The Heirloom Garden, page 21
It’s another sign.
“Hi, Dad,” I whisper.
Cardinals are a symbol of my mother, and she appears when I need her the most, during the holidays when my soul aches like barren tree branches in the north wind and my heart is frozen like the lake, landing on a snow-covered holly bush to wish me Merry Christmas. Hummingbirds are a symbol of my father. He loved them as much as his surprise lilies. They appear to remind me of summer, of my roots.
“Hello?” Abby calls. “Iris? Are you okay?”
“I just knew,” I finally call back. “Instinct!”
“Would you like to join us for a piece of birthday cake later?”
I knew I smelled something, I think.
“I’m filling my feeders and filthy from gardening,” I say.
“Come over when you can, okay? We’ll wait.”
“Okay,” I call. “Thank you.” I stop. “Oh, and I have a little gift for Lily.”
“You do?” Abby asks, her voice rising in disbelief.
“I do,” I say. “But it’s a surprise.”
ABBY
AUGUST 2003
“But how did you know it was my birthday?”
Lily’s face is covered in icing—literally covered, from ear to ear and nose to chin—and my heart feels like it is going to burst with happiness.
What greater joy is there than seeing your daughter happy, healthy and growing up to be a smart, independent, unique little girl right in front of your very eyes?
“It only makes sense that a beautiful girl named Lily would be born the day the surprise lilies are born,” Iris says.
My eyes dart to Iris. My heart breaks.
Would I be able to live if Lily were to die? What if Cory had been killed in battle? How would I? How could I? Where does Iris derive her strength and sense of purpose?
We are seated in the living room—Iris in a chair, the three of us on a couch—the air conditioner working overtime to keep the poorly insulated old cottage somewhat cool. Sunlight blares through a stained glass window in the living room and prisms of blue, red and green splay across Iris’s face. She resembles a Picasso painting from my vantage point, her features divided into colorful angles—blue nose, green cheeks, red forehead.
I shut my eyes and open them again.
Iris looks magical if not downright beautiful.
She is watching Lily eat her cake with such rapt attention, and yet I cannot unearth the emotions lurking beneath her face. The light illuminates Iris, but it also shows every line of her aged face, deep crevices like the ones she digs to plant seeds. And yet I don’t see her age, I see her beauty.
During a college trip, I attended an exhibit hosted by the Detroit Institute of Arts featuring a group of artists—painters, woodcutters, textile artists—who had studied in Mexico. Whereas most artists focused on flowers in bloom, their collective work celebrated the beauty and delicacy of dying flowers: their diminishing color, sagging blooms, withering petals.
Most of my classmates didn’t like the work.
“It’s not pretty,” many said.
One of the artists overheard their remarks and walked over. She was a woman around Iris’s age. “It’s the same flower,” she said, her silver hair glowing. “It’s not less pretty. It’s actually more beautiful because it’s lived long enough to understand that beauty doesn’t last forever and that people just toss out the old.”
My classmates didn’t understand the depth of what she was conveying, but I nodded.
“What do you see in my work?” she asked.
“My grandma in her garden,” I said, a response that elicited a hug from the artist.
I watch Iris watch Lily.
Did her own daughter celebrate a birthday in this very living room with her grandmother? Did she feel the same emotions I do right now?
“Do you want to see the presents I got?”
Lily’s voice knocks me from my thoughts. Iris nods, and Lily jumps off the couch. She races into the back of the cottage. A few seconds later the jingling of a bike bell echoes throughout the house, and Lily rides into the living room on her little pink bicycle.
“Lily!” Cory says. “Don’t ride your bike in the house!”
Cory looks at me, his eyes wide, before glancing nervously at Iris. His words—and the panic in his voice—literally scream, “Lily, don’t ride your bike in the house in front of the woman we’re renting it from!”
“That’s okay,” Iris says, a trill in her voice. “My daughter used to ride her bike in the house, too.”
Lily shoots me a prideful glance, and I suddenly picture her as a difficult teenager.
“And look at all the cool stuff on my bike,” Lily says, riding up to Iris. “A basket and streamers off both handles and a glitter bike seat...” Lily is so excited and talking so quickly that she is running out of breath and has to take big gulps of air to keep going. “And this!” She rings the bell again. “Wanna try?”
Iris reaches out and squeezes the bell. Both giggle.
“I have a gift for you, too,” Iris says.
“Oh, Iris,” Cory says. “That’s not necessary.”
“It isn’t?” Lily asks, her face scrunched in confusion.
Iris laughs. “It is, isn’t it, Lily?”
Lily nods.
Iris stands. “Follow me, then. It’s outside.”
Cory and I look at one another, and Lily jumps off her bike, leaning it against a wall, and trails Iris, who heads toward the back porch. I follow and arrive just in time to see Lily race down the stairs and into the yard.
“It looks just like Easter!” Lily yells.
Indeed, a couple of colorful packages dot the yard like Easter eggs, perched directly under flowers that are blooming randomly all across the backyard. Cory and I walk over to join Iris and Lily.
