The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  In truth, I am angry because she is going on vacation. It seems so unfair that my aging body and my fears, real and imagined, keep me in place. I want to go on vacation—both kinds, and I can’t do much about either one.

  With chagrin, I turn to find the envelope she has left for me. The prologue of the book is perfect. Although I am sure she will want many rewrites, I am awestruck at how she captures the feel and sense of urgency for the conversations and stories.

  The envelope she’s left feels heavy in my hand. It contains a stack of papers with margin notes for both her doctoral defense and our book. There’s a packet labeled - oral her-stories and “my playlist.” Inside there are also gifts, an iPod player, and a note.

  Elizabeth,

  I know you. You can’t wait. I’ve put the iPod on “pause.” Listen, it’s my favorite piece of music!

  This probably sounds, like Roy would say, “hokey,” but my mom always gave me her gold locket when she’d go on trips, telling me to keep it for her until she got back. Look inside the envelope. Mine is inside. Can you hold it for me?

  We’ll talk when I get back from my run. I need to hear what you think!

  I love you –j.

  Sliding the locket out of the envelope and into my pocket, I go to the player console in the solarium, insert the iPod and hit the play button. I feel the surge of a full-bodied cello and orchestra. Yo-Yo Ma’s Gabriel’s Oboe washes over me and fills The Eves. The oboe, haunting, the “ill-wind of the orchestra.” Next is The Falls–equally eerie, breathtaking. The music draws the others and we sit, quietly enjoying the sounds, the feel of the composition.

  Jan gets up to make cocktails, Deidra picks up her knitting. Sydney is working on something on her tablet. Erica has photos spread across the floor. I begin to sift through Jessica’s papers. We are all interrupted by a call from Roy. He’s been trying to call Jes and can’t reach her. He’s worried, of course, that he’s going to be late getting to our place in time to pick Jess up for the airport. Traffic is heavy on Route 4. I tell him there is no need to worry, that Jessica got a late start on her run, that her phone is right here next to me, that I am sorry I didn’t answer it the first few times he called. Everything is fine, just drive safe.

  The calm of the afternoon is noisily interrupted as Ali speeds up the drive, gravel flying under tires. Jessica’s playlist continues through in rotation. I watch Allison get out of the car and brace herself against its door. Her eyes are wide with shock and disbelief. I know then, with gut-wrenching clarity. Even before she reaches our door, pain rushes in ahead of her.

  She tells us it happened on Route 4, just past the store. Gene was called to the scene. He had tried Sonia but didn’t want to leave a message. He called Ali asking her to come to us. He told her all the right things. “She couldn’t have suffered. It happened in an instant. She probably never saw the truck.”

  It happened in an instant. An eternity, and a minute later we hear Roy’s voice, “Greetings, greetings.”

  two years later: what’s past is prologue

  I

  didn’t think it would be-a like this. Not after all that had happened. Two years later, there is still a story, and now it is mine to tell.

  The minutes that followed the accident moved in ploddingly painful slow motion. Roy’s “greetings, greetings” hung in the air surrounded by our collective shocked, disbelieving faces. As Ali turned to tell Roy, Erica blurted out “Aunt Jessica is dead,” and collapsed in sobs into Roy’s arms. He looked beseechingly at Ali and then at me, begging with his eyes that this not be true. Looking around the room he then gasped, “Oh my god, does Sonia know yet?”

  Erica grew up a lot in those few minutes, deciding that she should be the one to tell her mom. She calmed her voice, called Sonia, and asked her to come to The Grange as soon as she could. It was important. She didn’t want her mom to be alone when she heard. Sonia was uncharacteristically silent when Erica told her. We sat for hours in the solarium, Sonia rocking Erica in her arms, Tobias with his arm around Roy’s shoulder as they stared out at the bay.

  Almost immediately after her death, I surprised the others and myself by deciding to take the trip Jessica could not. I instinctively knew that she would want this for Jesper and, I think, for me. I knew she thought I could do more, that she was frustrated with me that last morning. Simultaneously, Roy, too, felt compelled to complete this trip for Jessica. The rapid trip planning kept our abject grief in control, but just barely. When our eyes met, the anguish in Roy’s eyes would tear at my heart. I wonder if Jessica ever knew how well loved she was.

