A beautiful, blond-headed lady stood behind a chair, blow-drying Deirdre’s hair. She looked over her shoulder at us.
“That’s her,” Charlotte whispered. “That’s Grace.”
“No wonder Cal won’t give up,” I said. “He never told me how pretty she is.”
“Hi, there,” Grace said, loud enough to be heard over the dryer. “Be right with you.”
My sister and I sat in the waiting area. Charlotte picked up a magazine from the table and flipped through the pages.
Deirdre’s husky voice caught my attention after the lulling hum of the blow-dryer turned off.
“Everybody treating you pretty good so far?” She followed Grace’s reflection in the mirror. “Nobody’s giving you a hassle, I hope.”
“I guess everybody’s been nice to me.” Grace pulled strands of hair flat against Deirdre’s cheeks, checking the length.
“Uh oh. I know what that means,” Deirdre said. “Who’s giving you grief? You tell your friend Deirdre. It won’t go anywhere outside our little chat.”
“Yeah right,” I whispered to Charlotte.
“You know, as much as I appreciate it, I’m good.” Grace grabbed a can of spray from the counter, spritzing Deirdre’s hair. “Anyway, when people are nasty to somebody, it’s usually because they’ve got some heavy stuff happening. You know what I mean? I try to remember that.”
Deirdre fidgeted in her seat as Grace back-combed the crown of her hair.
“I mean, bad things aren’t an excuse to be mean, you know?” She unsnapped the black cloak from Deirdre’s neck and patted her shoulder. “But it helps me have a little more compassion for them, when I think of things that way.”
“Well, and this town is full of people with issues.” Deirdre worked her way out of the chair. “But I’ll tell you, if you run into somebody you can’t handle, you just come on next door and tell me about it.”
“That’s nice of you, Deirdre. But I don’t want to bug you with my problems.” Grace rubbed the side of Deirdre’s arm. “I’ll tell you what, though, if I’ve got something really nice to say about someone, I’ll make sure you know.”
“Cal needs to marry her,” Char said from behind her magazine. “Grace, I mean. Not Deirdre.”
I couldn’t help but smile at my sister. Grace and I hadn’t even spoken, and I already liked her. No wonder Cal couldn’t get her out of his mind.
“You stop on over to the bakery any time.” Deirdre handed Grace money.
“I’d like that. I will tell you that working next door to your bakery has been really nice.” Grace held Deirdre’s hand for a second. “You’ve made me feel so welcome. Thank you.”
“Sure thing, Grace.” Deirdre turned and saw Charlotte. She stopped, looking at her for a moment before talking. “Enjoying your day off?”
“Hi, Deirdre.” Char lowered the magazine. “Your hair looks pretty.”
Deirdre touched the side of her neck and batted her eyes. “Thanks,” she said. Then, noticing me, she straightened her shoulders. “Evelyn.”
“Hi,” I said.
One of Deirdre’s eyes squinted as she looked at me. I’d never looked into her face all that long before to notice that she had a scar over her left eye. I wondered how she’d gotten it. And how, being so wide and long, I’d never noticed it before. She turned her eyes from my face. I hoped she didn’t realize I was staring at the scar.
“You stop over next door later.” She adjusted her purse strap. “I owe you half a dozen doughnuts.”
She walked out of The Beauty Hut and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, gathering the keys from her purse, just before she stepped into the bakery.
“Okay,” Grace said, looking at Char and me. “Which of you ladies is first?”
“Go ahead, Ev,” Char said.
Grace led me to the chair, still warm from Deirdre’s behind.
“My name’s Grace.” She pulled the rubber band out of my ponytail, letting my hair loose. Working her fingers through it, she tossed it around gently.
“I’m Evelyn.”
“Nice to meet you.” She walked around the chair to face me, leaning back against the counter. “What are we doing today?”
“I’m not sure, really.” Looking at my reflection, I noticed how limp my dull brown hair hung next to my face. It had been so long since it had a little bounce or shape. No wonder I felt invisible most of the time. “I guess anything would be an improvement.”
“You’ve got a lot to work with. Your hair is really healthy.”
She squinted and let her head lean to one side. Reaching toward me, she moved a few strands of hair.
“What do you do? For a job?”
“I’m a funeral director.” I shrugged.
“That’s cool.” Her flip-flops slapped against the floor as she walked across the room. “So, I’m guessing we should stay away from the purple hair dye, right?”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
“Maybe something a little lighter for you. Amp up a few of those red tones you already have.”
“I have red tones?”
“Yeah.” She pulled a couple of bottles from the cupboard. “Then finish up with some layers. How do you feel about a bob? Maybe give you a little swing to really frame that gorgeous smile of yours.”
I couldn’t remember anyone other than my mom or Gran saying such nice things to me. I found myself at a loss for words.
“So, how’d you become a funeral director?” she asked, mixing the dye in a small dish. “Like, what drew you to that job?”
“Well, it’s a family business.”
“Wait, so, does that mean you’re related to Cal?” She looked up from the dish and stopped stirring. A little pink rose in her cheeks when she said his name.
“Yeah. He’s my brother.”
