The Heirloom Garden, page 26
I knew everything about you, I think, and yet I barely had a chance to get to know you.
He is young, so young, too young. He is looking into the camera—who took this photo, I wonder?—wearing a goofy grin, which belies the seriousness of his situation and what he is wearing: a soldier’s uniform, a shiny helmet, a rifle in his arms. His teeth are white, his eyes sparkling. I trace my finger over his nose, which I don’t remember being so pointed, and then his chin, which I don’t remember being so strong.
“I don’t remember sometimes,” I say to the photo, which I notice is held in place by three black photo corners. I look, and one photo corner is trapped in the spine of the album. I give the album a little shake to free it, and turn a page to release it, but the thick paper begins to crumble in my fingers. Suddenly, a yellowed piece of paper comes free and falls into my lap.
My heart stops.
It is a letter from my husband. One I hid away a lifetime ago. One I never wanted to read again.
I start to hide the letter in the middle of the album once again, to put it away, never to retrieve it again, but then—in the distance—I hear a boom.
At first I think it’s thunder, or the turkeys, but I cast my eyes toward the window, and the skies have begun to clear, the pines empty.
Boom!
Boom!
What is going on? I think. And then I remember: it’s the kickoff to the annual Grand Haven Coast Guard Festival, a celebration to honor those who sacrificed their lives in service to their country.
Firecrackers and bottle rockets continue to explode.
Boom!
Jonathan and I attended one of the early coast guard festivals, long before it was the big deal it is today, where hundreds of thousands attend. Back then they held rowing competitions for the service members stationed in Grand Haven, and Jonathan and I would sit on the beach and watch their amazing strength, spirit and agility as they rowed wooden boats over the waves of Lake Michigan. Many times the winds were fierce, and the waves would swell. The men would row their boats up, up, up, to the tip-top of a wave and then suddenly disappear. I would stand, panicked, searching for them. A few seconds later, the initial wave would disappear, and there they would be rowing farther out into the lake until up, up, up they would go again.
And all in service to their country, I think, looking again at Jonathan’s photo. All to save a life.
“I can still remember the coast guard motto,” I say to Jonathan. “Semper Paratus. Always Ready.”
In the distance a wild turkey calls, and my heart simultaneously swells with pride and then dips in anguish, just like the waves.
I look at the letter.
You’re reaching out to me today, aren’t you? On today of all days.
I slowly open the letter, knowing I must read it again.
My Darling Wife:
How are you? How is our Mary? You two are my flowers, the only things that keep me going.
This will be my last letter from here. We are on the move. Where, they will not tell us, and I do not know. I do know that you and Mary will be beside me wherever I am, and that gives me strength.
Are you getting my checks from the army?
Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart.
I urge you to take care of yourself. You keep the home front safe, and I will do the same here. I show all the fellas your Victory Garden, and how you are helping to feed so many people. They tell me my Iris is the prettiest flower in the garden. Boy, is that ever the truth.
When I start to worry, that’s what I remember, you know? You, in the garden, with your flowers. You aren’t just the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen, Iris, you’re the strongest one, too. The smartest one.
I think about our life when I am back, and all I see are the three of us on the beach and in our garden. The three of us. Forever.
Well, it’s time to eat. Tell your mom to have an apple pie waiting for me when I get home. Have Mary draw me a picture. I keep them over my bunk, with pictures of you two. My flowers. I dare not think of how long it might be until I see you again—it’s too maddening.
For the moment I’ll say good-night and I love you. If you need to talk to me, take a walk in your garden, smell a rose, and I’ll be there.
Always Yours,
Jon
I don’t realize I am crying until I see my tears plop onto the photo album, making the ink on the old paper run, a river of darkness going nowhere.
I weep, my shoulders convulsing as fireworks continue to boom over the lake. I rise from bed without thinking, the album falling into the sheets, head downstairs and zombie-walk directly into my yard in my pajamas.
There I stand, an old widow in her garden.
I gaze upon my flowers, resplendent from the rain, water dripping, colors alive.
The miraculous thing about flowers is that—although they will die—they are always reborn every spring. I may not be a believer in organized religion, but I must call myself a woman of faith or I would not be standing here today.
“I will see you again,” I say, repeating the words Jonathan wrote.
I think of him, my parents, his parents and Mary all together, and that makes me smile. I have read—and have known—many a scientist who would say I am a ninny, that my reason for such belief has no root in science.
You are fooling yourself, Iris, they would say. You are being simplistic, childishly wishing for something you know does not exist, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. You are simply trying to make this world a bit more bearable, but study the facts.
A good part of my life has been to study facts: What will make a plant more resistant to certain diseases? What crosses will yield the sturdiest stems? And yet so much of everything I have done—so much of life—comes down to pure faith.
I look down at the Lady’s Mantle catching the water. I watch the hummingbirds dart to hover atop my pink phlox.
“Are you telling me that this is just happenstance?” I ask the universe. “Are you telling me there was not a guiding hand in creating all of this intricate beauty?
