by Luanne Rice
They drove to the market, shopped for white flowers. Lyra watched Pell walk up and down the rows of long tables, choosing the best flats of white impatiens and geraniums. She was beautiful, caught the attention of the shopkeepers. Lyra introduced her as her daughter.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter!” some of them said.
“You’ve kept her hidden away!”
“She has your eyes….”
Lyra felt proud. They loaded the plants and flowers into Lyra’s old Alfa, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove toward Amanda and Renata’s house. White flowers, fragrant herbs, lush greenery, an archway, a curved gate.
“Lyra!”
She waved at Gregorio Dante, a stonemason she’d hired. He stood by a half-built structure, piles of concrete and white rock beside him, two columns rising on either side of the four-foot-wide garden path. Curly dark hair, deep tan, muscles bulging in his T-shirt. He came toward her, teeth gleaming in a wide smile.
“Ciao, Lyra,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Ciao, Gregorio,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “Always, when I see you. And who is this lovely girl?”
“My daughter, Pell,” Lyra said.
“How do you do?” Pell asked.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, smiling.
“Pell,” Lyra said, “Gregorio is building a moon gate for Renata and Amanda’s garden.”
“Very romantic,” Gregorio said. “To capture the moon as it rises in the east.”
“I’ve seen pictures of one,” Pell said.
Lyra tingled; this was why she’d wanted Pell to come to the job site. “From our honeymoon,” she said. “Your father’s and mine.”
“Yes,” Pell said. “I still have your wedding album.”
“I saw the photo you brought,” Lyra said.
Pell didn’t answer. She walked back to the car, started unloading the garden tools. Lyra watched her carry them to the flower bed she’d staked out.
“It was right there, in your room,” Lyra said. “I didn’t go through your things.”
“I didn’t think you had,” Pell said. “I’m just surprised you mentioned it. I don’t know what you think about him—about your marriage. I had no idea you were divorced.”
“I didn’t know it would make that much difference to you,” Lyra said.
“It does,” Pell said.
“Then will it also make a difference to know that when I think of love, I think of your father?” Lyra asked. “Renata and Amanda wanted their garden to reflect their love. I gave that a lot of thought, and came up with the moon gate. It honors your father’s memory, and also the dreams we once had.”
“Dreams?” Pell asked.
“Yes,” Lyra said. “Your father and I had dreams.”
“What were they?” Pell asked.
“Let’s work first. Then I’ll tell you.”
They began to dig. When they came to deeply embedded rocks, bits of calcareous stone, they heaved them toward Gregorio, and he washed and set them into the white columns. The ground gave way, and they got into a rhythm. Sun beat down on their heads; ribbons of sweat ran down Lyra’s back.
“There’s a problem,” Gregorio said, walking over to Lyra and Pell. “The sides of the gate are coming along. But the arch, overhead. I need more information.”
“What kind of information?” Pell asked.
“It needs to be a half-circle. But I don’t have the proper calculations. Let me take a break, see what I can figure out.” He walked away, sat in the shade of an olive tree, started making notations on the back of an envelope while the fine silver-green leaves rustled in the breeze overhead.
“Will you tell me now?” Pell asked. “About your dreams?”
“I will. You saw pictures of the moon gate in our wedding album. Do you know the story?” Lyra asked.
“No,” Pell said.
“In 1860, in Bermuda, a sea captain brought the idea back from a voyage to China. He had one built of island stone; the simple arch symbolized peace, joy, and long life. When a couple passed through holding hands, their future would be blessed.”
“Yours wasn’t,” Pell said.
“It was for a while,” Lyra said.
Pell stopped, looking at her.
“We had you,” Lyra said. “You and Lucy. You were our dreams.”
“We were real,” Pell said quietly. “Not dreams. We’re flesh and blood. We needed you, but you left.”
“I know that, Pell. This is hard for me to say. I wanted to be a great mother. I loved you—there was no shortage of love. But I wasn’t good at what I’d set out to do.”
