Heirlooms, page 27
What had Captain Adams written in her file? Were there enough corpsmen and nurses who still worked here who held a good opinion of Helen’s work? “I understand, sir.”
He stood. “I’ll be in touch as the situation warrants.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
It was late when she got home. Eunhee was already in bed. Helen went up to her room, opened her purse, and took out Mrs. Jones’s phone number. She’d need to let her know within a week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Six days later, Eunhee called out to Helen. “Let me help you plant that last peony before we leave.”
“Oh, please don’t worry about that,” Helen said. “I can do that without you. It’s just the one.”
“For old time’s sake,” Eunhee insisted.
“Okay.” Helen put her trousers on, slipped her loafers on, and walked to the potting shed, where she grabbed the spade. Eunhee, strength fully restored, lugged the potted peony from the side of the greenhouse. Together, they went to the back of the garden, where most of the peonies had been cut back for the winter, perhaps for the first time in years.
Eunhee laughed and lifted the plant out of the pot. When she did, the plant’s name tag fell out. “Oh, look, this one with the beautiful raspberry blossoms is called Big Ben.”
Big Ben, eh? Helen looked heavenward. You do have a sense of humor. “I’ll put him right next to Better Times,” she said, indicating her favorite peony bush. “Because I suspect they are just ahead.” Once the plant was nestled in the ground, they went into the house and changed.
Their work done, they stood and looked at the sleeping garden, arm in arm. “Your kindness to me will never be forgotten. I do not know where I would be without you,” Eunhee said.
Helen hugged her. “You are not just my dearest friend, but your steadfast faith led me to my own. I do not know where I would be without you. You brought joy back into my life and gave me hope, something that never comes easily to me. Let’s just forget all about this crazy Seattle plan, and you can stay here with me.”
Eunhee said nothing. They both knew that could not be.
An hour later, Eunhee came into the kitchen with her suitcase and a couple of envelopes. Helen recognized them. They were the letters from Eunhee’s mother. “Will you also keep these for me?” She held them out to Helen.
“You’re not taking them with you?”
Eunhee shook her head. “Not now. When the day comes that I retrieve the hanbok and spools of thread, I will take these with me too.”
When the secret could be made known. “Of course. There will be a right time to share these.” Helen reached out and took Eunhee’s mother’s letters, which had been neatly taped shut. Helen understood. She couldn’t bring herself to throw away her mother’s letter, either—nor the beautiful bone china set in the white box, an heirloom bequeathed by her grandmother and stained not by tea but rejection. Like Eunhee, she needed to move on.
After packing the few things Eunhee had yet to take to her new home, they got into the Skylark and headed toward the big city.
“You’ll come back often,” Helen said. “Right?”
“Of course,” Eunhee said. “I’m a bit nervous about my job. It may be some time until I have days off. Will you pray for me?”
“I will pray for you, and because of you, I know how to pray and to whom.”
Once in Federal Way, a city near Seattle where Eunhee’s new hosts lived, Helen waved goodbye and got back into the car. Yes, she was sad. Yes, Eunhee was sad. But they were both former Navy wives and understood that time apart almost always made reunions more joyous.
They were friends forever.
Helen returned home, arriving just before noon, driving cautiously up her driveway. Why were the kitchen lights on? She had not left them on, she was sure.
She got out of the car and closed the door behind her, walking slowly toward the house. When she approached the kitchen, she looked in the window. Johanna?
After kicking off her shoes in the mud porch, she burst through the door. “Johanna. Is everything okay?”
Johanna turned toward her. “Yes. I knew you were taking Eunhee to Federal Way today and thought maybe you’d like to make Cinn Rolls when you returned.”
Helen smiled. She knew I’d be a bit lonely. “I would love it. Let me put my apron on and get a recipe card so I can write down your instructions.” She clicked the light on in the under-stairs pantry and took a new peach apron from the hook. Eunhee’s cream, ruby, and pink apron still hung there, waiting for her next visit. A pang of loneliness passed through Helen, and then she opened her cookbook and withdrew a fresh card from the envelope in which she kept recipe cards.
