Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (5 page)

“Oh. It's just that you're dressed kinda formal.”

Somehow she relaxed a bit. “Formal? This is not formal. I simply believe that it's important to present oneself in a proper manner when one is visiting a sick friend.”

Peyton eyed her closer as if he were reading tea leaves. “Well, you may not dress formal but you sure do talk formal.” His voice was nowhere near as low-key as Betty's. “And, to be dead honest, it doesn't matter what you're wearing. Aunt Peggy won't know who you are, let alone what you got on. Seriously, dude, I'm not kidding.”

Any imagined sense of kinship she might have felt for this boy was lost at that moment. “
Dude
? Do I look a dude to you?”

Peyton looked confused. “No. I think you, like, misunderstood me. It's just, like, a word. You know, like…'hey.'”

“Can't you throw another ‘like' in that sentence. I don't think you've exhausted the word enough.”

“Are you, like, a school teacher?”

This was growing tedious. “No, dude, like I'm not.”

Peyton caught the sarcasm and let out a stifled laugh. He looked at the elaborately wrapped box in Betty's hand. “What's that?”

“A box of chocolates.”

“Oh, yeah? Where from?”

Betty let out a tired breath. “Behind the preposition.”

Peyton cogitated briefly. “Huh?”

“Never mind. I made them.”

“No shit? Are they any good?”

“What?” She turned to him, irritated and appalled. “Who in the hell raised you?”

“She did.” He pointed to Peggy. “My mother – her sister – wasn't really invested in my emotional, physical or spiritual development.”

Betty colored with embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn't know you were Peggy's nephew.”

Peyton visibly pondered that statement. “So, it would make a difference if what I just told you wasn't so?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, are you sorry because there's suddenly a family connection here and I'm not just some ass-wipe hangin' out, or are you sorry because you think that's the ‘proper' thing to say?”

She turned to Peyton, unable to fathom how the exchange degenerated to this level. “I can't have this conversation with you right now.”

“Oh, dude, hang on! I know who you are! Yeah, my aunt talks about you a lot. You had that whoopty-whoop chocolate store that went belly up, right? And you got the big, fancy garden with all the prize winning shit in it.”

“All the prize winning
shit
? They're called flowers, dear.”

“Dude, I didn't mean any offense. ‘Shit' is just an all-encompassing word that means a group of stuff. It's like the word, dude. You can be a dude. I can be a dude. The dog can be a dude. It's just a word.”

“Thank you for the clarification.”

Peyton leaned a little closer to Betty. “Hey, you wanna know something? I'm a gardener too, just like you.”

Betty smoothed the fabric on her dress and checked to see that the hem on the sleeve of her sweater was still turned under. “Oh, I seriously doubt that.”

“That I'm a gardener or that I'm as good as you?”

“Yes.”

He waited, watching Betty observe his aunt who was still fighting to get comfortable. “So, are you gonna go sit with her or just stare at her from this doorjamb?” Peyton waited but Betty remained reticent. He regarded her with more intensity. “Hey, I'm sorry. This is really hard for you, isn't it? I can see that.”

“Oh, please, don't be ridiculous. I just don't want to…she looks preoccupied. I'd hoped the chocolates would lift her spirits.”

“As much as she loves your chocolates, she won't eat them. She can't hold anything down. Fuckin' chemo.” Betty turned to him with admonishment. “Hey, it
is
fuckin' chemo. It's fuckin' poison, too. You know, you don't die of the cancer anymore. You die of their ‘cure.' She can't even connect to anybody. All she can do is just lay there and moan until it's time for another happy dose of morphine. And then she's out until she wakes up and the nightmare starts all over again.” He traced the lines in the carpet with his foot, obviously distressed. “It's tough, you know? All I want to do is to be able to look into her eyes and have her recognize me, even for just a second, before she dies.”

Betty softened. “I understand. Truly I do.” She called up a phrase she'd used many times in the past few years. “Remember, Peyton, this too shall pass.”