“You weren’t good at being a mother?” Pell asked. Her eyes flashed with anger and skepticism. “You are wrong.”
Lyra stared at her; she could see Pell believed what she was saying. But Pell was still so young—sixteen. Her own life had barely started unfolding yet. What if she discovered things about herself that made her take a path she couldn’t see yet?
“I talked to Max yesterday” Pell said.
“What about?” Lyra asked, surprised.
“You. The divorce. Grandmother. Lucy. Talking to him, I can be so rational and kind. I want to understand you. But being here—sitting with you … it makes me feel crazy. You have no idea what it’s been like. And not so much for me—for Lucy.”
“Tell me,” Lyra said.
“I’m worried about her. She’s so restless. She doesn’t sleep well, sometimes she sleepwalks. I’m supposed to go to college next year, but how can I leave her? She’s relied on me all this time. But she really needs you.”
Lyra stared at Pell. How could she explain how this made her feel? She felt she’d abdicated the right to be needed by her kids. There was a sacredness about being a mother. Everyone expected devotion and sacrifice. A woman leaving her family shocked people more than if she committed murder for them. If she became a prostitute to take care of them, it would be more acceptable.
She remembered being held in Grosse Pointe for a psych evaluation, before going to McLean. One of the women on her unit had dealt drugs to afford a house for her and her two children. She’d sold crack and heroin, slept with her supplier to pay him. One day she had to go to Detroit to pick up supplies; her three-year-old daughter was home from preschool with a fever. The woman left her in the car while she went inside to have sex and get the drugs. When she came out, there were two men trying to break in to her car, to get her daughter.
The woman had gone crazy, literally lost it. She’d grabbed a baseball bat off the porch, come off swinging. She cracked the skull of one man, broke teeth and the nose of the other. She’d jumped into her car, grabbed her shrieking daughter. She’d been arrested, sent for psychiatric help; her children taken by the state until she completed her sentence. Lyra thought of her now—a madwoman wielding a baseball bat to protect her kids.
The idea of Lucy suffering ripped Lyra apart. She’d done nothing to help her girls; she’d walked away from them instead. She saw Pell staring at her. The hostility drained from Pell’s eyes.
“Do you know why I want to become a psychologist?” Pell asked.
“Because I’ve caused so much damage?”
“No,” Pell said. “Because of this, right here.” She tapped her forehead just above her right eyebrow. Then she reached across the dirt and touched the same spot on Lyra’s head.
“Is that the site of craziness?” Lyra asked.
“No,” Pell said, shaking her head. “It’s the right frontal cortex,” she said. “And something happened there, for both me and Lucy, when we were four months old.”
“What?” Lyra asked. She had never dropped her, never shaken her. She felt stunned by the idea of an injury. Could she have forgotten, blocked out an incident? Is this why Lucy couldn’t sleep?
“At that age, a baby’s need for her mother becomes so intense—not just for survival, as it is right after birth—but for emotional connection. The baby
needs her mother to show her the way.”
“And I didn’t do that,” Lyra said. “I didn’t show you the way.”
“Oh, you did,” Pell said. “That’s why it made me so mad, when you said you weren’t good at being a mother.”
“But, Pell—” Lyra started.
Pell talked right over her. “You and I were so connected. I felt you with me every second. I remember how it felt to have you hold me, sing to me, whisper stories to me as I fell asleep. You rocked me when I cried. When I was teething, you rubbed my gums with your finger.”
“But your … head … What happened, did I hurt you, did …”
Pell shook her head. “No. You didn’t hurt me—the opposite. You were there, and that’s all that mattered. See, things happen in a baby’s brain, all having to do with her mother. Neurons firing, synapses sparking, just as if there’s lightning flashing between mother and child. It’s so real, and so energized, the baby’s brain literally grows toward the mother’s.”
“And the mother’s?” Lyra asked.
“Grows toward the child’s. It’s the realest connection there is. I felt myself being part of you, and you part of me. It’s how I made sense of the world. Lucy too.”
