My Mother's Chamomile

by Susie Finkbeiner

  I got up, shaky from too much coffee and too little to eat for days on end. Aunt Gertie’s old mirror in the corner of my room showed the reflection of a woman too old to stand all the way straight. With hair so white and mussed up, it was a shame. A face covered over by wrinkles and dried-up tears. Red-rimmed eyes and heavy bags beneath.

  I took a throw blanket and covered over that darn mirror.

  Out in my dinette, I touched the cover of my Bible before I opened it. Back to the Israelites and the bitter water. Their dry cracked lips. Sweltering sun pelting them. Water turned sweet.

  Then the Lord God telling them to listen to Him. To do what is right. He called Himself their Healer.

  “Be my Healer,” I prayed. “I don’t know what that means, really. But be that for me. For us.”

  I put my hands on the smooth pages of the Bible and closed my eyes. Sitting so still, I wanted to hear His voice like before.

  “I will take your tears and put them in a jar. I collect all those bitter tears,” the voice said. “And I will make those bitter tears into sweet tears of joy.”

  It didn’t much matter to me when or how. Just the promise would be enough.

  I thought of all the sweet tears my Gretchen must have been shedding when she sat in that chamomile field in heaven, smelling the lilacs.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Evelyn

  Cal sat on the floor of the prep room, his back against the cabinet. The cover-all gown still on and paper shoe covers, too, he had his knees pulled up to his chest. His head rested in his shaking hands. I bumped the door with the toe of my shoe so he’d know I’d come in.

  “You did that on purpose.” He squinted at me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, closing the door behind me.

  “No.” He kicked off the shoe covers. “But I’m done.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “A little. Yeah.” Standing, he shed the paper-thin coverall and tossed it into the trash. “I think I need a little time.”

  “That’s okay, Cal.”

  “I didn’t get her dressed yet.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll do it after I get a little nap or something.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”

  He closed the door after stepping out, leaving me alone, our mom under a sheet. The chamomile that Charlotte had picked was in a vase on the counter. Cal had even put them in water.

  I got my mom into her green dress. As loose as it was, it still looked great on her. I hadn’t done her makeup yet. I’d need to get her into the casket first. Granddad had picked a cherry wood one for her. He’d ordered it months ago, holding it just for her.

  I picked her up, her head in the crook of one arm and the backs of her knees in my other. So light, it took little effort to lift her. Lowering her in the casket, still cradling her head, I smoothed the skirt over her thighs.

  She didn’t smell like herself. The cinnamon and vanilla from winter baking. Or soil and warm sun in the summer. I let her head rest on the small, silky pillow. Crossed her arms and slipped the diamond ring on her finger.

  Holding on to the edge of the casket, I felt light-headed. Dizzy. Knuckles turning white, I knew if I let go, I’d collapse. Sucking in air, the grief felt like insanity. I feared I’d never feel steady again. That smell, that sterile, too-clean smell of the prep room made my stomach turn.

  Without real words, I opened my heart, letting it cry out. I squatted down, hands still holding on to the cherry wood of the casket.

  Big, thick hands pulled me up and into a firm hug. I breathed in the rich aftershave smell of Granddad.

  “Evelyn,” he said. “I’m here. This hurts so bad. I know it. But I’m here.”

  His embrace didn’t take the pain away. But his arms felt like God’s arms, holding me together.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Olga

  I’d filled both my pockets with tissues, hoping they’d be enough to get me through the funeral. Clive held my hand as we led our family to the front of the chapel. He helped me get down into one of the chairs in the front row.

  The chairs in the chapel had gotten all full up. I thanked the good Lord for Old Buster, standing in the back, setting up more and more seats as neighbors and friends flooded through the doors.

  Will stood behind the podium, his fingers bent around it. Head bent, it seemed he was praying. After a moment, he cleared his throat and lifted his face.

  “I know Gretchen’s family is grateful that you all came here today. Your love is spoken with the clear voice of your presence in this room. But, I’m sure we can all agree, Gretchen was easy to love.” Will beamed. “She was a giving person. In the time I knew her, she didn’t hold back anything from anyone.”

  Lifting his hand, he pointed to our row. “This family needs you to be giving, now. To them. Some of you have been on the receiving end of their compassion. If you’ve had a friend or relative buried under the care of this family, then you have been loved. And now, they need your comfort. It’s their turn to be helped out. We need to be free with our love and time and gifts.”

  He shared more words and a few passages of Scripture. He did a fine job. Gretchen would have been pleased. Thinking of her delight in what he said made me miss her. It made me long for her.

  “Come, Lord Jesus,” I wanted to holler.

  “Gretchen wanted you all to have the chance to say a few words about her,” Will said, holding up a microphone. “So if you’d like, come on up.”

  Jay Bunker just about ran up the aisle and took the microphone after shaking Will’s hand. Letting his eyes rest on our row, he opened his quivering lips.

  “Some of you remember when the girls had their accident in front of our property. Well, my wife had a tough time after it.” He wiped a hanky over his mouth. “She got a touch of depression. The pills the doctors give her didn’t make it all the way better.”

  He shifted on his feet and swapped the microphone to his other hand.

