by Greta Boris
Olivia nodded. She wasn’t sure what to say. She felt like she ought to like the patio, like she ought to find it relaxing too. It had all the right elements, very feng shui. But there was something surrealistic about it. It almost looked staged, like a picture from a magazine, like his living room. There wasn’t one brown leaf, one misshapen branch. All the trees and bushes were pruned to the exact shape and size of their counterparts. The herbs trailed over the edges of their pots artistically. It was a bit too perfect.
“So tell me more about your nutritional studies.” Tom dipped a cracker into the hummus.
“I’m researching essential oils for work, but most of the websites I end up on are about health in general. I’ve grown obsessed with alternative medicine.”
“It’s a powerful tool.” Tom’s face grew serious.
“It’s amazing to me how most of the medical community pooh-poohs it. If you can’t buy it from a pharmacist, doctors don’t give it any credibility.”
“It sounds like you’ve had a bad experience?” Tom studied her face. He was a good listener, but Olivia wasn’t sure how much she wanted to say. She didn’t want Tom to think Brian was worse than he was, but Tom was a teacher and a coach. He worked with kids all day long. More importantly, he worked with Brian. He could be a good resource.
“The doctor wants to put Brian on ADHD drugs.” The words came in a rush. “But I don’t want to. It’s speed, pure and simple. I know the new studies say kids who take those are no more likely than anyone else to abuse drugs as adults, but who pays for those studies?”
“It’s a hard decision. I’ve seen it benefit some kids, but doctors prescribe it like they are giving out candy these days.”
“I know, right? I want to try everything else first. If we have to go that way, we have to go that way, but not yet.”
“So, what have you tried?”
“Well, as I said it’s a battle, but I’ve changed his diet quite a bit. I’ve switched to mostly organic fruits and veggies, gotten rid of the processed crap, and I’m weaning him off gluten.” Tom nodded as if agreeing with her decisions. “I’ve also put a diffuser in his room and I’m trying different oil recipes while he sleeps.”
“How about supplements?”
“Yeah, he’s on a bunch of them.”
“Are they working?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. It’s hard to tell. Brian doesn’t have ADD. He had brain damage. Things seem to be getting better, but his brain may be healing on its own. Maybe what I’m doing is helping, maybe not. I’m not sure.”
“Are you free tomorrow?” Tom said.
Olivia, startled by the abrupt change of subject, didn’t answer right away.
Tom grimaced and shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. I’m not trying to get you to spend the night, or monopolize your whole weekend. But there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see. If you can come.”
“Brian gets home around four. I have chores...”
“Could I steal you away in the morning?”
Reluctance tightened around her. Even moving slowly into a relationship was a stretch for her, and he was moving fast. Besides, if she didn’t get the vacuuming and dusting done on Sunday, when would she do it? Her weeks were so busy. And she’d planned to go to the farmer’s market in San Clemente to pick up some produce.
“Just for an hour or two? I think you’ll enjoy yourself,” Tom said.
Why shouldn’t she go? Did the idea of doing something for herself, something not directly related to Brian’s welfare, make her feel guilty? Her mother would say that was unhealthy, for her and for Brian. Her mother was right. “Okay. What time?” she said.
The ring of a kitchen timer traveled through the open glass doors.
“Dinner.” He stood. Olivia pushed her chair back to join him.
“No, stay. I’ll bring everything out. It’s such a nice evening.”
It was. The heat of the day had tapered off. Olivia was comfortable in a sleeveless dress. She poured herself a bit more wine and relaxed. So this is what it felt like to be waited on. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat still while someone else bustled around putting a meal together. It was nice, peaceful. A soft breeze brushed the hair from her forehead.
As she sat and sipped, she felt the tension and worry that had been her constant companions since Brian’s accident slipping from her shoulders. Maybe having a man in her life would be good for her, and for Brian. If Mama was happy, everybody was happy. Wasn’t that how the saying went? While she waited for him to return, her mind took tentative steps into an imaginary world where Tom was that man. His garden was growing on her.
