Winter in Full Bloom

by Anita Higman

  The blinds in one of the front windows moved as if someone had been watching. Guess they knew we’d arrived. I didn’t mention it to Marcus or tell him how scared I was to meet his parents, especially under such difficult circumstances. He already knew, so there was no sense in belaboring the point. The anxiety on my part would only add to his own.

  The closer we got to the front door the more Marcus’s arm stiffened. I deliberately relaxed my own and patted his.

  Seconds later we stood on the porch, staring at the tattered autumn wreath on the front door.

  Marcus paused, reached over to the round bell, and gave it a decisive push.

  Hmm. I suddenly hoped my dress was nice enough and not too low-cut. I’d spent half an hour agonizing over what to wear to give Marcus’s parents just the right message, and yet now I questioned my choice. Too late for any changes now. I practiced my smile and a few words of greeting in my head. I tried not to tap my foot or fidget. I was glad, at least, that I had no need to worry about Camille while I was gone. She seemed more stable emotionally and physically, and she’d insisted I come along with Marcus. As I left her she was relaxing on the back deck, reading a novel.

  After a moment or two of waiting, Marcus stepped on a few fallen acorns, which made an impatient crunching sound under his shoe. “I wonder if they changed their minds.” Just as he reached out to ring the bell a second time, the door eased open.

  I was surprised to see a woman who appeared more youthful than my mother. Mrs. Averill did, however, wear a pinched and tired look as if the only thing on her mind was to take a very long rest from life.

  “Hi, Mom.” Marcus smiled and inched forward.

  “Hi. Both of you, please come in.” His mother opened the door wider.

  We both stepped inside the entryway. Mrs. Averill’s face lit with what appeared to be gladness, and yet she didn’t hug Marcus. Her eyes were lined in red, but it was impossible to know whether she’d been weeping from the excitement over their reunion or from the painful memories that would surely come from his visit. Maybe a little of both.

  Marcus glanced around the entrance and beyond as if searching for something—someone. “The place still looks the same.”

  His mother heaved a sigh. “I guess your father felt there’d been enough change, so he wouldn’t let me alter anything, even the old drapes …”

  Marcus and his mother locked eyes, and in those moments something shifted. He thumped his fist into his palm as if he were starting a game of rock-paper-scissors.

  It must have been a secret code from when he was a boy, because it instantly made his mother smile, changing the whole landscape of her face as well as the room.

  “It’s good to see you, Mom,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” she said in an unsteady voice. She glanced my way. “Please introduce me, Son.”

  “Mom, this is Lily Winter.”

  We shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Averill.”

  “Glad to meet you too.” Mrs. Averill slid her hands along her flared skirt, smoothing it.

  Marcus milled around the entry hall. “Where’s Dad? Is he having a hard time with me coming home?”

  Mrs. Averill straightened a figurine on the table. “Yes. A little.”

  “I’m just glad you both agreed to let me come home for a bit.”

  “Oh, well, it’s not that bad.” His mother waved him off. “You’re going to make us sound like horrible parents in front of your friend, here.”

  “I don’t mean to do that. But Dad was pretty clear when I left. So I thought—”

  “I know, Son.” His mother looked down, shifting the weight on her feet. “It wasn’t my idea. It was your father’s.” Her lip quivered.

  Marcus went over to his mother and put his arms around her. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. I should have let it go. Would it be all right for us to go into the living room and sit down?”

  “Of course. Please make yourself at home, both of you.” Mrs. Averill gestured toward the living room. “I have some coffee on. Would either of you like some?”

  “No, thank you.” I scrubbed my fingers along my arms, feeling a chill.

  “None for me,” Marcus said. “Thanks.”

  “Well, then.” His mother backed away. “I’ll go and see where your father is.”

  When she left the entry Marcus strolled into the living room. “Not exactly a joyous homecoming.”

  I followed him and sat on the couch. “But your mom did offer coffee. That was nice.”

  “Not quite the fattened calf, but it’ll do.”

