My Mother's Chamomile

by Finkbeiner, Susie;

  “Are you okay?” I leaned forward, touching her knee.

  She nodded. “I’d rather laugh than cry, even though it hurts worse.”

  “I don’t mind seeing that smile.”

  But that smile faded. Not all at once. Just a little at a time. Her lips made a quivering frown.

  “I’m afraid, Mom,” she whispered. “That’s really why I want people to come over. Because I’m afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Of being forgotten.” Her lips made a tiny smacking sound as she rubbed them together.

  “Nobody’s ever going to forget you.” Squeezing her knee, I realized how bony it had gotten. “Nobody forgets someone so precious as you.”

  “I guess I mean that I want them to remember me for being me. I don’t want them to think about me and remember this cancer.” She breathed in shaky gusts of air. “I don’t want everyone to remember me for the way I died.”

  Words just plain refused to come to my mind. Even if I had found a few to say, I didn’t know how they’d help her.

  When I thought of my mother, I had a picture in my mind of her with a white sheet pulled up tight and tucked under her armpits. Her wheezing and fighting to catch a breath, tears spilling down the sides of her face and teeth bared. Legs fighting against the taut sheet. It took a little more work to remember other things about her.

  You’re Almighty, I prayed in my silence. And I’m low down. Fix the words in my mouth or change the subject real quick.

  The screen door slammed and Gretchen’s body tensed up all over. We both turned toward the door. Charlotte stood just inside, eyes wide.

  “Sorry.” Charlotte cringed. “The wind caught it.”

  “It’s okay, Char.” Gretchen grabbed for a tissue out of the box next to her. “I thought you had to work today, though.”

  “I asked Deirdre if I could come home a little early.” Charlotte slouched at the shoulders, making her way to the couch. “I’ve got a pretty bad headache.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Gretchen blew her nose into the tissue.

  “I made truffles this morning before I left.” She lifted a small, white bag. “Deirdre told me to bring some home.”

  I thanked the Lord for the interruption and the added bonus of chocolates.

  Because of His great mercy, He didn’t hold my weeks of silence against me. Instead, He held me tight.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Evelyn

  Pulling into the driveway, I saw a woman standing at the window, looking right at me. She rushed to the porch of her house, waiting for me to get out of my car.

  “Thank you so much for making it all the way out here. I made a cake.” She watched as I walked up the steps to the porch. “It’s nothing special. Just a chocolate layer cake.”

  “That sounds delicious.” I forced a smile. Exhaustion had settled in the place behind my eyes.

  “Do people usually eat cake for these things? Or is it morbid? My husband thought it was terribly strange. But I’ve made a cake for all of Justin’s big days. And it seems like this is a pretty big one.”

  “Well, I think it’s fine.”

  “Good. Good.” Her little brown eyes looked all over my face. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It’s no trouble.” I stood next to her on the porch. “I’m Evelyn Russell from the funeral home.”

  “I know who you are. You went to school with Justin.” She grabbed my hand. Not to shake it, but to pull me into the house. “I’m Yvonne Eames. Justin’s mother. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I followed behind her through the house. “But he was much more popular than I was.”

  “He’s always been well liked, you know.” She looked at me over her shoulder. “He’s such a nice boy.”

  She stopped short in the kitchen so fast, I almost ran her over. Still holding my hand, she turned her gaze up at me. Quite a bit shorter than me, she had to tilt her whole head to connect eyes with me.

  “Now,” she continued to talk, making her voice a little quieter. “We’ve got Justin all set up in the living room. It’s the only place we could fit his hospital bed. He’s such a tall boy, we had to rent a special bed for him. You know, he could have had a future in basketball, he’s so tall. But he picked up the guitar instead.” She threw her free hand in the air. “What could I do? And he almost made it big, you know. I’m sure you saw it in the papers. He could have been something. But he got sick instead. Life is a cruel joke.”