CHAPTER TEN
FRIDAY, JUNE 12TH, 1992
I SAT BY Doug’s bed breathing in the scent of disinfectant, bedpans, and antiseptic. The lamp on the table near his pillow was unlit. The light from the hallway made odd shadows with his nose and cheekbones turning his face into a moonscape of crags and hollows.
I folded and twisted a tissue around my finger like a wedding ring and waited for him to wake. The doctors had backed off the drugs they’d kept him sedated with for the past three days. The swelling in his brain had gone down, but they couldn’t be sure about the extent of the damage until Doug could tell them himself.
I’d spent my anniversary night right here in Mission Hospital. I’d sat in the waiting room counting the dots on the carpet. The doctors had fought to save Doug’s life in an operating room. It seemed he’d been hit by a drunk driver on his way home to pick me up for our date. The driver, a thirty-year-old house painter who’d consumed a six-pack or two on the job that day, was fine. What a relief.
Doug stirred and a mumble of sound escaped his lips. I reached out and touched his fingers. I couldn’t hold his hand because of the tubes running from it, but I wanted to make contact. “Doug, honey. I’m here.” I didn’t know if he could hear me, but I kept talking anyway. “You’ve been in an accident, but the doctors say you’ll be fine.”
What they’d really said was that they were cautiously optimistic. They’d put his body back together, wrapped his broken ribs, and stitched up his head and face. But his brain had taken a beating, and the brain was a touchy thing.
“You have broken ribs and some ugly bruises, but nothing that won’t heal up in a month or so. You are a pretty lucky guy. Well, as lucky as a guy who gets T-boned by a drunk in a Ford F-350 can be.”
His fingers tightened around mine for a second. A bubble of hope floated into my chest. “It’ll stop those girls at the office from chasing you, for a while anyway. I mean, I love you no matter what, but you’re no glamour boy right now. I’m trying to prepare you for the mirror.”
“Hey.” His voice was a rasp of sound.
“Yes, Doug. I’m here, honey.” Tears sprang behind my eyes. He knew me. He could speak.
“Shut up.”
I stiffened. Shut up? Was he joking? Already? That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
“I will. I’ll shut up now, and I’ll get the doctor.” I pulled my fingers from his and ran from the room. A dark-haired, dark-complected man in scrubs leaned on the counter of the nurse’s station laughing with two women seated behind it. His nametag read, “Justin.” The look on my face must have been shocking, because Justin left off talking mid-sentence.
“My husband’s awake,” I said. “Dr. Harrington wanted to be notified as soon as he woke up.”
Justin pushed off the counter and headed toward Doug’s room. I followed. Justin flicked on the long, overhead, light as he entered.
“Good morning.” His tone was as jarring as the light. This would be no Lamaze rebirth with ambient lighting and soft music. “How are we feeling, Doug?”
Justin bustled to the machines by the bed and made some notes in the chart that hung there. Then he turned to his patient. He checked I.V.s, catheters, and bandages with the practiced hands of a professional. “What di
d he do that made you think he was awake?” This was addressed to me.
“He said, ‘Shut up.’“
Justin leaned over the bed. “Can you talk to me, Doug?”
Doug’s eyes moved behind his lids, but didn’t open.
“Sometimes it takes a while for them to fully wake. Call me if he says or does anything else.”
As soon as the efficient Justin left the room, I turned off the overhead light. Doug looked less scary in black and white. I sat in the chair I’d only left to shower, eat, go the bathroom and make that one foray to the nurses’ station. After three days it had become so much a part of me, I had a dream my arms were made of blue vinyl.
“So you’re not talking? Trying to make me look silly?” I said to my husband’s inert form.
Doug’s fingers picked at the sheets.
“Well, I know how cranky you are before you get your coffee. But I don’t think they’ll give you any until you talk to someone besides me.”
