by Lisa Samson
Maybe. I know it would be hard for anyone to do.
Sometimes you just can’t start over, can you?
Not really. We only can work with what we’ve got, with who we are.
Surely there’s something more than this later on!
I can’t say, Georgie. I’m not God.
No! I want to know more! I want to see what’s going to happen.
I’m sorry, Georgia. I guess it’s just not allowed.
Well, that stinks! That really stinks.
Oh, baby doll…
Just go away! Leave me alone.
Mom’s face melts. I’m sorry, Georgia.
And she fades away.
What about Sean? Doesn’t he deserve better? He was the innocent bystander in all of this. How could I have done something like this to someone I loved so much? Why does he have to bear the brunt of my sin?
Sin always leads to sorrow. My Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Barker, told me that years ago.
Every time I tipped that bottle, I knew. Oh, I know all the old stories. I was wounded psychologically; I couldn’t help it.
But I always knew I needed help. I always knew it, and I never cried out.
UG seems very peaceful this morning. I had a hard time breathing on my own last night, so they intubated me again. I think that sabbatical he was talking about began today. A page flips occasionally, and he does that little nose-breathing thing every so often. The chair squeaks sometimes.
What I don’t hear is the cell phone ringing.
The nurse named Robin asked him about it earlier, and he said he wasn’t going to be carrying it around anymore. “I’m becoming a sort of urban hermit.”
“Like a monk?” she asked.
“Yes, I think.”
“So are you going to start making cheese and fudge to sell?”
“Who knows?” His voice held a smile. I think he kind of likes her, which means … so much for being a monk!
I can amuse myself even in here.
I wonder what he’s reading?
Oh good, nurse shoes squeak in that particular timbre, which means my leopard lady returns. Her shoes have a certain throatiness to their squeak.
“Good morning again, Mr. Pfeiffer!”
“Hi, Joanne.”
Joanne. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use her name before. Joanne. I like that. Of course, something like Mercedes would have fit my mental picture a little better.
“How’s she doing this morning?” Joanne asks.
“Same.”
“Oh, sweet girl. Let’s get her cleaned up then.”
The chair scrapes away from my bed. “Time for a cup of tea for me. Would you like one?”
“No thanks. Got my travel mug filled to the brim.”
He leaves, and the soothing touch of Joanne begins.
Why is it I can feel the nice touches but nothing painful?
Hmm.
She purrs. I cuddle into the warmth.
Clarissa
Leonard the Granddaddy Man pulls her close and hugs her with the little strength he has left these days. “I can hardly believe it’s been nine years since I moved in and saw you at that kitchen window, young lady.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine. I’m only a phone call away.” He turns his face toward his daughter. “Isn’t that right, Dianne?”
“Anytime, Clarissa. Call collect too.”
Leonard reaches behind him and lifts a box off the kitchen counter. “Here’s a little present from the two of us.”
Clarissa receives it, smooth fingers skating over the gnarled bumps of the hands holding the brightly colored package. She opens the paper carefully.
“A memory book!”
Each page tells a story of grace and kindness: the trip to Six Flags, the Fourth of July picnic at their church, Christmas Eve caroling, the jack-o’-lanterns they carved each year, the box of dress-ups Dianne had kept in the spare bedroom for Clarissa to use. The overnights. Leonard’s famous waffle breakfasts.
As Clarissa’s family drives away, her friends stand out on their porch, tears baptizing their faces, and wave until the van turns the corner for good.
She can’t believe they’ve moved away from that old house. And she thinks about the new place. It’s old too. Lots of cleaning to do.
The mother pulls into a gas station somewhere in West Virginia. “I thought sure we’d make it farther on that tank. Figures.”
The girl pulls on the door latch and hops out. The cousin does the same from the back of the minivan.
“Clarissa! Go get us a couple of Cokes. Reggie, don’t forget to make a pit stop.”
Reggie pushes the girl forward.
“Hey!” she cries. “Stop that.”
“Stupid.”
“Whatever.”
She hurries toward the store. In the reflection of the plate-glass window, she sees the mother striking up a conversation with a dark-haired woman pumping gas in front of their van.
Seems like a nice lady.
The brother pounds on the restroom door. She wants to relieve herself: but she can’t seem to let go.
“Let me in, Clarissa. Right now. Or I’ll tell Mom how you really are. I’ll tell her about Nick.”
And who knows what the mother will do? Probably freak. Commit suicide like she’s been on the brink of doing since the father left.
“I mean it!” he hisses.
“No.”
“Then I’ll kill her. And then where will you be?”
With Leonard the Granddaddy Man?
The girl opens the door and lets him in, but as he reaches for her she slips out. Not this time. In fact, probably not ever again. She doesn’t know how she’ll keep him away, but somehow she will.
Fairly
I wasn’t sure why I was called into the room, but apparently Uncle G and Sean thought it was the right thing. We sat down at my uncle’s kitchen table. No tea. Just clean linoleum, shining chrome, the smell of pine cleaner, and the gentle tones of Vince Guaraldi’s “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” floating in from the living room.
