by Wall, Carol
I counted forward in time. How many weeks would pass before summer came again? And when did the roses bloom last year? I would find the answers in the notes I’d made in my marble notebook, hopefully. Or maybe I’d simply remember the lessons conveyed by a man who taught me, at last, to love flowers. I placed my hand on the polished wood that held the body of my friend. Its surface felt so very smooth, and there was comfort, just in that. I took my loving leave of Giles and climbed the stairs to join the choir.
Epilogue
I sat by the window in my study, looking out. Summer had arrived in my yard again, but without Giles, it didn’t feel the same.
The shrub that Naam planted that final day by the creek had at last sported its blossoms of bright red and yellow. As I noticed this, the hummingbird I’d been seeing for several days dipped through the yard yet again, hovering above Giles’s bush and drawing nectar from the blooms.
At noon, I joined Bienta for lunch. We’d become regulars, and the hostess showed us to our favorite table. I told Bienta how the shrub had been attracting a lovely hummingbird that visited often.
She held her spoon of tomato soup aloft. “A hummingbird is visiting your yard?”
“That’s right. Down on the bank. I showed you the shrub we planted. Remember?”
She sank back in her chair. I asked what was wrong.
“Did you not know about the hummingbird?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
In a mesmerized tone of voice, she told me about a hummingbird who visited Giles each day at the picture window last summer, as he was sitting in his wheelchair. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and would simply hover in midair, looking at him through the glass. “The boys liked to tease their father, calling the creature his pet,” she said.
“No,” I said. “A hummingbird? He never mentioned it.” My heart was beating rapidly.
“We have looked in vain for that hummingbird this season,” she said. “It is nowhere to be found. It has not visited our yard at all this year.”
I gave a tiny gasp. We stared at each other, only somewhat disbelieving—after all, we were dealing with Giles—until the waitress returned to see if everything was all right.
“We’re fine,” I said.
“More or less,” Bienta added. She offered me a wistful smile. “We have learned a lot, haven’t we, Mrs. Wall?”
“We have.”
Driving home, I remembered reading something about hummingbirds. It was lovely, yet unsettling, and I couldn’t recall the specifics. As Rhudy enthusiastically greeted me at the door, it suddenly struck me. I rushed upstairs to my dresser and pulled out the stack of get-well cards from my surgery and chemotherapy. I had bundled them with a rubber band and buried them beneath my carefully folded T-shirts. Removing the rubber band, I thumbed through the stack until I found it. It was a card with a hummingbird logo on the back. Below the logo was the notation: “Legend has it that the hummingbird is able to float free of Time.”
I pressed the stack of greeting cards to my chest and closed my eyes. What other surprises waited for me around the river’s bend? I went to my study, where my marble notebook occupied a special corner of the desk. Something told me that I wasn’t finished writing in it yet. I looked out at the creek. I saw my face reflected in the windowpane.
Giles, tell me—what about the next scan and the next? What will my counts be? What will my future bring? I simply have to know.
No definite answer was forthcoming. The hummingbird was not in evidence either, but Giles’s cane stood in a shadowy corner by my desk. I considered what might have been Giles’s greatest lesson to me—his example of the gracious acceptance of the handicaps and afflictions life had brought him. He had shown me that the earth is full of hidden treasures.
I heard Giles’s voice as he softly whispered, “In every moment there exists a lifetime. Every day brings something good!”
Author’s Note
This memoir is based on a true story. Names of individuals—and certain other identifying information—have been changed to ensure privacy. In a few instances, the time line has been compressed or otherwise altered slightly to serve the purposes of the narrative. Conversations reflect my best recollections. All pertinent medical information concerning the principals (HIV, stroke, and breast cancer histories) is precisely accurate, and a matter of record.
Acknowledgments
It takes a lot of people to make something like this possible. When I think of everyone I need to thank, I’m not sure where to start.
Maybe I should thank all the agents who turned me down over the years. They made it possible for me to find Marly Rusoff, uber-agent, and the best friend and mentor any writer could have. I had the story, but Marly made this book possible. She has a great feel for storytelling and a great feel for people. She has talked me off the ledge more than once over the last three years. She is the best.
Maybe the best thing Marly did was to get me and Mister Owita to Amy Einhorn at Penguin. I remember my first conversation with Amy. She had only read the proposal at that time, but told me she could “see” the book. I have no doubt that was the case. She has a gift for knowing what I am thinking and telling me how I should express it. To say she is a meticulous editor is an understatement. I know much has been written about her attention to detail. Every time she touched the manuscript, she made it better. She and her assistant, Liz Stein, have had the vision and determination to make this happen. Lots of other people at Penguin have had a hand in this, of course, including Katie McKee in Publicity and Diana Van Vleck and all of the talented sales people.
