Perennials Page 7

  I dismiss her suggestion, but she continues in spite of me.

  “It’s divided into four sections. You see? Helps us process the lessons of our past so we can move forward. Think of it as a rite of passage.”

  From the center of the wheel, Marian sprays liquid sage. I’m feeling nearly depleted by our noon-day hike, but the scent works its magic, recharging me as she sings in the Lakota language. With her white hair and eyes the blue of a peacock plume, Marian looks no more Native American than I do with my Irish ancestry and my freckled skin, but she is considered a spiritual guide by many and has earned a respected reputation for her sensitive nature.

  “As you walk the circle, follow your instincts,” she coaches. “Don’t question yourself. Just keep moving until you feel the urge to stop.”

  I make nearly three complete loops before planting my feet a few steps from the place I first entered.

  “Good. Now think about this, Eva. Everything is moving in a cycle. We breathe out, the trees breathe in. They breathe out, we breathe in.”

  She rings her arms around in a giant arc. “Everything—an endless loop. The sun, moon, earth—all round, and they all move in a circular path. Just like us. No beginning. No ending. Just eternal movement, constant change.” With her steady cadence and parsed delivery, she sounds much like a minister from a small-town church back home, genuine and sincere as she strives to settle my soul.

  “Even the tides move in and out. Inhaling and exhaling, a rhythmic exchange. We are made of that very same water, stardust, light. It’s all connected. That’s the circle, Eva. The circle of life.”

  I trace a slow circle in the dirt, my Jansana fitness shoe clinging to dust as I revisit the seasons of my forty-five years. Again and again, my brain spins through the time I spent with Reed, trying to reason through a story that makes no sense. Marian is right about one thing: I am living in a loop that never ends. Every time I think I’ve moved past it, something triggers me right back in time, and the pain becomes as real as the moment it all happened.

  “See where you’ve stopped? This place in the wheel means you are leaving winter. Entering spring. You’re coming back to life, my friend.” Marian places her hand on my shoulder and lures my focus toward her. I try to still the quiver of my lip, knowing full well she means a cold and barren season for my soul.

  “Just remember, Eva. The harsher the winter, the more vibrant the bloom come spring.”

  “Lovey! Perfect timing!” Mother rushes to greet me near baggage claim where prerecorded blues songs play through the sound system and aromas from barbecue restaurants taunt the tourists. Insisting I not waste money on a rental car, my parents have driven more than an hour to meet me here in Memphis—the nearest commercial airport to Oxford. A touchstone for fans of Elvis, Beale Street, and the legendary Sun Studio, this port city is banked on the Mighty Mississippi and opposite of Phoenix in every way.

  As she glides near, Mother is all smiles in her high-priced Neilson’s ensemble, kitten heels, and Coach clutch. Impressive, as usual, although when she hugs me, my fingers brush bone beneath her blouse. While she’s always maintained a petite frame, she’s smaller than ever and doesn’t seem to weigh more than ninety pounds now, at most.

  She eyes my travel wear, a sleeveless Jansana dress and a comfy pair of Tieks, plus a thin cardigan to ward off the chill of the plane. “You look fabulous, Lovey. I’ve never seen you so fit!” She takes a step back to give me the once-over. It’s a scan much more invasive than the airport security check. “Luggage?”

  I tap my carry-on, a battered hard-shell that has carried my gear through twelve countries and all fifty states. As far away from Mississippi as I could go.

  “That’s all you brought?”

  I shrug. Mother would never travel without two full bags of beauty products and another set for shoes. She also objects to anyone holding up the line to load a carry-on into the overhead bin. We don’t always see eye to eye.

  “Okay then. Let’s get you home.” Escorting me to the door, she calls Chief from her phone. “We’re heading out now,” she tells him, because as always, they’ve got a plan.

  She leads me outside just as a luxury SUV pulls up to meet us. It’s an oversize, freshly waxed beast of a vehicle that reminds me of something a secret agent might drive. I’m surprised to see Chief behind the wheel. Despite a decent run in the NFL, he’s a good ol’ farm boy at heart, much more suited for his trusty F-150 with too many dents and dings to tally. This high-end gas guzzler doesn’t fit.

