Perennials Page 28

  “Ultimately, that’s their choice, not ours,” Mother says. “All we can control is what we do with the one little life we’re given. Remember what Chief liked to say. Everything in life can be explained by a garden.” She counts on her fingers, the way I used to do as a child.

  “One, we find a foundation much bigger than ourselves. Two, we establish roots, digging deep into healthy soil. Three, we grow and stretch, always moving toward the light. Four, we fulfill our purpose, blooming and offering love to the world.”

  She pulls her pinky up for five, spreading her palm wide for emphasis. “And then we can only hope some of that love will catch hold somewhere, and that it will be passed along from one generation to the next.”

  “Despite all the storms and stomps along the way,” I say.

  “Exactly.” Mother pulses her hand atop my knee and nods toward the statue. “That’s what Mary taught me. Our body’s death is not the tragedy, girls. It’s when we waste our time in life feeling dead on the inside. That’s the real reason to grieve.”

  Fisher and Finn exchange a glance that suggests they learned this lesson years ago.

  “That’s why I designed the wall like I did.” Fisher touches the stones. “Four levels. You see? Birth, life, death—”

  “Rebirth.” I finish his sentence, and Fisher smiles. “Goes right along with what Chief said about perennials.” I speak to Bitsy now. “If we allow the ruin to be used for good . . . well then, life comes back. And love can too.”

  Mother wipes a tear and moves to the feet of Mary. Then she turns back our way. “So that’s it, you see? The only story that matters. We are here to love. And to be loved.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  I head into town to refill Mother’s pain meds. Steering off course, I drive around the back streets that surround the square. Childhood memories surface, and I begin listing the presidential names in order, as Chief would challenge us to do as kids. When I drive past Rowan Oak, my father’s many sermons rise again, drawing a sting, but then a smile.

  From there I head north of town, and within a few miles, I’m passing Bitsy’s house. Despite the dissolution of her marriage, everything still appears perfect from the outside. The only thing that looks askew is that her home, while pristine in appearance, is vacant. No light shines from the kitchen. No loved ones gather together on the swing. Not even a dog rests on the welcome mat. This home stands lifeless, starved of the family it was designed to shelter.

  I think of my sister now and realize she’s become much like this home. An empty shell of the girl I so adored. Where is the Bitsy who dared to host parties for the fairies? The one who laughed with me under the covers, turning pages while Mother read aloud? The Bitsy who helped me make a wish on my first birthday or set out milk and cookies for Santa every Christmas Eve? The sister I have loved my entire life. Is she still inside that shell somewhere, waiting to bloom? And if so, how do I help set her free?

  I sit behind my wheel, the engine running. How much pain has Bitsy absorbed beyond that beautiful front door? How many nights has she sat up alone, wondering where her husband has gone? How many cruel words has he thrown at my sister’s heart? How many lies? How many sins?

  How many times has she needed me when I wasn’t here, while all the time I thought I was the only one hurting? If only I had known to zoom out, see the suffering all around me, take in the world with a wider lens.

  From the wooded surroundings, a cat prowls onto Bitsy’s lawn. Its ear has been clipped to show he’s one of many feral strays who has been neutered and released in these parts. I hear Marlin Perkins again, describing the scene:

  “On the prowl for prey, the tomcat pounces. A squirrel races up the front yard birch tree, shouting frantic warnings to her friends. But the tom is in close pursuit, his tabby stripes a black-gray blur. Just in time, the squirrel leaps to the roof, leaving the cat at limb’s end without a kill.”

  Watching the chase, I wonder again if we’re each born of a certain nature. Some of us predators, others prey. Or do we all enter this world as innocents, with an innate ability to love? Does something happen along the way to men like Whitman and Reed, or were they bad seeds from the start?

  With the squirrel out of sight, the cat slouches back onto the porch where he curls into a comma on the swing. Even without the kill, he wins. Like the tomcat, Bitsy chased me from my nest, far from the reach of my familiar trees. I ran from Oxford, from my parents, from Fisher. From all I had ever known of home.