Pencil in hand, she rejoined Johanna in the kitchen. “I’ll stand right at your elbow,” she said, “and learn properly.”
They spent the next hours activating the yeast, mixing flour, and rolling dough. “These cinnamon rolls are moist, not dry as you often see in commercial bakeries,” Johanna said. “The secret is a moist dough. Keep plenty of flour handy to be able to roll out the dough.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said.
“Next, pour the melted butter over the rolled-out dough, spreading to cover evenly. Sprinkle lots of brown sugar over the dough and butter. Be liberal with the cinnamon for a good taste.”
Be liberal with the cinnamon for a good taste, Helen jotted onto her card. “Can we add even a bit more cinnamon?”
“Yes,” Johanna said. “Make them taste as you would like them.” She showed her how to cut and roll them, and then they placed the pan of rolls in a warm area to rise. “You can add walnuts or raisins to them,” she said, “to give them the ‘taste of your hands.’” She smiled at Eunhee’s lesson about son-mat. “Just never add—”
“Frosting!” Helen declared. “I promise. How about chopped apples?”
“Maybe . . . ,” Johanna said.
“Come with me for a moment while they rise,” Helen said. They slipped on their shoes from the back porch, and Helen led the way into the orchard. Although it was the end of December, the day was temperate, as much of Whidbey Island lolled in the rain shadow of western Washington. Helen stood in front of the small arc of apple trees. “I have seven apple trees,” she said. “Planted before I owned the farm and house, of course. I’ve always been a big quote collector and love the one that said, ‘A person plants a tree not for himself, but another generation.’ Someone planted these trees, and I will benefit from them. I will pass this down to my children and their children and hopefully generations after that.”
“True,” Johanna said. She walked up next to one of the trees. “What is . . . ?” She turned toward Helen.
“Take a look at all of the trees,” Helen told her.
She watched as Johanna looked at the wooden plaque hanging on every tree. Then she returned to Helen, who sat on the bench swing.
“Those are my sons’ names,” Johanna said, her voice bright with incredulity.
“I named every tree for one of your sons,” Helen responded. “They will continue to bear good fruit year after year, decade after decade. It is something of me that I can give to you and your wonderful boys. Something everbearing.”
Johanna leaned over and, though not a woman given to demonstration, hugged Helen. Then she returned to her no-nonsense ways. “I think the apples would do better in pies than in Cinn Rolls.”
Helen laughed and agreed.
Later that afternoon, after Helen had eaten two Cinn Rolls, the phone rang.
She listened carefully, as she’d done all week, to the ring code. Yes! Two long, three short. She lifted the receiver. “This is Helen Devries.”
“Hello. Captain Martinez. We spoke last week after setting your neighbor’s broken bone?”
“Yes, yes, Captain.” She held her breath.
“I was able to intercept the paperwork that would turn that nursing position into a permanent Navy post. You have all the qualities I wish to see on my nursing staff. The civilian nursing job is yours if you want it.”
“Yes, yes, I most certainly want it. When do I start?”
“Next Monday,” he said. “Please come to my office, and we will start the paperwork. I will see you then.” He hung up the line.
But not everyone did. Cheers broke out, and hoots and whistles along with sentiments of congratulations.
“Thank you all!” Helen said.
She finally set the receiver down and looked out the window. “Thank you, Lord.” One by one, a flock of Brewer blackbirds in midnight-blue cloaks alighted on the phone wire and cawed their applause while the nearby sparrows sang praise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Where would the birds go when the property and plants were destroyed?
Annika and I spread petals over the greenhouse boards as I watched DJ fill the bird feeders. “Ready for school?” I hoped I’d injected cheerfulness into my voice.
