Francesca of Lost Nation (25 page)

“Dear, dear.” He looked out at the assemblage sternly. “Now I’m going to ask about that ring again, and I don’t want to hear a peep from anybody.” He turned to Francesca. “Give Matt that ring, please. What an interesting stone. Now, Matt, you give it back to her and repeat after me: ‘With this ring, I thee wed ...’ Good. We seem to be getting somewhere.”

Justice Orton joined Matt’s and Francesca’s hands inside of his. “By the power vested in me by the great state of North Carolina, I now pronounce that you are husband and wife. Thank God. Where’s the beer?”

The kiss that immediately followed those words was the most powerful and passionate expression of love I have ever witnessed. It was so intimate, so trusting, so full. The union of Francesca and Matt was finally complete.

Chapter 38

Saying Goodbye

January 27
, l986

Buena Vista
Convalescent Hospital, Pasadena, California

I

drove into the parking lot and parked under an ancient live oak. I turned off my headlights and windshield wipers and sat in my car listening to a Duke Ellington Band rendition of Billy Strayhorn’s composition,
Blood Count
.

I looked through the rain toward the low adobe building, which sat back from the street behind an expanse of lawn and flower beds. I knew I should go in; she was waiting for me. But I didn’t want her to see me crying.

We’d come a long, long way together, Francesca and I. I’d grown up, and she’d grown old. I was glad Matt hadn’t lived to see her in her present state, although she still had the prettiest legs in the county.

I reset the rearview mirror and examined my face. I looked tired. I was tired. I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes and brushed a little blush across my cheeks to relieve the gray tinge of sadness that had recently settled there. Then, I stretched aching muscles, pulled my coat closer around me and got out of the car. It was an effort to move. The wind was cold. Or maybe it was my soul. I shivered as I ran through the downpour and into the welcoming warmth of the lobby.

Mom and Daddyboys were waiting for me on the sofa by the fireplace. Two or three other families milled around, waiting. Waiting is something you get good at when someone you love is dying.

Dad stood up to greet me. He wore his age well. In fact, I thought he was better-looking than ever. The boyish cast had finally left his features, which had settled into an attractive silver-haired maturity.

Mom was crying. She had cried a lot of tears these past few weeks and looked small sitting there. I kissed them both.

“How is she?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“Weaker,” Dad answered. “They say ... maybe tonight.”

Mom gulped back her grief. “Sit down a moment, Sarah, and give me a hug.”

We held each other tightly, as if our embrace might hold off the night and what those dark hours would bring.

I sat back. “Is she in pain?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “Yes,” he said, “and she’s very ... tired. Ready, I think.”

“Oh, Sarah, don’t hate me, please, but I can’t go back in there. I said my goodbyes. I ... I just can’t.”

“Mom, Mom, it’s okay. You think I don’t know ... how hard it is?”

“She wants to see you, I think,” said Dad. He sat down beside Mom and took her in his arms. “Alone.”

“But I couldn't ...”

“It’s all right, Sarah,” he soothed. “Your mother and I have always understood your relationship with
Frances.” He kissed Mom’s hair. “You’d better go in. She’s been ... waiting for you.”

Please don’t let me cry, God.

I walked down the silent hallway to Francesca’s room. It had a pretty view of the mountains during the day. As I peeked in, I saw that the only light came from a candle by the side of her bed. I’d made that candle for her many years before, when the only presents I could afford were works from my own hands. She looked almost like her old self, lying there so peacefully. She was still a beautiful woman, despite her illness and her 105 years.

“Francesca?” I said softly.

“Sarah? Is that you? Come in. I have missed you all night long.”

I walked around the foot of her bed and sat in a chair nearby. She weakly patted the bed.

“Sit here tonight.”

I knew my grandmother was in pain. I was afraid I might hurt her. She read my mind.

“Don’t be afraid. I need you next to me tonight.”

I climbed carefully onto the bed and lay down beside her.

“Better?” I asked.

“Much.”

Her breathing was regular but shallow. I stroked her hair softly.

“How is the book coming?” she asked.

“Well. I’m pleased with it.”

“Good. I’m sorry I won’t get to read it.”