  But now, as the cat takes a nap, the squirrel returns to her nest. She’s quickly back to gathering nuts, content as ever, undeterred.

  As Mother says, Bitsy’s journey is her own. I cannot change her nor heal her. But maybe there is still room for me here too. The squirrel survives not by becoming a predator, nor by cowering in fear, nor by abandoning her home forever. But by being in tune enough to know what she’s up against, by following her instinct and staying ten steps ahead of the monsters near her nest.

  I leave Bitsy’s house and drive to St. Peter’s Cemetery where I park on the narrow lane. With the late-August sun beating down, I make my way to Faulkner’s grave and take a seat beneath the oaks. I’ve been here only a matter of minutes when my sister drives up, parks.

  “Hey,” she says, heading my way in a pair of flats, not her usual heels. “I thought that was Mother’s car.”

  She has softened since Chief’s death two months ago, approaching slowly now, as if she’s asking forgiveness with every step. My hopes are high, but my guard is too.

  “Who’s with Mother?”

  “Fisher’s sitting with her for a while.”

  “Nice of him.” She toys with the coins, stacking pennies across the cement border.

  “She’s getting weaker by the day, Bitsy. Nothing but liquids now. Can barely swallow. The pain is . . . It’s hard to watch.”

  “We don’t have much time left with her, do we?”

  I shake my head. “It’s been a hard couple months.” I spin an empty bottle, absorbing the hollow echo it sends against the stone.

  “Hard few years.” It’s a shared sorrow.

  A pause pulls long between us, but then she sighs and opens. “Whitman left me, Lovey. For good this time.” Her eyes are sad and red as truth claws its way to the surface. Despite all the lies she’s told me over the years, this is the real Bitsy speaking. Unguarded and honest. The sister I have been fighting for, resurfaced. “I came home from Chief’s memorial service, and he was gone.”

  “He moved out during the funeral?”

  She nods, and I am sickened by his cowardice.

  “You should have told us.”

  “Figured y’all had enough to worry about. But that’s why I haven’t been able to help you more with Mother. It’s all I can do to keep the kids afloat. I try to be strong, but . . . sometimes I can’t. I hate myself for that. And they’ll hate me for it too, I’m sure.”

  I offer my sister what Chief offered me on that dark, rainy back road. I listen. I care. She tells me of Whitman’s countless affairs with young college students, his reckless investments that have nearly bankrupted them, the twisted psychological abuse and dangerous temper, even his deep dive into drugs. She tells me of things he has done to her, things no man should do to anyone, much less to the mother of his children. And she tells me how long she’s stayed loyal and loving, hoping to keep a unified home for her two innocent children.

  “I should have listened to you. The day we got married. You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. You and I, we . . . I didn’t know what you were in.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I didn’t even know.” She laughs a little. “It’s a slippery slope.”

  I nod. I know how the lines get blurry. How you bend a little here, a little there, and before you know it, no boundaries are left at all.

  “The sad thing is, I watched him lie to so many people, Lovey. Little lies. Big lies. Lies I didn’t even know were lies. I wa
tched him use people, cheat people. But somehow I convinced myself it was what men do, you know? That he understood the world better than I did or something. I don’t know.”

  My eyes soften. How similar our paths have been.

  “But I never imagined he was lying to me too. How stupid is that? For some reason, I believed he loved me. That while he might hurt other people, he would never hurt me. Not our family. Our children!”

  She breathes deep. Then starts again. “Turns out, he had been hurting us most of all. I was the last to know. Such a fool.”

  “Trusting someone, supporting someone . . . That’s not foolish, Bitsy. That’s love.” I pull her close, and she lets all her weight fall against me. She rests her head in my lap.

  “I’m a wreck, aren’t I?”

  “Hush.” I try to settle her. “You’re beautiful, Bitsy. But you forget that’s not all you are. You’re also smart. Confident and strong. And you’re a very good mother too. You don’t need Whitman. Just wait ’til word gets out that you’re single again. You’ll give Blaire a run for her money, that’s for sure.”

  “Right.” She fights tears.

  “Who is this woman?” I try to make her smile. “Seriously, when has Bitsy Sutherland ever quit anything?”

