Gardening

May 7, 2011

Dear Andrea,

I quit TV.

I grew tired of everyone telling me how I should think, act, dress, eat, live my life.

Without TV, it is quiet here.  Today, I sit at my antique oak pedestal table, looking out at the fenced in piece of earth I bought a year ago, the green grass, the carefully tended garden full of roses, lilacs and hydrangeas mixed with rosemary, sage, thyme, oregano – I listen for you, my ears tuned in to every sound. The washing machine with its steady clicka clocka clicka clocka one, two, one, two. The curtains rustle in the breeze made by the heat vents. The furnace hums a single note to the clicka clocka clicka clocka one two one two of the washing machine.

I hear the sound of breath--inhale exhale--of throat swallowing, of heart pumping miles and miles of blood through arteries, veins, capillaries.  Blood that carries the luggage of generations of women before, all tagged, marked so as to be recognized – Thelma, Francesca, Diane and the great-grandmothers and their mothers before them. I am the daughter of these mothers and you are the daughter of me.

Mother's Day. Yesterday I prepared a place in my yard for a kitchen garden. I measured out the space I wanted. I hired Noah to cut the sod and move it to the neighbor's backyard. I dug and leveled a 4 inch trench and stacked cinderblocks to wall in the spot where carrots, beets, cucumbers, zucchini squash will find their home in dark rich compost.  As I look out this morning, the brown and black bare soil is an empty canvas illuminated by the sun. 

I planted garlic chives Sun Gold, Black, and Dr. Carlson cherry tomatoes in the large grey ceramic planters I bought at Costco for this home last spring. I made cloches out of empty plastic gallon milk containers to protect the new plants in case of frost. 

Two years ago you called me.  “Mom, my friend Nolana wants to plant a vegetable garden.  I told her you know how.  Will you come help her?  I’ll help too.” 

“I wish I could.”  I told you.  But I thought I was too busy then.  With what? I can’t remember.  But this morning, I would be remembering planning, planting a garden with you and Nolana if I had made time for that.   

Sadie is sleeping at my feet. The washing machine shifts from the clicka clacka, clicka clacka that soothed me, to some frenzied tap dancing on the outside metal tub. It happens in increments, my body reacting to the sound.  My brain is scrambled until I hear the sound of running water. Closing my eyes, it almost sounds like a river.  It is just the rinse cycle. I feel tense nerves relaxing.

The laundry room is behind me. It is in a closet closed off by folding doors creating a short hallway between the kitchen and garage. Earlier this morning, I sorted blacks with blacks, blues with blues, browns with browns, whites with whites. They all made neat piles on my kitchen floor. While I was sorting, I kept getting my big toe caught in a pair of white lacy underwear.  Walking away from the washer, I saw a path of dribbles on the floor where Sadie dripped water from her beard after drinking from her bowl.  With my toes picking up the first soft thing I found, I moved it and dropped it on the soft spot. With the ball of my foot I pushed it around and dried the floor. When I finished, I picked up what I’d been using. It was a pair of panties. I choked up a giggle, then a laugh.

Now I hear it, you are laughing too.  There are tears in your eyes. “Oh. My. God. Mom. That's something I totally would do to.”  In my mind you are back in your apartment in Virginia Beach where your laundry room was a closet with folding doors in a hallway.

Then it stops. The washer, the furnace, the laughter. I cannot swallow.  A rope of panic has wrapped itself around my throat and tightens. I stop writing. The pen sits on this paper bleeding ink. No words take shape.

I have to move, to get a cup of coffee. To move the load of finished laundry to the dryer. I know this. But I sit here in this moment on this morning at this table watching the sun spotlight the beauty of all those things that are reborn in spring. Illuminated bare dirt, fertile ground inviting seeds yet to be planted.

I hear myself screaming inside, I scare myself. I miss you.