  I don’t think I could have made the trip without Roy. His knowledge of languages and his skill at negotiating any situation was a life saver, as was, of course, Pavarotti. We decided to fly to Oslo via Reykjavik and see if we could find CC’s nephew’s handprints, the ones that inspired the Harvest handprint project. We couldn’t find them, but we agreed to tell CC that we had.

  Meeting Jesper was nothing short of a profound experience for Roy and me. Jesper selected Frogner Park and the Vigeland Sculpture Garden for our meeting. Even with Pavarotti’s assistance I knew I would be unable to walk the long distances. Roy anticipated this, of course, and secured a motorized cart I could drive. Just coming through the gates of the park inspires awe. There is simply no other description. Frogner consists of a vast eighty acres, a fifty-seven-foot-high sculpted monolith, the gardens, the fountain, the children’s play areas, and over two hundred, simply and unabashedly, naked statues of granite and brass. Moving among the sculptures you experience the absolutely palpable feelings coming from them of joy, agony, shame, haunting, delight, compassion, sadness, wonder, and anger.

  The morning of our meeting Roy and I were anxious and up early in preparation. The anxiety of the meeting was intensified by the sense of waiting for the day to even begin. With a nine am sunrise and a three pm sunset the shortness of the days at this time of year gives us a sense of urgency. We got to the park early enough to scoot around the sculptures. Roy liked all the ones of the trees around the fountain—the people in them. I loved the old women around the monolith, their unpretentious, saggy bodies, simple, compassionate, and haunted forms. These are the ones Jessica had pinned to her bulletin board and picked out for our book cover.

  Jesper suggested that we meet at one of the park’s most popular statues, “The Angry Boy,” located by the waterfall and bridge. That seemed about right given that meeting us was not the same as what he had hoped for in finally finding Jessica. The angry, stomping, raging child in bronze waited with Roy and me for Jesper’s arrival.

  Roy and I warned each other not to look too closely for likenesses to Jessica. We had disagreed with Jessica’s feeling that he looked like Adam. We saw so much of her in all the pictures. Even with our cautions, however, we both knew it was him as he strode toward us from across the park. Perhaps it was that he looked like a young man on a mission amidst rambling tourists. But both Roy and I thought it had something to do with how he walked, the way he held his head. When he stood before us it was unnerving to see him so closely resemble her in life. He had her eyes, a ready smile. He has her mtDNA too, I thought. He was tall and lean. He wore glasses similar to the ones we see on Ryn in the photos. I wonder if Jessica would have pointed that out. He had a beard, similar to the one we’ve seen on Adam in photos in her files. I could imagine Jessica wanting to reach out and touch it, trying to feel both of her sons.

  When he greeted us, with a firm handshake, and what I think of as a stereotypical Danish or Swedish cadence to his words, he said simply, ‘Hel-lo, I am Yhes.’ I had to take Roy’s arm to steady him. How did it not occur to either of us that Jesper would be shortened—Jes.

  We answered as many of his questions as we could. We hoped to ease his palpable sorrow at losing her after he had searched for so long and anticipated so much. We tried to convey that even though they had never met, the emails and video chats had brought her great joy and great hop
e. For him, it was simply unfair. We told him over and over how very excited she was knowing he had reached out to her, knowing that she was a day away from seeing him, that her note for that last run said, simply “Jesper!”

  We didn’t discuss his birthfather. I had set that up as something I was not willing to talk about. I do not think Jessica would have kept information about James from Jesper, but I was unsure what she would share.

  When I am feeling very mad about her not being with us, I like to think that Jessica would have sent James pictures of all the fun she and Jesper had in their planned month together. But Jessica would be kinder.

  Jesper wanted to know about The Grange and the Eves that he had begun to learn about from, and here he gulped when he said, “my mom.” We answered all his questions and expressed our great delight in knowing that he had thought, if the visit had gone well, that he would come to the States to see her again.

  He was, to me, like his mother, instantly likeable, bright, engaging. He had her sense of humor. She never saw those things in herself, yet everyone else did.