  “I lost that Bitsy a long time ago.” She releases a heavy sigh, the kind that makes me think she’s been holding her breath for hours, if not for years. “He hurt me so much, Lovey. Ruined my life, my children’s lives. I made the worst choice, the worst! And now look at me.” She gazes down at herself with disgust. “Pathetic.”

  “Bitsy, nothing about you is pathetic. Whitman’s choices, that’s what’s pathetic.” I fiddle with the grass at the edge of the grave. It’s been worn thin from tourists, but a ladybug crawls to the top of one green blade, minimized even further by the stash of acorns remaining from last fall. Her entire world could fit in the palm of my hand.

  “You know what it’s like to walk around this town with everyone’s whispers and stares? They corner me in Kroger, for heaven’s sake. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous rumors. People believe anything.”

  “Who cares what people think. Whitman can’t fool them for long.”

  “He sure fooled me. Took me decades to see the truth. I stayed and forgave and put up with so much, Lovey, always fighting for the good in him.”

  “Why?” I ask sincerely.

  “Because I love him.” She says this in the present tense, which makes my stomach turn. “And I trusted him. One hundred percent. I believed in him. And I believed in marriage. And I believed our children deserved a two-parent home and a full-time father in their lives. Family First, right? But now I know better, don’t I? Whitman doesn’t want me. He just stayed because he didn’t want anyone else to have me. Truth is, he doesn’t love me. And he never did.”

  “I know that feeling.” I say this to show we’re more alike than she thinks, but Bitsy snaps back.

  “No. It’s not the same.” Then, even louder, “You have no idea how it feels to be me. I was his wife, Lovey! And I have children with this man! You were on the other side of it. You always are.” She pulls away. In the background the clock tower chimes from the square.

  I look to the sky, thinking of Mother and Chief and how life doesn’t stand still. I’m tired of all the anger and hate.

  After a few steely minutes, Bitsy finally loosens. “I’m sorry, Lovey, but you don’t understand. You can’t.”

  “Bitsy? Can I ask you a question?”

  She keeps her focus on me, listening.

  “Why have you been so angry with me all these years?”

  “Because, Lovey, don’t you see? In a way, you’ve always been the other woman. You’re the one everybody wants.”

  Her criticisms send me back to Chief’s supportive words. “It’s not okay to be treated that way. Not by Reed. Not by Bitsy.” But then I hear another piece of his advice. “Judas has a story too.” For the first time, I try to see things from my sister’s point of view. And just like that, everything pivots.

  “You’ve always done your own thing, Lovey. You never tried to wear the right clothes or say the right words. You, Mother, Eudora Welty . . . you ‘formed your own opinions,’ right?”

  I smile. “Sure, but—”

  “Let me finish, please. I need to get it out while I can.” She gathers her thoughts. Then says, “You were the real-life Pippi, the ‘strongest girl in the world.’ I wasn’t like you.”

  “We each have our strengths.”

  “No, I was chained, Lovey. Always worried about what people would think.”

  “Not always. I think it goes back to Blaire. When she moved here. Said we were dirty, remember?”

  She doesn’t respond, so I continue.

  “We came in from catching fireflies? Her father was at the house talking to Chief?” I try to trigger her recall. “And there was Blaire, this beautiful new girl, all dressed up and looking down on us like we were trash.”

  Finally, she nods. “You didn’t care what she said to us. But I couldn’t stand the idea of her thinking she was better than me, higher class. I’ve worked so hard to prove I’m just as good as anybody else. Never imagined my life would turn out this way.”

  “But you are as good. Why in the world would you ever think you weren’t?”

  I finally begin to understand my sister’s suffocating insecurity, living in fear that the in-crowd may turn on her, kick her out of the herd. I see now that she’s spent her entire life trying to be perfect for everyone else while failing to be true to herself, and in doing so, she has watched me with a fierce and furious envy, a jealousy that grew into hate.

