by Wall, Carol
All on the street are inquiring. Mrs. Driscoll has given us reports of your telephone conversations and brief visits. Today, she sends you the message that she’s expecting further issues with her beautiful gardenias and those aphids that may very well settle in again. She is going to try some lady beetles, which will eat the aphids. If you have suggestions, she is completely open and exasperated, she reports. Mr. Robert Maxim has announced his engagement to the niece of a local woman. A garden wedding is set for late July, at Mr. Maxim’s home, and he requests I ask you to assist Mrs. Driscoll and me in the planning of a trellis that can function as a focal point. Further up the street, the Saunders lady sends you word of copious amounts of golden squash she will be planting and will send your way. She will leave it on your porch, starting later in the season. The widow lady on the corner contemplates a sunflower to celebrate your courage, and she anticipates a time when you and she will stand together in her yard, admiring it.
At every house along the street, you have a neighbor who is listening and waiting. Bienta often says that all of us would fare a little better if we cultivated our connections with the ones around us, and her words are always wise. Any news of your improvement adds a note of cheer as I go up and down the sidewalk. I am pleased to say that Lok received the ruby-colored rose you pressed last year, before this current trouble started, between the pages of your heavy classroom dictionary. I sent it shortly after you gave it to me, but the mail is slow in coming. It finally arrived. She has placed it in her Luo Testament, and she thanks you very, very much.
Bienta said your name was recently included in the Prayers of the Faithful, during Mass. She urged that I go with her last week, and I did, standing to the side as she lit a candle on behalf of all your needs and the dilemmas of your People.
I do believe her prayers go quickly up. The Saints of God are well acquainted with my wife. If I am sure of anything, I’m sure of this.
Your friend,
Giles Owita
15.
Green Plants, Only
My feelings were mixed as I rang the bell to mark the end of my chemo. My Handsome Oncologist had told me I might feel that way, although I hadn’t believed him until this moment. For nine long months, I had been tethered to the chemo lab with its toxic brew of hopefully helpful chemicals administered by a caring and very talented staff. In other words, I had been doing something positive to fight potential cancer cells that might remain—and a lot of spiffy people had supported me and given me top-notch care.
Now I was on my own again. It felt like a free fall.
Dick was at my elbow as we walked away. We waved off the golf cart shuttle and Dick volunteered to pull the van up for me. But I said no, and I matched him, stride for stride across the parking lot, my shadow narrow and thin beside his larger, more proportioned one. I wondered if he felt a little empty, just as I did.
Arriving home, we saw Giles pacing at the line of boxwoods in our yard. Intent on his inspection, he did not look up until we pulled into the driveway.
“Eh!” he called to both of us.
“This is it!” I cheerfully announced with my hands flung wide. “And in a few more days, when my blood counts have risen a bit, I can start assisting you again.”
“Every day brings something good!” Giles answered with his trademark ease, his accent heavy, just as always, on the final consonant.
“I’m going to learn a lot, this time,” I said. “More hands-on stuff. Okay?”
“This yard is ready for you, Mrs. Wall.” He flashed his million-dollar smile. “Many of my projects will require your assistance. I have some new ideas for us, as well.”
I saw a small white book protruding from the back pocket of his navy work suit.
“What’s that?” I said.
Reaching toward it, he became more sober. “Bienta sent this. She said she hoped that it would help to answer some of your questions. I believe you spoke to her about your mother? How is she faring, Mrs. Wall?”
“I haven’t seen her since that night I tucked them into bed, nine long months ago. I’m going there next week. Poor Dick has managed all of us. Can you believe it?”
Giles shook his head and made a sympathetic clucking sound. I suddenly thought of Lok and felt a pang of guilt for dwelling on my lengthy separation from my parents while Giles and Bienta’s situation was so much worse. Yet we all had our sadness, as Giles himself would have said to me, and I had to learn to stop comparing the shares we were each given.
Inside, I opened the small white book and found a letter tucked inside.
APRIL 26
Dear Mrs. Wall,
Thank you for your questions. I found this book among my things, and loan it in the hope that certain passages noted below might be useful.
Recall our discussion about your mother’s difficulty with the spoken word. Hers is an especially challenging case, as she cannot ask questions nor reliably express herself. In addition, she may display emotions that are not appropriate to the situation, so you should not expect too much from the reunion. Most of all, you should not take things personally should she cry out or otherwise appear to be upset with you. As to the specific question asked in our recent phone conversation, she is probably not aware of how much time has passed since she saw you last. I will add here, however, that your dilemma touches my heart to an extent I cannot adequately express. You and your People continue in my prayers. You and your husband have weathered things admirably. Not everyone could do that.
In general, I would say that your mother would not be alarmed were you to decide to wear your wig instead of appearing with either the head wrap or the very short hair which you describe. If she is able, and if her vision is intact, she may well note a difference, but I feel that she will focus on the joy of seeing you again, these many months having passed, and will not be inclined to wonder if you have been under treatment for cancer.