“As babies?” Lyra asked.
“Always,” Pell said.
“Even after …”
Pell nodded. “Even after you left.”
Lyra dug her hands into the dirt. She felt the ground’s heat. Pell stared at her; Lucy couldn’t sleep. Lyra tried to hold tight, as if she could keep from flying off the planet.
“This is how it works,” Pell said. “The way mothers and children navigate life together.”
“And it all happened when you were four months old?” Lyra asked.
“Not all,” Pell said. “It continues until the child is twenty-five.”
“‘It?’” Lyra asked.
“Activity in the right frontal cortex. The child looking to her mother to show her the way. Their brains growing toward each other’s.”
Lyra nodded. She felt a zinging sensation in her head, just above her right eyebrow. The feeling was familiar; she’d had it all along. She just hadn’t realized it was her brain not just yearning for her daughters, but actually reaching for them. It was biological.
“So much time has gone by,” Lyra said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Pell said. “We have until Lucy and I turn twenty-five.” She smiled.
“You’ve taken such good care of Lucy,” Lyra said. “She must miss you now.”
“She’s staying with the Shaws,” Pell said. “My boyfriend’s family. His sister Beck is Lucy’s best friend. Their mother is … kind of like a mom to Lucy.”
It killed Lyra, hearing that. She hated thinking of another woman being like a mom to her daughter.
“Lyra,” Gregorio called. “Will you come see? What do I do? The plans are not coming together; I can’t figure out the arch.”
“Just a second,” she said. Lyra wiped her eyes and went over.
“Look at this,” Gregorio said, tugging her hand. He wanted her to stand close, look at his drawing, but she kept her distance. She wore overalls and a white peasant blouse, garden clogs and a blue sun visor: her uniform, baggy clothes that hid her body. She wanted Pell to know there’d never been anyone but her father—the flaw had been with her, not with his love.
“I am not an engineer. I should have asked you before I started,” Gregorio said. “Do you think less of me?”
Lyra didn’t answer. She looked at the white columns, going nowhere. Thinking of what Pell had said about Lucy, the garden suddenly seemed meaningless. Lyra spun back over ten years. Being depressed, she’d wanted to sleep all the time. But then it had changed: she’d stopped sleeping altogether. That’s when the crisis began.
“Mom!” Pell called. She had her cell phone out.
“Yes?” Lyra said, walking over. Her heart was pounding, wondering if Lucy was in the same kind of emotional danger she had been.
“I knew Lucy wouldn’t be asleep,” Pell said. “So I called her. She’s on the line now….”
Lyra took the phone.
Two in the morning, Lucy’s witching hour, the most haunted zone of the night, when Lucy felt the most alone, when she was most afraid to sleep.
The hour her father had died.
Back home in Grosse Pointe, his heart had stopped, he’d drawn his last breath, at 2:01 a.m. Now Lucy paced the Shaws’ house, wanting the time to pass. She could fall asleep once the clock ticked past that time, but until then, she felt tied up in knots. When her cell phone went off, buzzing because she had it on vibrate, for a minute she thought it was her father calling.
But it was Pell and her mother, making Lucy melt with joy.
“Hello?” she said.
“Lucy,” Pell said, “Mom needs you.”
“Needs me?” Lucy asked. No words had ever meant more.
“Yes. Hold on,” Pell said.
And then their mother’s voice: “Lucy?”
“Hi, Mom. What can I do to help?”
“Lucy, it’s so late over there. Are we disturbing you? Can’t you sleep?”
“Not really,” Lucy said. “I’m used to it, though.”
“I wish I could sing you to sleep,” her mother said.
Sing her to sleep? Lucy took those words in. They felt like a blanket, hot milk, and a hug. Her mother was thinking of her, enough to be worried. Lucy’s mouth wobbled, not sure whether to smile. How could someone’s concern make her feel both so happy and so much like crying?
“I’m really okay,” Lucy said. “Pell can tell you, I’m just a night owl. That’s all….”
