My Mother's Chamomile

by Finkbeiner, Susie;

  “I could just stay. You’ll need me.”

  “Later, Ev.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want my kids taking care of me yet.”

  My phone beeped with a text message. The third from Cal that I’d ignored.

  “How about we all have dinner over here tonight. After you’re all done with work.” Opening her eyes, she looked out the window. “I’ll catch up with everybody first.”

  “What did Don say?” I asked. “You told him, right?”

  “Honey, you need to let some things be between Don and me.”

  “He didn’t take it well, did he?”

  “Evelyn, it doesn’t matter how he took it.” She pushed the hair off her forehead. “I’m not having this discussion with you. It isn’t fair.”

  Standing, I grabbed the pillow and handed it to her. I hated how I’d turned the conversation into an argument. Disappointment in myself joined my anxiety for her. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know it’s still hard to get used to, but he’s my husband, Ev. Some things are just between husband and wife. Even after only a year.”

  “Yup.” I made my way to the door. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Well, I’m sorry anyway.” I pushed the shoes onto my feet. “It wasn’t right for me to ask.”

  “He cried, Evelyn,” she said. “When I told him, he cried.”

  Exhaustion pressed against the inside of my head. Not just from the sleepless night. Thinking of Don crying made me want to curl up and sleep the sadness away.

  “This isn’t going to be easy on any of us.” Standing, my mom picked up her mug. “We have to lean on one another, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Don needs to be included, Ev. I know he hasn’t been around all that long, but he needs us to act like his family.”

  Never before had I wanted a dad more than that moment. Letting Don fill that void seemed such a risk. But I didn’t have another option.

  “Oh, goodness.” Resting hands on hips, she closed her eyes. “Here I’ve spent all this time talking about me and I didn’t ask about your date.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. You’ve got more important things going on.”

  “But I want to hear about it.” She sighed and pointed to her stomach. “This isn’t the only thing going on around here, you know.”

  “It went well,” I said. “He’s great. I like him a lot.”

  “I’m so glad, Ev. I want you to be happy.”

  Happy seemed so out of reach. An hour before, it would have been a much better word to use.

  My phone buzzed yet again. I exhaled, my chest tightening.

  “Well, you’d better get to work, huh?” She took a step toward me. “Can’t let Cal and Granddad do all the fun work.”

  “I’m hoping that if I get there later, I won’t have to embalm anybody.” I forced a smile.

  “Here’s to hoping.”

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “Please don’t be scared.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  I walked along the sidewalk toward the Big House. For the first time in years, the urge to pray rushed through me. Like a rustling wind whipping around my chest.

  Most people I knew fell into prayer like a conversation with an old friend. Gran never had a problem. I could have sworn that woman had a direct line to God. Not me, though. I’d had to work at it. Struggle for the words. Force myself to thank God for my food and family. I’d have been the first to call my prayer life immature.

  I didn’t feel qualified to tell Him how to do His job. He had plenty of people doing so without me adding to the noise.

  Usually, I stuck to “thanks” or “ugh.” Most of the time it worked okay.

  That day, though, it seemed He could use a little direction, as gutsy as I felt for the idea.

  Years before, Granddad had a thick oak tree cut down. The branches had hung too close to our roof. With every storm, the wood knocked against the house, threatening damage.

  The stump had remained. Cal and I had used it for games of King of the Hill. In those days, I usually won.

  That morning, however, as I climbed onto the stump, I doubted I could out-muscle anyone.

  Knees bent to my chin, I wrapped my arms around, hugging my shins. A rough spot in the wood snagged on a string in the hem of my pants, pulling it loose.

  “Of course,” I huffed, breaking the string free. “Stupid day.”

  I had to breathe in and out several times, working myself up to pray.

  “I don’t know what to say to You about this,” I whispered. “I’ve seen too many people beg You to save someone and You don’t do it.” A fly or bee buzzed around my head until I swatted it away. “I don’t feel like begging.”

