The Vigil (20 page)

In the kitchen, I turned off the flame. Where was she? I dashed out the door and took two steps at a time off the porch. No sign of her in the backyard. Her flowerbed sported many weeds among the brilliant hydrangeas, geraniums, and Shasta daisies. A pang of regret gripped my heart. I should have come here and helped maintain her weed-free garden.

I scanned the side of the house. No sign of her. Where could she have gone? If she went for her walk without me, we'd have to have a long discussion.

A moan and a muffled yell from the other side of the tool shed captured my attention. I ran through the thick grass. “Oh, please, no. Oh, please, no,”
I repeated. As I turned the corner, my breath caught.

Mawmaw struggled on the ground. A shovel sat on the ground next to her. Her legs were tangled through the netting she'd used to protect her garden from the birds that enjoyed her bounty.

“Mawmaw! Are you hurt?” I knelt next to her. The acrid aroma of the freshly tilled soil filled the air. In a different time, I would have inhaled deeply and enjoyed the scent.

When she turned her head, I saw dirt around her lips. “I'm OK,” she blurted out with a puff of dirt.

“Hang in there. I'm getting you out.” I tugged gently on the webbing in slow methodical movements. My instincts were to rip the webbing off and get her on her feet, but her paper-thin skin slid under the sharp monofilament.

From her attempts to free herself, she'd created a snarled mess. Untying the knots would take forever. “Stay put. I'm going back for a pair of scissors.”

I ran back into the house, through the kitchen to her sewing cabinet, and rifled through her drawer until I found her red-handled scissors. I dashed out the door, down the porch, and through the backyard.

Mawmaw would be appalled to see me running with scissors.

I wasn't sure if the flip-flopping of my heartbeats were due to the unabashed sprint through the backyard or seeing her on the ground struggling. I knelt at her feet and took several deep, calming breaths. The scissors sliced through the netting. As soon as the netting fell off, freeing her, she tried to stand.

“Hold on.” I ran my hands over her legs and arms looking for fractures or abrasions. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

She blew out a breath causing her disheveled hair to rise and then fall back into her face. Dirt smeared her cheeks and covered the tip of her nose. Her eyeglasses lay askew with patches of mud covering the lenses. “Only my pride, dear girl. Only my pride.” She attempted to rise, but fell back onto her bottom.

I reached under her arm. “OK, on the count of three, I'll help you stand. One, two, three.”

That didn't work. Trying to help her stand from the front in the soft dirt proved too difficult. She didn't budge, and I almost fell on top her.

“Wait. I have a better idea.” I bent her knees so both feet were planted in the soil and then got behind her. I slipped my hands beneath her arms. “OK, on three.”

At three, she stood with just a little help from me.

“What in the world were you doing? And why aren't you wearing your alert button?” I asked as we ambled back to the house.

“Oh, the wind had blown the netting off my tomatoes, and the ground needed to be turned. So I got busy.” She reached into her blouse. “It's right here. Didn't want to bother the paramedics.”

We stepped up onto the back porch. “Sit here.” I pointed to her worn oak rocker. “I'll get a washcloth.”

Didn't want to bother the paramedics. I shook my head. I'd never known anyone so independent, or was it just plain stubbornness? She worked hard and didn't complain. Many times I'd wished I could be more like her. Even now, at almost eighty, she still had the stamina and motivation of a younger woman. But I had to wonder, could this independent streak of hers be a liability more than an asset at this point in her life?

I ran the water in the sink to warm the temperature and then drenched two washcloths. When I returned to the porch, she swayed gently in the rocker, trying to wipe the mud from her lenses with the edge of her apron. She looked up and smiled. “This is good dirt. Thick and rich. I should have some real nice ‘maters this year.”

Even though my heart broke for her circumstances, the sight of my mud-drenched grandmother with her gray hair hanging around her face tickled my heart. What a trooper.

I handed her the washcloths. She pointed to the dark splotches on the knees of my white Capri pants and giggled. So I turned around and showed her my backside. At that, she released a full-bellied laugh that touched me to the core of my being.