“Hmm,” her mother said, as if she was trying to believe her.
“You need my help?” Lucy asked.
“Oh. Yes, that’s right,” her mother said. “See, I’m having this moon gate built for a garden I’m designing. I want it to be about six and a half feet tall at its highest point. Six feet wide, and curved in the shape of the full moon.”
“It sounds beautiful,” Lucy said, her mind starting to work. “Well, it’s easy. Circumference divided by diameter is 3.14159. Just figure out the diameter you want, multiply that by 3.14159, and that gives you the inside circumference. Then add the thickness and get the outside. Then subtract the inside circumference from the outside one and divide that by the number of stones.”
There was a brief pause. Then: “I’m so impressed,” her mother said.
“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” Lucy said. “Math.”
Her mother was silent for so long, Lucy thought maybe she’d hung up. But then she heard her mother clear her throat.
“I’m sure there are many things, Lucy,” her mother said. “Many things you are good at, my darling. I would like us to talk, so I can find out much more about you.”
“Talk? Us? You and me?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, yes,” her mother said. “You and me. Now, Lucy … will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” Lucy said.
“I’d like you to climb into bed. Get under the covers,” her mother said. “Close your eyes, and think of something beautiful. Like a field of flowers, or a wonderful beach … something you love.”
“I can do that,” Lucy said.
“And let it fill your mind, and just drift off,” her mother said, and she began to sing. Very softly, a song Lucy remembered from her childhood:
“White coral bells upon a slender stalk, lilies of the valley deck my garden walk….”
Lucy heard the music, and she smiled and felt everything bad melt away.
She wished they’d never hang up, but finally they did. And she kept her promise. She went into the room she shared with Beck, climbed into her bed. She could almost hear her mother’s voice: Get under the covers … close your eyes … think of something beautiful….
Lucy did think of something beautiful. And it wasn’t a garden of flowers, or a magical beach, or even the song. It was her mother’s v
oice saying the words “you and me.”
“You and me,” Lucy whispered in bed, eyes closed. “You and me, you and me, you and me … you said I am your darling, and we will talk, you and me, you and me.”
I could see what Max had said: that gardening brought my mother solace. There at the site, working for Amanda and Renata, I could see the glow. She was tan, sweaty, tired in the good way. I knew her muscles were aching; her face and arms were streaked with dirt. That guy was flirting with her, but she didn’t care. She loved the garden. And—I have to say this—she loved being with me, and calling Lucy. I felt it.
It seemed like the greatest gift, calling Lucy, having the three of us on the phone again. And I could tell Lucy was overjoyed. My mother too. It was the three of us together, just like old times. To hear my mother taking care of Lucy—over the phone, soothing her, singing her to sleep—made me think of all the ways we’ve needed and missed one another.
Being here, especially after the call with Lucy, all my early love for my mother came flooding back. My head’s been throbbing, practically lighting up. Ever since reading Allan Schore’s book on the neurobiology of emotional development, recommended reading by Dr. Robertson, a few more puzzle pieces have fallen into place. That feeling—that physical longing for my mother—started to make sense. She is part of me.
And I am part of her. I came out of her body. And our hearts and minds are hardwired for each other. As she spoke to Lucy, I watched her face. I saw the years of love and the decade of pain. We were everything to each other. Everything! And then she went away.
Waking up with her sitting on my bed did something to me. This is how it could have been! My dad used to wake me up for school. I hold on to that, trying to understand why he’d held back the fact he’d divorced her. It shimmers, like the azure water around the island, the idea that if he hadn’t, if she’d remained legally bound, she might have had more reason to return to us. But I tell myself that’s not real.
It’s just foolish, wishful thinking. My mother was troubled—the word that came so easily to her, describing Rafe. She was damaged. Screwed up by her mother. My grandmother isn’t a bad person, but you wouldn’t want her as your mother. She is cold, in ways my mother never could be. But you know what’s sad? I am sure that she, too, suffered as a child. Her mother probably didn’t show her enough love.
