Tending Roses (16 page)

“That’s nice of you,” but it didn’t sound like Grandma at all.

“Lord knows, her Granny can’t be counted upon to keep her things cleaned. Too busy smoking cigarettes and watching television.” That sounded like Grandma.

“Anyway, you did a really nice thing,” I repeated for the third time. I didn’t know why I wanted to force her to accept the compliment. Maybe just to prove she wasn’t the old Scrooge she pretended to be.

She didn’t reply, just sat staring out the window. I was about to go help Dell get her belongings together when Grandma Rose spoke.

“It occurred to me that I should do more for other people. I never once considered that there were people just down the road who cannot afford proper clothing, or care for their children. Dell tells me they won’t even have a Christmas dinner because her Granny can’t afford such.” She sighed, shaking her head, looking into the past. “I’ve been a pretty horrid woman most of my life. I mostly concerned myself with having life my own way and with gaining the things I never had as a youngster. I have been bitter with the world and ungrateful too often. In the meanwhile, I have raised two children who never come around and two grandchildren who moved to the far corners of the earth and send me cards at Christmas instead of coming here. It isn’t a right way to end up in life. Time gets by so fast. It seems like I was Dell’s age just yesterday, and I thought I’d never be old.” She paused, seeming to lose her train of thought, then let out a long sigh. “I should have done more good.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I stood up, laid a hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “You’ve done a lot for me,” I said quietly. There was so much more to say than I could put into words.

She patted my hand, then slipped hers into the pocket of her apron and sat staring at the waning day outside the window. I left her there and went to say good-bye to Dell, who stood at the door with her packages.

“Could you tell Grandma thank you before you leave?” I asked. “I think she’s feeling a little sad.”

“O.K.” Dell set her sacks by the door and trotted across the room to Grandma’s chair.

Glancing back as I went into the kitchen, I saw her lean down to give Grandma a hug. I knew then that they understood each other better than I’d realized.

After Dell left, Grandma was melancholy. The phone rang, and she hurried to answer it, then shook her head and hung up. “Just a wrong number.” Her eyes glittered as she turned away from me. “I thought it might be Jackie.”

“I’m sure he’ll call soon.” I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was, my father hadn’t called and I was beginning to wonder if he was going to. “He’s probably just out of town.”

“I suppose.” She put on her coat and walked outside. Looking out the window, I saw her in the twilight, sitting on the porch of the little house, her pale blue eyes watching the driveway intently. Taking the hankie from her apron pocket, she raised it slowly to her face, dried her tears with a trembling hand, then clutched the hankie in her lap and continued to watch the driveway.

Stroking my fingers absently over the phone receiver, I wondered why she kept watching when she knew no one was coming. Yet, she had done just that for as long as I could remember. Every summer vacation memory was framed by the image of her standing on the porch steps forlornly watching us drive away. We had always assumed the performance was for our benefit and that it ended as soon as we rounded the driveway. I could see now that we had had no inkling of what she was really feeling.

I picked up the phone and dialed my father’s number. Either he hadn’t received my first message, or he just didn’t care. If I had to drag him personally, if I had to grovel, beg, or threaten, I was going to get him to the farm for Christmas.

My heart was in my throat as the call connected. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk if he answered. Relief melted through me when, once again, his machine picked up.

I swallowed hard, waiting for the tone, then rushed through the message. “Dad, this is Kate again. We were wondering when you were coming . . . umm . . . Grandma really has her heart set on everyone being here. It’s . . . umm . . . really important to all of us. Let me know when you’ll get here. ’Bye . . . Dad.”

I love you.
Hard to know. Even harder to say, so I just hung up the phone. Another missed connection between my father and me.

I warmed up the tea and called for Grandma to come in.

“You look cold,” I said, pouring two cups of tea as she came through the door.

“I’m not cold.” She shook her head at the tea, waving off my concern as she sat down. “I’m eighty-nine years old. I might not be here three months from now. Nobody seems to understand that.”

Setting my tea aside, I rubbed the growing ache between my eyebrows. I knew that martyred tone like I knew the back of my hand. It grated on my spine like a fingernail scratching on a blackboard. “Oh, Grandma, everything’s fine.”

“You never know,” she insisted gravely. “I had a pain just this morning. I don’t know what it could be. I should probably see Dr. Schmidt.”

Funny, you were practically dancing a jig at the church this morning.
“It’s five o’clock. Dr. Schmidt is closed for the day. I’ll take you in the morning if you still feel you need to go.”

She gave my suggestion a quiet
humph
, stood up, and shuffled toward the door to put on her coat. “I’m going to walk up and get the mail. Maybe there will be a letter.”

I didn’t bother to remind her we had picked up the mail hours ago and there was no letter from my father. I just let her go. I figured the walk would clear her head, and she would come back in a better mood. Meanwhile, I started warming up some leftovers for supper. I was hoping Ben would wake up and we would have some time to talk.

I wanted to tell him about everything that had happened while he was gone—about the propane and the midnight toilet paper inventory, about the Christmas festival and Grandma giving Dell clothes from the donated goods at church. I wanted to explain the changes in the way I was thinking about our lives.