I also want to thank my friend and literary consultant, Peternelle Van Arsdale, of PVA Books, who used her special gifts and keen ear to help me find the best way to tell this beautiful story. Peternelle and I have had a special connection, and I am fortunate to have her assistance.
Lots of my friends and many in our large extended family have helped me produce this work. My husband, Dick, has encouraged me in what I used to call “my pretend writing career” for many years. He insisted that I spend the time that it takes to do this and made it possible for me to devote myself to the lonely business of writing. My children, Chad, Jennie, and Phil, also have provided support and approval. Phil had an important part in the development of the book. In 2009, shortly after Giles died, I was struggling with a manuscript about my breast cancer. “Struggling” is really putting it mildly. I was afraid of exposing my feelings and I was just not in love with the story. Just when I was about to give up, Phil suggested that I bring my friend Giles into the picture. Good idea, Phil.
Chad’s wife, Ashley, and Jennie’s husband, Kenny, have been supporters from the beginning. I have been inspired by a large and loving family, including my precious grandchildren, Madeline, Caroline, Rachel, and David. How can I not feel lucky?
Dick is a business lawyer, and one of his best professional qualities is knowing that he does not know everything. He also realized that being married is hard enough without adding a lawyer-client relationship to the mix. Dick introduced me to entertainment lawyer Kirk Schroder, who has provided help and advice over the last few years.
This story, of course, is about my friend Giles. I know that not many people are blessed to have such a friend, and I thank God for sending Giles into my life. I also thank my friend Ellen, master gardener, for introducing me to Giles, for being a sounding board throughout the whole process, and for providing lots of background information. My good friend Anne has encouraged me every step of the way. My PEO sisters have been a great source of strength, as has my friend Gerda. Monsignor Tom Miller has provided lots of inspiration and prayer on my journeys. Special thanks also go out to Kelly Wheelbarger and my friends in the choir.
Giles’s wife, Bienta, has become a special friend, and she is an important part of the story. She has supported every part of the project and I look forward to working with
her in spreading the message of Mister Owita’s Guide to Gardening.
My struggles with cancer and my medical record are well documented in this book. For some reason, I have always avoided the term “breast cancer survivor.” I have now learned to embrace being a “breast cancer patient.” The many of my sisters who have this disease and share this label understand that, even though there is no cure yet, we now have the possibility of living with the disease for many years. My Handsome Oncologist, Dr. Bill Fintel, has helped me understand this. At the end of the book, I say, “Giles, tell me—what about the next scan and the next? What will my counts be? What will my future bring? I simply have to know.” As Giles taught me, I don’t really have to know. No one knows. But, Dr. Fintel and I have a plan. He is fifty-seven and plans to work until he is seventy. I plan to be at the retirement party.
My wonderful internist, Dr. Lawrence Monahan, is also part of this plan. I have been blessed to have his support, as well as the expert assistance of many talented doctors and nurses, especially the nurses on 6W at Lewis Gale Medical Center. I am sure I will be calling on all of them again as years go by.
All of my students over the years—in diverse places such as Nashville, Charlottesville, Radford, and Roanoke—have taught me to be gracious in my acceptance of constructive criticism, and they have provided feedback on my writing that was genuinely offered and gratefully received. Special thanks go to Kristi Fry, teacher of English and writing at Northside High School in Roanoke, for arranging for me to serve as writer-in-residence for Roanoke County Schools. I think it is fair to say that I learned as much or more than the students learned.
I am blessed (and lucky) to have had the love and support of all of these wonderful people. In 1961, when I was in the fourth grade at McHarg School, I had a special, sainted teacher, Marge Roberson. She knew I wanted to be a writer and she used her power, beauty, and grace to encourage me. Over the years, I would always hear from her when I had an article published. I saw her occasionally, and she would always ask about my work. She passed away in January 2011, just before I signed my contract with Penguin. I saw her for the last time at my father’s funeral in 2007. She greeted me with these words: “How’s my favorite writer?”
Giles Owita taught me the answer to this question. For Marge Roberson’s favorite writer, every day is good.
Carol Wall
August 2013
About the Author
Carol Wall’s articles and essays centering on family life have been popular features in publications such as Southern Living and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution for more than twenty years. An accomplished public speaker, Carol served as writer-in-residence for Roanoke County Schools, where high school audiences learned to look forward to her entertaining and engaging presentations. Beginning in 1973, with her first teaching job at East High School in Nashville, Tennessee—Oprah Winfrey’s alma mater—Carol has been known for her ability to connect with listeners, sharing her passion for storytelling and eagerly reaching out to include even the most reluctant student. Carol and her husband have three grown children and four beautiful grandchildren. They make their home in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Carol has been battling Stage IV breast cancer since 2008. Mister Owita’s Guide to Gardening is her first book.
