My Mother's Chamomile

by Susie Finkbeiner

  “We won’t, Mom,” I said.

  “I want to wear the green dress that’s in my closet,” she continued, her breath shallow. “It’s got a nice black belt attached.”

  “I know which one you mean,” Char said.

  “All the rest of my clothes, well, you can go through and donate whatever somebody doesn’t want.” She turned to Don. “I don’t want you to do that right away, babe. Take your time. Okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t bury any jewelry on me.” She sucked in air, trying to keep herself going. “It doesn’t matter what casket you use. Whatever’s left over in the showroom.” Her bony fingers rubbed across the loose skin of her chest. “Can somebody put this bed flat for me? I’m having a hard time breathing.”

  Don leaned across her, pushing the buttons. The bed grumbled as it flattened. Kathi got up and strung the oxygen tubes across my mom’s face, letting the air push through her nostrils.

  “Better?” Kathi asked.

  “Much. Thank you.”

  The flush on my mom’s face deepened to a darker red as she continued talking. I didn’t have to touch her skin to know that her fever had spiked again.

  The movement of the front door opening and closing caught my eye. Will pushed off his shoes and winked at me. I hardly had the patience to wait for him to sit next to me. With him, I felt like I could almost make it through the rest of the funeral planning.

  “Just in time, Will,” my mom said, trying to make her voice sound perky. She folder her fingers over his when he touched her shoulder. “We were just about to talk about the service.”

  He got to me and grabbed my hand. I was sure he felt my shaking. He let go and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “No long sermons, Will. Just a few words, if that’s okay with you. Something comforting.”

  “Do you want people to share stories?” Will asked.

  “Only flattering ones.” She laughed and grabbed her stomach. “Oh, laughing hurts.”

  “Do you need more morphine?” Gran asked, looking at Kathi.

  “Not yet, Mom. I want to get done with this first.” When she cleared her throat, she winced. “I want you to figure out who’s going to embalm me.”

  “I can’t do it.” Granddad rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m sorry, baby girl. You know I would do anything for you. But that’s just too much for me.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” she said. “Don’t be upset about that, okay? It’s all right.”

  “Should we call in someone else to do it?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t want that.” Cal sat back and shook his head.

  “We could have them use our prep room, Cal.”

  “I want to keep this in our family.” Cal looked at our mom. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do it, Mom.”

  “Cal,” I said. “That’s a really hard thing.”

  “I know. But it would be harder for me to have somebody else doing it.” Cal bit at his lip.

  “It’s okay with me.” She didn’t take her eyes off Cal. “I just don’t want it to be painful for you, son.”

  “I can’t have somebody else do it,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  She coughed, wheezing. “I’m okay.” Touching her lips, she took in the slow moving air. “Thank you, Cal.”

  “It’s what I can do.”

  “I’ll do your makeup,” I said.

  “Thank you. You always do a nice job.” She let her eyes close. “I think I’m ready for that morphine now.”

  Kathi moved toward the bed, her footsteps barely making any sound.

  Every few hours, my mom would wake. Her eyes only half opened and her breathing was slow. But we counted that as awake. Even if what she said made little sense.

  I sat on the edge of her bed late at night, trying to remember what day it was. Or how long ago Christmas was. I couldn’t even remember if we’d celebrated the New Year yet. Sitting in that living room, watching my mom decline had me all upside-down.

  Her eyes started their fluttering of waking. I touched a cold washcloth to her forehead. A heat wave raged, trapped inside her.

  “That feels nice.” She reached up and wiped a drip that ran down her face.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Gran made some vanilla pudding.”

  Gritting her teeth, she flinched. I took her hand, but she didn’t squeeze or tense her fingers. Her hand just fell, limp, on my knee. The exhale of air from her lungs sounded different. Thicker.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No, honey.” She closed her eyes and licked her lips. “I wanted to tell you that I like Will. I want you to know that, okay?”

  “He’s good to me.”

  “Upstairs, in my sock drawer is my diamond ring,” she said. “The one your father gave me.”

  “Why did you keep it?” I moved closer to her face. I could hardly hear her.

  “You take that ring and sell it. Try and get as much as you can. I’ve been saving it for you. Use that money for your wedding, all right?”

  Bubbles of emotion rushed into my throat. I pinched them off with sealed lips. My jaw hurt from the clenching. As hard as I tried, my strength failed. Gagging sobs jerked out of me. Whimpering, she tried to pull herself up to me. She reached the button on her bed, lifting her head. Her hands on my shoulders, she tugged at me, pulling me down next to her. In the bend of her elbow, she held my head. With the other, she stroked my hair.

  “I’m sorry I won’t be there when you get married,” she said. “I always imagined I’d be there.”

  “Who am I going to share everything with?” I sobbed. “I wanted to do all of it with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  I sat up—the fever radiating from her made me light-headed. Staying close to her face, though, I realized that she was as beautiful as ever. Even with the sunken cheeks and the hair made dull with sickness and bed rest and too few washings. Her eyes, not as bright as usual, still green and smiling, even as she cried.

