My Mother's Chamomile

by Finkbeiner, Susie;

  The two of them talked all through dinner. All about fishing. Will admitted that he’d never been. Still, Don went on and on. And Will asked all kinds of questions. I didn’t hang on to every word of their discussion. I heard enough to know that the two of them could get along. Then again, I’d realized that Will could make friends with just about anybody.

  “Donald,” Gran broke in. “I think you found yourself a kindred.”

  “Why’s that?” Don turned toward her.

  “Well, I’ve never heard you talk so much.” She winked at him. “I guess I should have asked you about fishing a long time ago.”

  “Oh, I talk plenty.” Don put his arm around my mom. “Just ask Gretchen.”

  “He talks my ear off all the time.” My mom giggled. “He says the funniest things in his sleep.”

  I cringed, not wanting to hear about my mom sharing a bed with Don. But when I watched them, the way Don kissed her cheek, I knew he loved her.

  “So are we going to keep avoiding this?” Charlotte slid her untouched pizza on the coffee table.

  “Avoid what, buddy?” Cal asked from his seat next to her.

  “Mom’s cancer.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, we might as well just talk about it. We all know she’s got it. And we’re sitting here talking about fish. Why aren’t we talking about what’s really going on?”

  If the air hadn’t been sucked out of me before, Char’s words did it just then.

  “Charlotte,” I whispered. “Maybe we should wait until Mom’s ready to talk about it.”

  “She’s right. We should talk about it.” Mom rested her hand on Don’s knee. “Go ahead, Char.”

  Will stretched his arm out around my shoulders. Back stiff, I couldn’t relax. Strangely, I felt very far away from the discussion. Numb. A lot like how I felt as a funeral director. Detached from the situation. Observing only.

  “Well, I guess I don’t understand why this is such bad news.” Char breathed out her nose. “I mean, I’m upset just like everybody else. But people beat cancer all the time.”

  “Honey.” Mom dragged out the word. “It’s not the kind of cancer that can be beat.”

  Will leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I’m going to sit on the porch for a few minutes.”

  After he left and the screen door closed behind him, I wished I’d asked him to stay. Without him there, I’d have to really feel the emotions. I couldn’t handle that. Sitting on one side of the loveseat, by myself, I felt small and alone.

  “What do you mean you can’t beat the cancer, Mom?” Charlotte asked, tilting her head and wrinkling her nose.

  “It’s stage four,” Cal muttered.

  “I’m going to die from this.” My mom got up from her place on the couch and kneeled by Char. “I thought I explained that to you.”

  My little sister covered her face with both hands and folded in half. She didn’t know death like the rest of us did. The inevitability of it hadn’t touched her before that day.

  “I don’t want to think about fighting this. Because I’m going to lose no matter what I do. You know?” My mom kissed Charlotte’s head. “I don’t want to lose.”

  Don got up from his seat and kneeled next to my mom, wrapping his arms around her. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed that she’d started crying. He whispered in her ear and rubbed her back.

  For the first time since I met him, I didn’t resent Don.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Olga

  I woke up on Sunday morning to pouring down rain and booming thunder. A flash of light flickered through a gap in my bedroom curtains. I counted before I heard the thunderclap. Ten seconds. For the life of me, I could not remember what that meant.

  Clive grunted as I touched his arm, but his eyelids didn’t lift. So I got up to make me a cup of coffee. It ended up too bitter and with a bunch of grounds at the bottom of my cup. It only served to sour my already grumpy mood.

  “Sorry, Lord.” I closed my Bible. “I don’t feel like making a joyful noise today. The joy’s all used up.”

  By the way the storm growled, I figured He’d have to settle for that noise a little longer.

  Aunt Gertie would never have abided my moping about. She’d have taken her measuring stick to my behind to remind me to do all things without grumbling or protesting. Her way of getting things done proved pretty effective. With me, at least. Just a glance at that ruler pushed the complaint right back down my throat. Those six boys, though, took a whole lot more whooping before they’d mind her. As for me, I swallowed my grumbles. Aunt Gertie had a strong swing on that stick.

  That stormy morning, though, a grumbling attitude clouded over my soul. My entire family hurt. Every single one of them. I couldn’t come to make myself say “blessed by Your name.”

  So, breaking my normal morning routine, I skipped my Bible reading. I washed the picture window in my living room. Dusted a couple knickknacks. Even put a load of dirty clothes in the washer. Still, I couldn’t cut off the pull to sit at my Bible. I could have sworn it called at me to come read. And if that didn’t make me even more sour, nothing would have.

  I gave up the fight and sat down. Not because I wanted to. But because my spirit demanded. That time, my weak flesh gave way to the willing spirit.

  “You better make this good.” I prayed quietly so I wouldn’t wake up Clive.

  My old fingers flipped through the thin pages to Exodus. The poor Israelites stood at the edge of a riverbed, crying about bitter water. They’d gotten only a couple days into their one-way trip to the Promised Land and found nothing but bad water.

  “You got me, Lord.”

  I remembered learning that story in Sunday school. Flannel graphs of pale-skinned men in brown robes and a wild-haired Moses with his two tablets of commandments in hand. Never mind the bitter water came long before the Ten Commandments.