Sean laid his hands flat on the surface of the table. “It’s time, Geoffrey. We can’t just let her rot. You’ve seen the CT scans. We need to take her off It was one thing when she was breathing on her own, but not now.”
Uncle G. “I don’t know if I can handle watching her die like that.”
“But that’s about you, Geoffrey. Not Georgia.”
“What do you think, Fairly?” my uncle asked.
“First of all, it’s not my decision to make.”
“But if it was?” Sean asked.
“Well, if you think about it, she’s already died twice. The only thing that brought her back was technology.”
“That’s true,” Uncle G said. “But are we playing God to let her go?”
“Maybe we’re playing God to keep intervening in something that’s inevitable. Think of what we’re keeping her from.”
We just stared at our hands for I don’t know how long. I didn’t really care. Sometimes time isn’t our problem at all.
Uncle G finally looked up. “Two more weeks. That’s all I ask.”
And Sean nodded.
So I stopped by Reverend Smither’s church, and he brewed me a cup of tea himself “You are simply a breath of fresh air, Fairly, my dear.”
“Why, thank you!” I took a sip. “Good tea!”
“Thank you. Right. So what did you get last time you went to Della-Faye’s?”
“The breaded pork chops in gravy.”
“Oh my, yes! Aren’t they delightful? And greens. Who knew?”
“Precisely. So, let’s finish our tea, and I’ll take you there for lunch. I have something to run by you and Della-Faye, and I might as well save my breath and tell you together.”
He sipped. “Sounds intriguing. But then you do seem to be a rather intriguing person.”
“Thank you.”
“So while we drink our tea, tell
me a little about yourself, your past, your plans. If you don’t mind, that is.”
As we sip, I tell him about Mom and Dad, about college and high school and my life. I tell him about Hort, and he raises his brows. And even with that quirky love affair in the mix, I realize I haven’t done a whole lot of living yet, that there’s so much in front of me if I decide to take it.
This is a matter of will and choice, and now, with faith rolled into the mix, I draw a sense of breathless expectation into myself, look up, and think, I’m ready for this.
Georgia
Okay, I really didn’t mean to send Mom away like that. There’s just so much a woman can handle, even in this state, without falling apart.
It’s all right, baby doll, I understand.
Mom?
She spreads her arms as she appears. Then she holds a hand up to her mouth and laughs. I was going to say, “In the flesh,” but that wouldn’t apply, would it?
Have a seat. I could use the company.
I know last time was difficult for you.
If I could’ve made myself die, I would have.
I know. She sits in a La-Z-Boy, cranks up the footrest, and swivels around to face me. I’ll tell you something more encouraging if you’re interested.
I don’t know if I can handle any more.
I think it’ll give you a little peace if that’s what you want.
Okay.
I hear a strange sort of music—ethereal really. And a familiar voice lies over the top.
Sean?
Uh-huh.
Tribal voices join in.
Is he in Africa?
He is! Mom’s eyes dance. He and Fairly have literally saved a village. It started with a well Fairly paid for, uh, next year, actually.
Fairly?! Don’t tell me they end up together.
The music is so haunting, yet joyful.
Well, no. Fairly and Sean? Honestly, Georgia.
Does he end up with anybody? I really do not want to know the answer.
Yes.
Who?!
Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out a photo. This is eight years from now.
Fairly holds hands with an African child. My cousin’s hair falls in dreadlocks, making her a cross between the Crocodile Hunter and Mama Cass. She’s plump! Her T-shirt reads Lexington Faith Community Partnership. On it, in stylized artwork, are a loaf of bread and a goblet, a grail.
She’s a doll.
I know. Isn’t she cute?
Fairly looks so grounded! Did she draw that logo?
Probably, Georgia.
Another child, blacker than soot, has thrown his arms around Fairly’s legs. It’s obvious she’s laughing and reaching into her pocket for something.
What’s she reaching for?
A butter cookie.
I never thought I’d see my cousin like this. Does she do this in between flights to auctions?
No, she’ll do auctions in between these trips. She’s become quite the humanitarian.
So she still loves her crazy furniture?
Not as much. But those forays will keep her in the house on Jefferson Street and help finance her trips. Not to mention the wealthy clients adding their bits to help. She still helps out in the neighborhood too. Just out of frame, her next-door neighbor, who just graduated from college at this point, is giving out food. She was at risk, to say the least, when Fairly met her. Here’s another photo.
In a pathway between two tents, a dark-headed girl about nine years old leaps into Sean’s waiting arms. He captures her midair.
The baby from South America? The little baby dressed up like a cow?
Uh-huh. She’ll become the love of his life. Mom nods. Some things just can’t be changed.
But she wasn’t in the picture in yesterday’s movie.
No.
But you said she and Sean were meant to be together.
Yes, I sure did.
So that means … I have to go, don’t I? I can’t go back down?
Honey, that choice was never yours to begin with.
I understood. I don’t know how or why it became so clear. Why I didn’t just die and go on, why I had to reside in the pink zone. I wasn’t really ready to face God. Somewhere along the way I’d hardened my heart, stiffened my neck, become my own worst enemy. And maybe God wanted me to enter in under the best, the brightest of terms. Maybe He wanted me to see that my death was the final chance He was giving me to shine, to sacrifice myself not to the bottle but for the good of those who loved me, and I needed to take that with all the joy I’d been allotted but never used.