“All of these surprise lilies came from my father’s homestead in Illinois,” Iris says. “He dug them up, and we replanted them here. They are a reminder that—when you least expect it—you are surrounded by hope, love and family.” Iris turns to Lily, kneels and places her hands on her shoulders. “You, my birthday girl, are very lucky. You are surrounded by all three.” She nods at the box. “Go ahead. You can open it up now.”
Lily takes a seat on the grass and pulls the lid off a box that is as purple as a Harlequin’s pants. Lily looks up, confused. Iris leans down and pulls a muddy bulb from the box. “It’s a surprise lily from my yard,” Iris says. “These are ones that remind me of someone special.” Iris takes a seat next to Lily. “I had a great-aunt named Blanche who was quite a character. She lived in Las Vegas and dressed however she wanted and lived a grand life.” Iris holds up the bulb. “She used to tell me, ‘Be just like these lilies. Be different, unexpected, a surprise to folks.’” Iris looks at Lily. “That is my wish for you. Now, where should we plant this?”
Lily grabs the bulb and races around the yard, considering. She stops, out of breath, before a big smile crosses her face. She races around the house, and we follow her into the front yard.
“Right here,” Lily says with total confidence. “I want to plant this right here.”
“That’s right in the middle of the yard, sweetie,” Cory says. “Why there?”
“Because this is where me and mommy first fell in love with this house,” Lily says. “And this is the spot where we knew Daddy would finally be happy again.”
Cory is silent for the longest time. He walks over and picks Lily up, holding her tightly in his arms. “I can’t breathe, Daddy,” Lily finally says.
Iris produces a spade, and I laugh. “Always ready,” she says with a wink. “You do the honors,” she says, handing the spade to Lily, who begins digging a hole in the middle of the front yard. She plants the bulb, and I unwind a hose to give it a big drink.
“Next!” Lily says, racing toward the backyard.
We all head to the backyard once again, and Lily takes a seat next to a prettily wrapped package with a velvet bow. Lily looks at Iris, who nods, and Lily wipes her hands on her shorts before ripping open the gift.
“It’s sooo pretty,” she says. “Look, Mom.”
I walk over and Lily is holding up a beautiful brooch of flowers. I take the tiny pin from her little hand and gasp. Two gem-encrusted hyacinth—one white, one blue—rise from a sparkling stalk and sit on opposite sides of green enamel leaves.
“Oh, Iris. No,” I say. “This must hold special meaning to you. It looks vintage.”
Iris smiles. “I’m vintage.”
“What’s the story behind it?” Cory asks.
“My husband gave it to me our first Christmas. He said it summed me up perfectly.” She takes the pin from me. “I love hyacinth. Their sweet, lingering fragrance, their colorful flowers, the way you can force them to grow indoors for the winter. They always reminded me of hope and of spring.” Iris stops and looks toward the lake. “When he went to war, I gave it to him and told him, ‘You didn’t know this about the pin when you bought it for me, but white hyacinth represents prayers and protection for someone while blue hyacinth represents eternal love.’ Jonathan told me he kept this in his pocket at all times, but it was returned to me by one of his friends. He said he found it wrapped in one of Jonathan’s T-shirts in the barracks.” Iris turns and looks at the pin again. “I kept it wrapped in that T-shirt, and I put a little piece in the box, just so...”
“Just so what?” Cory prompts.
“Just so you can know the whole story,” she says, her voice low. “When you told me the story of what you gave to your friend, I knew this would be the perfect gift for Lily.” Iris stops again. “For you. For your whole family.”
“It’s too personal, Iris,” I protest. “We just can’t take something this precious.”
“You have to,” Iris says, grabbing my hand and forcing the brooch back into it. “I have no one. There needs to be a legacy. There needs to be someone to tell my stories. You can. Cory can. Lily can.” I shake my head. “It’s important to me. Please.”
I nod. Lily stands, and I hand the brooch back to Iris. “You do the honors.”
She secures the pretty pin to Lily’s birthday blouse, and her face beams. “You make it look even more beautiful,” she says.
“Thank you, Iris,” Lily says, reaching up to kiss Iris on the cheek.
For the longest time Iris doesn’t move. She simply holds her hand to her cheek. Her face glows in the sun—like it did earlier in the living room. Finally, she stands—slowly, stiffly—almost as if she has been frozen forever, and Lily’s kiss has warmed her body and brought her back to life.
Iris clears her throat. “I best be getting back home,” she says. “My gardens need watering.” She looks at Lily. “Happy birthday, beautiful Lily.”
“Thank you, beautiful Iris,” Lily says, which causes Iris to release a sudden whoop of laughter.
“Lilies and iris,” Iris says as she heads toward the back gate. “What a perfect combination, don’t you think?”
We see her body move along the fence and then into her yard. It is quiet for a while before we hear her turn on her hose and hum as she begins to water.
“Isn’t my pin pretty?” Lily asks.
We walk over and admire its delicate beauty.
“It’s old,” Cory says. He wiggles the brooch on Lily’s blouse. “I think the clasp may be loose.”
“What?” Lily asks, her face etched in concern.
“I would hate for you to lose this. Want me to fix it for you?”