“He’s a nice guy.” She walked back toward me and draped a fresh cape over me. “Now that I think of it, you look a little like him.”
“I don’t know what to think about that,” I said, smiling.
“It’s a compliment for sure.” She nodded toward the waiting area. “So, Char’s your sister, then, right?”
“She is.”
“And I met your grandma the other day, too. She’s so sweet and cute.”
“I know.” I pushed myself up a little taller in the chair. “You need to see her with my grandpa to get the full effect of cuteness.”
“I’d like that.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “You’re one blessed girl to have all this family around you. I can’t even imagine how nice that is.”
“It definitely has its moments.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t perfect.” She used a brush, spreading the dye on my hair. “But you have to know how fortunate you are.”
She moved her gloved fingers through my hair, working the dye into the strands. The whole time I sat in that chair she asked me about my life. Not about the funeral business. I couldn’t remember a conversation I’d had that didn’t steer in that direction.
It felt as if a divider between me and the rest of the world crumbled a little.
Chapter Fourteen
Olga
My Gretchie ran away from me into the garden. Her tiny body bobbing up and down among the flowers, pulling the chamomile with her in those chubby fists of hers, tearing it from the ground. The field moved in dream waves, all over creation. I couldn’t see her half of the time. But when I did, it was only red curls peeping out amongst the pale blooms.
She’d got herself too far from me. I didn’t like not being able to reach her. I tried to grab her. My arms wouldn’t extend enough. Every moment, she got farther and smaller. She’d started to shrink. Teeny and tiny and itty bitty. But the red hair grew and grew, taking over her. Almost as if it liked to swallow her up.
Turning to me, her wee little face swapped its bright smile for lips in a quivering frown. Shrill and blood chilling, her scream made my heart drop. Her voice sounded like the woman after closing the casket
on her baby. But, in my dream, I had no music to cover the sound. Nothing to do but to keep hearing her scream.
And what she screamed was my name.
“Mama!”
“You’re too far, honey,” I whimpered, my voice holding on tight to the insides of me, not letting itself loose. “Come back this way, Gretchie. You hear me?”
The flowers had wilted, blackened into weeds and thorns. The ground dried up and cracked. Shards of jagged rock grew up from the dead soil.
Then the ground shook, shifting the dirt, carrying her farther and farther off. Her head sunk under the level of dirt every now and again. Emerging from the flood of soil, covered with rock and dirt and sand, she’d reach for me.
“Mama.” Her tiny cry barely made any sound over the crashing ground.
My young woman’s feet lifted up off hard earth, running to rescue her. Weaving between tall, snapping weeds. Past an old tree as it fell in the midst of the shifting land. Dodging the crashing branches, I stumbled. My hands caught the weight of my fall. A thorn bush sliced my flesh. I fought against the barbs, getting tangled in its snaky stems. Crooked, veiny hands struggled to push my old body up. I looked at my fingers. The nails had turned thick and cracked. My young body had gotten old in the shortest of moments, and I couldn’t get myself up. Stuck as if in cement, I could hardly move. The more I struggled, the more I got sucked further into the thorns, watching Gretchen sink deeper and deeper until she disappeared. All that was left of her were those red curls bobbing among the weeds.
“Olga,” Clive called after me from somewhere. I couldn’t see him. My neck wouldn’t allow my head to turn. “Olga.”
Even in my dream, I knew that his voice should have shaken me into reality.
“I can’t go,” I tried to say, holding on to sleep. “I can’t leave her.”
But my mouth had got set in drying cement.
“Olga, honey.” His voice sounded closer. I thought for sure I smelled his aftershave.
“If I go, I’ll never get her back.” The cement cracked at the corners of my mouth.
Like an earthquake, my limbs shook. Just enough to break me loose. The cement sloughed off me like scales. Standing, I couldn’t see a hint of Gretchen. Even the curls had disappeared. The weeds had calmed and the flowers bloomed anew, right before my eyes. Chamomile in bunches all around me glowed from their yellow centers.
I wondered if she’d ever truly been mine at all, my Gretchen. I wondered if she’d existed or if I’d only dreamed her.
“Olga.” That time, I felt Clive’s warm hand as it touched my forehead, so gentle. “I need you to wake up.”
The dream world faded and, thank goodness, I switched back over to the real one. But my eyes had the hardest time opening up.
“You must have had the worst nightmare,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
Lifting my eyelids, I saw the light from the living room, streaming in through the bedroom door. Clive handed me my glasses.
“What time is it?” I pushed them onto my face.
“Half past three.”
“And you’re dressed?” I had to grab hold of Clive’s hand to get me up.
“We got a call.” Standing straight, he buttoned his starch-crisped white shirt. “It’s a bad one.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.” He turned, watching himself looping the tie around his neck in Aunt Gertie’s mirror. “Kids.”
“Jesus, have mercy,” I prayed out loud.
The muscles in my shoulders ached when I reached to turn on the lamp on my bedside table. Eyes flinched with the bright light.
“Randy didn’t know how many yet,” Clive said. “He’d just got to the crash site. Said I ought to come on down there.”
“Where was the accident?”