I talked to Doug like I’d always talked to Doug: a light tone, a stream of consciousness, no pretense or forethought. Perhaps if I acted normal and natural, things would become normal and natural. Perhaps this monstrous looking body that smelled of iodine and blood would become my husband again.
I thought about kissing him. That worked in fairy tales. The princess and the frog. Beauty and the Beast. A kiss was a transformative thing. But there was no place on that injured landscape I could see to plant one.
Instead, I leaned forward to take his fingers in mine again, but stopped. His hand wandered across the blanket as if it was seeking something, investigating. Its movements reminded me of a spider’s. I hate spiders. I pulled my hand away, sat back and waited for Doug to speak again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ARE YOU GOING to tell me where we’re going now?” Olivia asked as she settled into the passenger seat of Tom’s Honda the next morning.
“Nope.” He flashed a grin at her and pulled away from the curb.
“I hope I’m dressed appropriately. If I embarrass you in public, it’s your fault.”
“You look great.” His voice deepened as he said the words.
Olivia flushed and resisted the temptation to check her hair in the mirror on the sun visor. She didn’t think about her appearance often these days. She hoped it wasn’t obvious.
Ten minutes later Tom exited the freeway onto Ortega Highway and followed the signs toward downtown San Juan Capistrano. They passed the Mission and made a right to enter the Historic Los Rios district.
Olivia loved this area of town. It was small, only three or four blocks of old houses that cozied up to the train tracks. Some were still residences, but the section closest to the train depot had been converted into boutiques, art galleries, and cafes.
To her surprise, Tom turned onto Los Rios. Although it was a through street, there were no parking spaces, or sidewalks and pedestrians strolled in the middle of the road oblivious to traffic. He navigated around a family of tourists taking photos, an older Hispanic woman pushing a shopping cart full of bags, and a young couple walking a German Shepherd.
“You know you can park behind the Adobe,” Olivia said. They were passing the little museum housed in one of the original adobe homes. Behind it was a dirt parking lot.
“I know the area.”
At the end of Los Rios, in the front yard of a home camouflaged by trees and bushes, sat a weathered statue of St. Francis. His beatific face welcomed Olivia to the district. His arms were open, his palms upturned in invitation. Lichen and moss softened his stone robes.
The day was clear and warm. Weather predictions promised a hot afternoon, but the morning was lovely. She glanced at Tom. His face was handsome in profile. Last night he’d been nothing but charming and supportive. They’d talked about her work, his work, all safe topics. He’d given her a demure kiss on the cheek when she’d left. Her fears about moving too fast seemed unfounded.
He made a right, and then another right up a long dirt driveway. An old farmhouse hid beneath a stand of oaks at its top. They exited the car. A breath of wind caught Olivia’s hair and whisked it into her face. It carried the unique combination of scents she associated with the district, sage and creosote laced with the bitter tang of horse manure. It was a warm, smoky smell that made her hungry for hot chili and corn bread.
“Where are we?” she said.
“This is my mother’s house.”
She looked at him with questioning eyes. They’d only been on one date. It was much too soon to bring her home to mother.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you where we were going.” He reached around and squeezed her shoulders. “I think you’re wonderful, but, don’t worry, I’m not proposing. You’ll like my mom. She’s into herbs.”
A pale yellow house squatted on dry grass. A broad enclosed porch stretched across its matronly hips like a skirt. The temperature dropped several degrees as Olivia walked under the oaks. The shade was so dense it was like entering a darkened room. She followed Tom up three peeling wooden steps, through a screen door and into the porch.
Tom strode across gray painted floorboards to the front door and threw it open without knocking. “Mama,” he called.
“In here.” An alto voice echoed from somewhere deeper inside.
“I brought company.” Tom walked along a central hall toward an open door at the rear of the house. Olivia caught glimpses of worn furniture, dark woods, and primary colors—reds, blues, yellows, greens glowed in the dim light.
She blinked as they entered the kitchen. Sunshine slanted through an open door and poured through a wall of windows. Bunches of hanging herbs made strange shadows on the floor. A pungent aroma, familiar but she couldn’t name it, hung in the air.