  When I joined Mother in the gardens as a girl, Bitsy was too afraid to get dirty. And when I ran barefoot, building camps with Fisher and Finn, she was stuck on the porch swing, painting her nails, yearning for attention from the boys. And when I served as lifeguard, earning money of my own each summer, she stayed flat as a pancake, working on her tan, too afraid to get in the water for fear of messing up her hair.

  In her mind, I have always been the “other woman,” the one not following the rules, the one taking what she wanted, even if that was the simple act of independence.

  “You know what’s ironic? I always wanted to be more like you, Bitsy. You were the golden girl, the homecoming queen. You ran this town. Still do, it seems.”

  “Ha! You don’t understand anything about this place anymore. You got out!”

  “You could have left too.”

  “You think I don’t know that? That’s the worst part, don’t you see? All these years, I did all I could to put Whitman through school. To build the perfect house. Be the perfect wife, the perfect mom. But every choice I’ve made has been wrong. And now I’m frozen. Scared to death to make one more bad decision because it’ll do me in, I swear.”

  “You’ve made a million good decisions too, Bitsy. You followed your heart and married the man you loved. No fault in that.”

  “Oh, I’m barely hanging on, Lovey. You don’t know. I wake up every day trying to pretend my life isn’t falling apart. Pretend, pretend, pretend. Heck, I even pretend I’m still blonde, for goodness’ sake!” She tugs at her graying roots. “Nothing real left at all.”

  In front of us, Faulkner’s headstone stands solid and still, watching our stories play out. The simple inscription reads:

  BELOVE’D

  GO WITH GOD

  I stir the words around my mouth, the infamous punctuation mark a typo etched by a careless inscriber. I picture Faulkner’s wife, Estelle, weighing the epitaph options with her daughter, Jill, at their kitchen table. They likely spent careful time before settling on Beloved, go with God.

  It’s a beautiful verse, a heartfelt honor selected not for Faulkner the writer, but for the father and husband who was being laid to rest. Perhaps they even wrote Belovèd, to emphasize it as a three-syllable rather than two-syllable word. But then the inscriber fudged their plan. Another lesson that nothing is ever perfec
t, no matter how much we try to make it so.

  I lower my voice and point to the marker. “Isn’t it something? After all those long, complicated stories, Faulkner leaves us with this.”

  She eyes the grave.

  “Maybe it’s time to end all this anger, Bitsy. Just. Be. Loved.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  November 2016

  The air has become thin and crisp, and the entire town carries an autumn tint, a sign that life is on the swing again. The courthouse is gilded by the season’s amber light. The steeples and stadiums too. But from Mother’s bedroom window, I see only trees. Trees that first took root decades, even centuries before my parents purchased this land. Trees whose seeds were planted by people with names I will never know. People who understood the importance of leaving something good behind, looking not just to the next generation, but to the next and the next, believing entire worlds exist in a single seed, and that every choice leads us one way or another, toward the dark or toward the light.

  Outside, in the wind, my favorite oak stands steady and strong despite her falling leaves. She accepts this shedding gracefully, with her head held high, as if she understands that in her giving, others receive.

  I try to learn the lessons of the trees. I try.

  Mother has been asleep all morning. Her breathing has become strained, with rattles in her lungs, and we keep her meds heavy to lessen the pain. She has taken nothing but ice chips the last few days, refusing a feeding tube or any lifesaving measures. Bitsy and I have supported her choices, despite how badly we long to keep her here, and the hospice nurses have offered guidance as we grieve.

  Mother stirs now, and I move to straighten her covers, adjust her pillow, comfort her. It is gut-wrenching work to watch anyone suffer, especially someone you love. No matter how long I sit with her, pray with her, hold her, I am absolutely helpless in quelling my mother’s pain.

  Between the constant visits from friends and family, Mother and I have made the most of our time together, laughing, singing, telling jokes. I read Welty and Faulkner to her, even sprinkling in a little Pippi and the story of the cloudmaker. It has been a special journey for us both, with nothing but time. And in the hours, she has shared with me her own life’s story. After all these years of seeing her as a perfect matriarch, always poised and polished, as near to flawless as anyone I have ever known, I finally understand her not only as wife and mother, but as a survivor in her own right.