  Waiting, I hoped He’d send me some kind of communication. A sign, perhaps. Something to transcend my doubts and fears. Nothing. Just a breeze through the leaves above my head, carrying with it the smell of a storm.

  “You could heal her, but I don’t think you will. I guess that’s bad of me.” I sniffed, wiping my nose. “All I’m going to ask is that You don’t let her be in a lot of pain. It wouldn’t serve any purpose. And it wouldn’t make You look all that good.”

  My phone beeped again. Another message from my brother, wondering where I was.

  “Anyway,” I said. “That’s all I ask. Make it easy on her. Please.”

  Unfolding myself, I hopped off the stump and headed down the sidewalk toward the Big House. I’d have to use thread from the prep room to fix my hem before it unraveled.

  Granddad sat on the funeral home porch. I’d never seen him out there. He always kept himself too busy. Never allowing himself time to sit unless he was working in the office. Even during slow weeks or months. He kept working.

  Stopping on the sidewalk, I watched him for a while, knowing how hard this thing with my mom must have hit him. Every few seconds, he’d drink from his mug.

  All my life, he’d been the big, strong one. The base of our family. I believed nothing shook him. That morning, though, he seemed small. Older, even. Folded up on himself.

  While You’re at it, I added to my silent prayer. Take it easy on Gran and Granddad, too. They deserve some gentleness.

  I shifted my weight to the left. Under my foot, a twig snapped and Granddad flinched, turning in my direction. He had no smile in his eyes. No spark of anything, really.

  My heart broke even more.

  “Hey,” I said, nearing the porch. “Good morning, Granddad.”

  He stared at his feet, frowning and tilting his head from one side to the other, making the bones in his neck crackle.

  “Looks like a good storm’s rolling in,” he said.

  “We could use it.”

  “Yup.” He cleared his throat. “You just talk to your mama?”

  Leaning against the porch rail, I tried to find something to say. Nothing came to mind. At least nothing that wouldn’t have reduced me to a sobbing mess. So, I decided to keep myself quiet.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  I should have known the emotion would surface once I got closer to him and heard his voice. He had that way with me. I turned my face toward the garden.

  Avoidance. Redirection. Denial of feeling. My coping skills since childhood to keep a handle on the chaos around me. At least that’s what my therapist had called it. Whatever. I only hoped it would work for me again.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “That’s a good answer, I think. As good as any I can come up with.” He sighed. “I can’t figure it out, either. Part of me is angry. Suppose that’s a normal reaction, huh?”

  “I feel like I should start praying a lot harder.” I rolled my eyes at the Sunday school answer.

  He rubbed his fingers over the top of his head. “I don’t feel much like praying at all.”

  Exhaling, the tight spot in my chest tensed a bit. “I’m scared.”

  “Me, too.” He patted the seat on the bench
next to him. I watched his hand move up and down. Thick fingers tapped the old, graying wood. His gold wedding band knocked against a metal fastener.

  When I sat down, he put his arm around me and his hand on my shoulder, pulling me close. I lowered my head to rest on him. His shoulder cushioned my head and his heart thumped in my ear. Rich aftershave, spicy and warm smelling, made me tear up. He’d worn that same kind as long as I remembered. If I had to pick one smell that made me feel at home, it was Granddad’s aftershave.

  “I’m not ready to lose her,” I whispered.

  “Me either, Evelyn.” His voice resonated from within his chest. “I couldn’t guess how many times I’ve seen something exactly like this. Somebody gets sick out of nowhere. And the family is absolutely knocked out by it. That’s how I feel this morning. Knocked out.”

  I could have fallen asleep, held against Granddad’s shoulder, hearing the life beating inside him. He’d held me like that after my father walked away from us. He didn’t mind me crying on him.

  My phone sounded again. Cal’s text message read, Am I the only one working today? Remember me? I’m the sick one!

  “Cal doesn’t know yet, does he?” I asked.

