The ploy was too obvious for words. Ivy thawed a degree or two inside. “Thanks, Dad.”
Anna’s gaze followed him as he left the room. Then she stretched out a beautiful, gnarled hand and cradled Ivy’s chin. “Look me in the eye, child.”
She obeyed.
“You hear me. This story isn’t over yet. All we know is that we don’t know anything.”
A sniff replaced the words Ivy wanted to speak.
“Hear me. This isn’t the end of it. Ends come. They do for all of us.” Anna paused long enough to draw a deeper breath. “But this can’t be it. It can’t be the end of it.”
Biblical “fountains of the deep” opened, with both women feeding the stream with their tears.
More than once, over the next few hours and days, Ivy thanked the Lord for the gift of Joy Elizabeth. Someone needed Ivy to be strong. The child snuggled into her neck as if the world were a safe and peaceful place. She fed and slept and learned how to coo. The weight of her in Ivy’s arms comforted like a hot-water bottle wrapped in lamb’s wool.
Ivy changed the baby’s blankets more frequently than normal because they were dampened with a mother’s grief.
Her father changed the television channel when the news came on. No one in that household wanted to hear how the peace talks were going, what was taking so long, or the clever name of the most recent battle. Heartbreak Hill had been enough.
The paper bundle held only two unsent letters from Drew. The rest were Ivy’s—he’d saved them all, it appeared—and the undeliverables, packaged by some army clerk to return to the soldier’s parents along with any other mail. Her dad said Drew’s family had waited months for his possessions to be returned—everything except his dog tags and the fatigues and boots he was wearing when the hill exploded. She wanted to feel sorry for his family. She had to. She did.
Drew’s two letters took up permanent residence on Ivy’s nightstand, tucked into her Bible, as if the book of holy words could influence the words he’d written. She’d not opened them. Was it pure foolishness to leave them unread and let her imagination invent what they held?
His understanding. His forgiveness. His excitement about the baby he hadn’t even known had been born already—a girl with his thick hair and chin dimple. Sketches of the house he’d build them on a shady street with a big backyard that linked to others peppered with children. A place where they could blend in like any other family, the past a matter of record but not regret.
In time, she’d be strong enough to read what must have been his response to her confession. Not now. Ignorance allowed her a wisp of hope that he’d loved her anyway.
No ring. No rights. She had no rights regarding news about the search, if any, for a missing soldier with thick, tawny hair and a chin dimple like the child she rocked to sleep at night.
No ring, no word, no reason to believe he would be found. The gruesome tales of what happened to American soldiers caught behind enemy lines hadn’t improved with each new war. The word missing merely prolonged the inevitable, prolonged the slow, rusty, burred scalpel-pull through the flesh of her heart.
It wasn’t a matter of giving up hope. On the first day of spring, she sliced through the cold ground behind the garage with a garden shovel, dug a shallow grave, and buried a token—one of the scalloped-edged photographs Drew had sent in one of his first letters to her. She buried false hope.
Longing drained her energies for parenting, and for caring for the family she did have—her father, Anna, and ever-present Joy. She needed all the strength she could muster. The bungalow was too small for longing.
“Anna, how did you go on after Josiah died? I know you’ll answer ‘By God’s grace’ or ‘In His strength alone’ or ‘Because of Jesus.’ But how? What does that look like?”
Anna flinched as Ivy turned her on her side to rub lotion on her back.
“Did that hurt? I’ll be gentler next time.”
With her head turned back over her shoulder, Anna said, “Not much left of me that doesn’t hurt, dear. It’s the way of it.”
“Do you want to sit up for a while? I can wheel you out to the front room. The sun’s so warm coming through that window. You’d be amazed how the recent rain greened up the grass.”
“Not today. I’ll have to trust your eyes to take it all in for me.”
Ivy bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She took a deep breath. She could mourn Anna’s death before she was gone, or she could enjoy the moments they had left and thank the Lord for the time they’d had together.