He shook his head. “God, I hate that saying. Want to know why? I hear that from a lot of people who play the victim game. And when they whine, ‘this too shall pass,' what I really hear is ‘this too shall pass so the next miserable event can move in to take its place.”

Betty felt indignation worm closer. “
I
didn't mean it that way. I simply meant that this will pass.”

“And so will my Aunt Peggy. Sooner rather than later. I can handle her death, but I can't handle her suffering. Hell, I offered to bring a vaporizer over here but Nurse Ratched isn't cool with it.”

“A vaporizer? To help her breathe?”

“No. A vaporizer. To inhale some medical grade cannabis. It's a million times cleaner than smoking a blunt.”

Betty's soft stance and gentility ceased. She stiffened, moving a few inches away from Peyton. “Get away from me.”

“Huh?”

“This conversation is over.” Her tone was succinct and unforgiving.

Peyton stared at Betty, trying to rationalize what just occurred. The doorbell rang, affording Peyton an opportunity to make a reasonable exit. He answered the door, and Betty heard Renée's strident inflection.

“Betty?”

Betty edged closer to the doorjamb. “Hello, Renée.”

“How's she doing?” Renée asked with her characteristically vociferous voice.

“Not well.” Betty clutched at the chocolates, feeling terribly awkward.

Renée checked behind her and then turned back. “God, did you see that nephew of hers?
Peyton
? He absolutely reeks of pot!”

So that was the peculiar odor Betty noted on the boy. “Really?”

“Oh, honey, trust me. The smell of Mary Jane is burned into
my
brain cells! Peggy must be devastated by how he turned out!”

“Apparently, Peggy's not devastated by much of anything right now. She's not really all there.”

“Let the morphine kick in and she'll be fine.”

Betty watched Peggy continue to struggle. “Yes. Right. She'll be wonderful.” She handed the box of chocolates to Renée. “Would you leave these for her on the side table?”

Renée took the box. “Oh, Betty. It's too soon for you, isn't it? Frank Sr.'s demise is still too fresh. I can see it in your eyes. You can't deny it.”

Betty had no clue what Renée was seeing in her eyes, but it sure as hell had nothing remotely to do with Frank. “Yes,” Betty replied with fabricated sadness. “Still too fresh.” She patted Renée on the shoulder and started down the hallway when a thought crossed her mind. “Do you have any idea why they named our town Paradox?”

Renée furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. When you think about it, it's an odd name for a town, isn't it?”

Renée looked at Betty with slight concern. “What's so odd about it?” she sighed. “Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty. This whole thing with Peggy is really doing a number on you.”

Betty wasn't sure what one thing had to do with another but she ignored it. It was time to get home and see if Buddy was still there. He'd be hungry and she couldn't bear the thought of him forced to eat some fast food tripe. There were plenty of leftovers from the get together the day before. She'd previously introduced him to gazpacho soup, and now she could invite him to enjoy a cucumber sandwich with a hearty dollop of homemade guacamole on the side. Buddy was like her own little outreach program.

The car started up a little throaty, but it ran quite well for about five miles before it started sputtering whenever she slowed at a red light. Her jaw clenched. She needed to put off this expense as long as possible, since she knew the aging vehicle would need a massive overhaul. Pulling into a parking spot on the side of the street, she turned off the engine. Glancing at the name of the store two doors down, she smiled. It was the “Hippie Dippie Health Food Store” Judi had raved about exclusively stocking “Mama's Muscle Mojo” salve. While Betty didn't usually enter establishments with the word “Hippie” or “Dippie” on their signage, she figured she had to give the Taurus at least twenty minutes to cool down. Maybe a fresh orange juice from the juice bar would lift her blood sugar just enough to get her through until lunch.

The store was not what she expected. It was actually
quite
lovely. The clean, pine panels and high ceilings gave it a light, airy feel. The place smelled inviting with a cheerful citrus bouquet. A large skylight in the center of the store held eleven crystals that twirled and swayed with the breeze, creating an intoxicating, prismatic ballet of color. In the back of the store was the juice and food bar Judi had raved about. A banner shouted, “We Put the Life Back In Your Juice!” On a large blackboard, the menu included clever names for the blends, including “The Triple-B Blaster,” “Hiker's Helper” and “Calcium Kicker.”