  “No.” He shifted his weight. “But I’m worried about how he’ll take it. It’s real hard on a man when his mother dies. Real hard.”

  “And Char.” I sat up, leaving a spot on his lapel where the fabric had soaked up my tears. “She’s so sensitive.”

  “I expect she’s going to have a rough time of it.”

  “Mom wants to have a family dinner tonight,” I said.

  “That’s a good idea.” He managed half a smile. “I’ll order a couple pizzas.”

  “I’d better get inside.” Standing, a thousand white dots rushed across my vision, making me dizzy. I held on to the railing of the porch. “I’ll send Cal over to Mom’s in a little while.”

  “Listen,” Granddad said, stopping me. “If you don’t get the accounts payable done today, it’s all right. They’ll still be there next week, if need be. We all need to try and take it easy for the next day or two.”

  I made it through the front doors of the Big House and into the bathroom before I lost it. The water rushed from the faucet as hard as I could turn it. I hoped it would drown out the wailing that heaved out of me.

  Reaching into my purse, I dropped the last pill into my hand before putting it on my tongue. I washed it down with a handful of water. It would take half an hour for the medicine to move through my blood stream and into my head. Even then, it still wouldn’t have the power to reach the pain.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Olga

  Clive told me to take a nap. He’d never been the kind of man to order me around. But he knew when I needed to take a good rest. And that day I needed it. I’d not gotten a whole lot of sleep for weeks.

  When I turned to make my way to the bedroom, he told me about dinner at Gretchen’s house that night. He’d not hear about me cooking, though. He’d already ordered the pizzas.

  I submitted to my husband and got in a nap. He submitted to me and agreed to let me make a salad. It might not have been what the Apostle Paul had in mind, but that kind of submitting to each other worked out just fine for us for over fifty years.

  My nap ended short, though, to the sound of the refrigerator door slamming.

  “Clive?”

  “Sorry, Olga,” he called from the kitchen. “I was getting myself a drink of lemonade.”

  I about rolled myself out of the bed. My poor body disagreed with my decision to move it out to the living room. It protested with cracking hips and grinding knees.

  “I think that nap did me more harm than good,” I said, walking up behind Clive.

  He stood at the window, overlooking the garden. He didn’t answer me. Didn’t even turn my way. Just rested hands in his pants pockets. The glass of lemonade sat on a coaster in the center of the coffee table. For the first time in my memory, I hadn’t had to remind him to use a coaster.

  “What are you looking at, honey?” Lacing my arm through his, I drew close to his side.

  He pointed out the window. Gretchen wore leather gloves on her hands and a wide-brimmed hat on her head, standing among the lavender and chamomile. The storm earlier in the day had given the plants a good drink of water. I guessed she was checking for new blooms or weeds.

  Turning her head, she saw us looking down at her. Her gloved hand waved back and forth. The smile on her face grew. Just the way she had as a little girl on stage at church, singing in the Sunday school choir. Oh, how her life had been ours. How we’d lived through her.

  “Our daughter is the strongest of all of us, I think.” Clive’s voice trembled. “How did she learn such courage?”

  “Now, don’t you let her see you crying, Clive.” I gripped his arm tighter. “She’s happy right now, see? Let her have that.”

  “Look who’s coming,” Clive whispered.

  Charlotte walked the path from their house, the ponytail on the back of her head swinging from side to side. She darn near skipped to her mama. Twenty-two years old and still spirited like a little girl. Once she reached Gretchen, she said a few words. I wished I could have heard what she’d said. Whatever it was, those two hugged so tight, I could almost feel it.

  “I can’t watch this.” Clive let my arm loose and turned his back to the window. “It’d just break my heart worse.”

  The floor to the kitchen creaked under his steps. I didn’t even think to remind him about his lemonade. He probably wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.

  I watched Gretchen shake the gloves off, letting them fall to the ground on either side of her. She grabbed both of Charlotte’s hands. She nodded as Charlotte talked to her. I bit my fingernail, worried about how she’d tell her youngest child. The baby of our family.