“No!” I say. “No!”
We are all parts of a garden, each playing a role, even though we may never realize it.
Finally, I see my Black-eyed Susans standing proudly, their perky faces shining.
Jonathan thought I was the most beautiful flower in the world, but I am truly as common as a Black-eyed Susan. Not in a bad way, I think, but I was never an unusual beauty, like a lily.
But what is common? I wonder again. Isn’t an ordinary life a grand one all its own, filled with great drama and tragedy, hopes, love, losses, dreams?
What is ordinary? I think of Jonathan defending our country, of Cory and 9/11.
There are no ordinary people. There are no ordinary days.
My Black-eyed Susans smile at me.
There are no ordinary flowers.
I walk to my greenhouse, the wet grass cool on my bare feet. I grab some shears and return to my garden. I snip some Black-eyed Susans, knowing they will last in a vase for nearly two weeks, knowing they will keep standing and smiling until the first frost.
They are strong. They are fragile. They are beautiful. They are common.
They are me, I think. They are every woman.
I turn to head inside, but a firework booms and a turkey calls. I walk into the front yard. There bloom Jonathan’s roses.
Perfect peach.
I hold a bloom to my nose and inhale, and then pull it free and stuff it into the pocket of my pajama top.
I head back inside, pull on some warm socks, grab my scrapbook, arrange the Susans in a pretty McCoy vase, make a cup of tea and light a fire in the lake-stone fireplace on my screened porch, and spend the morning with my husband, just like I used to do.
Just like I will again someday.
ABBY
AUGUST 2003
There is a clearing line over the lake, a distinct break on the horizon, and yet the other half of the sky is dark and foreboding. When the wind kicks up, rain pellets Lake Michigan.
The weather mirrors my life. I think I can see clear skies ahead, but—right now—things seem downright gloomy.
I quit my job an hour ago.
The most irrational thing rational Abby, the cautious engineer, has ever done in her life.
I barely remember quitting: I simply marched into Mr. Whitmore’s office, asked him to reconsider giving my project to Pete and the name change to my paint line.
“Let’s just move on, Abby,” he said. “New day. Don’t live in the past.”
“You’re right,” I replied. “Don’t live in the past. Time for a new future. I quit.”
Logical Abby, of course, had studied every line of her contract. I had not signed a noncompete, nor had I agreed not to take any of my work moving forward. I will go it alone. I notice on one side of the lot an aged redbud—body bent, limbs cracked—sitting in the shadow of an ancient oak, yet still reaching toward the sun.
I will be the tiny redbud versus the might oak, I think. I will be Iris.
Sunshine breaks out and yet it is still raining.
I am in a new world, in two places, momentarily trapped but knowing that there are clearer skies ahead. I am young, I am smart, I am motivated, I have my health and my family, and I am... I stop and smile.
Excited.
“And I have a severance,” I suddenly say out loud, which makes me laugh.
Two months. It was Mr. Whitmore’s way of paying me off. “We’ve treated you well, haven’t we, Abby?” he asked in the way men do when they know they haven’t. “Let’s just sweeten the pot so you understand how much your service has meant to us.”
He stood and extended his hand. I remained seated.
“I just want to be up front and honest,” I said. “I plan to take my paint line public. With my names. I plan to be your competitor.”
Mr. Whitmore withdrew his hand. “Abby, you don’t have the backing, facilities, production or research to pull that off. You know that.”
“No,” I say. “But I can consult with a company who believes in what I’m doing. Say, like Tiara Yacht.”
Mr. Whitmore’s eyes narrowed. “You will fail, Abby. Miserably. And you will come back to me one day in the not-so-distant future, when you’re about to lose your house or can’t afford braces for your daughter, and you will sit in this same chair and beg me to hire you back. And I won’t.”
My heart leaped into my throat, and I felt like a child who wanted to cry in the principal’s office. But I didn’t. I stood, smiled and said, “You don’t know me very well. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I gathered my things in a little box—including the glitter heart Lily drew for me my first day—and left.
“Funny how all the things that really matter can fit into one box when it comes down to it,” I told Traci as she walked me out—despite the stares—and hugged me, whispering, “Holy shit,” the whole way.
“You’re an inspiration,” she said once we were outside. “Remember me when you hit it big.”
“You’ll be my first hire,” I said, hugging her tightly.
“Good luck.”
“I’ll need it.”
“I’ll call you for drinks,” she says as she turned away.
“I’ll need that, too,” I said.
I am standing in the overgrown lot at the end of the Highland Park Association, where Cory followed Iris. I don’t know why I came here, but it was the only place I could think of to come, a quiet place where no one would find me and where no one comes to visit any longer.
It’s literally as if this forgotten plot called to me.
This parcel of land reminds me of the big yards that surrounded the once-grand homes in Detroit, neighborhoods empty, mansions boarded up like a ghost town. And yet the yards always told a history: flowers still grew through the rock and glass shards. Who planted you? I always wondered. How did you get here?