  Back to walking, she pulled me through the dining room. Pill bottles and medical supplies covered the table.

  “Would you look at all that?” She waved her hand at the table. “Hospice took over my house. Completely took over. Not that I’m complaining. I need the help. I couldn’t do this without them. They’re angels. Just absolute angels.”

  I smiled. Not that she saw it. Pulling me through her house occupied all her attention.

  “There’s the bathroom, just in case.” She pointed down the hallway. “We’ve got our shower all set up for Justin. He’s got a chair in there. Thank God for that nurse. She gets him undressed and into the tub. He still does all the scrub-a-dub-dubbing, though.”

  She pulled me into the living room before letting go of my hand. Sunshine poured through the large picture window in the middle of the wall. All the furniture had been pushed to the perimeter of the room to make room for the hospital bed. A sunbeam rested right on Justin’s feet. That’s what I saw of him first. His long, skinny feet that stuck out from under the sheets.

  Justin sat, propped up by pillows. He looked almost exactly the same as I remembered him. Just more facial hair and darker circles under his eyes.

  “Justin,” Yvonne almost yelled. “The funeral director is here.”

  “Hey, nothing gets a party started like a funeral director,” he said, his voice flat. “Hello.” I tried to calm my nerves. Even though he’d been younger than me, he’d still been several social circles above me. Funny how all that carried into adulthood.

  “I think I remember you. Remind me of your name,” he said.

  “Of course you remember her.” Yvonne lowered her eyebrows at him. “This is Evelyn Russell.”

  “Right.” He grinned. “I don’t think we ever talked back then. Sorry. I was pretty full of myself.”

  “It’s okay.” I shrugged.

  “You’ve got a brother, right? Cal?” He smirked. “That dude was crazy.”

  “He still is.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Justin cleared his throat. “Tell him to come over and visit sometime. I’d like to see him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Let her sit down, Justin,” Yvonne interrupted. “She just got here, and you’re already talking her ear off.”

  I made my way to an empty chair at one side of the bed. Yvonne had been right, it was extra long. I’d have to make a note about his height for when it came time to remove his body.

  “Hey, this is my girlfriend.” Justin reached over, putting his hand on the knee of a woman sitting next to him.

  “I don’t know what we’d do without her. Esther has been a Godsend.” Yvonne sighed. “Now, Evelyn, are you comfortable?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back. I need to get the cake.”

  She left the room, humming as she went.

  I didn’t quite know what to do or say. I’d never had to prearrange the funeral of someone younger than me. Usually, young people died suddenly. Unexpectedly. Not over a long time from terminal illness.

  “So did you go to college to be a funeral director?” Justin asked.

  “Yes. Mortician school.” I pulled a file from my briefcase.

  “Sounds like a wild school.” Justin yawned.

  “Okay, here comes the cake,” Yvonne announced, walking past us, carrying a beautifully decorated cake. “Darrell’s got the plates and forks. That’s my husband. Justin’s dad.”

  “Mom,
why did you make a cake?” Justin pulled the sheet up over his waist.

  “Listen, I’ve made a cake for all your milestones. Birthdays and graduation. I made one when you moved to Nashville and when you came back. Today is not the day for me to break tradition.” She put the cake on the hospital issue tray and pulled a small camera from her pocket. “Now, I’m going to need a picture of you with Evelyn.”

  “Mother, no.” Justin rolled his eyes.

  “Why not?” She put a hand on her wide hip.

  “Arranging a funeral isn’t a happy occasion. No pictures with the funeral director.” He looked at me. “No offense.”

  “Don’t be rude. She’s a friend from high school.”

  “And is that chocolate cake?” Justin asked. “You know how much I hate chocolate.”

  “Oh, now you’re just being selfish.” Yvonne cupped a hand to the side of her mouth. “Darrell. Plates.”

  “I’m coming,” Justin’s father yelled from the kitchen. “I got a little sidetracked.”