Lily nods, and Cory unclasps the brooch. “Why don’t you go get your bike ready, and we’ll go for a little ride around the block. How’s that sound?”
“Yippee!” Lily yells, her shoes kicking up grass as she hightails it for the house.
I look at Cory. Cory looks at me. A big smile comes over his face.
“I take it you’ll need the T-shirt that’s in the box, too,” I say.
PART TEN
CONEFLOWERS
“Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.”
—Nathaniel Hawthorne
IRIS
AUGUST 2003
“Turn it off, Iris!”
My heart is beating so rapidly in my chest that I feel as if I might pass out. It matches the sounds of the gunfire and bombing I see on TV.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The war drags on, no end in sight, and our politicians stand before us offering excuses as our men and women continue to die. I cannot control this. I—we, none of us—have that power. We can only control our own actions, and hope—Hope! Oh, that much too infrequently used word and action—that those intentions ripple outward.
I set the remote down, and my eyes settle on a tiny plaque of The Serenity Prayer I have sitting on a pile of books. Shirley gave it to me long ago. The plaque is decorated with pretty butterflies.
God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.
My eyes flit to the towering fence just outside the window.
Despite the wisdom of this prayer, I remain an addict. I am addicted to my own isolation. I am addicted to my own loneliness. I am addicted to my own pain.
“You should have died long ago, Iris,” I say to myself, my own voice startling me in the silence of my cottage.
Why haven’t I? What has kept me going? Hope? Fear? Plain, old stubbornness?
A towering stand of purple coneflowers dances in the breeze, butterflies and bees flocking to their pretty petals and sturdy centers. I stand at the window, and—over the fence—I see Cory working to dig a bed alongside my grandma’s house, while Lily runs through a sprinkler in the yard, squealing as only a child can. Lily is wearing a bright pink swimsuit and—for some reason—floaties around her arms, which makes me laugh. She has a white daisy tucked behind one ear, and a soaked ponytail that smacks her back like a racehorse when she runs. Lily runs through the sprinkler again, absolutely shrieking in delight. When she emerges, she twirls in a circle, her hair cascading a ring of golden water that covers a surprised Cory. The sun hits the water shooting from the sprinkler and flying from Lily’s hair just so, and—all of a sudden—the world is filled with mini-rainbows, colorful splays of light dancing across the grass.
Maybe, I think, I’ve held on for so long because—despite what the world sees when they look at an old, lonely woman like me—I still see the wonder in things others cannot.
Lily looks toward my window, and—without thinking—I wave. She doesn’t see me. Instead, she shoots her arms straight out and runs through the sprinkler again as if she’s an airplane.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ve held on because I believed others might need me again one day.
I turn back to the plaque and the photos of my past that surround it. Our lives are all defined by wars—internal, external, real and imagined. Too many of us do not survive our wars, but many do, walking the earth as though we are alive although we really died long ago.
My eyes drift to the window and the tall fence beyond. A heavy sigh fills the silence.
A monarch butterfly flits and flutters about before taking a seat on the fence. The butterfly flaps its wings slowly as if trying them out for the first time. Its colorful expanse is a jarring juxtaposition to the warped gray fence. The butterfly takes flight, and I follow it, window to window, until I’m on my back porch and then racing down my steps, the bell tinkling on the closing door.
The butterfly drifts on the currents of the hot summer breeze, cooled only slightly today by the lake. Finally, it stops atop my purple coneflower.
But of course, I think. The perfect resting spot.
One of my favorite spots is my butterfly garden. It runs along the fence by Abby and Cory’s house, past the potting shed, extending into the corner, where I have a bubbling fountain. The butterfly garden is comprised of purple coneflower, Black-eyed Susan, butterfly bush, phlox, milkweed, monarda—or bee balm, as I prefer to call it—lots of plants with luscious nectar that caterpillars love to eat and adult butterflies love to feed upon. I also have ornamental grasses scattered throughout to provide shade and places to hide. But butterflies and bees seem to love my purple coneflower more than anything. They are attracted by its color and stay for its nectar. As if on cue, another butterfly, a monarch, rests atop a coneflower. It flaps its glorious wings, golden panels outlined in black, matching stained glass windows brought to life.
“You know my coneflower’s secrets, don’t you?” I ask the butterfly. It seems to cock its tiny head as though it is listening to me. “You do, don’t you?”
Native Americans used echinacea as a general cure and herbal supplement to boost the immune system for hundreds of years, and it remains widely popular today. I use it regularly and credit it as a main reason I never get a cold.
The butterfly takes flight, and a bee quickly replaces it, nestling deep into the middle of the coneflower.
“You know, too,” I say.
Echinacea comes from the Greek word chinos, which means hedgehog, an apt description for the prickly center cone left behind by spent flowers.
I spend inordinate amounts of time right here in front of my butterfly garden. No place more in this world calms me. I shut my eyes and listen. A butterfly flaps. Bees buzz. Birds flutter. A mourning dove coos. The flowers speak, urging me to meditate, to relax, to be one with nature. These days we go to yoga, we go on vacation, we go to therapy, and yet the answer lies directly before us.
Peace is within our reach if only we choose it.