I sat on the top step and laughed along with her. “I'm so glad you're OK. You don't know how scared I was when I saw you on the ground. Please don't do anything like that again. Use the button. That's what it's for.”

Her laughter died and her eyes sharpened. “What? Don't tend to my garden? That's not gonna happen, girl. The day I can't do my own garden and tend to my own house is the day I'm ready to meet my maker. Don't want to go to no ol' folks' home or be a burden to anybody. Especially Melanie, or your mama.” She pouted her lower lip. “I'll use the button next time.”

“Mawmaw, I meant don't scare me like that again. No more falls. No next time, OK?”

She smiled again. “OK.”

“Also, the teakettle was on when I walked into the house.”

“Really? I don't remember putting that on.”

My gut wrenched for a moment. Was this the after effects of her stroke? Was she getting Alzheimer's? Was there something she wasn't telling us? The questions rambled through my brain intensifying the fear brewing in my heart.

But then again, I forgot things all the time. And, after all, she was seventy-nine. She was entitled to forget things, wasn't she? “Shall we get cleaned up?”

She wiped her face and had to make several passes to get all the dirt off. I helped her wash her elbows and knees.

“Do you still want to look through the trunks this afternoon?” she asked.

I thought she would have forgotten the reason for my return visit, but the fact that she did remember soothed the burn in my gut. “Yes, that would be nice. I'll run home and get cleaned up and pick you up in about thirty minutes. Is that enough time?”

She nodded. “Plenty enough for me.”

I sat on the step for a moment after she'd gone into the house. The episode had rankled me. She seemed unfazed. Her inner strength amazed me. The nasty thought of something robbing her of that strength turned my stomach.

 

****

 

Mama stood at the stove stirring in her favorite bright red, iron pot. “Anthony came by last night after we left the restaurant. The trunks are in the extra bedroom.” She dipped a smaller spoon into the pot and sipped the creamy liquid from it. “Mmm. Just right. I'm making crawfish bisque. You two are staying for suppa.”

Typical Mama, More command than invitation. But we didn't argue with her. I loved crawfish bisque. So did Mawmaw.

I don't know how Mama cooked the foods she did and kept her amazing figure. I wished I'd inherited her metabolism.

Mawmaw sat at the kitchen table and chatted with Mama. I headed toward the guestroom—the one that resembled the cover of the Easter edition of one of those home magazines. The lilac and pale green of the flowered curtains and bedspread beckoned me in. Although I didn't like the dainty colors or style, I couldn't help but smile. That was Mama, too. She liked frilly and girly. Another thing I had not inherited—her taste in decorating.

The antique trunks lay on the floor next to the bed. Thick leather straps circled the tooled leather covering of the first trunk. It reminded me of a Victorian steamer I saw in a recent movie. The other trunk had leather straps too, but with a plain brown leather covering. No etching. Both were old and had been well cared for. I fumbled with the buckles of the first trunk to loosen the bindings, and then attempted to free the lock. It wouldn't budge. I performed the same procedure for the other trunk, same result.

“Great. I'll never get a costume at this rate.” I headed toward the kitchen. “Mawmaw, do you have the keys for these trunks?”

She and Mama sat at the table in deep conversation. Had Mawmaw changed her mind about telling Mama about her little incident this morning? She'd made me promise not to say a word. She looked up. “Keys?”

“Yes, for the trunks.”

A deep well appeared above the bridge of her nose. “I don't know. I didn't think they were locked.” She looked toward Mama. “Did I give you the keys when I brought them here?”

“Not that I remember, but you did bring a pouch with keys in it. I think you said they were to your house and the tool shed. Maybe the keys to the trunks are in with those.”

Mama rummaged through her junk drawer. “Yes, here it is.” She produced a small pink leather pouch. Hot pink, no less. Couldn't miss that one.

She unzipped the pouch and peered through. She plunked out several keys and handed them to Mawmaw.

As Mawmaw rifled through the keys, I retrieved a glass from the cupboard and filled it with iced tea. The outside temperatures had climbed to the low nineties. Mama's air conditioning proved a welcome relief. And thank goodness for Anthony. Had he not removed the trunks from the attic, I'd be doomed to find another alternative for a costume.