In any case, do not carry regret of any kind into your reunion with your parents. Simply let the joy of this precious moment in Time be yours, just as you will do in your joyous and long-awaited return to your students. The substitute has been adequate, my spies report. But for many months, your students have longed to hear your voice and enjoy the amusing things you say. Your ways are fair. You are loved at Saint B’s.
We will all pray that you and your dear parents continue to receive the Lord’s healing grace.
Blessings,
Bienta Owita
• • •
Perhaps Mama was waiting for me, and that’s what kept her holding on to life. I had told Daddy that I was going on a trip, and it turned out to be a longer absence than any of us had expected. But she waited for me before she said goodbye, and for that I was grateful.
JUNE 25
Dear Bienta,
Thank you for loaning me this very helpful text. Your wise counsel helped me make the last few weeks of my mother’s life a time of comfort and spiritual healing for her. She died at peace.
You were right about the wig. I wore it, and she never seemed to question things, although she did reach out a time or two as if to tug at it. Thank goodness, I was faster, dodging away from her hand to prevent an “unveiling.”
Please also express my thanks to Giles for giving me the excellent suggestions for the casket topper. I’ll be meeting with the florist later today, in Radford. I will think of you both on Friday as we carry forth the theme of “For the Beauty of the Earth,” my mother’s favorite hymn. I should add that during these last weeks with her, it seemed she especially enjoyed any story of Giles’s ongoing work in my yard. I had to embellish a bit because of my long winter of being indisposed and out of touch. As I wove these tales, my mother’s eyes were closed, but a pleasant look would sometimes brighten her face. I only regret that she did not have the opportunity to meet you. She has always been an admirer of “quality people,” and I feel that one of the gr
eatest gifts she has given me is the ability to recognize them for myself.
With a heart full of gratitude,
Carol Wall
• • •
I stood beside my mother’s open grave, a hand pressed more than lightly to my head as breezes blew. I wore the wig, a final token of respect for Mama, in case she was looking down and hadn’t had her briefing on my second cancer saga yet.
The time that I’d been dreading all my life was here. The funeral canopy snapped and fluttered as my childhood’s darkest fear sank in. Mama had passed away. Her body joined Barbara’s in the ground.
I was pleased with the way the casket topper featured the various greens of leaves, velvety-looking moss, and the single Easter lily that celebrated the role of faith in my mother’s earthly journey.
She used to take us out on nature walks when we were little. Each of us had a little paper bag for collecting acorns, folds of lime-green moss, leaves displaying shapes and forms to stir the imagination. I visualized the notebook page containing Giles’s suggestions for Mama’s casket topper, written in his bold, distinctive script. “Leaves of the hosta,” I recalled him writing as I held the notebook steady on the railing of the porch.
“Green plants, only,” I had requested. “Natural things were what she loved and what she led us to discover on our walks.”
“Fern and weeping willow, lamb’s ear,” Giles continued. “Lime-green mosses, if selected carefully.” Once he’d finished his list, he looked in my direction. “These nature walks, perhaps, are part of why you favor greener hues to highly colored, cultivated blossoms?”
“Maybe, Giles. I’ve never thought of that.” It was certainly a positive way of looking at my aversion to flowers.
My children had left the cemetery now. Each one was given a creamy-white, long-stemmed rose to place on their grandmother’s casket, on top of the greenery. A few feet away was Barbara’s headstone, where her birth and death dates hovered close together, pointing to the heartache that no Kodak print could ever capture. From my vantage point, I looked out across the rolling hills of Radford, remembering all the times Daddy had taken me here to place flowers on her grave.
Thunder rumbled as I noted the roofs of newer houses among the crowded treetops. Wasn’t there a cave we used to climb around in, somewhere over there? Now that I was a parent, life seemed much more dangerous, the risks I took a little shocking. In the distance, I saw the outlines of the high school Dick and I attended, now with extra wings, a brand-new gym, a soccer field that was fashioned out of a landscape that was once dust, tall grass, and scrub pines.
Driving into town today, we passed by Daddy’s old hotel. The newsstand and bookstore he operated for many years had been converted into a sandwich shop. He didn’t even recognize the street, and he spoke to Mama as if she were there. “Margaret, look how blue the sky is! Not a cloud in sight!”
My fingertips caressed the fern that trembled on the casket. I was finding it hard to leave Mama here.
Dick helped Daddy into the car, which was parked downhill. I watched my father fold his lanky legs into the vehicle, cooperating stiffly, with his glance a dimly executed exercise in random caution. Poor thing, even after viewing Mama in her coffin, he had been puzzled as to what we were doing here. Over and over today, despite our repeated explanations, he’d said, “Girls, I’ve got to find your mother!”
Maybe we shouldn’t have brought him. Just last week, Dick got a phone call from the Roanoke police, who’d found Daddy wandering in town, not far from heavy traffic. He wouldn’t be returning to Heathwood Hearth after this. Judy had found him a more secure facility closer to her.
Thunder rumbled again, and the trees shivered, oaks and maples shedding their leaves reluctantly. Evergreens that formed a border for the cemetery made me think of wildly swaying hula skirts. I held my wig in place more tightly.