The aisles were wide and neatly filled with locally produced products as well as established national brands. In the background, soothing classical music played. There was no dust or grime or the sense that one was visiting a questionable establishment. Surely, Betty surmised, the owner could have come up with a more fitting name than the “Hippie Dippie Health Food Store.” You know, something more elegant that reflected the ambiance Betty was truly enjoying. Just as that thought crossed her mind, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Are you following me?”

Betty turned around. There was Jeff. The man who was checking out her Biedermeier at
The Gilded Rose.

“Following you?” she said with slight irritation. “Of course, not! Perhaps, you're following me.”

He flashed that engaging smile she was sure he used to his advantage many times throughout his life. “Nope. I own this joint.”

Betty was momentarily stunned. Glancing around the place, it had such a lovely vibrance and
je ne sais quoi
that was so lingeringly inviting. Looking at Jeff with his neat little ponytail and sans his biker jacket, he didn't seem to Betty to be someone who could create such an appealing enterprise. The book didn't match the cover, so to speak. Besides, he didn't smell at all like celery. That's the scent she'd always associated with people who worked in health food stores. Celery and body odor – such an unpleasant combination to unite with healthy living.

“How's that sick friend of yours?” he asked.

“Not well at all. She's…dying, actually.”

“I'm sorry.” He really meant it. “How about if I make her up a good, healing juice, and you can take it to her. It's on me, of course.”

What a curious man, Betty thought. He didn't really know her, and he certainly had no connection to Peggy, but he seemed to genuinely want to help. “That's quite kind of you, but she can't hold anything down. I brought her some of my chocolates, but I'm sure the family and her nurse will end up eating them.”

“You make your own chocolates?”

“Yes,” Betty said with a bright tone. “With honey. You'd approve of that, I'm sure.”

“Why does it matter if I approve of it or not?”

“Excuse me?”

“If that's the way you want to make them, that's your business.”

“Well, I just…I mean…” Betty floundered and tried to regain her composure. “You own a health food store. So, I just figured…
health
…
honey
–”

“I think it's too soon for you to call me ‘honey,'” he deadpanned. “Let's stick with Jeff for now.”

Betty regarded him with stunned silence. She gauged he was at least seven years her junior and clearly not someone she'd be remotely linked to on a social level, let alone romantic basis. “You misunderstood. I didn't mean –”

“I'm joking, Betty.”

Betty let out a breath. “Oh, right. Yes. Of course you are.”

“Dodged a bullet there, didn't we?” Jeff grinned just like a fourteen-year-old who knew how to charm and get away with mischief. He eyed her closer. “Damn, you're wound pretty tight.”

“What are you talking about?”

He pointed to the right side of her face. “Your clenched jaw. Lots of tension going on there.”

She wasn't comfortable having a near-stranger be this bold with her. “Yes, well, my friend, Judi, told me about some sort of salve you have that's good for –”

“Mama's Muscle Mojo,” he said without a missing a beat. Turning, he moved about five feet down the aisle and snagged a jar from the shelf. “Made locally by this cute little gal who grows all the herbs organically in her garden.” He handed the jar to Betty. “It's not going to cure that tension, but it'll sure relieve it.”

She tried to discreetly check the price on the bottom of the jar. “Well, thank you.”

“I've got a few one ounce giveaways in the back if you want to sample it before committing.”

“I don't need any giveaways,” she quickly replied with pride.

His blue eyes pierced through her. “Okay.”

The tension began to creep around her neck. A stiff bourbon would help, but it was nowhere near five-thirty. She worked her two fingers down the muscle spasm in an attempt to halt its forward progress.

“If you don't mind me asking,” Jeff said, leaning against the shelf, “who's the pain in your neck?”

“Who?”

