by Pamela Morsi
“Really? When I knew him, all his kids were still in high school.”
“They’re all out on their own now,” I told her. “And he’s retired. Or he’s sort of retired. He works for the logger’s union now.”
“I didn’t know the loggers even had a union,” Mom said. “It was nice of him to come by.”
“Yeah,” I said, then hesitated for a moment. “Did you know that my father saved his life?” I asked.
Mom glanced over at me and then nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “He told me the day of the funeral.”
“How come you never told me?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I thought that when I left this town I left all of that behind me. Sonny. The Lelands. My childhood. I thought I’d left everything here and I’d never have to come back and look at it again.”
“But you did.”
“I didn’t have any choice,” she said. “I got cancer. I would have run from that, too, but I was afraid that I couldn’t outrun it. And if I didn’t, who would take care of you kids?”
I had known from the beginning that was why we were here. She knew she might die. And if she died, we’d have our grandparents. We wouldn’t be just two more unwanted children bouncing around foster care. When it really counted, Sierra and I could count on her.
“Do you think my dad was a hero?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she answered, without hesitation.
“So why didn’t you tell us about how he died saving a man’s life?”
Mom thought about that for a minute. “I guess I didn’t think it would make any difference,” she said. “Sonny was dead. The details weren’t that important. Your dad was a wonderful, loving, caring man. He could be selfless when he needed to be. He could be selfish, as well. He wasn’t a saint, Dakota. I didn’t want you ever thinking he was anything other than a decent ordinary man getting along in the world the best he knew how.”
“Do you think he sacrificed his life for Lonnie’s?” I asked.
Mom took my hand in her own and looked at me intently. “I don’t know,” she told me. “But whether he deliberately saved Lonnie’s life or stepped in front of him accidentally didn’t change any of the truth about Sonny Leland.”
“No, I guess it didn’t,” I agreed. “That’s what Lonnie thinks, too. That it doesn’t matter how he was saved. Why he was saved is what matters.”
“Why he was saved?” Mom looked at me skeptically. “It was some kind of freak accident.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but only one man was destined to die there,” I said. “That means there must have been some reason for one man to be destined to live.”
She just looked at me. I knew she didn’t get it.
“Do you know anything about the chaos theory, Mom?”
“It’s that math game you play on the computer,” she said. “Where you make all those cool pictures.”
“It’s actually kind of an idea about the universe,” I told her. “I don’t really understand it all that much, but it’s like things happen sometimes for what seems like no reason.”
Mom snorted and shook her head. “You got that right,” she said.
“And once something happens, no matter how big it is or how small, it changes everything around it.”
“Yeah.”
“But ultimately, as the picture gets broader and broader, a pattern emerges.”
“A pattern?”
“The pattern that was there all the time,” I said.
“I hope this isn’t ‘things happen for a reason,’ because you know I hate that.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “It might even be the opposite of that. Some things may happen for no reason. And, big or small, that makes changes. It can make a lot of changes. So what we see in our lives as accident, happenstance, dumb luck, may truly be that. But that is not the end of it. In the long run, the universe and everything in it proceeds exactly as it was meant to all along.”
I could tell that Mom wasn’t getting it.
“Hydrogen and oxygen had to be present on this planet to create water,” I explained. “On other planets they are either not available or not in the right quantities or they’re overwhelmed by the presence of other elements. On Earth they both did happen to be present so there was water and all life was possible because of that. But just because they both happened to be here in exactly the right quantities doesn’t mean that was our good luck and Jupiter’s bad luck.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“That maybe the intention was for our planet to have people and other ones not,” I said.
“And that’s not probability or fate or just randomness?”
“There is no real random,” I said. “What I’m thinking is that if the chaos theory is right, once you get enough perspective, a pattern, an order will be obvious.”
“That would have to be a pretty big perspective,” Mom said.
“Yeah, when it comes to life, it’s maybe an infinite one,” I said quietly.
“You’re like talking about the mind of God,” Mom said.
I shrugged. I thought it would sound too stupid to say it aloud.
Mom looked at me for a very long time. She reached out and smoothed my halfway grown-out bangs out of my eyes and smiled.
“What’s this I see?” she said, only a little above a whisper. “My geeky science caterpillar has turned into a philosophy butterfly.”
“Yeah, one who’s flapping her wings like crazy, trying to change the weather,” I said.
“So you think,” she said, “that somehow each life has its place in the order of the universe. And that we should fulfill our destiny and trust that God has everything under control.”
“I don’t think I would have said it like that,” I admitted. “But, yeah, Mom. I think that works.”
She took my face in her hands and kissed me on the nose.
“How sure are you of that?” she asked.
“Mom, come on,” I said. “I’m thirteen now. Don’t you remember? Teenagers are sure of everything.”
There was a light tap on the door.
“It’s open!” Mom called out.
“Delivery for the hot chick on the ward,” Del Tegge said as he came into the room carrying a huge bouquet of yellow roses.