  “Your wedding day will be beautiful.” She pointed to the button, holding her breath. “Honey, put me flat, please.”

  The bed lowered under her. “Do you need more medicine?”

  Flat on her back, she held the palm of her hand against her bloated belly. So much rounder than earlier that day. The washcloth had long since fallen from her forehead. Messy hair around her face soaked with water or sweat or tears. Maybe even a little of each.

  “I’m going to call Kathi,” I said. “You’re even hotter than before, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m really worried.”

  “No. This is good.” She smiled. “I hate to leave you all. But I’ve had enough. I’m ready. This is how I can drift away.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Olga

  Cal brought the coffee around, refilling my cup. Oh, his eyes looked tired. So swollen and red. I didn’t know if it was more from exhaustion or crying. But he gave me a cockeyed grin anyway.

  “I love you, Gran.”

  “You look tired, Cal.”

  “Always.” He smiled. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No, honey. I’m fine.”

  He took the coffeepot to the kitchen. When he came back into the living room, he stopped at the hospital bed to check on his mama. He used such a gentle hand to touch her face.

  “Where’s Kathi?” he asked.

  “What is it?” I rushed out of my seat and toward Gretchen.

  She lay in the bed, hands resting at her sides. But she sucked in air, working so hard to draw it in. And that sound her breathing made, I’d never be able to forget it.

  “Did someone call me?” Kathi asked, coming into the room.

  “Her breathing is different,” Cal said, stepping back, making room for Kathi.

  I put my arm around Cal’s waist. He pulled me close to him.

  Donald sat up straight on the couch, his eyes wide.

 
; Kathi bent over Gretchen’s face, getting good and close. She checked Gretchen’s hands and feet. She untucked part of the blanket and looked under.

  “Mottling?” Cal asked.

  Kathi nodded. “We need to get everyone up.”

  “Is she okay?” Donald asked.

  Kathi turned her head toward him, her eyebrows curved up toward the middle of her forehead. “No, she isn’t.”

  “What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “Right now, I’m going to get her some medicine so she’s not in pain.” Kathi went to her tote bag.

  “What happens if she stops breathing?” Cal asked. Bless his heart, he held me so tight.

  “We let her.”

  Donald stumbled up and off the couch. When he got close to Gretchen, he touched her hair. “I love you.”

  Gretchen opened her eyes, just a tiny bit.

  “Hi, there,” I said, just the way I did when she woke in the mornings as a wee child.

  But she closed her eyes back up, real tight.

  All together, my family stood in the living room, watching Gretchen die. The sound of her breathing made my heart stop beating.

  “This is a good time to talk to her. She can still hear us,” Kathi said.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off my girl. It should have been me, dying on that bed. Not her.

  “How about you each take a few minutes to say good-bye to her.” Kathi’s smiling eyes filled with tears. “Let her know that it’s okay for her to go. That can really free her from this struggle she’s in right now.”

  Clive held me, and I closed my eyes. I remembered when Gretchen had sucked in her first breath. Her little body had tensed so and she screamed out. I was sure the whole hospital had heard her. And she, all red of face and body. But when the nurse put her into my arms, she just relaxed, still singing in her shrill song, letting the world know she’d arrived. Joy never did have meaning before I heard her little voice and felt her warmth against my chest.

  There, on her deathbed, she sucked in air. Body all tensed up. Clive kissed the top of my head, a sob slipping out of me.

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered.

  Donald sat right beside Gretchen, holding her hand. “Babe, we’re all here. And we wanted to tell you that we love you. You’ve done so much for us. We’ll never forget you.”

  He kissed her on the lips, then kept his face close to hers. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he whispered. “I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. But then, when I got to know you, you got more and more gorgeous. I wish I would have found you sooner.”

  Moving back to the couch, he covered over his eyes with his big old hands. Charlotte, the sweet soul, sat beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Cal took Gretchen’s hand, holding it over his own heart. “I love you.” Leaning down, he whispered in her ear before kissing her cheek.

  Gretchen groaned, gasping and fighting for more air. More life. Just a few more minutes of it.

  Evelyn rested on the edge of the bed. She smoothed the stubbly hair on her mama’s head. Struggling to get words out, she’d start, then stop again. The mumbling words staggered from her mouth. A lot of them. But I didn’t try to hear them. They were for her mama and nobody else.

  Clive took his turn. “Baby girl, you brought nothing but love into this world. I hope you know that our love goes with you.” His voice cracked. “We’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Real soon.”

  Next, Charlotte took her seat on the side of the bed. Her petite hands touched her mother’s face.

  “It’s all right, Mom.” She kissed Gretchen’s forehead. “We’re going to be okay. You can go. It’s hard for us to see you like this. We want you to find some peace with Jesus. You’ve done a good job raising us. We know how to love each other because of you.” She kissed her again. “Thank you for being my mom.”

  I stepped to the bed, touching my stomach. I remembered the weight of carrying her. Would remember the rest of my days. There, my baby lay, stiff as the moment she came into the world. Inches away from going out of it. I sat down, letting my behind fit right into the curve of her waist.