At the stove stood a tall woman with long, thick, salt and pepper hair hanging down her back like a rug. She stirred something that steamed and bubbled in a large, black canning pot. “I’ll make tea.” She turned to face her guests, and her eyes widened. “Olivia.”
“Sage.”
“You two know each other?” Tom said.
“We do,” Sage said. “We met at the Fishbowl. I take classes there.”
Tom looked crestfallen. “I thought I was going to get to introduce you.”
“No, but I’m so glad you brought her for a visit,” Sage said.
“Since you know everything and everybody, you probably already know Olivia is into herbs and all that holistic stuff. I thought she’d like to see your garden.” Tom kissed his mother on the forehead.
“I would.” Olivia smiled. “I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”
“You’re thoughtful, mi hijo. Tea first, or after?” Sage set her wooden spoon on a trivet and lowered the flame under the pot she’d been stirring.
“How about I make tea while you give Olivia the tour. I’ll bring it outside when it’s ready.” Tom carried the kettle to the sink without waiting for his mother’s response.
Sage opened the door and Olivia stepped into a fairyland. “Oh.” She had no other words.
The yard was segmented into a patchwork quilt of color by rock borders and narrow paths. Bright blooms sprang from trees and bushes and dotted the dark chocolate soil. Butterflies and bees flitted from plant to plant. Olivia inhaled the sweet smells of lavender, jasmine, and orange blossom.
Sage had been watching her face and looked pleased by Olivia’s reaction. She led her down the stoop and across an expanse of grass into the labyrinth. They stopped to pick a leaf, crush it, and release the fragrance, then to examine a rare plant. When Tom emerged several minutes later with mugs in hand, Olivia hadn’t yet traversed half the garden. They moved to a wooden picnic table under a pepper tree surrounded by Adirondack chairs.
“The descriptions I’ve heard didn’t do it justice,” Olivia said when Tom asked her what she thought.
“I’ve taken you through the kitchen garden. The rest,” Sage gestured to the other half of the maze, “is medicinal. I don’t do much with those plants th
ese days—some skin creams, tisanes, and tinctures to fight a winter flu. But my grandmother took care of the whole neighborhood in her day. Many of the herbs here were planted by her, or are sown each year from seeds of plants she introduced. See that?” She pointed to a tall tree with feathery foliage. “It’s a ginkgo biloba—sixty years old. It was only a sapling when she passed. Tea from the leaves is excellent for the memory.”
“Mama is modest,” Tom said. “When I was a kid, I hardly ever went to the doctor. If my sister or I got sick, she’d mix up a cup of tea or dump us into a hot tub filled with herbs.”
“Modern medicine is wonderful for some things, but I prefer the old remedies if the problem isn’t serious.” Sage lifted her cup and blew on the contents.
“Olivia has been doing research—”
“Essential oils, I know.” Sage interrupted, then sipped her brew.
“And herbal medicines.” Tom’s voice took on an irritated edge. “Her son was in an accident. He has some challenges.”
Olivia’s cheeks burned. She wished Tom would’ve let her share Brian’s story in her own time. She knew brain damage was a physical problem like a broken leg or sprained ankle and nothing to be ashamed of, but there was a stigma attached to it.
When her grandmother was young, people thought erratic behavior was the work of demons. Those with autism, brain damage, and other mental illnesses were called “bad seeds.” Children weren’t allowed to socialize with them. God forbid if you ever married one. Things hadn’t changed that much despite CT scans.
“What kind of challenges?” Sage looked at Olivia.
“Impulsivity, paranoia, false memories,” Tom said.
“Confabulations, not false memories.” Olivia corrected him, annoyed he’d answered for her. “There’s a difference. The whole concept of false memories came out of the ‘Satanic Panic’ of the eighties and has since been discredited.”
“I remember,” Sage said. “Everybody and their brother thought they’d been abused in a cult ritual but had blocked out the memories. I think The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby started it.”
