Court of the Myrtles

by Lois Cahall

  Little “Mattie”—that’s what we called her—would begin first grade in the same school Brian had attended decades ago, while I would stay home to care for the boys full time. It was a complete life.

  I had been a world traveler and now I would raise my children. All because I took that risk and did something in the now just as Alice made me promise. How I only wished she were here to know how it all turned out.

  Spring turned into fall at least twenty-five times over. Our life was full—full of grandchildren. Five of them! Matilda named her youngest daughter Rosie, after my mom, which you can imagine, made her my favorite—the love of my life. I just didn’t want to let-on to the others.

  It never went away entirely—the pain of Mom’s death. It always hit me with every milestone along the road of my life: the graduations, the weddings, the birth of my first child, the birth of my first grandchild, my twenty-fifth anniversary with Brian and then even our fortieth-fifth anniversary. Her death was always there to remind me that dead is dead. It is the one event in life that can never be undone. But I was also reminded—thanks to Alice—that we must go on and live life to the fullest, if only in memory of loved ones lost.

  I’ll never know if the whale that appeared on that sailing expedition was really my mother giving a sign to her daughter, but I know this: my mom’s death and that whale’s life made me what I am today—a strong, determined survivor. Ironically, it taught me to explore so much more than I would have, had she lived.

  Sometimes I loved that my mom and I were poor, and then sometimes I hated it, and hated her. Sometimes I felt like I was the daughter of that fun-loving, silly, dancing mother named Rosie. Other times I felt like the daughter of the angry, lonely woman who got pregnant by the town politician and never had a husband. I felt things that only a woman who lived beyond my own mom’s years could understand.

  And I lived long enough to give my daughter far more insight than my mom lived to give me. I answered all her questions about my past, my hopes and dreams, so that someday when I was gone, my daughter would know the answers.

  I passed the age I was when my mom passed, and even passed the age that my mom should have been when she died. My fiftieth birthday left me pondering what life would have been like for her, had my mom survived that murder. And I found myself reflecting on my own mortality, why I needed to be here to live out my life and my destiny, just as Alice had taught me.

  Which brings me back to today, and where our tale began. I’m an old woman now, and I can hear voices outside my bedroom door telling me “it’s nearly time.”

  My time.

  Epilogue

  Eternity

  I awaken to the clock on my nightstand—half past nine—and to the voice of my youngest granddaughter, Rosie, her big button eyes staring up at me. Her little chin can barely reach the mattress as she struggles to see me.

  “Can Grandma hear us?” says little Rosie.

  “Boo!” I say, using what little energy I have left. She jumps back and then giggles through her gap-toothed smile.

  “Grandma! You’re a silly goose. You scared me!”

  With barely any strength in my frail frame, I reach out my arm to take her tiny hand in mine. The last time I’ll use this hand for the sense of touch. My wonderful husband, Brian, is on the other side of my bed, stroking my hand and kissing my head, loving me.

  My beautiful daughter Matilda stands at the foot of the bed smiling at me. Her face tells me she is glad she could be here in these final moments. My face telling her I’m happy that she gets to say goodbye to her mother.

  I know most people would fear it—the unknown—but not me. It’s my time. I’ve waited my entire life for this moment. I went my whole life without ever seeing my mother again. All those years. And now the moment of truth… will she be there for me in the afterlife? I think so. I can’t believe that her forever-gone began the day she died. I have to believe it was only temporary until now.

  After a good life on this earth, I’ve watched all my friends die before me. It’s not until we are old that we recognize how difficult it is being the last of our friends. I worry for Brian who will be left behind, but I know our children will take care of their father—“grampie”—my beloved husband. Yes, “beloved husband!” Alice would have hated those words, I chuckle to myself. But he really turned out to be one.

  And then with a deep sigh, I fall back against my white cotton pillow and close my eyes. I am slipping into a portal, surrounded by radiant light. A strong beam draws me forward. It’s not a bright light, not a colorful light, nothing like we hear about in stories and magazines or from preachers. Instead it’s a light created from my human emptiness, warming, warming, warming me to my own surface.

  All my thoughts fade into the background, as I’m drawn further and further towards that light filling, filling, filling me. I feel as if I’m falling in slow motion, deeper and deeper into this place, knowing that once I’ve moved through, my mom, my Rosie, will be there on the other side, awaiting my arrival.