  Oh, the selfish, spoiled Hebrews. Getting everything from God and grumbling anyhow about bitter water. What a stiff-necked people. Those fools.

  But as I read of their crying, I couldn’t find fault in them. I’d learned those past days what the desert felt like. Dry and hot and life draining. I imagined the wide cracks in the soles of their feet as they shuffled around in that scorching sand. The terror of having nothing to offer their children to eat or drink. Nothing but rancid water.

  Outside my house, the rain beat up against the windows.

  I supposed I preferred rain to drought.

  But even with all the rain, I felt closer to those dry-mouthed Israelite mothers, looking from their withering children to the bitter water. Their starving children and the dusty rocks on the ground. I wondered how many of those children died and got buried under that shifting sand.

  They cried out, challenging God. No wonder they thought He didn’t care. He’d taken them from a land of plenty to a land of nothing but shriveled death.

  “Why did You bring us out to the desert just to watch us die?” they’d asked at the top of their voices. Parched throats screamed for an answer.

  My own head bobbed up and down in agreement with their interrogation.

  “Why did You give me a daughter if You were just going to take her away from me?” I believed my heart wore a sneer as I cried out.

  “You know Me better than that.” The words, so clear, I looked around to see who said them. “Read.”

  I recognized that voice. I’d heard it only a few weeks earlier. The voice of Jesus.

  “Lord, if You keep on letting me hear Your voice, I’m going to end up in the looney bin,” I said.

  “You know Me better than that,” He repeated.

  “Do I?” I asked.

  “Read.”

  I huffed a little but obeyed anyhow.

  Moses tossed a stick into the water and God made it sweet. The people must have filled every jug and basin they had. I wondered if they drank the whole stream dry.

  What I knew about the story that the poor Israelites did not—stomachs bloated with sweet water—was t
hat in the next chapter, they’d be without again. Then the next chapter and for the rest of their lives. They would tromp through the sand, wandering, unable to reach the land of milk and honey.

  Even Moses, leading them on the journey through the desert, didn’t get into the Promised Land. Even he died in the desert.

  “Is it ever coming down.” Clive came into the living room in only his shirt and underpants.

  I’d fried up a couple of eggs for him and buttered his toast. The smell of breakfast usually did the trick to get him up and at ’em.

  He picked up his plate from the counter and kissed the side of my face before taking his seat at the dinette.

  “Good morning.” I handed him a fork. “You sleep well?”

  “Must have. I feel better than I have in weeks.”

  “I’m glad, honey.”

  “You going to get dressed for church? Or are you planning on wearing your nightie?” He winked. “Course, I think you look pretty in it. I just don’t think Old Buster’d approve.”

  “Are you thinking about going in your skivvies?”

  “It doesn’t take me so long to figure out what to wear as it takes you.”

  The orange juice refreshed me with its crisp aroma as I poured it into a glass for him.

  “I don’t think I’m going to church this morning.” I put the glass to the side of his plate.

  “Olga Eliot, I don’t think you’ve ever missed a single Sunday morning service in all the time I’ve known you.” He sat at the table.

  “I have.” I spooned sugar into the black of my fresh-made coffee. “You just don’t remember it.”

  “Are you feeling sick?” Piercing the yolk of his eggs, he let the yellow ooze onto the plate.

  “No. I just don’t have it in me this morning.”

  “Well, honey, I can’t force you.” He cut a bit off the egg and slid it onto his toast. “But I’m going with or without you. My faith is weak this morning.”

  “It seems like a whole lot of work for a whole lot of nothing.”

  “Olga…” Clive lowered his fork. It clinked against his plate and the egg slipped off.

  “What, Clive? You tell me that you aren’t angry. You tell me you’re happy with how God’s dealing with this family.”

  “I am angry.” He dropped the bread onto his plate and pushed the whole mess of food away from him. “And I’m tired. I’d rather go and see if I can get a little something out of the singing and preaching than sit here and mope. Even though the moping is what I feel like doing more than anything.”

  Squeezing dish soap into the sink, I turned on the faucet, letting the warm water rush over the fry pan at the bottom of the sink. I wiped against it with my cloth, working loose the grease and egg.

  “I’ve never been so angry,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m just plain mad.” I turned off the water. “I wasn’t this angry when my mother died. Must not have known that I could be back then. It feels like God’s sitting on His big hands, watching us squirm.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that, Olga.” He closed his eyes. “But I do know I’m struggling. It would do me a lot of good to have your hand to hold during church today. I’m suffering and I need you.”

  What else could I have done? I dried the suds off my hands, leaving that old fry pan to soak, and went right to my room to put on a dress. Not for me. For my Clive. And my red dress, no less. The one that made his jaw drop.

  I sat through Old Buster’s miserable preaching and pretended to pray along with the rest of the congregation.

  I did pray. Just a different prayer than everybody else.

  I prayed for the bitter water to somehow turn sweet.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Evelyn

  I’d never been to a church so big. The stone building nearly scraped the sky and reached both ends of a city block. My mom and I stood at the door, neither of us ready to pull it open. Swooshing air up at us, the cars zoomed past.