A woman with a hundred and twenty-seven daughters. Ivy massaged lotion into the bony, age-spotted back, grateful to be counted among those women. A hundred and twenty-eight.
“I went on,” Anna said, her voice jiggling with the movements of Ivy’s hand on her back, “because that’s all a person can do with a broken heart. If you don’t keep going, it gets brittle. Pieces break off and get lost in the carpet or under the sofa. I only had ten years as his wife, but so many more as his friend. And I learned not to discount the healing power of tender memories. So many memories.”
“I have so few.”
“Intensifies them, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“The fewer the memories, the richer, sometimes. Like when you make that Swiss steak and cook it down until the gravy is so thick and flavorful. I used to do that with apple butter. The longer it cooked, the more the water evaporated, the lower the volume. But oh, it was sweet!”
Ivy rolled Anna onto her back, tucked her pillow under her neck like she preferred, and rubbed the lightly scented lotion on the translucent skin of Anna’s hands and thin arms. “I feel badly for you, that those you helped aren’t here for you now to tell you how much you meant to them, what you did for them.”
“I have you.” She smiled. All her own teeth. “And I have these.” She reached with her unlotioned hand and touched the locket at her neck.
These? One locket. No doubt a picture of her beloved Josiah. Anna had never offered to show it to her. Ivy had never asked.
“Would you open it, sweetness?”
Ivy wiped excess lotion from her hands. “Are you sure you want me to see it?”
“Them,” Anna corrected. “It’s time.”
She dug a fingernail under the clasp. With no small effort, the book-shaped locket opened. A tiny photograph looked out at her from the left pane. A man and woman on their wedding day. Anna in her youth. Josiah Grissom by her side. The look of love unmistakable.
Pressed into the hollow of the other part of the locket was a tiny key. When she touched it, the key dropped into her hand.
Anna nodded. “Take it. And get that wooden chest from my things we put in the hall closet, would you?”
On her way, Ivy peeked in at Joy. Sleeping like the angel she was, her rosebud lips moved as though she were thinking about her next meal. Ivy held an arm across her chest until the drawing sensation eased.
The box weighed little more than the wood it was made from. Ivy slid it from the shelf and carried it to Anna’s bed.
“The key. There,” she said, pointing to an adornment that swung to the side to reveal a small lock.
The lid opened, releasing the fragrance of cedar and earthiness. Lined up four across and dozens per vertical column, two-inch by three-inch yellow-brown envelopes filled the box. Each had a single name written in flowering script in the upper right-hand corner.
“Look,” Anna encouraged. “Take a look.”
Ivy fingered through the envelopes in the first column. Women’s names. Meg. Dania. Marie. Amelia. Reba. Lily . . .
“Your daughters.”
“Yes. Most of them.”
Ivy tugged one envelope from its position. “May I?”
“Yes, of course! Open it.”
The envelope she chose—Olivia, identical to the others—was sealed with a pair of cardboard disks, around which was woven a thin red thread. Inside the envelope, a waxed square held a half dozen
chestnut-brown seeds, each smaller than a faith-sized mustard seed.
“Morning glories?”
Anna beamed.
“They sent them to you after their own morning glories bloomed.”
“After they knew, in their heart of hearts, that they were loved and forgiven. After they’d seen the grace of God”—Anna caught her breath, or it caught her—“and found a way to show it to someone else.”
The waxed paper, smooth to the touch, warmed in her hand. Life in the seeds. Forgiveness. Freedom.
Anna reached for the back of the last column. “These few are unmarked. Empty.” She pulled one and handed it to Ivy.
“For me?”
“Ivy, they’re all for you, now. But this will be the one with your name on it.”
Joy stirred.
“Bring her in here. I can’t get enough of that child.”
Ivy left the box open on the bed beside Anna. There was plenty of room for both.