Fairly seems utterly wonderful, Mom!
I know.
I doubt she’ll have to spend time in a coma to come to grips.
I think you’re right. Your coma did her a world of good.
What’s the little girl’s name, Mom?
Ella. After you. He’ll name her after you.
I wonder if Ella will go on to do all the things I was made to do but never did. I wonder if Sean will be the father she needs to succeed?
Of course he will, baby doll. Sean will show her the world, and he’ll lay the possibilities before her feet like a magic carpet. Living with a love like that demands it.
And she’ll step on and ride it, won’t she, Mom?
That, Georgia Ella, will be up to her, won’t it?
I thumb through the stack of snapshots. Fairly and Sean dishing out meals, Fairly surrounded by excited kids. They pump out fresh water in another shot, and my favorite picture of all is an evening scene, a riotous sunset the backdrop as they sit in camp chairs around a great fire spitting sparks like a volcano. Fairly plays on her old flute, and Sean sings. Reverend Smithers is frozen in midclap. So he’s somehow in the picture. And what? I hear a guitar.
In fact, I hear the music clearly again. So beautiful.
UG’s guitar! In the next picture there sits my uncle, strumming away, eyes closed. He’s never looked so peaceful.
Mom?
Yes, Georgia?
What would it look like if everybody nurtured everybody else with their talents?
Mom touches my chin, and this time, I feel it. I feel her touch, her warmth. And I am twelve again, and I am whole. It would look like heaven, Georgia. It would look like heaven.
I want Dad to come too, when it’s time.
He’d like that. He’s very different now, you know.
So am I.
Yes, so are we all.
I’ll never get to read those letters, will I?
No.
But it won’t matter, will it?
Not one bit, Georgia.
Dad?
His form accumulated in the atmosphere as the light changed from pink to a blinding yellow. Ready, Georgie?
Yes.
And the three of us walked away, hand in hand.
Fairly
Georgia lived only a minute after they removed her from the respirator this time. Sean held one hand, Uncle G the other, and I stood by the foot of the bed watching them, as if my beholding them somehow captured the moment for its importance. I grasped the warmth of her ankle.
Naturally it was a small funeral. Just the cult, Uncle G, Sean, Jesse, Drea from the Ten O’Clock Club, and me. We didn’t bother with viewings or a service. We stood at the graveside and did a lot of crying, though, and I wore that old dress my mom wore at Aunt Polly’s funeral. Seemed only fitting. If a little snug.
We kept saying, “She’s happier now and in a much better place,” like people always mutter at funerals, but this time, we really believed it completely.
As it turned out, the interment took place on the same day I moved into my house on Jefferson Street. I threw on some jeans and buzzed over to direct the movers.
And I thought I’d gotten rid of a lot of stuff!
That little house is practically filled to the ceiling.
What a rushed day. Tonight, Solo and his boys move into a small rental house down the street. He’ll be teaching relig
ion at Lexington Catholic High. We’re all meeting at Della-Faye’s for supper.
After I watched the truck pull away, I met my new next-door neighbor, a young teenage girl. She stood on her porch looking at me, gave me a shy kind of wave, so I called, “Come on over! I’m Fairly, your new neighbor.”
She hopped down her walkway, opened up the iron gate in the fence surrounding her yard, swept up her hair in one of those giant clips, and in several graceful bounds met me on my porch.
“We just moved in a little while ago too.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Ninth.”
Her eyes told me she was really ninety. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
“Well, come on over anytime. Maybe we can figure out this town together.”
“I’d really like that.”
“Want a Coke?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on in.”
And so she did. And we sat on the old counter in the kitchen and drank our sodas straight from the cans.
“What are your hobbies?” I asked.
“I love fashion. I’d like to be a model or a designer someday.”
“I’m a designer. Interior designer. Not fashion.”
“Really?” Her eyes, a vague color I really couldn’t put my finger on, widened.
“Yep.”
She picked up a thermometer that somehow made its way out of one of the boxes.
I set down my drink. “I used to break those things on purpose and play with the little balls of mercury.”
“Me too!”
“I’ll bet that worries your mom as much as it did mine.”
She just shook her head. “Nah, not really. My mom’s under a lot of pressure.”
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Clarissa.”
“Wanna come with me to dinner tonight? A bunch of us are meeting over at the VIP.”
“Sure.”
“Let me warn you. We’re a crazy bunch. But everybody’s really nice.”
She nods. “I had the nicest neighbors back in Chicago.”
“I’ll try to live up to their standards.”
She takes a sip of her drink. “You’re off to a pretty good start.”
It’s a wonderful thing when you start to live.
About the Author
Lisa Samson, author of eighteen books and winner of the Christy Award, recently moved to urban Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband, Will, and their three children. They live in a drafty house that’s older than all five of them put together, and they have the sky-high electric bills to prove it. Find out more by visiting her Web site, www.lisasamson.com.
