Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Eric continued groaning, alleviating some of the tension we tried in vain to disguise. Arms filled with glasses and napkins, he followed Millie to the kitchen.

  Trip didn’t know whether to stay or go. He hemmed and hawed around for a period of time until Mother finally excused herself to freshen up, walking him to the door. After some small talk and promises to call each other right away when the doctor called, Trip left to go home to Frances Mae and his children. His reluctance to leave Mother and me hung in the air like so much humidity. Even big old Trip felt the need to sit with her until the phone rang.

  Millie returned and we stood in the hallway together, watching Mother ascend the stairs. She moved slowly with resignation; even from her back—the way she held the rail and the position of her shoulders—we could sense her weariness and disappointed resignation. Disappointed that her time on earth was to be truncated by what she had loved about life most—to feel the sun, to garden, to be on the river. The very things that had made her feel alive would in fact, cost her this life. Betrayal of the worst sort.

  She knew. We knew. None of us were talking.

  After dinner and long after I had tucked Eric in, I decided to call Richard. It was after eleven. I dialed him on the pretense of asking him to seek another opinion from some of his colleagues, but the truth was that I was worried and yes, afraid. Something in me, that asinine inner child who was never quite silent, wanted someone to assure me it was all going to be all right. He answered on the fifth ring, his groggy voice filled with sleep.

  “Hello?” he said, and cleared his throat. It was a habit of his to clear his throat when he was ready to reprimand someone. I could hear the lecture before it came. Do you know what hour of the night it is? “Hello?” he said again.

  When I knew he was about to hang up, I spoke. “Richard? It’s me. I’m sorry to call at this ungodly hour . . .”

  “Not at all,” he said, “I’m so relieved to hear from you, Caroline. I thought you’d never call. Is something wrong? Is Eric okay?”

  I could visualize him rolling over, reaching for his glasses, turning on the lamp by the bed—that had been our bed. Since when did he worry about Eric?

  “Eric’s fine.” And then the story rolled out as the tears came, choking, sobbing, nasty, tears of female weakness. I was looking for his strength, something I thought I lacked and my gulping tears were proof of it to me. “I’m just not ready to lose her, Richard! I’m just not ready! I’m sorry to be such a baby!”

  “Hush, now, Caroline. Dry your tears. I don’t blame you for crying. She’s your mother! I feel like crying myself! I adore Lavinia! Damnation. There must be something that can be done. Let me get on it in the morning, all right? First thing! I promise!”

  “All right. Thank you, Richard. I mean it.”

  “Now let’s get some rest, shall we? I’ll call you before ten.”

  I pressed the End button and rolled over into my pillow, allowing myself an episode of the most sorrowful scenario. Mother would grow weaker and weaker. The vile indignities of terminal cancer would descend like Satan’s punishments for having lived too happy a life. She would become Job, her skin torn open with oozing sores while every earthly pleasure was taken from her. I would witness it all, having my heart broken with each new pronouncement of her doom. I would see her suffer until she died from it. Unless something could be done to save her.

  I rolled over again and opened my eyes. Hell, I didn’t even know these things for sure. We didn’t have the results of her blood work! I was paying the toll before I crossed the bridge! Stupid! Self-indulgent! I got up to wash my face and undress for bed.

  I was turning back my covers when I heard her voice. She was talking to someone.

  “I know, I know. It’s all right. I’m not! How can I be afraid if I have you to guide me? Why would . . .”

  The voice trailed off. I looked at the telephone. No lines were lit. I thought that perhaps she had called Miss Sweetie or Miss Nancy. But, no. She was talking to someone else. I crept down the hall to her room as quietly as I could. Her door was ajar.

  Oh, dear . . .

  I pushed the door open. There she stood before the mirror, dressed in her wedding gown, the same one worn by her mother and her mother before her.

  “Mother?” I must admit, it was a shock.

  “I want to be cremated in this dress, Caroline. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, but you’re not going anywhere just yet.” I stepped inside the room in my nightshirt and bare feet. “Besides, don’t you want to save it for Trip and Frances Mae’s girls?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. And, I want my ashes strewn along the bluffs while everyone drinks champagne. Can you manage that?”