I lay my pen down. I have to plant a garden. I'm going to leave the house sounds to hear birds singing and smell this mother’s morning in May. I'm going to pick up a handful of dirt with my bare hands and sift it between my fingers watching it fall back to the ground. I will pick a leaf of sage, oregano, thyme and put them in my mouth. It will taste like Thanksgiving. I will look back into my house and see the table, the computer, the open Journal, the pen, the empty chair.

Later when the sun is setting I will sit in my chair again, a warm cup of Starfire Licorice tea in front of me, look back on my garden and wait for things to grow.

Mother's Day

May 5, 2011

             Dear Andrea,

            “Are you going to call in crazy this morning?” Steve asks me as he empties the dishwasher.  I stand at the sliding glass door, looking out at my backyard.  I am getting ready to sit down and write.  I am contemplating ways to describe the new green leaves, the red and yellow zinnias, the heirloom tomato plants waiting to be planted. 

            I turn around and look at him.  “No crazy this morning.  At least not yet.”  I answer.

            For the last two days my brain has been like the hummingbirds that come to visit my garden.  It darts here and there, hovers for a moment at some sweet thought, searches for bright shiny things.  I can’t keep up.  All those wings beating create a blur--their humming blocks out the sound of everything. 

            Mother’s Day is Sunday.  I dread it.  This was always our day.  A day you always found a way to make special.  I could not count on my husband to.  Dean would tell me, “You aren’t my mother.”  Never mind I was stepmother to his boys.  His boys I never hear from now. 
           Your sister almost never calls me.

           Though I know you might not understand the import of this fully--and I felt like if I tried to explain this you while you were alive, it would seem like I was trying to make excuses for some perceived shortfall (yours or mine)--I was a mother without a mom.  No one to talk about colic, when to introduce solid foods, how to potty train.  Everything I learned came by trial and error—or I read about it in Parent’s magazine while sitting in the pediatrician’s office waiting to be called into an examination room for your checkups and immunizations.  

           When I was eight, my own mother told me she was going shopping, dropped us off at an aunt’s and never came back.  My stepmother made Cinderella’s look like Donna Reed.  I am not sure what I was to her, but I never was a child.  And though hate is a strong word, I am pretty sure she hated me. 

            In my mid twenties, when you were born, I was not yet far enough removed from my own childhood to escape its influence.  I had been traumatized, and traumas never leave you.  In fact, at some level, they always define you.  No matter who you become.  I have just gotten really good at covering.     
            I tried to be the mother I never had, and fantasized about when I was a little girl and built castles out of spare lumber and cardboard for my imaginary children.  I know I was not a perfect mother.  I know there is no such thing. For all the things I never had a chance to say that I was sorry for—I am sorry.

            For all those times I never took the time to tell you how much I love you—I hope you knew and now know just how much. I will always love you. 

            On Sunday, Mother’s Day, I am going to join Lisa and her family at their church where Annalise will be blessed.  She is three months old now.  Yesterday I went to the storage unit where there are boxes with your handwriting, things you were saving for later.  I searched for the white knit blanket you were wrapped in when you were baptized.  I want to offer it to Lisa to wrap Annalise in when she is blessed.  I could not find it.  Instead I found the Cabbage Patch Doll I made you for your second Christmas.  I could not afford to buy a real one.  She is wearing a nightgown you wore as a baby.  I sat it gently in the front seat of the car.  Closed the metal pull down door.  Put the lock through the narrow opening in the latch.  When I got behing the steering wheel I buckled my seatbelt and closed my eyes.

            You appeared, riding your Wonder Horse in front of the dining room.  You had a pair of bright pink footed blanket pajamas on.  Your hair was dark and wild and curly.  In your arm was the Cabbage Patch doll.  You were taking her for a ride.  You were laughing.

            You did know.  You knew I was your mother and I loved you.

                                                                                           My heart is always looking for you,
                                                                                           Mom

Easter

Easter Sunday

Easter 2009. The last holiday I spent with you.