But I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say. I didn’t know if I wanted him to understand, or to give me a reality check and talk me out of my Vongortler-induced insanity.

Grandma appeared at the kitchen doorway as I was putting the last of the leftovers on the table. Her face was brighter, and she was carrying a potted plant with stems of delicate purple flowers.

“Look what Mrs. Owens brought by,” she said. “She thought we would enjoy them for our table.”

“They’re pretty,” I replied. “I thought you went to get the mail.”

Stopping midstride, she looked at me as if my head had suddenly popped off my body and rolled across the floor. “Katie, the mail comes in the
morning.
”

“You’re right.” Bested again. What else could I say? “Everything’s ready. I guess Ben’s still sleeping. We might as well eat.”

She set the plant in the middle of the table. “Doesn’t that look nice?”

“It does,” I agreed, glad she was over her unhappy spell. “I wonder what it’s called.”

Touching the leaves, Grandma studied them as if the answer might be written there. “I’m not sure. I don’t believe I’ve seen one before, but Mrs. Owens raises all sorts of plants in her greenhouse. The flowers look a little like lilacs. I’ll have to ask her what they are called. Maybe it can be planted outdoors in the spring.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”
But in the spring no one will be here . . .

We ate supper in silence, me feeding Josh and Grandma studying the flowers.

When we had finished, she pushed her plate aside and fingered the flowers thoughtfully. “These would be nice to plant in the cemetery,” she said, not looking at me.

“That would be good.” I didn’t want to think about the cemetery. I still hadn’t been to my mother’s grave. After the farm was sold, I probably wouldn’t be back . . .

Grandma, of course, had an agenda. “Aunt Jeane will want to take a visit there.”

“Yes. I’m sure she will.” Standing up, I started clearing the dishes, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

“Your mother would have wanted you to come.” I could feel her watching my back as I rinsed dishes at the sink. “She loved you girls very much.”

Tears clouded my eyes, and a plate slipped from my fingers, clattering against the counter. Bracing my hands on the sides of the sink, I tried to gather myself before turning around to tell her I did not want to talk about the cemetery or my mother.

Tears rushed from my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I was overwhelmed with grief for my mother and guilt about selling the farm. It isn’t easy to sell the land for which your ancestors have given their hearts and their bodies. I supposed Dad and Aunt Jeane would retain ownership of the burial plot, but probably nothing else. . . .

The last hours of my charade with Grandma were about to end. In the morning, Aunt Jeane would come and she would talk to Grandma about Oakhaven Village. And I hadn’t even warned Grandma. I’d let the weeks go by without saying anything. At the very least, I should do what I could to cushion the blow.

Wiping my eyes impatiently, I turned around, but the flowers and Grandma were gone, as if she knew I was about to say something she didn’t want to hear.

The thought was still with me later that evening as I curled up on the sofa to watch the news. The house was ready for Aunt Jeane and Uncle Robert to arrive in the morning, but I was not. Aunt Jeane’s arrival would be followed by Karen’s a few days later, and finally by Dad’s, assuming he decided to come. They would come with their agendas and their time constraints and their scars, and we would all start opening wounds. The farm would be dissected; the peace would vanish; Grandma Rose would be gone. My time home with Joshua would be over, and I would be back at work trying to dig up files to pacify my boss’s senseless bad moods. Joshua would spend his days with a baby-sitter. Ben would be away on some job. Life would be filled with all the familiar noise—like static turned so loud you couldn’t think.

I wasn’t ready. Closing my eyes, I tried to make it go away.

There was so much that the rest of them didn’t know, that they didn’t understand.

I wished I didn’t understand. Things would have been easier. . . .

My mind drifted into the past, to a summer vacation filled with picnic lunches and daisy chains. I could see my mother’s fingers braiding necklaces and crowns, balancing them on our heads. I could see her young and laughing, her feet bare and her brown hair tumbling in curls around her shoulders. Her laughter was like music.

I could see her singing above my bed as I lay in my room. The scent of fresh grass clung to the daisy chain around her neck. Beside me, Karen’s breaths were long and slow. Mother’s hand smoothed my hair, and I closed my eyes, floating . . .

The blaring sign-off of the evening news awakened me, and I sat up, wondering if the scene in my mind was a memory or just something from my imagination. The sensation of my mother was so close and so real that I could almost smell her Chanel perfume, just faintly in the air. It made me feel warm and grounded, as if I had found an island amid a sea of mental conflicts.

Switching off the television, I walked through the house turning off the lights until only the one in the kitchen was left. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted to go to bed and forget that Christmas was only a few days away.

As I turned out the light in the kitchen, I noticed that Grandma’s flowering plant had reappeared on the table. Beside it, the wildflower book waited for me. Running my fingers reverently over the pressed flowers on the cover, I looked around for Grandma. As usual, she was not to be found, and it was as if the book had appeared by itself.

Lifting the cover, I settled in a chair and read the first words.

Blooming,
it said, the word written in a steadier hand than Grandma’s usual. The title made me stop to look at the flowers—tiny, bell-shaped blooms hanging in clusters like dresses waiting for fairies to slip into them and dance.

I turned my eyes back to the words, whispering as I read, as if the flowers could hear.