  “Of course! But why are you talking this way? I don’t like it, Mother. It’s creepy.”

  She turned and looked at me with an anger I hadn’t seen on her face ever.

  “No. If you want to know what’s creepy, I’ll tell you what’s creepy. Fear. It’s the worst demon in Satan’s hell. Come with me. I’m in the mood to talk.”

  Obedient girl that I am, I followed her, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside into the moonlight. I walked behind her as she crossed the lawn on the river’s surging breezes, gown whipping and gusting around her legs. I watched her all but float toward the dock. Mother in her wedding dress and I in my nightshirt. We must have been some sight.

  We stood at the rail for a few moments, her feet planted in my favorite spot. I didn’t care. I could smell her breath, the night air was so dense; or maybe it was that she owned the air around us. Lavinia’s air, fogged by the smells of honeysuckle, gardenia, and her soul. Lavinia’s night, warm and steadfast like cashmere blankets, wrapped around the baby girl held close in her mother’s arms. Lavinia’s golden moon and sky of navy flannel shot through with billions of diamonds for her and her daughter’s amusement, finery, and wealth of spirit. That moment was too gorgeous for the frail and dying. No, that magical stardust falling all around us, the river pounding and pulsing with its own power, the voices of promise hidden in the swaying and swooshing of limbs of the live oaks all around us—that threshold to the infinite belonged to us, the living.

  The poignancy of the moment was not lost on either of us. It was a time for truth, the variety that sometimes arrives with the necessity of facing one’s mortality, with your own intellectual and spiritual legacy. If Mother would have one, if I would find something of worth to give to help her, we needed to be candid and literal with each other.

  “Caroline? There are so many things I see now that I couldn’t understand when you were little. Why did I have to come all this way to see?” Her voice drifted off, like someone thinking a thousand concurrent thoughts, seeking a starting point.

  I remained quiet, sure that it was better to let her find her own words into the unburdening of what she carried in her heart.

  “You know, I’ve been a foolish woman . . .” she said.

  “Sorry. I don’t think you’re foolish, Mother.”

  “Oh, not now, but years ago, when you were little, I was a very foolish woman.” Her mood became pragmatic; she was going to be straightforward and sensible. “I’m dying, you know—”

  “We know nothing of the sort—”

  “Do you think you could stop interrupting me before I lose my train of thought?”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s another thing. Stop apologizing all the time.” She looked at me, tight-lipped, and shook her head. “Now, pay attention to me. I am not going to die like some pathetic Camille. No, sir. I intend to expire in a blaze of glory, celebrating every good thing I can think of to celebrate. For too many years I was afraid of my own shadow. When your father died in that horrible accident, I couldn’t get on another airplane for fear I’d die in it. Without him, I was afraid of you and your brother turning out to be God only knows what. I was afraid you would see how afraid I was, so I packed you off to Ashley Hall and your brother to St. Andrew’s. And then, and I
admit this, I went off my rocker a little bit. I probably drank too much; I know I kept company with certain gentlemen who were somewhat less than the measure of your father. . . .” She paused then and rolled her eyes at me, making me giggle, and then she giggled as well. Her light laughter tinkled like tiny bells. It had been a long time since I had heard her laugh that way.

  “Well, anyway, Caroline,” she continued, “I’ve made my share of mistakes and I may die from this villainous mole or lump on my rib, but I’m bound to go from something and I just want to be in charge of it. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sort of like you’ve spent too much of life living up to what others thought you should be instead of just being who you are? Sort of like taking too many instructions from others? Like being afraid of your own shadow?”

  “Yes, exactly, and worse. Your father, God rest his gorgeous soul, was a wonderful man, but do you realize that, for all my life with him, I did everything exactly as he wanted? I didn’t have an opinion or a thought or a plan that wasn’t his!”

  “Like Richard and me?”