“Yeah. Most problems start with our emotions or in our mind. Someone can break your heart, somebody else can give you a headache, another can be a pain in the ass and then there's the one who's the pain in your neck. So, who's the pain in your neck?”

Betty wanted to dismiss him but she couldn't. He was so relaxed when he mentioned it all. No judgment; just a matter-of-fact comment that had depth and merit. “I'm not sure. I think it's more likely the four ‘D's.'”

“What's that?”

“Take a look around. It's everywhere. Disappointment, despair, disharmony…death.”

“Really? Maybe you've got to start hanging out in better places.”

“Oh, please. Look what's happening in this world! How can you possibly be blind to all that?”

“I'm not blind to it. I know it's out there. But if that's all you're focused on, that's all that's going to get fed back to you. Look in another direction. Up, down –”

“Up? You mean like in God?”

“No, I'm not going religious on you. God's not just up there anyway. He's everywhere. Even in your ‘four D's.' Your disarray, dysfunction –”

“Disappointment, despair, disharmony and death,” she reiterated with precision.

He laughed. “Yeah, you've got that welded into your psyche, don't you? You really do buy into it.”

This was getting too personal for Betty. “I have to –”

“You're a gardener. You know what I'm talking about.”

“How did you know I liked to garden?”

“I'm psychic,” he said with a straight face and a long pause for effect. Finally, he smiled. “Actually, I saw the dirt under your fingernails. Either you like to garden or you're filthy. And by the way you dress and carry yourself and speak, I know you're not the latter.”

She glanced at her fingernails, silently chiding herself for not noticing the packed mud beneath her nails. “Yes. Right. I'm a gardener.”

“So, you know what I'm saying. When you're one with the soil and the plants, and that silent ballet between the two of you occurs, there is only delicious, delectable, dizzying…uh, I've run out of positive words that start with ‘D,' but you get the point. I'm not a wordy person like you.”

“Wordy? I wouldn't call myself that –”

“You think you have to explain yourself a lot. Somebody must have spent a lot of years driving that into you.”

“I believe that being precise is important.”

He looked at her.
Really
looked at her. “Why?”

She wasn't about to back down, even though she had no clue what she was about to say. “It clarifies one's approach. It allows one to be understood. It avoids chaos.”

“It keeps you in your head and not your heart. And when you spend all that energy in your head, that damned tension builds up. And then your neck starts to spasm, and your jaw clenches and then you show up here looking for a salve, thinking that's going to fix it. All that's going to do is address the symptoms.”

Betty felt lost. “Symptoms…well, that's all we can hope for, right.” A familiar sadness crept up. “Never address the heart of the problem.”

Jeff's eyes softened. “You okay, Betty?”

She swallowed hard. Think, think,
think
, she counseled herself. Think about what to fix Buddy for lunch. Think about the marigolds that need to be re-potted. Think about all those damn weeds that have to be pulled.
Think.
“I'll just go purchase this now. Thank you for your help.” She started down the aisle, gathering her resilience with each step. “We must fight the good fight and carry on!”

“No, actually,” Jeff countered. “It's the fighting that got you to this point. It's the letting go that matters.”

Betty stopped as a familiar image surfaced. Her head spun with apprehension. The raw emotion began to churn in her gut and she knew she had to get out of there as soon as possible. She paid for the salve and hurriedly left the store. But she could feel his knowing eyes on her, even as she drove away.

She tried to swallow the grief as she drove home – to think of anything else but her only child. But lately, all attempts at pushing it away were met with resistance.

Death, she'd come to discover, is a frigid woman – isolating and unable to be penetrated. The glory of the afterlife is left to faith, but to those left behind it can be a shrouded specter. For a moment, you can believe you feel the presence of your loved one but then the distance of death surfaces and you realize faith can only carry you so far. Letting go and allowing is the only way to traverse the distance and the loss of someone whom you once held. But how in the hell do you let go when you can't forget?