  “By what? What’s so interesting in that kitchen that you can’t get in here with the plates? The forks, too.” She looked at me and sighed. “I swear, that man is about to make me lose my mind.”

  “Yvonne,” Darrell called. “Where do you keep the spoons?”

  “I want forks,” she yelled back. “And they’re in the exact same place they’ve been for the last thirty years.”

  “The bottom of the sink?”

  “Oh, that man.” She rushed past me. “You’ll need to arrange two funerals today, I think.”

  Darrell came into the room, carrying a stack of at least ten plates.

  “Having fun in here?” he asked, his voice far too loud for the room.

  “Of course we aren’t having fun.” Yvonne walked in behind him. “We’re planning Justin’s funeral. This isn’t the most enjoyable thing in all the world.”

  “But worthy of cake, apparently.” Justin leaned his head back on the bed.

  “Do you want me to throw the whole thing in the trash? One more word and I’ll do it.” Yvonne cut the cake, serving it onto the plates. “Darrell, why did you think we needed all these dishes?”

  “You said to get the plates.” Darrell stood as close to his wife as he could. “You didn’t specify how many.”

  Yvonne passed out the cake. We held our plates, not eating. She glared at us.

  “Why aren’t you eating? I didn’t poison it, you know.”

  I opened my folder and put my cake on an end table. “How about we get started planning a few things. You all can eat while we’re talking.”

  “Did you hear that?” Darrell grinned. “Permission to talk with our mouths full.”

  “Darrell, of all the goofy things.” Yvonne shook her head.

  “All right, I actually have a few things figured out.” Justin handed his untouched cake to Esther. “I’m an organ donor. I don’t know what they’ll be able to use by the time I’m done with them, but they’re welcome to whatever they can salvage.”

  I jotted a note in my folder.

  “And I have a suit all picked out.” Justin smirked. “It’s awesome. And orange. I got it at a secondhand store.”

  “Son, I don’t know what makes you want to wear that ugly old thing.” Yvonne sighed. “It’s enough to make me demand a closed casket.”

  “And I have an idea of what I want my gravestone to say.” The rough sound of him clearing his throat gave way to wheezing.

  “Justin, you need that breathing mask on,” Yvonne said, mouth full of cake. “Stop gabbing for a minute and breathe.”

  Esther jolted up and pulled some tubes up to Justin’s face. She helped him get them hung on his ears and tight across his face. The oxygen machine roared, then lowered into humming as it pushed air into his lungs. He gulped the air.

  “He just gets so excited, he forgets to inhale.” Yvonne licked the frosting off her fork. “He’s always done that. Even when he was healthy. He’ll just need a real good nap this afternoon. Do you hear me? A good nap, Justin.”

  “You talk like he’s a little boy,” Darrell said. “He’s a grown man.”

  Yvonne flashed her husband a narrow-eyed glare.

  “Okay,” Justin continued, regaining his breath. “I want my name and birthdate and death date and all that—”

  “Beloved son,” Yvonne interrupted. “Write that down.”

  “Then, I want it to have a quote from me.” He turned toward Esther. They shared a smile. “I’ve had this planned for a long time.”

  “Is it from one of your songs?” Yvonne turned to me. “He writes wonderful songs.”

  “I want it to say, ‘I wish I would have worked more.’” He barked out a laugh that tuned into a dry cough. Esther stood, her chair thudding against the wall. She rubbed his back and whispered in his ear. He pulled her arm to his chest, making her hold him through the coughing fit.

  “You aren’t having that on your headstone.” Yvonne spoke over his hacking.

  “Yes, I am,” he said between gasps for breath.

  His coughing lasted for several minutes. When it was over, he let go of Esther’s arm and relaxed on his bed.

  “Anyway,” he said, barely above a whisper. “That’s what I want on my tombstone.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Yvonne put her plate on a table so hard, I worried it would shatter.