  “Going green, I see.” The sarcasm slides past Mother, but my father laughs as he moves around the obscene tank for a hug. He walks stiff-kneed from old football injuries, and my imagination swings to a vulnerable gazelle limping across the savanna. Nothing about Chief has ever suggested weakness, and it pains me to see him this way. As he pulls close, the cedar smell of his aftershave helps to comfort me.

  “How’s my girl?”

  Emotions get the best of me now, and I hold my father longer than I should. It’s been three years since I retreated here for safety after the Reed Incident, only to fly back to Arizona licking even deeper wounds. Scars remain.

  Never one to cause a scene, Mother prompts us. “We’d better get going.”

  I give in because, with Mother, there’s no other option. “Want me to drive?”

  My offer draws a stern glare from Chief, and Mother says, “Oh, don’t be silly,” insisting I ride shotgun as she climbs into the back with Dolly P.

  The dog’s pink bow is centered above her doe-eyed gaze, which is all it takes to hook me. When I switch to that high-pitched motherese used only for babies and pups, the spaniel responds with tail wags and affection, convincing me I really do need to get a pet.

  “I don’t like this whole curbside pickup routine,” Chief admits. “I’m not a wait-in-the-car kind of guy. Goes against my upbringing.”

  “Such a romantic.” I smile, offering an exaggerated sigh. I can’t take my eyes off my father. His aging skin gathers in folds around his neck and the corner of his mouth tapers into a slant-droop. He’s above eighty now, and for the first time I see him as an old man. The quake hits me hard.

  “Your hair’s nice.” Mother reaches from the backseat to feel my short crop. It’s already begun to frizz from the humidity, and even though it’s not yet June, the walk to Chief’s car was all it took in such clammy air. “Although I admit it makes me feel ancient to see my child going gray. I could call JoAnn. Get you into the salon.”

  And so it begins. The subtle criticisms that suggest I’m letting her down, failing to live up to the Southern belle standard she and Bitsy have perfected. JoAnn has done my mother’s hair for decades and would probably love nothing more than to give me flawless blonde hair to match.

  “Don’t worry. Now everyone will just assume I’m your mother.” I boost her ego, even though the statement is quite possibly true.

  “Shush.” She examines her roots in the mirror. When I tell her the chemicals are toxic, she replies by saying, “Oh, honey. What isn’t?”

  “Still teaching yoga?” Chief changes course.

  “Every Saturday. All I can squeeze in for now.”

  “We’re so proud of you. Aren’t we, Jim?” She’s the only person who calls my father by his given name, and even that is short for James. James and Laurel Sutherland, long considered one of Oxford’s most elite couples, although they’d argue otherwise.

  “I’m the old lady who teaches seniors at the park. It’s not pretty, but I enjoy it.”

  “Old!” Chief laughs again, a warm roll through my soul. “If you’re old, what’s that make us?”

  “Older.” I wink.

  “You’ve really made a name for yourself, Lovey. We see your ads everywhere. The home and garden collection, those are my favorite.” Mother sits back, repeating to herself, “So very proud.”

  “I didn’t head that campaign.”

  “But you’re part of the team,” she argues. “And those ads ar
e brilliant!”

  As Chief drives us south on I-55, trees blur into streaks of green, and after years of dry desert sighs, this colorful palette is a delightful relief. When we cross the state line, Mississippi welcomes us with her delicate spring dance. Bright, bold ribbons of wildflowers partner with hardwoods to shade the mud-slowed waters. The scene soothes my spirit, and I finally work up the nerve to say what I’ve been thinking. “Bitsy didn’t want to come?”

  “She’s busy with the kids is all.” Mother makes an excuse, as usual. Chief glances in the rearview, a cue to Mother, who quickly launches a conversation about the dog instead. In typical Southern fashion, they prefer to stick with something generic, superficial, safe. Three years since I’ve been home for a visit, and my sister hasn’t shown up to greet me. She’s being cruel, and they know it. But I let it slide.