Freshly diapered and eager to eat, Joy grabbed handfuls of her mother’s blouse as the two settled into the chair in Anna’s room. Ivy drew her daughter to her breast, fully conscious of the double meaning of Joy pressed to her heart.
Ivy’s tennis shoes sank into the rain-softened lawn. The added weight of Joy on her hip, bundled against the still-chilled early spring air, guaranteed the shoes would need washing or polish when her deed was done. Hyacinths bloomed in a yard nearby, heavily perfuming the air. Intoxicating.
Moving late in the season and late in her pregnancy left no time to tend to the neglected flower beds. The tiny grape hyacinths and daffodils struggled for recognition among the tangle of last year’s deadfall and bleached weed growth. She’d find a way to borrow a buggy for Joy and fix the mess as soon as the weather warmed a little more.
When the two reached the side of the house by Anna’s window, Ivy tapped on the glass. Propped in her bed, Anna waved. Yes, she saw them.
Ivy tugged at the papery pods left on the spent morning glory vines. They crumbled in her hand, the chaff of the pod gone with a breath, leaving glorious dark seeds. Working one-handed, she slipped seeds into the pocket of her jacket, collecting more than enough. She looked up periodically, sharing the moment with Anna.
Content that they’d gathered enough to plant and enough for memories, Ivy hoisted Joy higher and waved the baby’s mittened hand at Anna.
No!
Anna’s face blanched. Eyes wide and looking past Ivy, she clutched her hands to her chest.
No! Oh, Anna, not now!
No fear painted Anna’s face. She smiled and pointed beyond Ivy, like a pool shark defining which billiard pocket he targeted.
Rooted to the spot outside the window, Ivy froze.
Anna clapped her disfigured hands.
“Ivy?”
Joy’s bonneted head turned at the sound. Ivy followed.
Limping, but alive, he approached as fast as his limp allowed.
“Drew!”
31
Becky—2013
Mom?”
“In here.” Becky climbed out of the cardboard box in which she was digging for a roll of paper towels or her oven mitts. Both items were missing.
“Hey, is your air conditioning working on this side?” Lauren walked into Becky’s box-strewn kitchen hunched over, holding Jackson’s hands as his pudgy sandaled feet slapped the vinyl tile in a pseudowalk. “Whew! Guess I have my answer. No.”
“Dad suggested we not crank it up until the guys are done coming in and out with furniture.”
“That explains your side. What about mine? We’re roasting over there.”
Becky stood and stretched her back. “Check”—she scanned the room—“that big green tote. I think there’s a tabletop fan in there.”
“Can I have it?”
“Borrow it? Sure. Just put it up high enough that—”
Lauren and Jackson penguin-walked toward the tote. “I know. I know. He’s into everything.”
“And make sure the cord is—”
“Tucked out of the way. I know, Mom.”
It was the heat making people cranky. Living side by side was going to work out swell, just . . . swell.
Lauren dug out the fan and an extension cord. “I made chocolate chip cookies for your movers. Want one?”
“You did? Yes. Absolutely. Thanks.”
“Just being neighborly. I’ll bring them over when I get Jackson down for his nap. And before you say anything, I already checked. Yes, the baby monitor works all the way over here.”
Her daughter’s laughter had always been infectious—in a good way. Becky didn’t realize how much she’d missed that element of their relationship.
“So, Dad starts work Monday, huh?”
“Yup.” Becky resumed pawing through the box marked “Odds and Ends.”
“Kinda stinks that he won’t have as much time to spend on the remodeling.”
She surveyed the unfinished drywall repairs, the still cockeyed cupboard door, the capped wires where a ceiling light should be. “Kinda stinks. But I’m not complaining. Work is work.”
Lauren snatched an unidentified object out of her son’s hands on its way to his mouth. “I hope he likes the job.”
“Me, too. He’d grown so fond of that recliner.” Their laughter harmonized this time.
Lauren hiked Jackson onto her left hip. “Well, I’d stay and help, but this is a hazmat zone at the moment. Not exactly child friendly.” She peeled another something out of Jackson’s grip.