  “Gretchen’d stop over every now and again. Before she couldn’t get out no more. She’d sit across the kitchen table from my wife and let her talk. She’d bring over a thermos full of tea that helped my wife sleep easier.” He opened his mouth a couple times, trying to get the words out. “I never been a man of prayer. Not much, really. But I prayed that the Lord would find some comfort for my wife. And that’s what Gretchen done. She done that very thing for my wife. I want to thank you all for sharing her with us.”

  His lips shook, pulled down in a frown. “And if you folks find that you need anything, we’ll help you out.”

  Deirdre took the microphone from Jay.

  “After my bakery got gutted by that fire about twenty years ago, Gretchen’d bring over a bag of groceries every week. And a check once a month to help me pay the rent.” She laughed, tears wetting her cheeks. “She made me realize that I wasn’t alone.”

  Voice after voice traveled from microphone to the speakers and into our hearts.

  “After my brother died when we were kids, she’d come baby-sit me so my parents could go to their counseling sessions.”

  “When I had open heart surgery, she’d come over to the house and read to me.”

  “She taught me how to garden.”

  A line had formed all the way down the center aisle. Beautiful people with loving words about the way my daughter had touched their lives.

  “I’m going to miss our talks over cups of tea.”

  “Every single birthday, she’s send me a card. Birthdays just won’t be the same now.”

  “After the twins were born, Gretchen came over every once in a while to clean my house.”

  On and on. Too much, really. I almost burst from the mercy their words poured over us. Not sprinkles or dribbles. But gushes of spilled-out comfort.

  I thanked my loving Father for the drenching.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Evelyn

  Mom had been gone for a full month. And that winter had been heavy. Drab, gray sky hovered ove
r top of us. It seemed that we wouldn’t see the sun again. The raw place in my heart just knew it to be true.

  Walking into my mom’s house, I realized I needed to find another name for it. Calling it Don’s house seemed wrong, though.

  Charlotte had called, asking me to come over. Something, she said, was wrong with Don.

  She met me at the door, pulling me into the kitchen. “He hasn’t left his room in a week,” she said.

  “Char,” I said. “He’s mourning.”

  “I’m worried about him, Ev.” She crossed her arms. “But he won’t listen to me.”

  “He’s not going to listen to me,” I said.

  “Just try, okay?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Ev.”

  I took the steps as slowly as I could. I half expected to hear my mom’s voice, humming from the kitchen. That month, my brain tricked me a few times, letting me forget what was missing for a split second before thrashing me with the memory. Losing her all over again.

  The bedroom door stood ajar. I knocked, pushing it open. Don sat on the bed, looking at his fingers. Laundry baskets had been set out, empty, all around his feet.

  “Hey,” I said. “You mind if I come in for a second?”

  Startled, he jumped a little before lifting his head. “Hi,” he said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m having a rough day.” He twisted something between his finger and thumb. “I thought I was okay when I got up. I was going to sort through some of her clothes.”

  “You know there’s no hurry.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes focused on the basket closest to him. “But I thought I was okay.”

  “What happened?” I sat on the floor, facing him.

  “I found a little hair on her yellow sweater.” He held it up so I could see it. “It’s hers.”

  He went back to twisting the tiny red hair.

  “Do you remember the last time she wore that sweater?” he asked. “Because I can’t. I don’t remember her wearing any of the clothes in that closet.”

  “That happens sometimes,” I said. “Grief can block our memories.”

  “Nope. That’s not the problem.” He scowled. “The problem is me. It’s me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t remember because I didn’t pay attention.” He huffed.

  “She never expected you to remember what she wore.”

  “But I could have been a better husband. More attentive.” He calmed his voice. “I should have tried harder with you kids, too.”

  “It’s not too late, Don.”

  “She’s gone, though. And I’m afraid I’m just out of place. I don’t want to lose this family, too.” He slapped his forehead with an open hand. “I don’t want to lose you kids.”

  “She loved you, Don,” I said.

  “I know. More than I ever deserved.”

  “You’re part of this family.” I pushed myself up on my knees and wrapped my arms around his neck. “We love you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Olga

  I wrapped up that old mirror, the one from my aunt Gertie, and had the folks at the Salvation Army tote it away. That and a few other things the kids didn’t want. The rest, I either divvied up between the grandkids or had the movers load up on their truck.

  Bare walls glared down on me. When I spoke, my voice echoed around the emptiness. Fifty-three years of filling up that apartment and all it took was two afternoons to clear it all out. Seemed strange to me. But spring had come. And it was as good a time as any for a change.

  Clive and I had gotten a room at the retirement home. Right down the hall from Rosetta. With a dishwasher and everything. A galley kitchen would have to make due for my cooking. All my baking would be right alongside Charlotte, though, in Gretchen’s kitchen. She’d got her hands on my cookbook. Just the way I’d hoped.

  The change sure made me nervous. But I figured, between Clive and me, we’d be able to scrounge up some good times.

  Besides, we had tickets for an airplane ride that left in just a month. The Hawaiian flowers and white beaches called our names.