  Jesper seemed to take an immediate liking to Roy. That pleased me.

  We did not need to share anything about Ryn and Adam. Jesper was well-skilled at tracking people down and had reached out to them as well. I didn’t want to know if they had reached back, but I hope they did or do. It would be nice, I think, for Jessica to know that they were three.

  As our time came to an end, I took his hand and passed him the small, thin package I found in Jessica’s suitcase when I unpacked her. The gift was wrapped in the Sunday comics and had his name across the front in fuchsia crayon. He kept looking at it and back at me as he unwrapped it. The picture book by P.D. Eastman, a child’s book, Are You My Mother?

  Roy and I sat holding hands as Jesper read about the adventures of the baby bird that leaves the nest in search of its mother. The baby asks a hen and a cat, and a myriad of animals and things, “Are you my mother?” And each says, “I am not your mother.” Finally, the little hatchling gets dumped back in its nest and he finds her waiting for him. I am, I am your mother the mother bird says proudly. I could see Jessica had written something on the final page but couldn’t read it. Jesper sat and laughed out loud, tears running down his cheeks.

  When we returned to The Grange, I wrote an end to Jessica’s book. I tried hard to incorporate all her notes and comments, as well as Erica’s memories of the breakfast banter conversation about “reach.” The small Norway section, I think, rings hollow in contrast to the other sections, but the others don’t seem to think so, and the publisher was eager to get it to print.

  Jesper stays in touch with us, especially Sonia and Erica. I haven’t figured out the dynamic there. I know Erica is enamored of Jesper’s work. The thought crosses my mind from time to time that Sonia is actually enamored with Jesper. It would be hard not to be attracted to him, so like his mom.

  The reason the Norway section of the book does not satisfy me is because we omitted the meeting of Jesper. Despite this, it has surprised all of us that “our book” has generated a bit of a cult. In truth, as Deirdre would say, The Grange has become quite the location for those seeking. They are seeking so many things. Peace and stimulation, the answers to questions that their mothers could have answered if they had taken the time to ask, or tell, or listen. Visitors to The Grange, and to our website, want guidelines on how to create sustainable communities, and how to enjoy the journey not the “vacation.” And so many aging baby boomers are now interested in the way we live that Tia and CC have started a new environmental education project “Living Gray and Green®.” It was written up in The Calvert Independent, then The Washington Post. A reporter from Smithsonian is coming out next week to do a story on us. Jessica would be amused.

  We finished all the renovations, or so we thought, until Roy decided we needed to put in another water feature. The reflecting pool he designed is crisp and clever, like Roy himself. As you approach The Eves it stretches north and south across the western lawn mirroring the sky, welcoming you to a place of reflection. While looking in all aspects like a reflecting pool, with places to sit comfortably, to think, and to write, it is actually exactly twenty-five meters in length and four meters in width, designed specifically to accommodate two regulation swim lanes. It’s surrounded by paving stones with solar panel insets, so it is warm even at this time of year. As I write, Gabler is curled up on the desk. I can see Pavarotti and Sydney doing laps. The chemo treatments did not work. However, bizarrely to me, the polio injections to her brain brought about an almost instant “cure.” Sydney glides through the water, strong, whole. In the interest of being honest, describing Pavarotti’s frolicking next to her as him doing “laps” is probably a stretch.

  It wasn’t in the original plan that Sydney would stay with us, but so little of what is planned happens. What is it that Deirdre’s father said? “Gang aft agley.” Man plans and God laughs. This is a good laugh. Sydney and Gene have moved into our original house. They have converted Jan’s upstairs room into a place to grow orchids and use the rest of the house as a Bed and Breakfast. It’s a much-needed accommodation given the popularity of this place.

  In keeping with tradition, the hospitality students from the community college help manage it, clean, prepare the meals. Each evening cocktails, including “highballs” are offered.

  Even with the pool completed Roy is still unable to sit still. He is now drawing plans to expand the Mikado Mercado. It continues to be a viable place, all tied up with the various departments at the high school in Anacostia and with the students at the college.

  Roy’s here most of the time now. I can’t say exactly why, but none of us question it. We like having him close by. We sit together in the evening sometimes and it feels like at any minute Jessica will just come around the corner from her run.