  It’s half past eleven, a bit later than usual for a cemetery visit. In the distance, only a few yards away from Joy and Rosie’s graves, a teenage girl in ragged jeans kneels, her head in her hands. She whimpers over a plot of freshly turned soil just one down from Alice’s grave.

  The teenage girl is sobbing deeply now. There’s no headstone where she cries: it’s too soon after the burial.

  I’m careful not to trip over her bicycle, dropped carelessly on the gravel road.

  She turns around and gasps. “Oh, you startled me,” she says, wiping her eyes.

  “You startled me,” I say. “I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

  “No such thing as ghosts,” she says, falling back on her heels.

  I plop down on the grass next to her. “How can you be sure?”

  She looks at me curiously. Her look tells me I’m annoying her. She didn’t invite me to sit down in the first place… intruding on her moment of silence.

  “It’s my mother who just died,” she says, rubbing the soil with her hand. “She always used to say…”

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost thank you to Stephanie Duncan – my witty, gorgeous, fierce but gentle, Bloomsbury Publisher. Stephanie tirelessly stood by me at all hours of the day/night (on UK time zone, no less.) And to Justine Taylor who so quickly turned around edits with challenging and sympathetic notes in the margins. Let’s do it again for the next book!

  To my regal-glam, whip-smart agent, Caroline Michel who just ‘got me’ from the first day I plopped down on her sofa. Stephanie and Caroline treat me as if I’m the rock star and they’re merely my backup singers! But wow, what backup singers!

  To Stephen Schiff who first introduced me to the Court of the Myrtles at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. It stayed with me long after our vacation. At a certain point I knew it would find its way into a novel. And then Stephen suggested it might find its way into the title.

  This novel exists because of the following people who held, guided and advised me during a very challenging time that began in late 1998. I was a single working mother raising two daughters, going through a divorce, and suddenly found myself burying all of those dearest to me within one year. I wouldn’t have survived without the commitment, Kleenex, caffeine and cocktails from:

  Helen Gurley Brown (R.I.P.) who stepped in as my “mommy” and told me countless times “If I had a daughter, it would be you.” She didn’t turn out to be that “Wear your mittens” maternal type, but she did her very best to teach me resiliency, humor in pain, leopard prints, and the worshipping of a man’s penis. I’m still working on the leopard prints.

  To my spiritual sister and inspiration, Jacqueline Mitchard, who taught me so much about surviving loss with her incredible and poetic wisdom. She was that amazing woman on the other end of that receiver or at the other side of the door-knock. To Joan Anderson, Anne LeClaire and Alice Steinbach (R.I.P.) who gave me praise on “am I doing a good job?” wh
en I hadn’t any family to validate me. These women also gave me the courage to put pen to paper long ago.

  To my “Mother Earth” – Joan Owens – who tragically lost her son Sammy Montana D’Olimpio. She is the bravest, best friend a girl could ask for. Her beautiful and strong daughters, Lily and Lucy, grew up simultaneously with my daughters. Sam’s passing left a huge hole in our hearts through eternity. Nothing is worse than burying a child. Sammy rests next to my mother, Marie, at Lothrop Hill Cemetery.

  To Stephen Sundelin, Supervisor of Public Works, who left yellow roses at my mom’s grave with a note: “Everyone should live their lives so that when they die, even the cemetery caretaker is sad to see them go.” To Sandy Orenstein our family therapist who said “your core is good. Go home and mourn.” To Mr. Buckman, the most resilient High School Guidance counselor. He gave 100% of himself to Barnstable High (and to all the teenagers in times of tragedy.)

  My miracle-workers and neighbors: Ted and Sue Mandel, Donna Hardy, Laurie Gardella, Glenn Ritt, Robert Scott Button, Jerry Garnick, Edie Vonnegut, District Attorney Michael O’Keefe (you are my hero!) and Judge O’Neill (you, too!), and to the West Parish Church, the village of Barnstable and especially the Dolphin Restaurant for giving us a home to congregate. Joe, Jack and Johnny Mac’s generous refills of wine on wintery Saturday nights were always welcome! To Dick Crosby, Gilda, Mike the bus driver, Charley Harden, Roy & Elizabeth Morton, “Aunt” Eleanor Morton and especially Ken Morton for being able to tap into that “only child” bond we share. I love you, my Kenny!