I miss your help this morning. I plan an Easter egg hunt later. We would have laughed together while you helped me put the candy in the Easter eggs and the prizes in their baskets. You would have hid the eggs for all the guests. And you would have delighted in watching everyone look for them, proud of all your hiding places. I would find Easter eggs for days after.

I am making ham and artichoke casserole--your favorites.  Remember when Aunt Terry, Uncle Marv and all the kids came for a holiday and I found them eating my cold casserole as a dip?

Lisa and Annalise came Friday night.  Lisa and the baby slept in my bed. I slept in Steve's room in your bed – the one I bought you for your first apartment. Annalise looks a lot like you did as a baby. She is almost 3 months old. She laughed for the first time Friday night in my living room. I was singing her “there was one in the bed and the little one said, rollover, rollover; there were two in the bed and the little one said roll over, roll over.” She giggled as I bounced her up and down on my knees. She smiled when I blew raspberries on her little round belly and nibbled on chubby toes and fingers. I hummed her lullabies I hummed you and walked rocking her until she fell asleep. Then, as she slept, I sat with her in my big leather easy chair and held her cradled, pressed close to my chest while she slept. All I could think was thank you. Thank you for this moment.

There are no Easter pictures of you that do not include the bunny cake. I made two bunny cakes on Saturday morning with Lisa, one for Easter dessert at my house, one for her to take to Easter dinner at her mom’s. The last Easter we spent together I made you the bunny cake. When you came through the front door, Sadie running in front of you, it was the first thing I offered up to you after we hugged and I kissed you on the cheek.

“Look.” I said the bunny cake.

You stood back, looked at the cake, then looked back at me.  “I have something to tell you.”  You told me.

“What?” I asked, apprehensive about what you had to say.

“I've always hated bunny cake.”

“You have? For 27 years I have made you a bunny cake for Easter.”

“I didn't want to tell you--you've always had so much fun making it.”  You said.

“You hate bunny cake?” I was surprised.

You answered, “Not really the bunny cake per se. I'm not a fan of coconut. I didn't want to tell you because we always had so much fun making it. Dying the coconut pink with red food color for the inside of the ears. Putting on the black gumdrop nose, laying the licorice whiskers, putting on pink gumdrop eyes. Then there were the jellybeans. You always liked the black ones but the others, the red, yellow, green, purple I put in the bunnies bow tie and popped every other one in my mouth. By the time the bunny cake was done I had licked the bowl of batter, the frosting from the beaters and I was full of gum drops and jellybeans. How could I tell you I did not like bunny cake?”

“You've always hated bunny cake?” I shook my head. You followed me into the kitchen. You took down the plates and began to set the table.

Last year, my first Easter after you died, there was no bunny cake. I had just left Dean. I lived in a small house I rented while I waited to buy the home I live in now. I made dinner. Ham, baked potatoes, salad, the artichoke casserole. My dad and his wife Mary came, my sister Linda, and friends of mine you've never met. I made Easter baskets for everyone. Dad and Mary brought me an Easter basket. It had a windup bunny that pooped jellybeans. For some reason this was incredibly funny.  I missed making the bunny cake.

This Easter, I am in my new house. The house you've never seen, but is always full of thoughts of you and things you left behind. This Easter, because of Lisa, Annalise, Steve, his daughter Stephi and her boyfriend there was a bunny cake.

And, after everybody left and the dishes were all done, I had a jellybean, a bite of moist white cake covered in frosting and coconut. As I let the flavors melt in my mouth I closed my eyes and tasted memories of all my Easter's with you.

I savored the sweetness. 

                                                                                                  Kisses and Hugs,

                                                                                                  Mom

A Child's Life

April 29, 2011

Hi Andrea,

            Sahara is seven.  You have never met her.  She is sleeping in my queen sized bed with Sadie curled up next to her.  I read her Mother Night and How Bonny Little Bear Got Her Tutu.  I have a loaf of cinnamon chip bread from Great Harvest on the kitchen counter downstairs.  In the morning, I will cut thick slices and make her cinnamon toast with warm maple syrup.