He walked over to the side of Mom’s bed and leaned over to give her a light kiss on the temple. He did it so casually, it had to have been something he’d done before.
“How are you feeling? I hope you’re resting?”
She didn’t answer his questions. She was too thrilled by the flowers. “These are beautiful!” Mom said. “How’d you know that yellow roses are my favorite? Did the girls tell you?”
She glanced at me accusingly. I shook my head.
“I didn’t know,” Del told her. “I was in the flower shop and I saw them and suddenly you just seemed like the yellow roses type.”
“The yellow roses type?” she repeated. “Uh-oh.” She turned to look at me. “I think Mr. Del Tegge has your mom figured out.”
“Well, you’ve got him figured out, too,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked.
“Do you know what Del’s full name is?”
Mom shook her head.
“It’s Delbert Spencer Tegge, Jr.” I emphasized the last.
Mom looked at me. Her eyes widened and then she laughed. She laughed like she hadn’t laughed in months.
She turned to Del.
“Has anybody ever called you Sonny?” she asked.
REAL LIFE
Five years later
“It’s amazing how different a church looks for a wedding than for a funeral,” Vern said.
We were standing just off to the side in front of the extra congregation seating watching Phrona and Sierra as they made the final run-through of the decor. The flower arrangements were viewed from every angle. The elaborate candelabra on the chancel were cleaned, positioned and ready. The sconces that had been
attached to the pews were already lit. Down the center aisle a white linen runner lay ready for a bride and her attendants.
“Don’t be sad today, Gramps,” I told him. “This is a happy day, a day to celebrate.”
“I’m not sad,” he assured me. “Memories still get ahold of me, I guess they always will. But I’m not sad. And I am celebrating.”
“Good for you.”
“I have so much to be grateful for,” he said, a teasing smile turning up his lip. “I’ve got a wonderful wife, who only drives me crazy about forty-five percent of the time. A dog that believes that I retired for the sole purpose of devoting long walks to him. And two lovely granddaughters, the youngest of whom was just accepted to Duke.”
“All right!” I said, giving myself a little cheer. “Go Blue Devils.”
“Don’t say that too loud,” Vern cautioned. “We got twenty-eight thousand Vols fans a block away.”
“I’m not a traitor,” I assured him. “I’ve just got road trips somewhere in my genetic makeup.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said.
“Sierra, too,” I pointed out. “Now that she’s a big fashion mogul, probably planning jaunts to Paris and Rome.”
My sister spoke up. “I’d take Atlanta if it was all expenses paid,” she said. “Besides, somebody’s got to buy clothes for the discount stores. Those people want fashion, too.”
Vern and I shared a smile.
“A lucky man,” he repeated. “I’m going to have two girls in college and I don’t even have to pay for it.”
“Thank God for that Brotherhood of Timber Workers Scholarship Fund.”
He nodded.
“Of course,” I pointed out, “this wedding could easily soak up all those savings.”
Vern laughed. “It’s the first wedding I ever paid for,” he said. “But I’m hoping and praying it won’t be my last.”
He leaned over and kissed me on the nose.
“I’m telling you,” he said. “I am a lucky man.”
“You’re going to be the man who held up the festivities if you don’t get in there and get into your tux,” Phrona told him.
She and Sierra had apparently tweaked, tucked and twiddled with everything in the sanctuary. They came up to join us.
“It only takes a minute for me to dress,” Vern told us. “And besides, nobody, but nobody will cast an eye in my direction with all you lovely ladies in view.”
Sierra giggled. “Gramps, you’ve got slicker lines than half the men in this town,” she told him.
“And Sierra should know,” I pointed out. “Since most of them have been used on her.”
“That’s just jealousy talking.”
“Jealousy, along with everyone else,” I teased.
“Come on, girls,” Phrona said, glancing down at her watch. “We’ve got to get to the bride’s room and get dressed. We haven’t even had a crisis yet. And it’s a law of nature that you can’t have a wedding without a crisis.”
“See you soon, Gramps.”
We both kissed Vern and then hurried in Phrona’s wake.
The bride’s room was normally a music hall in the church’s education addition. Today it was decorated in bright-yellow bridesmaid dresses and a gown of pure white.
Phrona was already dressed and checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, before helping the bride.
I stripped out of my blue jeans and T-shirt to struggle into panty hose. I didn’t normally wear much makeup, but had gone to the trouble in honor of the occasion.
“You need some more blush,” Phrona told me.
I glanced at my reflection. “More? Grandma are you sure? I already feel like a painted tart.”
“In this yellow, you can’t wear too much color,” Sierra said.
Phrona nodded in agreement. Dutifully, I added more.
The years in Knoxville had improved my face and figure. I no longer looked like the awkward, unattractive duckling I’d been when we moved here. I would never be as pretty as my sister. But I had the fortunate genetics of two attractive parents. It was no longer a struggle for me to look at myself in the mirror.