  It seemed clear to me now what God was up to—that He’d put us together to help each other through the same plight, the same familial turmoil. I wasn’t sure how it would all work out, but life was no doubt made easier by the empathetic camaraderie of similar circumstances. What mystery there was in the Almighty and His ways.

  Marcus sat down next to me and picked up a family photo, which sat on an end table. The photo included three people, Mr. and Mrs. Averill and a young girl. Must be Ellie, his sister. But why didn’t the photo include Marcus?

  His shoulders sagged some, but he said nothing as he set the photo down. While we were waiting on his mother, an older man who looked a lot like Marcus appeared in the doorway.

  Marcus looked up. “Sir?”

  For just one moment—an empty one jammed full of more raw emotion than humans were meant to endure—I could not guess how things would work out. I could almost hear Marcus’s plea to heaven.

  Mr. Averill stood there in his three-piece suit and tie while we waited for the first flicker of welcome. “Marcus?” His first word came out as a question.

  “Dad.” Marcus rose. “It’s good to see you.”

  His father strode toward him, and when they met in the living room, he stuck out his hand. “Well, so you came home for a visit.”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “You seem thin. Didn’t they feed you in the Outback?” his father asked.

  “Yes, there’s plenty of food. I don’t eat as much as I used to, but I’ve been getting along all right.”

  His father turned his attention to me. “And who’s your friend? Are you an Aussie?”

  “No. I’m from Houston.” Best to keep things simple. Less of a target to shoot at.

  After Marcus made the formal introductions, I quickly wiped my sweaty palm behind me on my dress and said, “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Same here,” Mr. Averill said to me, and then to Marcus, “I think your mother has made us a late lunch. Why don’t we go in and sit down?”

  We filed tidily into the dining room where the table was set with a linen tablecloth and napkins and a bowl of short-cut roses. The room looked lovely but unused. Mrs. Averill brought in a loaf of sliced bread and sat down.

  When we were all seated, Mr. Averill said a word of grace, very short and very solemn, and then his wife passed the roast and mashed potatoes around the table. No one said anything, so as the seconds ticked by it was as if Marcus had lost the little bit of ground he’d gained.

  “So,” his father broke the silence, “what have you been doing with yourself in Australia all this time?”

  “Staying busy.” Marcus let his fork rest back on his plate and looked directly at his father until he had his full attention. “That’s not the whole truth. I’ve not been that busy. I don’t have a real job. I live off my royalties. I have seen some of the sights, but mostly I’ve lived like a vagabond. When I met Lily on a park bench in Melbourne, I even looked like one.”

  Oh, dear. Like Camille had done with Mother on her arrival, he was emptying his whole duffel bag at once. “Marcus is being modest,” I said. “He’s spent some of his time at St. Paul’s Cathedral, doing volunteer work with the youth. They speak highly of him there. And I would call his clothes more casual than anything.”

  I waited for Mr. Averill to respond, but he just plowed into his mashed potatoes.

  Timid
ly, a bug made its way across the hardwood floor. It stopped by my chair, and seemed to consider me before it vanished under the table. I wasn’t big on bugs, but I kept my feet still, not wanting to crush the poor thing. I had a feeling there would be enough of that for one day.

  Mr. Averill cleared his throat, and I jolted back to the conversation, or the lack of one. The sugar bowl came my way, but I passed it on, since I didn’t want to add the clicking of glass to the tension in the room.

  His father scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and stirred, clattering the utensil around on the glass. “Lily, what do you do?”

  I took a sip of my iced tea, since my mouth had become an arid terrain. “I’m a secretary for an oil company.”

  “Good solid business, but do you ever aspire for more?” Mr. Averill asked. “You know, hoping to be more than someone’s lackey?”

  “Dad,” Marcus said, “I hardly think that an executive secretary should be thought of as someone’s lackey. It’s a very—”

  “Okay, so it wasn’t the best choice of words.” His father put up a hand. “New subject. So, how in the world did you two become friends? Lily, were you on vacation in Melbourne when you met Marcus?”