            I love the company of a child.  I love the honesty and openness to possibilities.  A child will invite me to swing with her, ignoring my graying roots, the dark circles under my eyes and the lines in my face.  A child will climb into my lap wanting nothing more than the warmth of my body.  A child will sing with me at the top of her lungs to any song.  She will dance with me and encourage me to dance with myself.  A child will ask me about you and not watch me for signs of a breakdown.

            And children’s movies are safe for me.  I feel silly going by myself.  I borrow my great niece, a friend’s child, like I used to borrow cups of sugar.  At children’s movies, I can laugh.  I know it is fiction. 

            I will not go to “grown up” movies anymore.  On New Year’s Eve, right after you died, I went to a comedy with a friend.  The previews of upcoming releases included one for The Lovely Bones.  I tripped over outstretched feet trying to reach the aisle.  I could not breathe.  When I made it to the lobby I was gulping for air.   Anything rated PG or over may leave me paralyzed.  It is best to avoid that.  
          
          Tonight I went to a children’s movie.  Sahara sat next to me in a darkened theater.  We went to see Rio.   I loved the colors of animated tropical birds, the music, the humor.  It is a story of the power of love.   Half way through the movie, Sahara turned to me.  “I know how this is going to end.”  She said. 

            “You do?”  I answered.

            She shook her head up and down emphatically.  “I do.” She said.

            “How?”  I asked.

            “Blu is going to fly.” 

            “How do you know that?”  I asked her.

            “I just know.”  She answered turning her attention back to the movie.

            I wish I had her confidence.  Her belief that everything is going to turn out a certain way.  

            I know now, we cannot count on happy endings--the story can be unpredictable and take you places you did not expect.  Even to places you did not want to go.

            Tonight this is how the story of this day will end--I will finish this letter to you.  When I have signed my name and sent it off I will put on my pajamas and brush my teeth.  I will search my face for evidence of new lines and note a deepening of the ones where I smile.  I will crawl under the down comforter next to the sleeping child in my bed.  I am humbled and  strengthened by her innocence and confidence. 

                                                                   Love You and Miss You

                                                                   Mom 

No Fight

April 28, 2011

Dear Andrea,

            "I want a divorce." My client, a businessman dressed in a white starched shirt, a red tie with a paisley pattern in tones of blues, and tailored navy blue suit sits across the desk from me. "What can I expect?"

            "How long have you been married?" I ask.

            "23 years."

            "That's a long time." I say. I thought of my own marriage, then 16 years old.

            "I just can't do it anymore." He looks at his hands in his lap as he tells me this.  There was a plain gold band strangling the ring finger on his left hand.

            On this day that he has come to meet me, I have been a divorce lawyer for over 17 years. I do not pry. If he wants to tell me why "he just can't do it anymore" he will. 

            "Do you have children?" I ask him, as I record his answer on my yellow pad.

            "Two." He answers.

            "How old?" I ask.

            "Ten and Twelve.” He answers.

            "Does your wife work?" I ask.

            "She does," he answers," she is a secretary."

            We talk about her income. She has no retirement plan, no healthcare benefits, everything they have acquired is in both their names.

            Then we talk about his income, his 401(k), his retirement plan, his benefits. He makes four times more than her.

            I have him list the bank accounts, investments, real estate, cars, other property of any value.  I reduce his marriage to a list of possessions.

            Then I lay it out for him. "Here is what you can expect. You have two children. You will pay child support for each child until they turn 18 or graduate from high school. If they go to college, expect to continue paying child support until they finish. In addition to child support, you will pay a portion of health insurance plus part of uninsured medical expenses for your children. Your wife makes less than you. Expect to pay maintenance, perhaps until you retire. Your 401(k), your retirement, she is entitled to half of everything earned during your marriage – at least half – the law says an equitable portion. The house, the cars, the bank accounts, investments, anything of value, all gets added up then split equitably, generally that means half."