  “So when someone says, ‘Nobody, on their deathbed, ever says they wished they’d worked more,’ you can say, ‘Well, actually, yes. Somebody did say that.’”

  Darrell’s laughter filled the room. “I’ll pay extra for that.”

  “You really want to read that every time we visit our son’s grave?” Yvonne crossed her arms.

  “Yes.” Darrell’s laughter stopped. “That is exactly what I want to read. I’ll think of him and hear his voice. And I’ll remember the way he smiled when he just said it.”

  Yvonne still sat with arms crossed. She stared at her husband, not moving. Esther kissed Justin’s forehead before sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “I’m not dead yet, Mom,” he said. “I’m still here.”

  “This isn’t a joke, son.” She put her hands on the hospital table.

  “If dying at twenty-five isn’t a joke, I don’t know what is.” He let his voice sink deeper. Looking right at me, he said, “Listen, I don’t care how everything else goes. I really don’t. So have the normal stuff.”

  “I think Justin needs to rest now.” Yvonne stood.

  “One more thing.” Justin closed his eyes. “No flowers. None. They stink. Other than that, just do whatever my parents want. The funeral’s for them anyway.”

  “Well…” Yvonne stood in front of me in the dining room, chocolate cake crumbs speckled her beige shirt. “I guess Darrell and I will come over to the funeral home after…” She hesitated, angling her head to look around me into the other room. “…after Justin passes.”

  “Call any time, okay?” I handed her a card with my phone number.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes shifted back and forth between mine. “Oh, I wanted to ask how your mother is doing.”

  “She’s okay.” The tired spot behind my eyes tightened, sending an ache through the back of my head. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “Oh, I’ve met her once or twice. Such a sweet woman.” Open mouthed, her tongue worked to loosen something from her back teeth. “We’ve just been so busy with Justin, I haven’t gotten a card in the mail.”

  “We understand.”

  “Darrell and I were sad to hear from Deirdre that your mother was sick.”

  “You heard about it from Deirdre?” Anger burned in my chest.

  “I guess she called everybody in town.”

  I coughed, covering my mouth, hoping to force the bile back down.

  “She told me she was trying to get the whole town praying for your family.”

  “She did?” The burning anger cooled.

  “I guess she found a good use for tha
t mouth of hers,” Darrell said, standing behind me.

  “Now, you stop that.” Yvonne blew out a huge puff of air. “You’re no better than Deirdre is.”

  “And you are?”

  “Anyway, Evelyn, you tell your mother that she’s got the prayers of the Eames family.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Now, how many pieces of cake can I send home with you?”

  I walked out to my car across the loose stone driveway, a plate full of cake in one hand and Justin’s funeral arrangements in the other.

  When I turned to look back at the house, I saw Yvonne and Darrell through the window, holding each other.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Olga

  Gretchen’s time in treatment took her from us, a little at a time. Each day those chemicals pumped into her made her weaker. The poison stole the sparkle from her eyes. Getting up from her chair got nearly impossible. A time or two, she didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. She’d cry so hard when that happened. A few days, she slept without waking. Those were the days she regretted more than anything. She hated to waste any moment of her precious time.

  That desert just about sucked the life right out of us.

  But then Gretchen got a break. A vacation from chemotherapy. The sun must have known because it grew brighter in the sky. Leaves turned a special shade of orange just for her. And she stayed outside, breathing in fall for all it was worth. Looking at her, standing in the sunshine, I wouldn’t have thought she was so sick.

  I praised God for the oasis.

  On a Wednesday morning, she’d already started on a good day. I could tell just peeking out the window at her in the garden. Wearing her big old straw hat, she kneeled on the earth, snipping at the flower heads with a pair of clippers.

  I poured us a couple cups of coffee and made to join her. I’d do just about anything in my power to soak up those good days with her. It made me plain old batty to think I might miss a minute with her.

  She lifted up her head when the back door clicked shut behind me.

  “Good morning, Mom.” The words lilted out of her.