“Here.” She handed four keys to me. “I think the trunk keys might be in these.”

“Aren't you coming into the room to look with me?” I asked.

“In a minute.” She turned her attention back to Mama. “So Cheryl ran to get the scissors…” Guess she had changed her mind.

I made my way back to the trunks, iced tea glass in hand. Two brass keys and two made of silver. All four were worn and the tops smooth around the curled heads. I slid a brass key with a filigree-curled top into the lock of the first trunk.

Nothing.

I slipped the key into the lock of the other trunk. It turned, loosening the lock. A click resonated through the room and the lock fell open.

 

 

 

 

Vingt-Deux

 

The heady scent of cedar mingled with my grandmother's signature perfume floated from the trunk when I lifted the lid. Its fragrance filled the room. Several dresses of pastel blue, pink, and yellow in fabrics of silk, taffeta, and chiffon were folded and stacked to the far right of the cedar-lined trunk. A pair of Mary Jane dress shoes in black patent leather lay next to the dresses along with a pair of elegant silk pumps. I lifted them to the light. The white iridescent of the silk sparkled like the inside of an oyster shell. For what special event had she bought these?

The sound of Mawmaw's shuffling drew my attention. Finally, she joined me. She entered the room and slowly lowered into the chair next to the bed. Her gaze locked onto the shoes. The glint in her eyes matched that of the shoes.

“Your wedding day shoes?” I asked.

She shook her head and remained silent. Her eyes never strayed from the pumps in my hand.

I sensed they held a painful memory. I turned them over. The soles were clean and unmarred. They'd never been worn.

Her gaze followed the shoes as I returned them to the trunk. The earlier glint was gone. Tired, worn eyes etched with sadness greeted me. Guilt gripped. Should I be doing this? Her sadness twisted my heart.

An old Bible with tattered pages rested on the other side of the trunk. I reached for it.

“My grandmother's Bible.” I barely heard her softly spoken words. Her eyes danced again. Was she remembering a happy time? I flipped through the pages. Handwritten words in elegant, faded script framed the typed ones. Many of the printed words were underlined, sometimes with two or three lines.

Mama appeared in the doorway and leaned against it. “What a neat old Bible. Can I see it?”

I handed the Bible to Mama. She turned through the pages as I had. “Wow, so many notes. Mama, do you mind if I read these?”

Mawmaw's gaze remained fixed on me.

I examined an exquisite white chiffon dress trimmed with lace. It had been carefully folded under the Bible. I lifted the dress and let the fabric flow freely. When I stood and held the dress against my torso, tears pooled in Mawmaw's eyes. I dared not ask if this had been her wedding dress but having missed the earlier shoe exchange, Mama's excitement bellowed forth.

“Oh, my. How beautiful. Mama, how come I've never seen this stuff before? Was that your wedding dress?”

Tears spilled from the corners of Mawmaw's eyes.

Suddenly, I felt like a voyeur—like I invaded a part of her heart she'd locked a long time ago.

Her tears flowed against the path of her wrinkles and the luster her eyes usually held was gone. They appeared as dull marbles planted in her skull.

Before I could fold the dress and return it to the trunk, Mama strolled to where I stood and lifted the dress. She walked to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and held the dress as I'd done while looking into the mirror.

“Oh, Mama, I bet you were the belle of the ball wearing this beautiful dress.”

I glanced at Mawmaw. She slumped in the chair with her hand over her mouth, and a steady stream of tears covered her face. I'd never seen her cry before.

I knelt before her. “Mawmaw, are you OK?”

She nodded and took a deep breath. “I'm not feeling well. Would you take me home?”

At her words, Mama placed the dress on the bed and ran to us. “Mama, is something wrong?”

“Just tired.” She looked at the dress and with a soft voice said, “Memory lane can be a long, hard road.”

Mama apologized while I helped Mawmaw up. Mama tried to send us home with covered bowls of crawfish bisque, but Mawmaw refused.

She leaned on me as we walked out to my car. During the silent drive home, I sensed she needed time with her memories and that opening those trunks had ruptured long sealed hurts.