The crisis my grandmother predicted did, in fact, occur when inexplicably the heel on Sierra’s shoe broke off. At least she managed to catch herself on a chair rather than falling to perhaps break an ankle or leg.
After frantic cell phone calls to Sierra’s network of fashionable gal pals, a pair of doable shoes were located and officially on their way. She relaxed a little bit, but didn’t actually calm down until the new pair were on her feet.
I waited to put on my dress until the last moment, certain that I’d either wrinkle it, tear it or soil it. When I couldn’t put it off a moment longer, I pulled the massively skirted yellow confection, an original Sierra Leland, over my head.
The mirror revealed a young, slightly slimmer version of Mrs. Butterworth.
“Did you forget to change your bra?” Sierra asked.
“Huh?”
“The push-up bra, you don’t have on the push-up bra.”
“I didn’t buy one,” I admitted.
“Dakota, what were you thinking?” she asked me. “You hardly have any ta-tas at all.”
“I know that, you know that, everybody in Knoxville probably knows that. Wearing a bra to make it look otherwise wouldn’t change a thing.”
Sierra huffed, annoyed.
“Well, it would make the dress look better on you,” she said.
“Nothing, Sierra,” I assured her, “would make this dress look any better on me.”
“Time to go, time to go,” Phrona said. Her voice was high and excited as if she were as nervous as the rest of us.
We walked to the front vestibule. It was rarely used these days, as everyone preferred the convenience of the side entrance.
Vern was waiting, looking very distinguished and handsome in his tux.
“You look great, kid,” he told me.
“You too, Gramps.”
That was all I had time for. Keli Patrick, who was Jane Wickham’s cousin’s niece and the wedding coordinator, handed me my bouquet.
“Ouch!” I winced as I glanced down at the little bundle of yellow roses.
“Did you get a thorn?” Keli asked.
“Yes.”
She quickly handed me a tissue and I managed to dab my injury before I got any of it on my dress.
“The florist is supposed to shave all those off,” she said. “But no matter how careful they are, occasionally there’ll be one that got missed.”
“I think it’s already stopped bleeding,” I assured her.
“Well, keep the tissue, you may need it for tears anyway,” she said.
The music began.
“Remember, head up, back straight, don’t walk too fast. It’s not a race,” Keli said.
I nodded. But as they opened the door, it was all I could do to keep from running down the aisle.
“Go, go,” Keli said. “And smile.”
I began to walk forward. One step, another, another. The church was full and every eye was on me. Knox Villains my mom had once called them. Now they were our friends, our neighbors, even our family.
Smile, I remembered. This was a wonderful day. A fabulous day. A day I’d hoped for and prayed for and maybe never truly believed would happen.
Up ahead I caught sight of a very familiar face. Spence stood as tall as his dad now, but still had all the skinny awkwardness that was the definition of age sixteen. His tux was a perfect match for his father’s but his hair was gel-spiked into the current style.
I reached the end of the linen runner, stepped up to the same level as Spence, but turned my back to him heading for the far left, where I stopped and stood facing the crowd.
Sierra was only half a church behind me. Her smile didn’t look at all nervous or forced. She was bright, vivacious and oh so pretty. It shone from the inside out. And unlike me, she looked smashing in the thousand yards of yellow tulle skirt. She took her place at my side.<
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There was a moment of hesitation. A pause that said everything about excitement and expectation and solemnity.
Then the organist began the wedding march.
There was Mom, on Vern’s arm. Her natural brown curls flirted around her collarbone and were adorned only by the pin that held her pillbox hat in place. Her dress was straight cut, almost masculine, emphasizing the slim curves of her very feminine body.
I hadn’t forgotten the years of sickness, the fear of death. Remission. Recurrence. More chemo. New chemo. Radiation. Bone marrow. The uncertainty was for Mom an ominous cloud that hangs over all of those who know it can happen to them. But today all of that was very far away. There was nothing inside Church Street Methodist but health and hope and future.
Mom still volunteered with CAVA, though she was hard-pressed for time these days. With the help of my grandparents, Mom had started college the year I started high school. With the ups and downs of her disease, she still had a way to go before graduation, but we all knew she was going to get there. It was just going to take time. And we thought, we hoped, we prayed, that she would have plenty of that.
But the groom hadn’t wanted to wait any longer, he’d told her. There was never going to be a magic day when they knew for sure that all their worries would be over. They must grab for their future, worries and all, and refuse to let life be lost in the anticipation of it.
Mom had agreed. Sierra and I did, too.
“Who gives this woman to be married?” the minister asked.
“All of us who are her family,” Vern answered.
Mom reached out and put her hand in Del’s. It was a very small act. It altered the equation. Yet somehow I had the confidence now that things work out as they are meant to be.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-2837-5
BY SUMMER’S END
Copyright © 2005 by Pamela Morsi.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
