by Lisa Samson
Prisma sits next to me, the kinky gold and silver tendrils that escape her braid dancing like steel wool cartoon characters around her head. She smiles like a model for a cigarette ad, only she isn’t trying to convince anyone of anything. “This is the life, Baby Girl!” she hollers.
I holler back. “You said it, Miss Prisma!”
“Why didn’t we do this years ago?”
“Who knows!”
“Who cares?”
“That’s right,” I say, and we zoom past minivans and SUVs, campers and cars like my Toyota.
“Do you realize how much fun a trip to the beach in a convertible is, Baby Girl?” Prisma touches my arm. “Do you realize what a blessing you’re living at this very moment?”
“I do, Miss Prisma.”
“Good. Just making sure.”
See, it’s like this. Believe me—believe me—when I tell you that no matter what class of life you find yourself in, there is plenty of trouble to go around. People living hand to mouth have the majority of their troubles from without. Grandy’s type find theirs from within.
And then there’s Mom, who never does anything halfway and has both kinds.
Our second night we sit on the front deck right there on Whale-head Beach. To our left a group of bravehearts are setting off fireworks. Now, they aren’t the big deal Fourth of July kind, but they aren’t bad for a couple of beer-bellied guys in cutoffs.
All down the beach folks turn their gaze to the show of minute, man-made splendor. Mostly red and green starbursts exploding forty or so feet up in the sky.
But in front of us, right there over the waters of the Atlantic, the moon begins to rise.
“Look, Prisma,” I say in the darkness.
“I already see, Baby Girl.”
Just then a soft light rises from a heavy bank of clouds resting on the horizon. The moon is soon to follow. We know this, and we wait as the gentle silver light thickens. The moon, we know, is hefting itself upward, like a swimmer out of a pool, its hands reaching up to the edge of the cotton gloom of darkened cloud, pulling, pulling, and shining its light brighter for all its exertion. Come on, baby. Come on, baby. And then, that singular piercing blade of light as the moon gains over the clouds preparing to rise further in one small hole of sky.
Prisma sucks in a breath. “Oh, Lord Jesus!”
“What if it’s now?” I ask. “What if He’s coming now?”
In truth, it is a sight, as the moon rises higher, of such glory and power and honesty, more honest than fireworks could ever be, that I could see Him coming. And, Lord, is that You? Please let it be so.
And I am here with Prisma of all people! Prisma who showed me the Lord in the first place.
We hold our breath, and I reach for her hand while we watch and wait.
He doesn’t come though. Not in that way.
Prisma brushes her teeth in her bathroom now as I slip into my nightshirt. I walk across the hall and stand at her doorway. “Do you think He’ll come like that?”
She shrugs, spits, and drinks from a cup. Spits again, then rinses out her toothbrush. “At least we had it right as far as the eastern sky goes.”
“I guess I never really figured it would be at night.”
“I don’t know why not. Of course, I imagine that when He descends, the sky, even the night sky, will be lit up like the daytime.”
Pushing back the cuticles on my right index finger, I say, “I feel a little silly now. Getting all worked up over the moonrise.”
“Now, don’t go feeling anything about it, Baby Girl. You’re just doing what He said to do, ‘Keep looking at the eastern sky, for it is from there your redemption will come.’ ”
I can’t wait for that day.
“It’s Sunday night. You want to watch a little TV?” I ask.
“It’s Gaither night.” Prisma raises a holy hand. “I do love my Gaither night.”
“I’ll make the popcorn.”
“I’ll pour us some ginger ale!”
And Prisma and I have us a good old time listening to good old Southern gospel. That Guy Penrod is a hottie if you’re into long hair and cowboy boots.
I lie there in my bed that night, the window open slightly to usher in the crash of the tide on the shore. I think about the fireworks and the moon and how the entire situation mirrored the world. There everyone was looking at the gaudy, sparkly work of men when just a little bit out of view lay a splendor, just a pure, truthful splendor. God’s fireworks.
No wonder Prisma watches the stars. Maybe she’s doing more than gazing at them. Maybe she’s waiting to catch that first glimpse of Jesus.
James is like this too. He’s not a fireworks guy, the kind that most people look at and go “Ooooh! Aaaaaah!” He’s a moonrise. A gentle glow rising over the horizon to shed light in the darkness, a light nobody but the discerning soul might even notice.
Things are moving fast now.
And I can say this. I will be with this man for the rest of my life. I know that’s true. And even if Christ came back tonight, it would be okay, for I’ve loved with a full heart.
Tomorrow we start at Currituck Light and work our way down. We just lazed on the beach today. I have to say, what with all the breast services plastic surgeons offer these days, the average bra size has certainly increased, and chests don’t all lie down like they used to.
Lark
WE SAT ON THE SCREENED PORCH at the back of the house. The hibiscus, large salmon platters of flora, perfumed the darkness. A citronella candle twisted its flame in the breeze, and Mother’s features looked twenty years younger in the candlelight. She knitted, and I embroidered more ribbon on that stocking.