  “Actually, I was there to find my twin sister, Camille.”

  “Was she lost?” A chuckle rippled beneath the surface of Mr. Averill’s expression.

  I bristled at his flippant attitude, but let it go. “It’s a long story.” And a story I had no intention of telling him, not with that jeer dancing on his lips. “But I ran into Marcus while I was there, and he volunteered to help me find her.”

  “Just like that?” Mr. Averill stabbed his fork into the roast beef. “He volunteered to help someone he didn’t even know?”

  The man made it sound as if Marcus was wanting in his character for reaching out to help me. “Yes, he did. At first, I hesitated, because he was a stranger and all, but—”

  “Good girl.” Mr. Averill pointed his fork at me.

  I tried to keep my Irish ire from flaring. “However, at the time, I didn’t know how foolish that decision would have been. With Marcus’s help, we did find Camille, and she flew back with me to Houston. We’re in the middle of a family reunion because of the help from your son.”

  “You give me too much credit,” Marcus said. His expression pleaded, “Please don’t spread my praise too thickly.”

  “Not at all. It’s as true as can be.” I smiled at him, not giving an inch, since I wasn’t about to sit still and watch Mr. Averill pulverize his son. I could take Mother lambasting me, but for some reason witnessing the same thing happening to Marcus felt unbearable.

  “Well, then, Son, you should be commended for being the redeemer of families.” His father tore a roll apart and reached for the butter. “Rather ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Charles,” his mother said. “Please.”

  I fiddled with a loose thread on my dress. All I had to do was pull and one of my buttons would go clattering to the floor. So tempting. Perhaps it would be a small act of defiance on my part, but more importantly, it might redirect the flow of conversation. Before I could pull, Mrs. Averill spoke up again.

  “Marcus? Have you called any of your old friends since you’ve been back? I know they’ll want to touch base.” Her tone came off as tremulous as a fluttering leaf in a hurricane.

  Marcus stirred his fork around in his peas and then mashed them between the prongs. “I’m sure I can call some of them soon, but I just got back.”

  I tried to spread some butter on my bread, but it kept falling off in cold chunks. The meal was not getting off to a great start, and it had nothing to do with the food. Mr. Averill’s formal, commanding attitude reminded me of my mother. Had our childhoods been more similar than I imagined?

  “My agent drove down from Austin,” Marcus added.

  “Humph.” His father curled his palms against the edge of the table and straightened his elbows like a prosecuting attorney might do on the railing in front of the jury. “What in the world does she want?”

  Marcus leaned forward. “Pamela’s excited because I’ve started to illustrate and write again. I’d been floundering all this time until I met Lily. She’s inspired me to pursue my gift again.” His voice held traces of boyish enthusiasm in spite of the cold reception.

  But this didn’t seem like the best time to bring up his career. I guess Marcus just wanted to dive right in and get it over with. But the waters around the table looked frigid enough to cause some serious frostbite.

  Marcus’s father folded his napkin, set it on the table, and then pressed a crease in the cloth with his finger. The few seconds of quiet before he spoke were like the moments inside the eye of a tornado. “Have you conveniently forgotten it was this so-called gift, this artistic obsession of yours, this selfish and all-consuming need for pleasing the public at all costs that kept you in a constant state of exhaustion … which killed your sister?”

  Marcus flushed red. “No, I have not forgotten. How could I? She was my precious baby sister. I will never forget her or what happened for as long as I live.”

  Mrs. Averill’s knife clattered on the butter plate, making me jump.

  If there were ever a good time to pick at my fingers it was now, but I chose to sit on my hands instead. The food no longer mattered anyway.

  “Charles. It’s not the right time to bring this up. We have a guest.” Mrs. Averill raised her chin.

  “Then tell me, when is the right time, Gerty?” Mr. Averill fell back in his chair. “You seem to have all the answers. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Averill curled a lock of hair behind her ear. “But I can’t see how that tone of yours is going to accomplish anything.”