  “Your father left me in a lurch! And I mean, a lurch! When they carried him away, they took my brains with him. I had no idea how to be a parent or how to start over. So I did as I pleased and, in the process, forfeited my attachment to you and Trip. For years it was impossible to even look at Trip; all I saw in his eyes was my Nevil. And you were so needy! Do you see that if I allowed you to need me, and I got so close to you and if I lost you that I would’ve gone insane? The same thing for Trip but made all the more worse because he’s the spitting image of your father. I wanted to make you strong. So you wouldn’t be afraid like I was. But I see now that all I did was make you wonder if I loved you and send you searching through life for parents!”

  It was true, but I couldn’t agree with her.

  “And your brother? I turned him into an idiot, married to someone who would cost him little if he lost her—and I don’t mean financially, I mean emotionally—and someone who looked to fill the void in his heart with gambling. Because if he was powerful and independently wealthy, he wouldn’t need me either!

  “I was so afraid of letting you go but I was too afraid to keep you. You see, if I let you down, I couldn’t live with that. I had already been so let down by Nevil’s death. I had no control over it. Over anything. So, I have to at least be in charge of my last days.”

  Mother stood there, in the cobalt silhouette of late night, on the same dock where I had once stood, spinning beautiful fantasies of my future and solving my suspected nightmares of my young tomorrows. She stood there in my spot and opened her heart to me for the first time in my life. I was lost for words, trying to make sense of what she was trying to explain about herself.

  “Are you saying that you really do love me?”

  “Oh! My dear child! Did you ever think I didn’t?”

  My tear ducts were about to get another workout. And hers. There I was, child of today’s generation of far-flung family, disconnected, disoriented, so convinced of my own truth that she had given our care over to others because she didn’t want to get her hands dirty with us. I cried. I had been wrong too.

  The truth was that she had tried to make us hard and cold so we wouldn’t be shattered the first time our hearts were broken. She had tried to give us tough skin, not splintered emotions. She had failed and recognized that with obvious regret. Mother was weeping, actually asking for my forgiveness.

  “So you see? All those rules I imposed on you and your brother, all the times I was demanding of you the way my parents had been to me, it had served me well to get me through life, but I don’t think now that it helped you and Trip. I think I hurt you more than I understood I could. I never intended to hurt anyone.”

  “It’s all right, Mother. Really it is. I never thought you were diabolical. I think every child feels some bit of being misunderstood by their parents. And, you did your best. I know you did.”

  “Well,” she said, and sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “I love you, Caroline. I truly do. And our little Eric is the most precious gift to me. Yes, the most darling boy. I don’t want you to worry about him, Caroline. He’s going to be just fine. I know it. So do Millie and Trip. Millie said his tutors all said they were greatly impressed by his aptitude. Trip said he’s a natural outdoors-man.”

  “It’s okay, Mother. I love you too. Very, very much. And, I’m going to help you face and get through whatever is before us.”

  “You mean you won’t abandon me the way I know you thought I abandoned you?”

  “Mother? You never abandoned me. I abandoned myself. But I’m here now.” Then I said to my mother the words every child wants to hear. “It’s all going to be all right.” I put my arms around her frail figure. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  Later, when I was about to turn out her light, after I had pulled her covers over her shoulders, she said to me, “I was talking to your daddy.”

  “Hush, now,” I said.

  “I talk to him all the time.”

  I closed her door quietly, whispering I love you, Mother.

  As I plumped my pillow, on which I intended to rest my very weary head, I noticed that someone had placed an old Bible next to the light. I picked it up and opened it. It was Daddy’s Bible, well read over the years and inscribed to him by Mother as a wedding gift. Lavinia gave him a Bible? My mother? What a shock! Where had this come from? This hadn’t been here an hour ago! I’d have to discuss it with her in the morning.

  I flipped through it, hoping for some words of consolation to fall before my eyes. Sure enough, a passage important and relevant enough to scare the pants off of me stood out. It was a passage in Mark, about a leper coming to Jesus. He said, “Thou can make me clean.” Jesus touched the man and he was immediately healed.