“You know,” she said, “I believe I miss smoking on screen porches more than anyplace else.”
Mother and I, unbeknownst to each other before tonight, had fought the Battle of the Butt simultaneously ten years ago. “Me, too. With a cup of coffee, a breeze, and a fine companion, there’s nothing better.”
You know how some people say, “When I found the Lord, I tossed out my cigarette pack and never looked back” and all?
Well, good for you, mister. Not for me. I fight every single day against going to 7-Eleven and getting a pack of Marlboro Lights. Apparently Mother did too.
I was finding out a lot of things about Mother I never knew before. All those bridge clubs she attended? Well, it wasn’t just for the socialization. Mother had actually earned Masters points. It was her sport.
Tonight, out at the screened porch, she shared an even more startling revelation.
I returned with refilled teacups and placed hers on the woven place mat in front of her when she said, “Mama disowned me after I married your father.”
Just like that. She laid it bare.
“What?” I stood there, feeling too small and skinny for such a declaration, and quickly sat beside her.
“It’s true. I lied to you all these years. Mama assumed incorrectly that your father was from an old family. And we hid it from her for a while, until you were five or so. But one day she was reading a Who’s Who book, found your father, and for a reason known only to Libby Lee, researched it.”
“And she found out he was from Highlandtown and that his parents were just regular people.”
“That’s right.” Mother picked up her spoon and twirled it between finger and thumb, then placed it back on her saucer. “She wrote me a letter, Larkspur. A formal letter. She couldn’t call me on the telephone or, heaven forbid, actually say it to my face.”
“Oh, Mother.”
She turned her face, the candle caressing but one side. “She was a strange bird, my mother.”
“Why did you hide that all of these years? What difference did it make to keep it to yourself? Did Daddy know?”
Mother shook her head. “Heavens, no! Your father would have driven down there right away and tried to iron things out. He was like that.”
“Well, he never did take no for an answer.”
“Ne
ither did my mother. And she would have beaten him at his own game. My mother, never once in her life that I knew her, did anything she didn’t want to do.”
“What did you tell Daddy?”
“That she was wasting away in a nursing home and I didn’t want to remember her like that.”
“She left a legacy, didn’t she?”
Mother turned back to face me. “Larkspur, I’m sorry. We Summervilles sure know how to tell lies.”
“I’m sorry too.”
I had wanted to have this conversation all of my life. “But why do you always have to shut me out, Mother?”
“You’ve got enough troubles of your own, dear. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“What if I want to?”
Mother drew in a quick breath. “You want more worry on your shoulders? Larkspur, you’ve done your best to stay away from as much of life as possible. The good and the bad.”
And I forgot about the candle and crafts, the wind, and the tea. I forgot about screened porches, woven place mats, and a delivered gourmet dinner. Instead I saw the face of a fair-haired boy. I saw a motorcycle, a parking lot, and a false death certificate. I saw a small little house, a 777 Prayer Line number, public transit, and a Spartan wardrobe. I saw one child, a little girl named Flannery, who—God, thank You—was never fooled.
“You’re right.” Why had I erected a monastery of self-imposed martyrdom around myself? If Mother shut me out of her ills, I’d closed the door on her as well. Only by the very nature of our relationship, I quit the castle and had gone on to build battlements against the relief forces, mistaking them for the enemy. Mother tried to protect the child she loved so much from more pain. I had no such excuse.
I had wanted her to read my mind.
“My mama always said one should keep one’s problems to oneself as much as possible. But, honey, Mama was wrong.” Mother’s words blew between us like a scouring wind. “I was wrong.”
“Me, too.”
“We’ve got one week left, Larkspur. A week from tomorrow your Dr. Josefowski will cut me open—”
“Mother!”
“Well, it’s true. And in light of that fact, I think we should renew each other’s acquaintance.”
“How?”
“Oh, I don’t know. These suppers are a nice start. But I was thinking that maybe on Saturday night, you’d take me down to St. Dominic’s. I never wanted to barge in before unannounced, and I knew if I asked to come …”
Barge! Barge away! “I’d like that.”
Later that night, after I cleared away the dishes and made sure Mother was all set for the night, I picked up the phone and called Marsha. I related the conversation.
“Well, finally!” she cried.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s that for?”
“I’ve been praying for this, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“God put you back home for a reason, Lark. I was just praying He’d show you what that reason was.”
I laughed a little. “You mean it really wasn’t just the faulty wiring?”
“Oh, hon, God works in the electrical business, too.”
“I really thought He’d burned my house down to finally get me out of it for good.”
“Well, you know how God is. He definitely is the type to kill two birds with one stone.”
Birds?
Yep, that would be me and Mom. Thank goodness I didn’t have to take the word kill literally. That would be bad.
“Hey, how was your date with Johnny?”
“We had to reschedule. He’s coming over here for dinner.”
“To meet your Mom?”
“He’s already met her. At your place.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“I figure the better he knows her, the better job he’ll do.”
“Good thinking, Lark!”
I agreed. I mean, my mother had finally opened her heart. And Dr. Johnny Josefowski needed to do all he could to keep it up and running for a long time to come.