            He looks up at me. He weighs what I have told him." At least half of everything?" He asks.

            "At least." I answer.

            He is quiet. He looks back down, studies his hands folded in his lap. I see his knuckles turn white.

            "Child support, maintenance, and half of everything?" He asks.

            "That pretty much sums it up." I say.

            Again there is silence. He works his hands kneading the fingertips into the space between his knuckles.

            "Thank you." He says when he finally looks up at me. His eyes meet mine."I think I'll stay."

            Though Dean and I had no children together and we both made about the same income, I knew if I ever left I would have to fight for half of anything.  He would not be fair.  He would not be kind.  He would want to keep everything.

            And after you died, I had no fight in me. But there was only this truth. Nothing Dean and I had accumulated  was worth the cost of staying.

            I was right.

                                                                                            I Love You,

                                                                                            Mom

Surfacing

April 26, 2011

Hi Andrea,

            I have been drowning.  I have surfaced. 

            I take in huge gulps of air, store it up.  I know the undertow will grab my ankles, pull me under once again.  When I am drowning the only sound I can hear is my heart beating wildly, demanding oxygen.  I want the peace and stillness of that liquid place where everything floats, swims, or sinks.  I want to remain devoid of daily discourse and interruptions to my thoughts.  I am in a state of grace before my body wins its fight for air again and finds it.

            Life is like that now, for me.

            Leaving Dean was like another death.  The next day, after I made my decision, I went to work.  By lunchtime, I had three rental houses to look at.  That night I had another.   I called Dean and asked him to meet me at the little diner across from the movie theater for dinner.

            I hate change.  As unhappy as I was with my marriage, I did not want it to end.  I knew my role, it defined me.  I was comfortable in my status as wife.  Comfortably trapped in unhappiness. 

            Every time I thought about leaving Dean, or thought about divorce, that little voice inside my head kept whispering, “But remember how much you loved him in the beginning.”  Sitting next to him, I would look at his profile, tears would fill my eyes.  I could not bear the thought then, of ever losing him. That feeling never changed.  But I did.

            That night, in the diner, after we ordered burgers, fries and chocolate shakes, I told Dean, “I need a place of my own.  I need a place where I  am able to sing myself lullabies and rock myself to sleep at night.  I cannot be with you anymore when you are drinking.  I can rent a place in town, and come home on the weekends.”

           

            “I think you should get a place of your own.” Dean told me.

            I though perhaps he understood.  Maybe there was something to be salvaged from our relationship of 25 years, our marriage of 18.

            “But don’t plan on coming home for weekends.  It just won’t work.”   He added.

            His words, his nonchalance, felt like a fist in the chest.  I could not breathe.  I was underwater. I wanted him to tell me, "Don't go.  I will get help.  I can change."

 “Then I guess that is how it will have to be.” I told him.

When you died I lost everything there was to lose.  I was left vacant, wanting only what I could not have, your presence.  In the days and weeks that followed, as I slowly moved back into myself, I found the final gift you left for me. 

Strength to claim my own space.

Thank you.

                                                                                       Love You Andie

                                                                                       Mom

Walking Away

April 18, 2011

Hi Andrea,

            I know you will not be surprised by this.  I left your stepdad, Dean.  I lasted for three months after your death.  Today would have been our 20^th wedding anniversary. 

            After you died, everyone told me “No major changes for a year.  Wait a year, and then decide.”  My father was the only one who told me different.  He was the one I turned to for advice when I learned there was another woman; when Dean laid out in 21 degree weather after stumbling and passing out in the woodshed—wetting himself in the process.  He was the one who listened all those days and nights and holidays Dean spent with the bottle.  

When I called him and told him, “Dad, I need you to talk me into staying.”