  “Oh fine,” I said out loud, as every hair on my body stood on end, “now I’ll never sleep!”

  Indeed, how would I? Was that some weird sign? No, it was your basic karmic, New Age synchronicity. Sure. Leper? Skin cancer? Close enough for me. I was going back to church. Okay, I would start sooner. Right then, in fact. I was going to ask, no, beg, God’s forgiveness for ignoring Him for the past couple of decades and go from there. Maybe, I thought, you lazy, self-serving, cynical, arrogant, no-good sinner, maybe it’s time you used your knees. Hell, millions of Catholics couldn’t be wrong. And, if God would indeed cast His eye in my direction after my self-imposed absence from the flock since my daddy’s death, it couldn’t hurt for Him to find me on my knees before Him.

  I prayed my guts out—for Mother, for Daddy, for help, forgiveness, understanding, patience, compassion, acceptance, and, of course, I prayed for Eric. As long as I was in the mode, I prayed for Trip and Frances Mae, and yes, I prayed for Richard. For good measure, I threw in Lois and Harry. And Josh too. Couldn’t hurt.

  There was no answer, no psychic message and no miracle. But, it was after one in the morning and the prayers had actually made me feel some better.

  I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I called Josh. The phone rang several times before a sleepy voice answered.

  “What?” he said.

  “Josh? It’s Caroline. I’m sorry . . .”

  “What time is it?”

  “Late. Listen, Josh, I found out today that Mother’s dying. She’s dying, Josh, and I just have to talk to someone.”

  “Hey, Caroline. That’s her karma, okay? Call me tomorrow.”

  He hung up on me before I could say a word. Her karma? Call me tomorrow? Okay, Josh could tutor Eric until I found someone to replace him. Karma. I’ll karma him!

  In my bed, the last thought I had before falling off to sleep (after I thought of a thousand things to say to Josh) was that we—my whole family—were all very busy telling each other everything was fine. It wasn’t. Not one bit. Desperate prayers. How perfectly pathetic. I’d have to do better than that. In the end desperate calls to God might not change the outcome, but they mi
ght change me.

  Forty-one

  Through Thick and Through Thin

  THROUGH the early morning stillness, I heard cars arrive, banging on the door followed by more banging. I rolled over in my tangle of sheets to look at my clock. Seven-ten. What in the world?

  I ran down the stairs before the whole house was awakened. I saw Miss Sweetie peering through the window on the left of the front door, and Miss Nancy on the right. Why so early?

  I opened the door and they rushed in.

  “Is Lavinia up?” Miss Nancy said.

  “No, at least, I don’t think so.”

  “Of course she’s not up, Nancy, look at Caroline! I told you it was too early!”

  “No! It’s fine! Really!” I said. “Do y’all want some coffee?”

  I started toward the kitchen and they followed. I fingered the Start button on the coffemaker and opened the refrigerator looking for juice.

  “I wanted to wait until nine to call but Sweetie thought you might go out or something, and to tell the truth, Caroline, we didn’t sleep a wink all night! Please tell us what happened at the doctor’s office!”

  It all came flooding back—that Mother was ill and dying and even though it hadn’t been confirmed, I knew it and so did they or else they wouldn’t have come so early in the morning.

  I put three mugs on the counter and three juice glasses, shaking the carton of orange juice and filling them. Where should I begin?

  “English muffin?” I said.

  “Thanks, sure,” Miss Sweetie said.

  “No carbs,” Miss Nancy said. “So?”

  “Well, we don’t know anything for sure,” I said. I leaned over the coffeepot—it was still dripping. “But, we don’t suspect anything good.”

  They were silent; the occasional blink of their eyes was their only movement.

  “She had blood work done and a CAT scan at the Medical University yesterday.”

  I didn’t tell them about Mother and me and our conversation down at the docks last night or how I was feeling about the whole issue at all. I was frank but my words were spare. It just seemed that this was a time to let it sink in and besides, nothing was confirmed yet. They were Mother’s friends, after all, not mine.