  “Are you sure we put enough change in the meter?” Mom opened her purse. “I might be able to find a few more quarters.”

  “Mom, we put five dollars in. That’s enough for the rest of the afternoon.” I hoped we wouldn’t be there more than an hour.

  “I’m just not used to all this.” She looked around. “It’s too busy. Everything’s too close together. It makes me nervous.”

  Two country bumpkins come to the big city. We felt out of place among the fast-walking people and the noise of traffic.

  Charlotte had found a cancer support group. Somehow, she’d talked our mom into going. From the way my mom folded into herself, I doubted she felt good about being there.

  Standing on the sidewalk, watching the cars whiz past, we stalled for time. Buildings towered over us. Somewhere, horns blared. Lots of them. Then a siren whirred and screamed, echoing off the buildings.

  “I could never live in the city,” she said. “I’d have a nervous breakdown every day.”

  “Me too.” I breathed in the air, thick with exhaust.

  A woman wearing a burgundy scarf on her head rushed by, pulling on the door. She could only get it to open an inch or so. And even that took a lot of effort. A man walking near her stopped, offering to open the door. She huffed at him, but stepped aside to let him help her.

  “It must be hard to need help opening doors,” my mom whispered. “That’s going to be tough for me, too.”

  “We should go in, Mom.” I checked the clock on my phone. “It’s time.”

  The church basement smelled like a combination of singed coffee and mildew. Mom stopped just inside the door next to a table of brochures. A group of ladies chatted and laughed on the other side of the room. In another corner, a few women hugged. The lady with the burgundy scarf sat alone, legs crossed, checking her watch.

  “Is it too late to leave?” my mom whispered.

  “We’re here,” I said. “You might as well see how it goes.”

  We walked together to the circle of metal folding chairs. As we neared, a woman came toward us, almost jumping out in front of my mom.

  “Hi.” She thrust her hand at us. Every single one of her teeth showed as she smiled. Red lipstick had smudged across the top row of overly white enamel. “You’re new, right? I’m Debbie, and I facilitate this group. Welcome.”

  Looking between my mom and me, Debbie made a little too much eye contact. I directed my eyes to the pink ribbon pinned on her lapel.

  “My name is Gretchen.” My mom took Debbie’s hand. “This is my daughter, Evelyn. She came to support me today.”

  “Isn’t that nice.” Debbie touched my mom’s shoulder. “Listen, we’re about to get going with our gathering. Feel free to grab yourselves a cup of coffee before you find a seat.”

  She turned to the rest of the group and clapped her hands three times. I wondered if she’d been a school teacher before.

  “All right, everyone. Let’s find a seat and get started.” Her voice resonated in the small room. “We’ve got a lot to get through today.”

  My mom clutched her purse and held it against her stomach as she sat in a chair. Her knee hopped up and down.

  Touching her leg, I made eye contact. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “I have no idea how these things work.” She blinked fast. “What if they make me talk?”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I whispered. “We can always take off if you feel uncomfortable.”

  Debbie sat in a chair at the front of the room. Smiling, she met the gaze of everyone in the circle.

  “Welcome.” She rubbed her palms against her thighs. “I’m so grateful that each one of you is here today. You made the choice of a warrior today. I couldn’t be happier to be in battle with every single one of you.”

  The room stayed quiet. A few swishing whispers from one end of the circle turned my head. I couldn’t tell where the sound came from.

  “We have a new friend with us today.”


  Debbie extended her hand and pointed in our direction. I felt the weight of every eye in the room. My mom gave them a thin-lipped smile.

  “How about we all go around the circle and introduce ourselves.” Debbie breathed deeply. “I’m Debbie. Of course, you already knew that. What you don’t know is that I beat breast cancer five years ago.”

  She turned and raised her brows to the woman next to her.

  Everyone in the circle shared their names and a little about their cancer story. It seemed they all had hope to be cured. Not a single one of them had stage four cancer.

  I considered grabbing my mom and pulling her out of there. But the way she listened to each of the women, I couldn’t do it. She had compassion for them. I saw it in the way her eyes welled up with tears. She, a woman with stage four, terminal cancer, felt for the women who weren’t nearly as ill.

  With grace and dignity, my mom listened to their stories.

  “I’m Stacy.” The woman in the burgundy scarf carried a sharp edge in her voice. “I have leukemia. And I’m angry today.”

  That was all she said.

  “Would you like to explore that feeling, Stacy?” Debbie leaned forward.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Okay.” Debbie widened her eyes and puffed air out her mouth for the benefit of the other women in the circle. Then she turned to my mom. “I guess it’s your turn.”

  My mom grabbed my hand. Her fingers were so cold, I tried to warm them. The desire to scoop her up and run out of the room came back. That group wouldn’t help her. It would only bring her down. She didn’t need to be there. The place for her was at home, with us. Or out in the garden with dirt under her fingernails and a rose-scented breeze blowing around her. A cup of chamomile tea warming her hands, soothing her soul. Miles and miles between her and the city of clamor and chaos.

  Instead, we sat in those chairs, surrounded by a dozen strangers.