“Bunker’s farm. That curve in the road.” He pulled on his suit jacket. “Randy said Jay Bunker’s all shook up. I’m nervous about what I’m going to see this morning.”
“What can I do, honey?”
“Call the kids. Have Cal meet me down at the Bunker farm. I’ll need his calm nature down there. And Randy does, too. Have Evelyn come here and get things ready for us.” He turned back and looked at me and sighed. “It’s going to be a beast of a day.”
“I’ll do whatever will help, honey.” I pulled the soft sheet off my old, pale, purple-lined legs. “You need some coffee?”
“I’m okay. I need to get going.” He made sure to give me a good kiss before walking out the door. “Love you, Olga, dear. More than the sunshine.”
Cal and Evelyn got up and going just as soon as I got off the phone with them. Those kids didn’t wait a second longer than they had to. Clive had taught them well. It did my heart good to see them help without so much as a grumble.
The living room window overlooked the darkness of way-too-early in the morning. A pinpricking of bright stars poked through a sheet of black sky. I’d learned a whole lot during my seven decades of life. One of them was to never overlook a clear night. That, I understood, was part of God’s majesty. Another was how fragile life could be. How quick it ended sometimes. That it took so little for a life to snuff out completely.
The courage to take a meager step some days exhausted me. But bravery could bring glory to my Lord. I just had to believe it.
“Make Clive brave, Lord,” I prayed. “And spread a little courage on Cal and Evelyn, too. And, while You’re at it, I could use a little boost to push me through this day.”
The good Lord’s first boost got me moving right along. A couple hours later, the morning still dark, I’d got a cup of coffee in me, a pan of muffins cooling on baking racks, and my Bible open in front of me on the dinette.
I hadn’t moved that fast in twenty years. Maybe even longer.
“You didn’t mess around this morning, did You?” I said to Him in awe. “I sure am grateful. Now, if You’d make sure You’re doing that for Clive, too, please.”
I got all the way through my Bible reading for the day when the sun finally rose. But, before I could shut the Good Book, the phone rang.
“Eliot-Russell Family Funeral Home,” I said into the receiver. “How may I help you?”
“This is… Well, I’m calling because my daughters…” The woman on the other line stumbled over her words. “See, they were in an accident.”
“I’m so sorry.” I rubbed right under my jawline.
“They told me they’d bring the girls to you. The policeman did. I wanted to come… Later, I guess. My husband and I want to come and…” Her voice paused, but her crying hadn’t. “I don’t know what to do. Is it okay that I called?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“They didn’t make it.” Her breathing came through heavy from of the other end of the telephone. “I’m their mother.”
“I’m so sorry.” Pinching the skin of my forehead, I tried to silence the screaming that hung on since my dream. “You come on over whenever you’re ready. We’ll be here.”
“Both my daughters are gone. The police officer told me that you’d have them later,” she whispered. “They’re my only children. And they’re gone. And you’ll have them.”
Jesus, I thought in prayer. Have mercy.
“I’ll need to get it arranged. You know. The services.”
“Yes. We’re here to help you with that.”
“Later. I’ll come then.”
“When you’re ready.”
“I’ll never be ready.”
She hung up the phone—it clicked in my ear.
The pages of my Bible made a crisp sound as I flipped to the Psalms. I needed to read of anguish. And, if nothing else, the psalmists knew misery. They waited and watched all night long for a little bit of God’s mercy.
Oh, how I’d watched, too. Some nights longer than others.
Without even knowing it, I’d raised my arms up over my head. I’d never been the kind to do such a thing. I’d learned long ago that prayer happened when hands were folded and heads
bowed. But there I sat at my dinette, hands lifted in prayer.
“Lift us up,” I said, as quiet as could be, my shoulders aching. “This deep is too far down, Lord. That family is stuck in a low down pit. Help them. Do something to help them. Please.”
And, clear as a bell, I heard Him. I was just sure of it. Never before in all my life did I hear His voice like that. As if He sat right across the table from me.
“There is mercy with Me,” He said. “Hope in Me.”
Crying my eyes out, I allowed myself to feel held by His words. “Okay,” I said, uneasy about my choice of words, but having none other to say.
Arms lowering and resting on the dinette, I used my crooked fingers to wipe my cheeks dry. Just like that. It felt strange to get up and pour myself another cup of coffee after hearing the voice of God. But, as with all sacred things, they don’t put a stop to the act of living. They make the act of living possible.
“Gran?” Evelyn’s voice carried up the steps from the funeral home. “I’m on my way up.”
“Okay,” I answered. The same word I’d said to God. That seemed strange, too. “You been here long?”
“A little over an hour.” She made her way to the top of the steps and scanned her eyes around the apartment. “Is someone here?”
“Just me.” I grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “Let me get you some coffee, honey.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“Oh, yes. I was just having a few words with Jesus.”
“I see.” She gave me a thin-lipped, suspicious smile. That girl would have had me locked up in a padded room if I told her that Jesus had talked back to me.
I just gave her my best, sweet old lady grin and handed her the cup of coffee.
“I like how you got your hair done, Evelyn,” I said, touching it with my fingers. “It suits you.”
My Mother's Chamomile Page 10