  Mr. Averill raised his hands. “Well, I have to get in my words now, just in case our son decides to flee the country again.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, you asked me to leave,” Marcus said. “I didn’t think it would matter what country I lived in as long as I was gone.”

  “Of course it matters. You running off like that was the coward’s way out. You thought you’d punish us for what I said, even though you knew they were words said in the heat of an argument.”

  “Dad, I’m here to make amends in any way I can.” Marcus’s tone came off firm but respectful. “I want to once again say how sorry I am. But I don’t understand something. You say I’m punishing you for doing the very thing you asked me to do. I want to make things right, but how can I? It feels as though you’re making forgiveness unattainable.”

  His mother scooted her chair back quickly as if she wanted to flee the room. “Forgiveness seems unattainable, Marcus, because your father has made it so.”

  Mr. Averill slammed his fist down on the table. “Gerty, that’s enough. I will not allow you to—”

  “Please,” Marcus said to his father. “Don’t speak to Mom that way. You can take it out on me all you want, but not on Mom. I won’t let you do that.”

  Mr. Averill raised his chin and then said in an ominously low voice, “Well, this is my house, and—”

  “No more, Charles,” Mrs. Averill said. “I have kept silent about this for too long. I’ve been trying to keep the peace, but this is an unhealthy kind of peace. It’s not real. I will say this … I can understand your anger at Marcus for what he did. He wasn’t using good sense that evening when he drove off with Ellie, but this rage has gone on too long.”

  Mrs. Averill’s hands trembled as she put her napkin on the table. “I don’t know. It’s like you’re thrashing around in a cage, angry at the whole world. You’re mad at the girl at the grocery store checkout for not ringing you up fast enough. I never said anything, but you embarrassed me in front of one of my friends from church who was standing in line that day. The men who do our lawn are never speedy enough. Our dentist, our insurance agent, our pastor … you’ve written them all off for one reason or another. And your anger is destroying what’s left of our family. These last few months
should have been a time of mending fences, but for you, it was a season of burning bridges.”

  She stood and straightened her shoulders. “I love you, Charles, but this destructive behavior you have directed toward Marcus and me and God and the rest of the world has got to stop before it kills us all. That’s not what Ellie would have wanted.”

  Mr. Averill huffed. “How do you know what Ellie wanted? She’s not here to defend herself. She’s dead. My girl is dead.”

  “Yes, Ellie, our daughter, is dead.” Mrs. Averill pinched at a piece of the tablecloth. “But … Ellie loved our Lord, and I’m at peace with where she is. We’ll never forget her, of course, and we’ll never stop missing her until we can hold her again in the heavenly realms, but Charles, it’s time to be free of this anger and live again.”

  “Seems like everyone wants to leave our daughter behind.” Mr. Averill pressed his fingers against his eyes. “Ellie was the dearest, sweetest thing. Never asked much of anyone. She wasn’t obsessed about fame or money. She was just Ellie.”

  “Ellie was sweet and dear to all of us,” Mrs. Averill said, “but you’re looking at her life through rose-colored glasses now that she’s gone. That’s very common to do that. But Ellie had plenty of teenage angst along with the sweetness. And you’re looking at your son with no mercy whatsoever. No love. It’s not right. This isn’t what God wants for you or our family. And if I remember correctly you used to care about what God thought.”

  Marcus remained silent.

  I could barely breathe.

  Mr. Averill spread his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “Well, I’m not so freewheeling with my forgiveness. Not when it comes to my flesh and blood.”

  “But Marcus is your flesh and blood just like Ellie.”

  Mr. Averill frowned at his wife. “But Ellie wasn’t a murderer.”

  “Charles, I love you. I do. But that is the last time I will listen to you make that abominable remark about our son. Ellie’s death was an accident, and knowing my son the way I do I’m sure he’s awakened every morning of his life remembering the scene in punishing detail. Marcus certainly doesn’t need you to torture him. I’m sure he’s tormented himself plenty this past year, enough to last a lifetime.”