  It takes a little more than an hour to reach Oxford, and by then I am caught up on all of Dolly P.’s latest canine excursions. I’ve heard the updates about the men in Coffee Club, and I’ve received a crash course in the whereabouts of Mother’s sorority sisters, an active group who now volunteer for the Garden Club and the food pantry. Mother lost her only sibling, a brother named Levi, decades ago in a car accident, but she has a closer relationship with her sorority sisters than I’ve ever had with Bitsy. It almost makes me regret my stubborn refusal to enroll at Ole Miss and go through rush with my high school peers. Almost.

  As we near Oxford, the traffic spikes on Highway 6. I barely recognize my hometown. The charming college community with locally owned bakeries and elegant boutiques is now cloaked behind a mask of overpriced neighborhoods, an expansive car dealership, and a confusing redesign of the main intersection, plus a slew of fast-food franchises. “What happened to keeping it local?”

  “You’ve stayed away too long, Lovey.” Mother looks at Dolly P. when she says this, as if she’s fighting tears.

  I try to let the guilt wash away, unable to say what I want to say. That I’m sorry. And that I’ll never again push my family aside for anything. Not for a job. Not for adventure. And certainly not for a man. I do as I’ve been trained, though, and keep the conversation neutral.

  “Why’d they clear so much land?” I stare in disbelief at the new developments. “Do they have any idea what people in Arizona would give for trees like that?”

  No one answers, so I focus on the traffic. While nothing compared to Phoenix congestion, it’s a big shift from the Oxford I knew and loved, the small community that inhales one hundred thousand people for Ole Miss football weekends and then exhales them away when the stadium lights go out, leaving us with quiet roads and a ten-minute commute to anywhere in town. “Almost feels like a game day. Where in the world are all these people going?”

  “Yeah, boy. Now you know why we bought this baby.” Chief pats the steering wheel. “Those students whip around here like a bunch of bats.”

  “But it’s summer,” I argue. This has always been the time of year when twenty thousand students take their leave, gifting locals with prime parking and a dinner-hour table without a wait.

  “They hardly ever go home anymore. Why would they? Show up with their daddies’ credit cards and live like kings,” Chief says. “Got hit twice last year. They can ram their Beemers into this little lady all they want, but they’d better be ready for a trip to the body shop.” He taps the wheel again, proud.

  “Oh, Jim,” Mother counters with a softness only she can offer. “We were students once.”

  “Yeah, but . . . it was different then.”

  Now she turns to me. “It goes so fast, Lovey. Seems like yesterday this handsome man got down on one knee in your grandma’s kitchen. And here we are. Fifty years later. Who knew?”

  “I knew.” Chief winks in the mirror. Mother blushes and pats his shoulder from behind. He reaches his hand over hers. Why can’t we all be loved like that?

  After three full light cycles, we finally make it past the crowded intersection where billboards announce two new franchises soon to come. A fierce indignation stirs in me. “Seems this town’s a half step away from orange shorts and hot wings.”

  “That’s just how time goes, I guess.” Chief tries to find the humor.

  “Time.” Mother sighs and looks out her window. “Our only true enemy.”

  I fumble with the charm around my neck, the small silver hourglass they gave me for high school graduation. The same one that traveled with me during my exchange year abroad, watched me land my job at Apogee, and heard Reed’s confession when life as I knew it all came crashing down. Maybe Marian is right. Maybe time really did stop for me that night at Stem. Perhaps while the rest of the world has been moving forward, I’ve been stuck in a moment. A very bad, sad moment.

  May 17, 2013

  Nearly ten minutes have passed without eye contact from this man I adore. I give it another shot. “Reed, I’ve been thinking. This long-distance thing is getting hard on both of us.” I’m hoping he will get the hint, take the leap.

  He’s put his phone down but still avoids eye contact as he reviews the wine list. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  Something in his tone . . . isn’t right. I wait, eager for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I try again. “Maybe it’s time I launch my own marketing firm. I could do that in San Antonio. Don’t you think?”

  He peers at me now, an awkward twist to his lips.

  I’m not sure how to read his expression. Is he puzzled? Surprised? Upset? “What?” I shake my head.

  His face is strained. “Are you suggesting we move in together?”