  A little under two years ago we lost Tobias. He got his wish and didn’t have to wait any longer to rejoin Joan. He died around Christmas, just after we got back from Norway. Just that morning Tia and CC presented him with the official papers granting that all the property is now secured as a land trust. Along with the papers, they gave him a Roy-made sign renaming the land “Tobias’ Grange.” Tobias seemed to like the fact that his name, along with all the past Tobias Thatchers, would stay on this land.

  He slipped away from us ever so peacefully, in the solarium. He leaned back in the soft armchair we brought over from Joan’s art studio, put his wallet behind his head, had La Traviata playing on the stereo, and closed his eyes. When Tia turned to bring him his highball, he was gone. It was that simple. He was the smartest man I ever knew. He knew how to pick people, especially Joan. Knew how to accept people too, not an easy thing at any age. Mostly, he reveled in learning something new each day. He’s resting now next to Joan. Tia folded his hands in the box and made sure his wallet was tucked behind his head.

  The “Tobias’ Grange” sign greets you, coming southbound, as you make the left from Route 4. It is placed across from the M and M, very close to the spot where she was hit. Even in winter the area around the sign is well planted and well lit, by solar power, of course. Roy makes sure of it.

  Amazingly, despite everything else that has happened, the falls, hip replacements, medications, and health scares, the rest of us are all still here, even Margaret Mary. At age ninety-four, we’re fairly sure that nothing will kill her.

  Erica has become a regular. It’s hard to believe, she’s finished her first year at college. She submitted her book of hands and arms and called it Reach for her photography class final project. Sonia was against it, given that it wasn’t new work, but she mellowed on that when she saw that both her professor and Jesper suggested she get Reach published.

  Sonia didn’t have to endure Erica going away to school. Losing Jessica has been hard enough on her. Watching her be so lost leaves me to wonder who really helped who out during all those years of their friendship. In any event, I think Erica knew that if s
he went away to college it would be more than her mom could handle.

  Jessica had come to me, after Sonia had done her Will. As we talked things through, I wrote up her Last Will and Testament, designating that Sonia and Erica have the use of the Hobart Street townhouse for as long as they wanted it. The rest of her significant estate went to Ryn and Adam. We never would have anticipated that she didn’t have time to redo her Will to include Jesper.

  I helped Sonia set up the townhouse as a rental property for college students and that’s where Erica and her housemates are when she is not with us. There’s something satisfying in the townhouse turning back into its use before Jessica owned it.

  It’s good to have Erica’s energy here, and I’m glad that Sonia encourages it. Sonia is so busy running for the state senate that she appreciates the other mothers surrounding her daughter. Sonia comes here often to get a break. We are a haven to her too, although we debate her politics on many occasions.

  The past two years have been good ones. Perhaps we’ve now accumulated enough drama between us that we get to rest awhile. We’ve added a few more sheep and llamas. Tia is brewing some plan to do fun and educational activities with the llamas. She’s created a list of seasonal, and what she calls, “target market” events that she wants to explore. Between her and CC they have envisioned everything from “Lesbians and Llamas” to “Lullabies with Llamas.” They figure we’re close enough to Baltimore, Annapolis, and DC to attract tourists and residents for casual day trips where families and friends can get a break, walk a llama packed with lunch through the fields, eat, listen to music and go home.

  CC and Tia brought up their idea during “breakfast banter” the other morning. I just wanted a quiet cup of coffee, but Jan started off, “We could have relaxing strolls with the llamas and call it ‘Loafing with a Llama.’” Gene says he will post it on the B and B web site as a happy-hour offering—“Libations and Llamas.” Deirdre pipes in. She feeds on this and giggles as she asks that “Liturgy and Llamas” be added to the list of activities to capture the religious market. All you have to do is take one look at Margaret Mary’s face to know she thinks this is all a bad idea. She’s thinking, and says aloud, “Liability, litigation, and lawsuits with llamas.” She’s still the skeptic first, but she’s smiling. CC picks right up on Margaret Mary’s thinking and jots a note to consider a program where “Lawyers and Llamas” can be added to the “Llama Lline-up.”