  To the various friends who were there back then that I promised I’d never forget: Carrie Walkup, Amy Baird Maurizi, Gary Springer, Nancy Springer (R.I.P.), Steven Beer, Jill Goode, Anne Meara, Jerry Stiller, John Shea, Susan Maguire, Susan Johnston, Christopher Gambale, Kevin McEleney, Steve Stabler, Jim Burke, Eva Quiroz, Sebastian Junger, Neal McDonough, Liam Monaghan, Wendy and Danny Joakim, Marc Surprenant (R.I.P), Brian Cabana, Brad Goodwin, and Russell Johnson. To my Hyannisport friends: Barry Plunkett, Jimmy Plunkett, Bobby Kennedy Jr., “M Lem” Kennedy (R.I.P.), Mary Paris, J.J. DeSantis, Peter McLaughlin, and Maria McLaughlin. To Sean Polay, David Columbo, Michael Wyman, Laurie and Doug Lebel, Bill and Andre Slater, Janet Spurr, Debbie Wasil, Dr. Neil Ringler, Attorney Jim Falla, Rick Shechtman, Carol McDonald, and to my colleagues: Tom Meek, David Brudnoy (R.I.P.), Jay Carr, Jonathan Soroff, Michael Morin, Jerry Healy, and especially my Boston bff, Dana Bisbee, for being my date to my 40th birthday and then my mother’s funeral.

  To my cousin Geoffrey Zakarian who bonded with me when we joined the “Orphan Club.” Our mothers had insisted we reconnect just a year before their almost simultaneous passing. Our family watches over us now and blesses my books, and apparently your “Iron Chef” cooking.

  To Scott Neely, who once upon a time rang me for donations and asked me to visit a hospital unit where children lay dying. Upon visiting I asked, “What can I do and how fast?” He worked as a hero to so many families to build what became the Cam Neely House. I’m so proud of you.

  To my childhood friends: Debra Wright, Shari Waxman-Ori, and our fourth musketeer Sharon Mayser who we lost in her battle with lung cancer. And to Julie Barca – my oldest friend in the world – someday we’ll see John Blake and Charlie Johnson again.

  And finally, to Simon Beaufoy who finished reading my very first draft of this novel in our hotel room the morning of [his] Academy Awards. His brilliant blue eyes turned Patriotic red, white and blue from tears, and he said, “I’m so proud of you. This is your legacy, Lo.”

  I hope he’s right. If writing a book on love and loss can make even one mother, daughter, aunt, grandma, cousin or sister believe they’ll see a loved one again, I feel accomplished. We never get over the death of a loved one, we only learn to live with the milestones missed… the weddings, graduations, Thanksgiving dinners. The gavel slams down. Meantime, I’ve decided to embrace life, believing that my mother will be there waiting on the other side, rather than live my life not thinking she’ll be there only to find out that she is. That would be two lives lost.

  And so… to the man who is the love of my life, who is very much alive, and in the very words he once suggested when his jaw crumbled and our world seemingly collapsed… “Meet me in three months… Where else, sweetheart? At the Court of the Myrtles.” I love you.

  A Note on the Author

  Lois Cahall began her writing career as a newspaper journalist in Boston, Massachusetts. In 1999, Ms. Cahall became “The Screen Queen” (www.screenqueen.com), a syndicated radio personality covering the movie beat with an eye toward educating the “Bus Stop Mom” about age-appropriate family viewing of the latest Hollywood releases.

  Stepping outside of her persona “The Screen Queen”, Ms. Cahall writes about women’s empowerment and cultural issues for national magazines (under the Hearst and Condé Nast banner) as well as Ladies Home Journal. She has also written for Red, Psychologies and The Times in the UK.

  In 2012, Ms. Cahall’s first novel Plan C: Just in Case became a number one bestseller in the UK Kindle store within a month of publication and has since sold into international translation.

  Ms. Cahall divides her life between New York and London.

  Please become a fan on Facebook: Lois Cahall Author and follow on Twitter @LoCahall.

  Discover books by Lois Cahall published by Bloomsbury Reader at www.bloomsbury.com/LoisCahall

  Plan C: Just in Case

  Court of the Myrtles

  For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been

  removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain

  references to missing images.

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Copyright © 2013 Lois Cahall

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  eISBN: 9781448213047

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