I turn and walk into the middle of the fenced area. A random assortment of living history still grows in this lot, right through the stone and sand, the tree roots and crabgrass. I kick my shoe around the earth, and then stoop to look more closely.
I analyze the land, and walk hunched over, studying it. Decaying stakes and posts have rotted into the ground and become covered in moss, like old tree roots. I grab a meaty stick and begin clawing around.
What is that?
A wooden block turns up, and then another, and another. They are wet and weathered, but seem as if they have been well protected by layers of sand and snow. I squint. They also look as if words have been carved into them. Suddenly, I remember the game I played as a kid, and I root around in my purse for a piece of paper and a pencil. I laugh. I have “taken” lots of paper, pens, pencils and staples from the office over the past few weeks. I lay the paper over the block and begin to rub the pencil lead over the words.
Swiss Chard.
Tomatoes.
Beets.
Peas.
This was someone’s garden!
I stand upright and spin.
But where was the house? The foundation?
I walk in a circle around the lot and then do it again.
I feel like I’ve hit a home run and am rounding the bases, I think.
I stop, jam my trusty stick into the earth and begin to dig in earnest. My stick hits what I think at first is a stone. It is smooth and rather large. I keep digging around it, going deeper and deeper, until I have to kneel and stick both hands into the earth. I pull it free with such force that I fall onto my rear end, which immediately becomes soaked.
I look at the muddy orb I have in my hands, knocking earth from it with my stick.
No! It can’t be... A baseball!
Did a family live here? I wonder. Or did kids use this empty lot to play in back in the day?
I stand and study the lot. In the corner, near the fence, I finally notice that Black-eyed Susans are blooming, oblivious to the rain or their circumstances. And, as if on cue, the sun comes out, its yellowy glow and happiness matching that of the Susans.
I walk over and pick a Black-eyed Susan, stare into its face and speak directly to it: “I am resilient, too. I am blessed. I am able to make the best of any situation.” I tuck the flower into my bag. “Thank you for the reminder,” I say. “Thank you.”
Suddenly, I look around the lot. I turn and then turn again, my heart racing. It finally all makes sense. The puzzle pieces lock into place in my mind.
This was the Victory Garden! This was Grand Haven’s baseball field! This is where Iris comes to visit her family, her past, her heart. This holds the key, I finally realize, to all of our pasts and all of our futures.
I race out of the lot and to my car. I head home, parking on the street and sneaking in through the front door, quietly, filled with guilt and panic like a teenager who missed curfew. I tiptoe into the kitchen and toward the doorway. Cory and Lily have not heard me come home. They are engrossed in their work: both are sitting on the porch, working on drawings. Lily is working on her back-to-school assignment, and Cory is sketching a detailed map of our future garden—down to exactly what plants will go where—the old photo Iris gave to him beside him, guiding his efforts.
I stand behind them, not moving, watching them. My heart fills with joy, and the emotion makes my body twitch. A floorboard squeaks. Cory and Lily turn at the same time.
“Mommy!”
Lily comes running toward me and hugs my legs.
“Abby?” Cory asks, his eyes wide. “Home for lunch? Twice in just a few days? To what do we owe this honor?”
“Yeah, Mommy? Why are you home?”
They both look at me, faces so happy.
“Mr. Whitmore gave everyone the afternoon off,” I say. “It’s the Coast Guard Festival. Big deal in Grand Haven. Kind of like a holiday here.”
I hate lying. I’ve lectured Cory about it. And I hate secrets, thanks to my parents. So I don’t know why I lie, but I do. I just can’t bring myself to say I quit yet for some reason. For the first time in a long time, my family is normal, and I don’t want that to change just yet.
“So that’s what all the fireworks were for,” Cory says. “We can hear the people and boats all the way from downtown.”
“Can we go?” Lily asks. “Please?”
“I think we should,” Cory says. “It’s why your mommy got a day off. She should put in an appearance so the boss can see her.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face. I nod. “Let me change.”
We walk down our hill to avoid the potential parking nightmare, and we are stunned by the crowds: hordes of tourists line the beach and streets, while ships cruise up and down the channel.
“Look! A carnival!” Lily yells, pointing to a makeshift midway complete with rides, games and the sweet, sweet smells of elephant ears and funnel cakes.
Cory buys an elephant ear and Lily and I purchase funnel cakes, and then we wait to ride a blinking Ferris wheel.
“All that sugar was not a good idea before doing this,” I say to Cory as we rise higher, our arms around Lily, who is snuggled tightly between us.
“Look around,” Cory says. “Just enjoy. How many days do we get that are gifts like this?”
His words touch me, and I extend my arm around my two favorite people.
The skies have cleared from earlier, and the sun is bright, the temperatures cooled into the seventies. As we near the top of the Ferris wheel, I literally gasp: the view is stunning. Lake Michigan is stretched out before us, and I can see a line of large ships making their way toward Grand Haven. The south pier’s wooden catwalk is jammed with people, and its two historic red lighthouses stand proudly like sentinels watching over the coast.