            He replied, “I think you already know the answer.  All I can tell you is--when you are ready to leave, call me.  I’ll be there with the pickup.”

……………….

            It wasn’t when he got so drunk at your memorial service he could barely walk, let alone drive as I needed him to, that I decided to leave.  It wasn’t the next day, when he woke up to make Bloody Mary’s and scrambled eggs for Jake and Kim.  I could not eat.  It was not when he was so hung over he could not drive me to Funeral Alternatives to drop off your clothing and personal effects—then coming home to find him stumbling and barely coherent.  

            I decided to leave on Wednesday, December 2, 2009.  The console clock on my Subaru recorded the exact time in green light, 5:48 p.m.

            We met on the corner of Old Highway 99 and Highway 2.  I was coming from work in Olympia.  I did not have time to go home and make it to Providence Hospital in Centralia for the Grief Support Group Christmas tree ceremony.  Dean drove to the Shell Station and parked in the back.  When I drove up, I could see his silhouette behind the driver’s seat of his truck.  As he got out, and locked the driver’s door, I braced myself, I knew.  As he slid into the passenger seat of my car, he reeked of Stoli.  My hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.  I said nothing.  As I pulled back out onto the highway, I focused on the turning of my head, the tensing of the muscles of my neck as I searched the road for traffic. Rain fell steadily.  The only sound in the car was the steady click, click the windshield wipers made.  I willed myself to not start crying then.  I did not have the energy for a fight.  I had to take him with me or miss this Christmas program.  I did not know how I could make it though Christmas without you.  I hoped there were others there who could give me guidance.

            I turned right onto Old Highway 99.  The light was red.  I took the free right turn when I had the chance, exited to Interstate 5.  When we arrived the group was gathered in the hallway and lobby at the entrance to the hospital.  We gathered there to decorate a 12 foot noble fir.  The decorations were ornaments we decorated.  Each person took a colored bulb or a white wooden angel and a glitter pen and wrote their child’s name, the date they were born, the date they died, then placed the ornament on the tree.  When the tree became too full, we decorated a banner on the wall.  Some parents did not come back every year, we took turns placing their ornaments for them.

            As I took my turn, I could hear Dean, everyone could.  He had his arm around one of the women.  He was telling her about his son in medical school, about his lovely grandchildren, about his son in California and his beautiful, brilliant girlfriend, about his other son in California and his girlfriend too.  When he was done telling her, he went on to tell someone else.  When I finished decorating, making spirals, drawing flowers, I hung your ornament on the tree—Andrea Marcella, 12/23/81-9/1/09. 

            He did not come to me when I sat down in a chair off by myself. 

            When everyone was done, we all moved to Kit Carson’s, I think you and I had breakfast there together once.  Kit Carson’s had a banquet room set up for our group.  A place where we could sit, share a meal and share the stories of our children.  Dean and I sat across from a couple and their two older children.  The waitress came, asked us what we wanted to drink. 

            “I’ll have plain iced tea.”  I said.  “No sugar.”

            “A double martini for me.”  Dean said.

            I looked at him.  “I think you’ve had enough already.”

            “I’ll decide that.” He replied, staring at me icily.

            I began talking to the couple across the table.  Their daughter died on Christmas Eve several years before.  Her sister went in to wake her up to open presents.  She was dead.  I asked them how they planned to spend the holidays, if they had any suggestions for me, the newly initiated to this group.

 “Our faith in God has helped us through.  Without that, we could not have survived.”  They started. 

            “Only idiots believe in God.” Dean bellowed.  “You might as well believe in elves and fairies.”  Dean droned on and on.

            I heard nothing after that.  We ordered, our food came, I pushed mine around on the plate.  When I could finally summon the energy, I said, “I’m leaving now.  It’s time to go.”

            “I’m not finished with my drink.”  Dean said.  “I want another.”

            I stood up with my purse and keys.  “I’m leaving now.  It’s time to go.”  I began to walk away.

            Love--Mom