“Yes. I enrolled in all my classes. A little nervous. Hey, do you think you might need help after I leave? I have a friend who loves flowers and gardening. She was so jealous when I told her where I worked.”
“I would like to hire her, but I can’t.”
She took her fidget cube out of her pocket and twisted it for a minute before answering. “She’s not afraid of bees.”
I couldn’t let her think that she’d done anything wrong. “Annika, I am extremely impressed at your courage to come back after last year. Your ingenuity in bringing gloves. Your amazing talent with photography. You are so gifted, and I’m going to be excited when you’re famous, to say I knew you back when. I’m not thinking about bees anymore.”
“So then what’s the problem?” She scooped dried petals from another shelf into a small bag.
“I’m not saying anything publicly yet, but there won’t be a next year. There were some financial issues, and I’m going to have to sell the property to a developer.”
She looked out over the acres where the evergreens had once stood. “Is that why you cut down the trees?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Kinda.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Then she froze. “What about the Mickey apple tree?”
“It’s too big to transplant. We’ll take all the apples off it and bring big bushels to everyone in your family. We’ll take some cuttings and graft them so we can both grow them wherever we end up.”
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t want it to die out.”
“Me neither.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“A party. A huge dinner party Labor Day evening. We’re going to invite everyone and have a huge feast and celebration.” I’d already decided that I could use a chunk of the money in the account that was paying the home equity loan for the party because soon there would be no need for those funds. I’d have money to live on from the house’s proceeds until I decided where I wanted to go next. Somewhere close—smaller but close. Whidbey was home.
“That sounds fun!” she said. “Am I invited?”
“Of course you’re invited. You are invited, and your family and the group you and DJ meet with and his family and everyone who brought plant starts or who knew Gran and me. Grace is bringing her new boyfriend and a friend from her new job. I’m going to send out an email to the Flowery Language mailing list and invite anyone on it who might want to come. Plus, text and call friends.” I was sure everyone would come.
Well, almost everyone.
“Cool!” Annika said. “Are you going to make the White Picket Picnic foods?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll make the desserts ahead of time—the hand pies maybe, with the berries and apples from the garden. A guy who has a barbecue business in Oak Harbor will come and smoke meats for everyone, so I don’t have to worry about that part. It’ll then be a community potluck so everyone can bring something of him- or herself and share. Nick’s invited a disc jockey he knows so we can enjoy that during dinner and maybe dancing afterward.”
She looked sad. I felt sad. “Hey—would you do me a favor?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I want an official photographer. Pictures of everything, all the tables, dancing, the property from every angle. Would you be willing to take those? I’ll pay you for them, for sure.”
“I’ll do it. But for free, as a gift from me to you.”
“Thank you!” I spent the rest of the day sorting seeds to take with me when I moved. I’d take starts from the plants after the party—maybe I’d make them available to others, just like they had sown them into my life. In the email announcing the farm’s sale, after the party, I’d let people know what they could take after I’d removed what I needed. That way, my garden would continue to grow, with Gran’s hands, too, after we were gone.
I sat in the middle of the garden, at the picnic table, and drank iced tea. I looked at my phone. Call, Cassidy. Just call.
As I was about to dial, Annika came and sat next to me, then pulled out her phone. She’d hung my Hello, Sunshine, hat on a row of the dahlias. “I thought maybe you’d want to use this when you send out your party invitation?”
“Perfect!” She texted it to me, and I got on a graphic image app and made it into an invitation. I emailed it from the business account and texted it to friends.
Within minutes, I got positive RSVPs. The first to say yes was Mrs. Kim, Grace’s mother.
The whole family would love to come, she texted.
I’m so glad. I would love to give you some bellflower roots and I’ll dig up some perilla for you. It’ll self-sow next year. Would that be okay? A bit of my garden and life sown into hers.
Yes. Perhaps I could come next week for a visit, and bring lunch for you, Grace, and me?
Of course!