We were safely in the car as heavy raindrops started their slide along the windshield and more thunder sounded. Rivulets of water streamed down the canvas canopy over Mama’s grave. I remembered Mama kneeling to tie on my winter cap or help me button up my raincoat in weather like this. Now, incredibly, it seemed we were going to leave her here in this terrible downpour, as well as for all the weather that came after that.
It was comforting to think of my mother and Barbara, together at last. I didn’t claim to be an expert on heaven, but I believed that’s how it worked.
The wind picked up even more. I looked out through the watery scrim of raindrops on the car window. The workers stood away from the gravesite, their eyes downcast respectfully. One worker sat on the heavy digging equipment in the background, poised to complete his assignment once we’d left the cemetery.
None of us seemed in a hurry to leave and we made small talk. Finally, I was the one to say, “What are you waiting for, Dick?”
As Dick drove, I had a vision of my mother—it couldn’t have been a memory, and yet it felt just that sharp and real. She wore a pink-and-brown gingham housedress, strappy sandals, and anklets, and she held Barbara against her hip. Mama’s bangs were cut in a Mamie Eisenhower style, and a little black-and-white beagle we used to have—his name was Crisco—leaped into the plastic backyard swimming pool. Barbara leaned toward our mother smiling, and Mama smiled back.
16.
Impatiens
My cell phone almost never rang when I was at school. But just after lunch, I heard it bleating from the bottom of my purse.
As I fished it out, I heard the new boy, Sam, reading his favorite quote from Our Town. Each student in the class was supposed to pick one, and then give a presentation about how it related to the overall theme of the play. Sam delivered his chosen lines well.
“Hello?” I whispered into my phone.
It was Sarah. “Carol? Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, but . . .” Her voice was shaky. She was usually so steady.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Giles has had a stroke.” She struggled to control her emotions. “It’s serious. He collapsed at home. Paralysis. Loss of language skills. They’re still assessing.”
I sat down in an empty student desk. Just like Mama. Only two months ago, Giles had helped me with her casket topper.
“Mrs. Wall, are you all right?” A thoughtful girl named Maggie touched my arm.
“Yes. Fine. Just tired,” I said.
My gaze found the narrow bank of windows at the back of my classroom. Cars and trucks raced by on the expressway. They moved too quickly, weaving in and out. Why must they be in such a hurry? The outside world seemed unreal. We were having a perfectly good day, and then . . .
I heard Sam’s voice reciting his lines. “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?”
• • •
After school that day, I sat at home awaiting word on Giles. Unable to concentrate on anything else, I stared out at the yard. Everywhere I looked, Giles’s handiwork was evident, and simple to identify. Whatever looked especially beautiful had been nurtured by his hand these past three years.
Sarah phoned to ask if I had heard anything from Bienta.
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” I said.
“We’ve heard nothing more,” she said. “Listen. I’ve got a high-maintenance client on Wildwood Mountain who wants some plants delivered in time for a party tonight. Why don’t you come along with me? I’d love the company and I could use the extra pair of hands. Plus, this client adores Giles and I dread telling her. She’ll be so upset.”
I agreed to go with her. It would be better than sitting here by myself, stewing.
When she arrived, Sarah’s van was stuffed to the gills with ferns and hanging baskets of red geraniums. We pretended to be cheery, but lapsed into quiet for most of the drive. I thought of how many people depended on Giles, of Bienta and the children, and especially of Lok, who was an ocean aw
ay. I was terrified for them—and for him.
Sarah steered the Shoppe van up a winding drive that led us through a riotous display of wild dogwood, scrub pines, and a scattering of mountain laurel. “The Blue Hills Mansion is the last house on Wildwood Drive. Have you ever been inside?”
“No,” I said, “but I’ve seen pictures in the newspaper. I hear it’s quite the showplace.”
“That’s our client. She’s lived there for forty years, and wants things just so.”
We passed several other stately homes, all built in the railroad boom of the early 1900s, all made of the same dark brick, and featuring expansive covered porches. We reached the top and parked in the driveway of the Blue Hills Mansion. I watched from the van as Sarah rang the doorbell and a well-dressed woman with a helmet of lacquered white hair answered. A younger woman, possibly her daughter, came out, too.
I couldn’t help noticing the sleekness of the younger girl’s figure and the Hollywood perfection of her healthy, flowing hair. There was a time, not very long ago, when I would have identified more with the daughter than the mother. I would have looked at the younger woman through narrowed eyes, wondering how I compared, and most likely overcome with envy. But I had undergone a slow transformation over the last year. I had come to a gradual acceptance that I was “that lady”—the one who drove slower than all the impatient younger folks on the highway, the one who younger men found invisible, and who reminded younger women of their mothers. But instead of resenting that shift, I decided to embrace it. In our youth- and health-obsessed culture, it was either win or lose, and I decided not to play that game at all. The contest was rigged anyway—because everyone, sooner or later, was going to age out of the running. So I decided to just get over myself. The world would not end if I had a bad hair day or didn’t monitor every bite of food that went in my mouth.