  I’d sent Clive out to our old Buick to wait on me. One more walkthrough. That was all I wanted. Once Evelyn moved in, she’d want to paint and probably get some new carpet. It wouldn’t look like my home anymore. It would turn into Will and Evelyn’s. That was all right by me.

  First, my old bedroom, where I’d spent quiet, personal moments with my love. I touched the place on the wall where I’d leaned, about to faint, before telling Clive that we were having a baby. How he’d laughed himself silly that day. Just crying and laughing with the biggest grin I’d ever seen. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off my tummy. All nine months, he’d rub it and sing to it. Kiss it. All because he wanted the baby to know him. And did she ever. He got her first giggle.

  The living room where we’d put out our old, aluminum Christmas tree, boxes overflowing underneath. Gretchen’s thrill every year when she’d get up and see the wrapping paper and ribbons. Pure delight.

  My kitchen, where she’d learned to cook. How many pancakes had burned up on that stovetop, I’d never be able to recall. But every one was worth the screeching smoke detector.

  I stepped into her bedroom last, leaning against the wall, letting the tears come. Her crib had been in the far corner. I’d gazed in at her after she’d first been born. In awe that she was mine. So thankful. Just blessed.

  I remembered our talks in that room. About heartbreaks and happy days. The arguments with me, standing on the other side of the closed door. Hugs of forgiveness needed from each of us, shared just over the threshold. The first night her room stood empty after she’d gone off to college. Oh, the Lord had held me together in that lonesome darkness. The joy-filled day when we’d set that crib up again to hold the napping grandbabies she’d given me.

  Bitter water had come and gone. Over and again. But I’d never had a day, not since God gave me Gretchen, when I lacked a good draught of mercy.

  I realized that, all along, I’d had the sweet water.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Evelyn

  I married Will on the second Saturday of July in the middle of a heat wave. Neither of us seemed to even notice until Cal passed out during the vows. Thank goodness Grace was there to help him back up.

  We’d started our life together as preacher and funeral director. The strangest marriage ever to hit Middle Main, Michigan. Deirdre had said it, so it must have been true.

  We made our home, Will and I, in the apartment above the funeral home. Only temporarily, of course. At least, that was what we had in the plans.

  Cal and I had a lot ahead of us, running the Big House without Granddad. But he never minded us calling with questions. I think he missed the work. But not the black suits. Gran had made him give them all away. Otherwise, he might have shown up to help with the services. She knew he never would have come out of uniform.

  After working a shift at the bakery, Charlotte spent her time up to her elbows in the garden, worrying over the flowers. When she wore our mom’s old stray hat, it made me smile. My mom would have been pleased to see my sister out there, pulling on weeds and talking to the tea roses.

  One evening, I caught a glimpse of her. The sun inched down the sky, covering Charlotte in golden warmth.

  “I miss my mom,” I said, my fingers on the window sill. “Char looks just like her sometimes.”

  “Why don’t you go down there,” Will said from the desk where he worked, writing a sermon. “She’d probably like the company.”

  “I don’t know.” I scratched my neck. “I kind of think she prefers the quiet.”

  “Then just take her a can of pop. It’s really hot out there.”

  I grabbed a couple of cans and took off down the back stairs, my bare feet slapping against the wood steps. When I opened the door, the heat pulled all the cool air conditioning out of me
.

  “Hey,” Char called to me. “I was just about to come up for a glass of water.”

  “I hope you don’t mind pop instead.”

  When she smiled, I saw our mom in her face. “Sounds good.”

  Under Charlotte’s care, the garden thrived. The purples and pinks and reds brightened up the brittle grass around it. We might have lacked rain that month, but my sister had been able to keep the garden alive.

  “You’re doing a great job, Char.” I handed her a can and popped the top of mine.

  “I was worried about the chamomile.” She took a long drink. “It got a little brown for a while. But it’s coming up pretty nicely now.”

  Sitting down next to her, I touched one of the white and yellow flowers.

  “It’s a good thing she had all those starter plants in the basement,” she continued. “As soon as I got them in the soil, I knew they’d be okay.”

  “She was thinking ahead, wasn’t she?” A breeze zipped through the garden, making the little chamomile dance, bumping up against one another.

  I closed my eyes, feeling the wind against my skin. It carried a warm smell of garden and soil, grass and a bit of sweet apple. I touched the yellow heads again, the white petal crowns.

  Comforted by the mercy of my mother’s chamomile.

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was conceived while I sat, holding the hand of a dying woman. I thought, Don’t forget this. Remember all of it. It grew as I met the funeral directors who did far more to comfort us, the family, than I could have expected. The story was born through more emotional pain than I imagined. Pain that ended up healing me in the end.

  Along the way, I’ve had the honor of learning from two men who minister, not only to the deceased, but also to those who mourn. Thanks to John Gores of Beeler-Gores Funeral Home. Not only did John give me the grand tour of the building, he also shared stories from decades of funeral work. And abundant gratitude to Caleb Wilde of the Wilde Funeral Home. Caleb is from a long line of funeral directors. I am grateful for his sensitivity, intellect, and honesty. Caleb understands the language of grief and is generous with his comfort. He pours out that mercy regularly on his blog, Confessions of a Funeral Director.