I started to protest, “Don't say that ...”

“Ssshhh. It’s time, Sweetchild. Past time. I’m ready.”

“But I’m not,” I said and began to cry. “I was hoping I wouldn’t do this.”

“Would you have wished to love me less in order to miss me less?”

I shook my head, no. With tears streaming down my face, I breathed in the minty smell I have come to associate with impending death. Some people hate that smell, I know. They’re horrified of it, I guess. But it seemed almost pleasant to me as I lay there close to her like that. It was just another part of my grandmother and therefore held no terror for me. In some odd way, I was actually comforted by it.

“I’m glad Matt never saw me this way,” she said. “He couldn’t have stood it. Most men don’t have the capacity to share moments like these. Though your father is holding up wonderfully well.”

It was so like her to think of her family even in the waning moments of her life.

“Sarah, Sweetchild. You must take great care with your mother. She’s feeling her own mortality rather brutally.”

“I will.”

“You know,” she said, shifting her body closer to mine, “death is the most powerful and intimate experience one person can share with another. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I love you so much,” I whispered.

“I’ve had a
lot of love in my life, haven’t I? Cox was a great man, in his wonderfully singular way. He tried to be ... more than he was. For me. I sometimes wonder if he was happy with me.”

She closed her eyes and dozed for some minutes.

While she slept, I thought about her life and everything she had been ... everything she had been to me.

Her life with Matt was an adventure, pure and simple. Of course, he taught her to fly. Eventually, she gave up racing cars entirely and concentrated on setting age-bracket flight-distance and speed records. In 1948, they’d opened a small aviation school with Ian not far from Home Farm. People came from all over the
United States to learn how to conquer the skies. She had been a marvelous instructor.

In the late 50’s, they sold their half of the business to Ian and began to travel. Europe,
Africa, the South Pacific. Sometimes Maude and Harry accompanied them, sometimes Mom and Dad. I went along too, as often as I could … between, during and after my love affairs.

Francesca worried about me. She boosted my spirits when I was ready to be scraped off the floor. She was a steadying influence when I felt like a pinball in the machine of life. She welcomed, and charmed, all the men in my life. She never nagged about great-grandchildren, bless her. She never nagged about anything. Oh, she’d get mad sometimes and push or make suggestions. My God, she was a human being, after all. But I merited her concern the old-fashioned way ... I earned it.

She’s the reason I’m a writer. I wrote my first novel about her. Well, not about her exactly, but about a woman with her spirit and her grace. It was a best-seller. She helped to make my fortune. She was the best friend I ever had.

I leaned down and kissed her softly on the cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled.

“You know how I felt about Matt.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I think so.”

“How much I loved him. How he came to be a part of me in the best sense of the word. How we finished each other’s sentences and knew each other’s deepest secrets.”

“Yes,” I said again.

“I had a dream about you last night. The great love of your life is just around the corner. You’ll know him when you meet him. And you’ll think of me. Isn’t that lovely?”

I started to cry again. “Yes.”

“Sarah, undo the chain from around my neck, would you?”

“Sure.”

It was the gold chain on which she wore the sapphire ring Matt had given her.

“I want you to have my second wedding ring. I want you to wear it.”

I held it up to the candlelight. It glowed deep blue.

“Take it now. Put it on now,” she said.

“Are you sure? You don’t want it on when you ... go?”

“No. I want to see it on your finger.”

I slipped the ring off its chain and onto my finger. It fit perfectly.

She gave my arm a frail squeeze. “You see. I have loved much in my lifetime. I have been loved much. But no one ever loved me the way you do. And I never loved anyone else the way I love you. You’ve been a part of my eyes, my heart, my soul. I will ... miss ... you ... Sweetchild.”

She fell away from me then. Not gone. Not quite. I pushed the intercom by the side of her bed and asked the nurse to get my mother and father. They were with me in that little room within seconds.

I got up off the bed and knelt down. I still had hold of Francesca’s hand; I couldn’t seem to let go. Mom and Daddyboys each kissed her on the cheek. Then, we all sat down to wait together.

I’ll miss you, too, Francesca.

Francesca of Lost Nation

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