“Understood. I need to focus on making the best use of space here and figure out what will have to go to storage.”
Lauren stood at the edge of leaving an extra moment. “I’ll get the fan when I bring the cookies.”
“Okay, hon.”
“And Mom?”
Becky hoisted two oven mitts from the dark recesses of the box. Victorious!
“Thanks.”
“For . . . ?”
“A chance. A place to live. Options. Hope. Pretty much everything.”
The smudge Becky made when she swiped at her eyes must have been more than Lauren could stand. She licked her thumb and said, “You got a little something right . . . there,” and wiped it away. Just like a real mom.
Eww.
But endearing.
Two men and a bed frame slid past them on their way to the bedroom.
“Okay, we’re leaving.” Lauren coached Jackson to wave bye-bye to his grandma. “Hey, I met one of the neighbors this morning.”
“You did? That’s great. Once I get settled in, I’ll have to get out and do that.” Pancake flipper. Nutmeg rasp. Lemon zester, which come to think of it looks a lot like a nutmeg rasp.
“Nice enough lady. Ivy Lambert. She looked like a hundred but said she was only eighty-five.”
“Only.”
“So, that makes her kids, like, sixty-five and her grandkids forty-five. Can you imagine?”
Paper towels! Another victory. Ooo, and the can opener. “How many children does she have?”
“She lives with one of her daughters in that little house across the street. But get this. When I asked her how many kids she had, she looked all proud and said, ‘Four sons and sixty-nine daughters.’ I don’t think she’s all there, if you know what I mean. But she was real nice. Overdosing on stories. But Jackson took to her right away. She gave me this.” Lauren pulled something from the pocket of her shorts.
A small brown envelope tied with a red thread.
“Seeds from her garden. Mom, the whole side of her house is covered in morning glories.”
Discussion Questions
1. Anna, Ivy, Becky, Lauren, Monica, Brianne. With which character did you most closely identify? Was it her personality, her circumstances, or her faith issues that resonated with you? In what way?
2. Morning glories play an obvious symbolic role in the book. At what point in the story did you make the connection to their meaning for the main characters? Did that meaning differ for any of them?
3. Even in light of forgiveness and grace, consequences often linger. How has that shown itself true in your life or the life of someone close to you?
4. In what ways were community reactions similar in each of the eras—the 1890s, the 1950s, and today? How were they different?
5. At first glance, Ornell may have seemed a cold, heartless father. By the end of the book, when you know more of his story, how would you characterize his initial emotional distance? Did your attitude toward that character change? How?
6. How far back would Ivy need to trace to find the root of her insecurities? The story doesn’t show everything. Share a scene from your own imagination that isn’t expressed in the book, but one that would have shaped the woman she was in 1951. What, if anything, in your own history led you to imagine that scene?
7. Smells were dramatic emotional triggers for Ivy. With which ones did you most closely identify and why? Why might the author have used a sense of smell to bring life to Ivy’s character?
8. Describe your reaction to Anna’s friend Puff. What was it that made him essential to the story? In what way was Puff’s presence a reflection of a larger truth?
9. Anna’s wisdom was hard-earned. How did her mother’s sacrifices set her up for her life’s work but also throw shadows across her path?
10. Who has played the role of “Anna” in your life?
11. Best friends Becky and Monica experienced a major breakdown in their relationship. Do you hold out hope for their restoration? Why or why not?
12. Gil and Becky worked hard to maintain their sense of humor in the face of family crises. Some would say it was their saving grace. Relate a time in your life when keeping your sense of humor in a difficult situation had that effect for you.
13. Becky struggled to know the difference between helping and enabling. If sitting across the table from her, what advice would you give her?
14. In what ways did the concept of “home” mean something very personal and unique in each era, for each character?
15. Which scene in this novel most clearly defines your impression of the book’s theme?
When the Morning Glory Blooms (9781426770777) Page 28