  Charlotte’s perky smile sunk into a frown and melted into a calm, quiet crying. The girl sat down on the ground. She crossed her legs and put hands over her face.

  Gretchen stooped, landing on her knees with so much grace. She pulled Charlotte into a deep, warm embrace. I could about feel that one, too.

  All around the two of them, the chamomile tipped back and forth in the wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Evelyn

  In every major tragedy, Gran entered what we called “fix-it mode.” That basically meant she cleaned and cooked without stopping until either the crisis was averted or she crashed from exhaustion.

  When I got to my mom’s to help set up for our family dinner, Gran had already cleaned out the refrigerator and washed all the bedding.

  She’d banned my mom to the couch, leaving her to watch as we set the table.

  “Do you know where she keeps the paper plates?” Gran asked me.

  “Why are you whispering?” I held a stack of napkins.

  “I don’t want her to get up.”

  I searched the pantry, pushing aside cans of corn and jars of dried tea.

  “What are you looking for?” My mom stood from the couch.

  “Paper plates.”

  “Evelyn.” Gran swatted me with a dishcloth.

  “It would be easier if you’d let me show you where they are.” Mom walked into the kitchen, pulled open the cupboard above the stove and pointed. “They’re right up there. I’ll even let Ev grab them if that’ll make you feel better.”

  Granddad carried a stack of pizza boxes in through the front door. When he met my eyes he raised his messy, gray brows. I grabbed the top few boxes.

  “Hi, Dad.” My mom reached for one of the boxes.

  “I got it, baby girl,” he said. “I don’t want you getting any of those gut pains tonight.”

  “Now, those pizzas can go on the table.” Gran held a bowl of pasta salad. “We’ll be all set in a couple minutes.”

  “Gretchen, how about you go sit.” Granddad nodded at Gran. “Let Mrs. Fix-It take care of things tonight. It’ll keep her happy.”

  Obediently, my mom returned to
her designated spot on the couch. Gran had set her up with pillows and an end table covered with tissues and a water bottle. Next, I imagined, she’d be offering ginger ale and beef bouillon. Gran’s remedies for just about any ailment.

  Struggling with the screen door, Cal walked in, bags of chips filling his arms. He dumped them onto the table next to the pizzas.

  “Don’s right behind me,” he said.

  “Oh, good.” Mom peeked out the window and waved. “I asked him to pick up some ice cream.”

  “I’m so hungry.” Cal pulled open one of the bags. “Where’s Char?”

  “Up in her room.”

  “How’s she doing, honey?” Gran asked.

  “I don’t know.” My mom twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

  “Who is that out in the yard with Donald?” Gran asked.

  Standing on tiptoes, I strained to look out the window over the kitchen sink. Will walked to the porch, carrying a white cake box from Deirdre’s. My heart dropped out of my chest.

  “Are you blushing, Ev?” Cal winked at me.

  “Oh, is that him?” Gran lowered the bowl to the table. “I haven’t gotten a chance to meet him yet.”

  “He was really glad I invited him.” Cal smirked at me.

  “Are you serious? You couldn’t have warned me?” I threw a washcloth into the sink full of soapy water, creating an explosion of suds that splashed all over my shirt.

  “I’m happy he could make it.” Cal walked over to my mom. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s fantastic.” Mom’s smile beamed for him. “I’ve been dying to meet him.”

  Everyone stopped moving and looked at her. Gran put both hands on her stomach, as if feeling for something. They moved as she breathed.

  “Oh.” My mom pulled her hand up, covering her mouth and laughing. “That was a poor choice of words.”

  Cal joined her in laughing. He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “Such a joker.”

  Will and I sat on the loveseat. Cal had insisted with winks and knowing smiles. It had turned out to be a good idea, inviting Will over. I wouldn’t have admitted it to Cal, though. He’d have gloated for at least a week. But Will diverted a little of the tension while managing to charm my family. Even Don.