  I saw in her face the screaming, red-faced babe. The carrot headed little girl, bobbing up and down through the garden. Remembered how she bit her lip when she sat, coloring at the dinette. Her smile when she told me she’d be giving me my first grandchild. My girl, kneeling in the soil, hovering over a row of chamomile, pushing down the dirt with her hands.

  Her body stiffened again, and she sighed out the pain. I prayed to the Almighty to give me a little of His strength.

  I pulled her into my arms, cradling her. Her body went limp. Relaxed.

  “I love you, Gretchie. Thank you for coming to us,” I spoke real soft. “You go on now. Everything’s going to be okay here. We’ll miss you like crazy. But it’s just going to be a twinkle of an eye and we’ll see you again.”

  Her eyelids lifted, just one last time. She closed her mouth, letting it rise into a smile of peace.

  Then she left.

  I held her tighter. Kissed her face.

  Just like on her first day. So it was on her last one.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Evelyn

  Gran sat holding my mom for a long time. At least it felt like a long time. Long enough for the numb to set in. For me to feel slow and like my feet had sunk into the floor.

  Char and I met eyes, both of us expressionless. As if we had just woken up.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Tears stung my eyes, and I looked away from my sister and back toward Gran.

  Don helped her lay my mom back on the bed. She stood, Gran did, and pulled the sheet up around Mom’s shoulders, covering her hands but not her face.

  That was when Charlotte started to cry. Deep, loud, wailing cries. I thought she’d fall to the floor, she shook so hard. Cal pulled her to the couch and held her.

  The grief hit me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I couldn’t risk letting myself mourn. If I started, I’d never be able to stop.

  The screen door opened without a sound and closed just as quietly behind me. It had snowed at some point. An inch or two of white powder covered everything. A mug on the railing had overflowed with snow. I blew into it, making the flakes flurry up around my face.

  Half full of frozen tea. My mom’s mug from Christmas day.

  Holding it, I sat on the porch swing. Right on top of a layer of snow. I hadn’t put on a coat or sweater. The thin sleeves of my shirt let the cold seep into my skin. Shivering, I held myself, unable to go inside. Too weak to be in the middle of the mourning.

  The sun shimmered on the snow as it rose from the back side of the house. Fat flakes fell and stopped and fell again. Time sped, then slowed. It passed and I had no idea how long I had sat on that swing, my body numb.

  Cal walked out, standing next to me on the porch. “Do you want a coat?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer, so he took off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders before walking down the steps and toward the Big House. His shoes made prints in the snow on the sidewalk.

  Will’s car pulled into the driveway.

  “Ev?” he called when he got out of his car.

  I didn’t move but waited for him to come to me. When he did, he stopped and looked down at me.

  “Cal just called,” he said.

  The swing moved me back and forth when he sat next to me.

  I let him hold me while the sadness spilled over and out of me.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Olga

  Cal pulled the gurney into the living room. How many bodies had that thing born? But not a one so precious to any of us as the one it came to remove. Cal pushed it, right up next to the hospital bed.

  “I don’t have to do this right now,” he said. “We can wait a bit.”

  “No,” Donald said. “We should get her over there. I think it’s best.”

  Clive took his place next to Cal and, witho
ut having to say a word, the two of them got her wrapped all over in a sheet and lifted onto the gurney. Such quick and tender movement. The two of them walked, wheeling her to the door.

  “Donald,” Clive said. “Do you want to carry her down?”

  “I can’t,” Donald said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I can’t.”

  He walked down the porch steps behind Clive and Cal. I followed his steps, my hand gripping the railing, afraid of the slick snow underfoot. Will came alongside me, offering his arm. Evelyn held his hand on the other side.

  I watched Clive bear the daughter he carried for all her years. Cal, the mother who bore him from his beginning.

  Donald got himself up next to her, putting his hand where I imagined hers to be.

  Once I got my feet steady on the sidewalk, leaning on Will’s arm, I heard quick footfalls from behind me. Charlotte just about knocked us over, running past.

  “Granddad,” she called. “Wait.”

  He turned his face over his shoulder and stopped for her. We all gathered around the gurney, as a family. Charlotte, working to catch her breath, a hand full of chamomile blooms, touched the sheet over her mama’s body. I held on tighter to Will’s arm, the tears splattering down on my shirt. They chilled in that cold air.

  “Mom has a bunch of plants under the light in the basement,” Charlotte said.

  Cal pulled up the edge of the sheet, showing Gretchen’s hand crossed over her chest. Charlotte gasped for breath in between sniffling cries as she slipped the long, green stems under Gretchen’s hands. The yellow shone so pretty.

  The sun glittered on the snow. Little crystals all across the yard and the garden. All untouched and shimmery. God had decorated for my girl.

  I just hoped He had all His tear bottles ready. We were bound to overflow every one of them.

  My bed had never felt so hard before. The pillow under my head so flat. And just knowing that below me, downstairs, my daughter lay alone on a flat, hard table… The room would be cold and dark. I just knew it.

  Clive’s eyes had shut as soon as he put head to bed. Being upset had never stole sleep from him. For once, I didn’t hold that against him. Instead, I thanked God.