I looked over the peony field—a few blossoms, more leaves. I wished my mom were here to join us. To pick flowers with me. I at least felt her here. Would I feel her in the same way at the new place?
I went into the house, up to the attic, and continued packing. Gran’s old nurse’s uniform hung in a corner. I saluted the uniform, as I would the woman, and then took it down, folded it carefully. Then I sat down. I’d put it off long enough. I was going to reach out—again. I texted my dad.
Hey, Dad. It’s Cassidy.
After sending it, I turned back to packing, not expecting to hear from him quickly, if at all.
Shockingly, my phone buzzed within minutes.
Hi, Cassidy. It’s Dad. 🙂 I know how to use the smiley faces now.
That was cheerful. I should just ask him if I could call. I should just call. No. I didn’t really want to hear him say no in person. Better on a text.
So I’m selling the house and the land.
What? Why?
Lots of reasons and I can get into it later. But what I really wanted to ask is would you and Mary Alice like to come to a party I’m having on Labor Day evening? It’ll be a huge send-off, my last big shindig on the property. I’d really like to have you here.
He didn’t answer for a bit. Maybe he was asking her?
Please don’t say no.
My phone buzzed. Let me talk with Mary Alice, Dad texted. I’ll let you know. I
I?
Sorry, I hit Send too soon. I would like to see you. I miss you.
Tears caught in my throat. Me too, Dad.
I didn’t, however, believe that Mary Alice would let them fly out.
After Nick and I ate a beach picnic that night, we walked on the beach and started a fire, then snuggled on a wool blanket I’d brought and draped across the sand. He scooped up some sand in a shell and let it drop slowly to the ground. “If this were an hourglass, I’d be wishing for the days and weeks we let slip away when we broke up.”
“There’s a lot of sand out there that hasn’t yet been counted.”
“Let’s count it together.” He opened my palm and then stroked his thumb across it, and as he did, nerves tingled and twitched to every point of my being. Then he poured sand into my hand before closing his hand around mine. “Lots of days. Weeks. Years.”
He pulled me closer. “You doing okay with all of this? The party? Moving?”
“Not really, but I will be.” I told him about Grace’s grandmother’s seed packets and how she’d written, To plant next year and all the years after. I will make my new home my true home. “She wrote it in English,” I said. “Not Korean. As if to underscore that she was here now and was going to make it work. I will too.”
“So you’re willing to try a new terroir? Pack your seeds and transplant?”
I nodded. “I’m ready to move.”
He folded his hand over mine. “I’m proud of you.”
Mrs. Kim started pulling things out of bags. First, three aprons. “Here. Put these on.” She handed one to me and one to Grace and then tied one around herself.
“Oh, are we cooking?” Why else would she have us put on aprons?
She gave me a long-suffering look, as a mother would to a child. “Yes, of course.”
Next, she pulled a crock of kimchi out of the bag. I loved her kimchi, the perfect blend of crunch, umami, heat, sweetness, and tang. “I do not have time to show you how to make this today. Perhaps you would like to set aside a day this fall for a kimjang?”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure I’d love it.” I placed the jar into the refrigerator.
“It’s a day when the women of a family get together to make kimchi and gossip.” She smiled. “I would like for you and Grace to be there together. I can show you both how to make kimchi.”
“I would like that, Umma,” Grace said.
“I would, too!” Mrs. Kim opened another reusable shopping bag. “First, we put the meat in the freezer.” Mrs. Kim gathered us to the island to watch as she made the marinade. “Bulgogi is a good cut of meat, so you want the marinade to enhance the flavor, but not overwhelm it. I mix a little gochujang—red pepper paste—with some brown sugar, sesame oil, minced garlic, ginger paste, and soy. Like this.” She whisked it all together. “I don’t put pear in mine because if you use good quality meat, the acids from the pear are not needed to tenderize it. Mrs. Kim always included pear but . . .” She shrugged.