Her body felt the ache of Frankie's death long before her mind was willing to accept his permanent absence. He'd been in and out of touch for six years, going as long as three months without contact. He had an uncanny ability to know exactly when his father was away from the house, because Betty would hear a tap-tap on the back door and see him standing there with that innocent smile and beguiling hazel eyes. He could charm mostly anyone, but Betty was like clay in his hands. She'd fix him something hearty to eat and make a pot of tea, and then they'd sit beneath the old canopy elm in the backyard with its heavy branches and fluttering leaves. He was her joy, and she never gave up hope that he would get help and be made new again. But his visits were always rushed and anxiety framed, because Betty never knew when Frank Sr. would return. He'd made it patently clear that his son was never allowed back into their home and that Betty was to have no contact with their son until he was clean and sober. So, their visits usually lasted less than an hour. She'd give Frankie food to take with him and a few hundred dollars, kiss him on the cheek and then hug him tightly, imprinting that moment into her heart so she could hold onto it when he was absent.

He was the best thing she ever created. In her eyes, he was almost perfect. Lost but nearing perfection. He was the reason she got up in the morning when he was a boy. She fixed him wonderful breakfasts, buoyed his spirits when he felt depressed and cheered with him when he accomplished his goals. Her love was unending and unconditional. She understood his pain because she felt that same pain for so long herself. But she was a master at cover-up, whereas her son was unable to mask his angst except through the temporary stony solace of drugs. She hated his lifestyle and would never have welcomed any of his fair-weather drug friends into her backyard, let alone her home. But with Frankie, she threw all her judgments to the wind, because she knew what he could have been if he'd had a different father. And even when Frank Sr. ordered him out of the house at eighteen, Betty always felt that connection with him. Her son might be a thousand miles away, but she still knew he was part of her world, even when his addictions removed him from her home.

But when Frankie overdosed on that final pill that cut the cord with this earth and all the weight that came with it, Betty was unable to fully comprehend the loss. Sure, she'd seen his body at the morgue to identify it. That helped seal the reality. But for whatever reason, his death was like a dream. And like a dream, she lost connections she'd taken for granted. The sense of taste was the first to go, followed quickly by the sense of touch. Hearing went next. Music lost its timbre; voices spoke with no sound. There were days that held only staggering silence. There were hours that passed without notice. Gaps of time lost forever, numbed by grief and shots of bourbon. Her friends recalled events that took place during those days of lead but it was as if they were sharing memories that didn't belong to her. There weren't even glimpses or remembrances of what they talked about. But she never let on. She pretended so well and they never knew better. She called that time her “misplaced” period, when part of her soul departed and would never be recovered.

But when Betty's mind caught up with the heartache her body had embedded, it was like a center punch to her chest. The pain was unbearable and there seemed to be no escape from it. Relentless, it shared her bed, sat across from her at the table and rode next to her in the car. The only time the pain stepped aside was when Betty immersed herself in her garden. There amongst the living things that thrived and flourished, Betty found the solace she'd forgotten existed. It was her church and her salvation. And through that garden, she slowly regained awareness of her surroundings and was able to gradually feel and taste and listen. But still, there was that part of her that was as dead as Frankie. Recovering that missing piece and feeling it integrate back inside of her seemed impossible. It was the part of her that recalled what happiness was, even though happiness was not something she'd ever allowed herself. And somewhere within that missing piece of her soul, was her smile. Not that fake, pageant smile, but a smile that grew effortlessly and warmed her from within.

She turned into her driveway, cheered to see that Buddy was still there. Jerry, her neighbor across the street, enthusiastically waved and barked his appreciation for her “stellar front yard.” Yes, everything was back to the way she was accustomed. None of this unpredictable, time-chewing introspection that ambushed her daily routine. She vowed to spend the rest of the day fixing Buddy a plateful of lunch, occupying herself with yard work and tidying up from the gathering the day before. “It is in the doing that progress begins,” she reminded herself.

But it was the physical
undoing
that occurred just as she handed Buddy his epicurean meal and turned to head back into the house. Without warning, Betty's neck seized up. She couldn't turn her head right or left, up or down without excruciating muscular pain. Buddy held the phone book as Betty dialed Dr. Hancock's emergency office line.