Leslie
LARK INVITED THAT LOVELY MAN OVER TONIGHT. Dr. Johnny Josefowski. A delightful man. Calm, quiet in demeanor, smart, and unpretentious. The perfect suitor. If Charles is looking down, he’s thrilled. And to think he will be performing my surgery comforts me. I scheduled the preop visit for Friday afternoon.
“You’re from Baltimore originally?” I asked as we sat down in the living room. I haven’t sat in the living room in ages. And no wonder. It looks like something my mother thought of as a living room.
“Yes. I moved away for a little while to go to college though.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“University of Virginia.”
“UVA?” I sucked in my breath and glanced over at Lark. “UVA! Why, Johnny, I’m from Charlottesville!”
And then we talked about all the lovely countryside, the beautiful campus designed by Jefferson himself. “Of course, I wouldn’t have been part of the society from which you came,” he said. “But I did attend a party given in honor of the university president at the Strawbridge home, back in 1978. Your sister was the hostess, I believe.”
“Caroline?”
“Yes, Caroline Farrow her name was.”
“Precisely. She married one of the Farrow boys from the next county.” I laughed. “It sounds like Gone with the Wind all over again!”
Lark smiled right at me, and we kept my family secret to ourselves. We raised our eyebrows at one another in conspiratorial joviality.
Through thick and thin and all that. A lovely thing.
“Have you been back there recently, Leslie?” he asked.
I waved a casual hand. “Not in years! Oh, it’s so good to hear about all this again. Makes me feel decades younger. So, tell me what you do in your spare time.”
He barked out that marvelous laugh, and I really am telling the truth when I say it visibly affected Larkspur.
What a wonderful man.
They took their leave to attend that study group thing, leaving me with an entire Thursday evening to myself. Truth to tell, the visit exhausted me after I’d worked on my photo album all day, so I poured a glass of water, grabbed that Bible that Prisma gave me, and climbed the steps to my bedroom. I wanted to read about the loaves-and-fishes matter again, and I wanted to be sure I asked Prisma if she could take me to church with her on Sunday. I refuse to go back to hear that pastor’s viewpoint any longer. I can come up with my own if viewpoints are all I’m looking for.
Prisma and Flannery are coming back Saturday afternoon. It will be wonderful to see them. I’ve missed them. I never knew how much Stoneleigh House needed us all. Oh, that’s twaddle. I never realized how much I needed all these women around me. No time remains for delusion, and there’s not enough time to expect everyone else to shoulder my blame. I dropped the ball somewhere along the line. I’m not sure when or where, but I did. I was the mother. It was up to me.
My heart has swollen to three times its size. Not literally, mind you. And I am blessed.
Four more days until Johnny performs the surgery. At least I feel I can trust him. My goodness, if I can trust him with Lark, I can certainly place this old ticker in his hands with some confidence.
Lark
JOHNNY KISSED ME THAT NIGHT. After study group we drove to his house on White Avenue.
“Want to sit on the porch? I can put on a pot of tea.”
“Thanks.” A nice breeze blew that evening.
After escorting me out of the car, we climbed the steps up onto the wooden porch of his small home. Freshly painted obviously. Sunny yellow.
“I didn’t expect you to have such a pristine little house.”
“Why not? Don’t let the T-shirts fool you. Be right back.”
And then he leaned over and kissed my forehead. Just like that, really easy and natural. I froze.
He laughed and caressed my cheek. “Have a seat on the settee, Lark.”
Then he
disappeared.
Oh my word. The kiss seeped under my skin like brandy. I sat on the settee and allowed a small dream into my mind.
“I love the moon,” I whispered to myself, settling my derriere further into the seat. Ooh, a glider rocker. I love those things.
“I do too.”
I whirled around. “I didn’t hear you come out.”
“Just got the kettle on.” He sat next to me.
“Do you ever find it hard to believe that at one time all of this didn’t exist?”
“Yes. At times. And then at others I think it could only come from the mind of an artist.”
“That’s what Flannery says. It’s one of the reasons she decided to make art her career. She says it makes her feel closer to God when she’s drawing or painting or whatever.”
I felt his arm settle across my shoulders, lightly as though he still bore most of its weight. “That’s the way I feel during surgery.”
“Really?”
“Well, God is in the business of mending broken hearts.”
My smile warmed my own darkness. “Yeah, He is.”
“Are you playing at church Saturday night?”
“Of course. And Mother is coming. To the five and the seven o’clock.”
“Would you be jealous if I was her date?”
“No way! It would be a relief. I’m scared she’ll get tired early on and have no way to get home.”
“How are you getting home?”
“Flannery’s coming to pick me up.”
“Oh.”
“Or you, if you want.”
He captured my hand. “I want.”
“You may have to take Mother home, then come back down.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“Good.”
I heard somebody laughing maniacally inside the house. “Who is that?”
“It’s my sister Celine.”
“What? I didn’t know you still lived with your siblings.”
“Just Celine. We’re the only ones left after all of these years.”
