robert have been different, better, if I had been healthier, more honest, more self-aware? How much of my anger with Mama seeped into that underground stream and tainted the waters? How much of my childhood angst kept me from finding joy and contentment as an adult?

  Always, always, I wanted to belong. I wanted to be loved and cared for; I wanted to relax. But it never happened. Even when I was loved, I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t rest in it. I was always afraid, always picking at the old scars. Always looking for proof—some proof my mother never managed to give.

  Now a switch has flipped inside her, and she has suddenly turned into GranDonna. Tender. Loving. Affectionate. And I find myself wondering: Where’s the pod, and what have the aliens done with my real mother?

  And then I ask myself: If I found the real Mama, would I want her back?

  “I told you,” the doctor said. “You have to expect changes. The part of her brain that filters her thoughts and emotions has been affected. She’ll likely just say and do whatever she wants without any regard to how it will affect other people. She’ll have no tact, no social grace.”

  I stared at him. “But she’s . . . well, not herself.”

  “She is herself,” he said. “She’s probably more herself than she’s ever been.”

  “But that makes no sense. I expected her to be—” I paused. “Well, to tell the truth I expected her to be mean and crabby and hypercritical. Like she’s always been.”

  He shrugged. “Your mother’s doing well, Peach. Her speech is less slurred, and although she’ll probably always have some paralysis in the left side, she’s making a remarkable comeback. All I can tell you is what we’ve discovered in cases like hers: The stroke strips away the facade. It changes people.”

  No shit, I thought.

  The question was, could I deal with the changes?

  As I expected, my therapist was ecstatic over my breakthrough. To me it felt more like a breakdown, but I didn’t bother to correct him. I just let him rave on about how much I was learning and how far I’d come. He’d learn the real truth sooner or later. Maybe a lot later. Maybe never.

  If I thought it was difficult living with the old critical Mama when I first came back to Chulahatchie after the divorce, it was nothing to living
with this new improved Mama. All the hard edges were gone, and nothing was left but the soft inner core. I saw the light click on in Mama’s eyes every time Imani showed up, a light mirrored in the little girl’s face.

  The mother I never had and the child I always wanted. They had found each other, and I had lost both of them.

  “Aunt Peach,” Imani said one afternoon as she was leaving, “are you all right?”

  I didn’t look her in the eye. I couldn’t. “What do you mean?”

  She took my hand and pulled me down beside her on the front steps of Belladonna, next to Fart’s masterpiece of a ramp. It was late afternoon; the sun was setting behind the house, and the front verandah had been shaded for several hours. I felt the chill of the bricks seeping through the fabric of my jeans, and I shivered.

  “Isn’t your daddy expecting you at the Heartbreak Cafe?” I asked.

  “He knows I’m here,” Imani said. “If I’m not at the cafe when he’s ready to go home, he’ll come and find me.” She spoke these words with absolute certainty, secure in the knowledge of her father’s love and his ability to protect her. I envied her the fearlessness that came with such a sense of safety. If truth be told, I envied a lot of things about Imani.

  “Are you all right?” she repeated.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You seem . . . well, different, somehow. You’re here, but it feels like you’ve gone away.”

  I bit my lip and looked away. This bright, perceptive child did not have the language of a therapist and couldn’t talk about me being emotionally absent, but she hammered the nail home anyway.

  “I’ve just been . . .” I groped for a word. “Busy,” I said.

  “I know. GranDonna told me. She says you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  “My mother said that? To you?”

  Imani nodded. “We talk about lots of things. She misses you.” The child paused. “I do, too.”