  “Well, not exactly.” An awkward giggle falls from me. “I was hoping we might talk about a wedding. It has been four years, after all. I’m ready.”

  His silence is not the response I was expecting. Flustered, I try to clear the air. “You’ve obviously had a long week.” I reach for his hand, but he doesn’t respond.

  A stark distance in his eyes suggests he’s miles away. It’s the look he gets sometimes when he’s tired or hungry or stressed. “Eva, you do know I’m already married, don’t you?”

  I laugh at first, but he doesn’t break a smile. My arms begin to tingle, tense, all in response to the truth he has just put to voice. Reed stares hollow-eyed and smug, in control of it all.

  The tabletop candle that moments ago glowed with a hint of romance now casts a deep shadow between Reed and me. Here, in the stretch of darkness, I lose my bearings.

  “Don’t give me that look. This whole thing has been a fantasy from the start. You know that.”

  My lungs become weights, pulling me under, safe from the burn. I try to take hold, but the world remains above the surface, muffled beyond sense as I sink deep.

  As usual Reed hasn’t missed a detail—the flickering candle angled just so; the sleek vase with its single white rose, petals yellowing along their crinkled rims; the soft thud of china plates as they are placed before us, brushing the ivory tablecloth like lips to a cheek. My mind goes every direction. The situation feels like an orchestrated scene, as if we are on the silver screen. Indeed, Reed should win an Oscar for his performance. He has never broken character. Not once in four years.

  Sensing the tension, the waiter leaves our plates without asking how he can be of more service. Reed lifts his knife and begins to saw his steak. A blood-red rib eye, extra rare.

  “Eat.” He talks through a mouthful of meat, half-chewed.

  Who is this man? Not the person I believed him to be.

  The seared trout rests untouched in front of me, my hands too numb to find a fork. “I don’t understand,” I say. The first words I’ve managed.

  “What’s not to understand?” His knife points toward the ceiling.

  I stare at the rose, the one I welcomed moments earlier, before the whole world washed away. I’d hoped for the scent of my mother’s garden, a breath of home. No heirloom here. This flower too . . . a fake.

  Reed exchanges his knife for the goblet, then downs the r
est of his Malbec, red like his steak. “You had to have known.” His tone is flat. In fact, his mouth lifts into a spiteful smile, the same look Bitsy gave me the day of the fire. He’s enjoying this.

  I finally find his eyes. They hold nothing but an empty gaze. This is not the man I love. The man who promised to marry me in Mississippi and honeymoon in New Zealand. “How could I have known?”

  “Come on, Eva.” He smirks again. “I’ve been on my phone with her right in front of you more times than I can count. That’s one of your problems. You don’t pay attention.”

  Her. The thought of his unsuspecting wife brings waves of nausea. “Kids?”

  “Of course.” He laughs the words. He laughs!

  “I trusted you.” My voice sounds weak. Small.

  “How many times have I told you, Eva? Never trust anyone. You’re too naive. Like a child. That’s always annoyed me.” He takes another bite. Tilts the empty wineglass toward the waiter, who sweeps in for the rescue.

  “Excuse me.” I remove myself from the seat, a soft gold fabric I had complimented not even an hour ago, when I slid into this prime corner spot expecting Reed to propose. Now I fumble my way toward the restroom as his second glass of wine is being poured behind me.

  My mind can’t decide what matters, what doesn’t. I focus on the wrong things. One man’s cuff links shine bright, peeking out from the sleeve of his dark sports coat, but I can’t make out his face. From across the restaurant, the redhead’s laugh echoes, but a woman in the restroom repeats her greeting twice.

  “Are you okay?” Her mouth moves soundlessly as she steps closer, and a strained concern gathers across her forehead. The creases pull much like those of a wedding gown, its fabric yielding and soft, easily manipulated. Like me.

  “Ma’am?” the woman whispers.

  I offer a thin smile and slide into a stall, closing the door behind me. As I lean against it, my own weight becomes more than I can hold. Above me, the lights are distorted. I press my sweaty palms to the door and try to stand upright. My ears ring and my heart races. Now I know what people mean when they say they are scared senseless or out of their mind.