Corban had arrived ahead of them in his own car. “Forget the wheelchair, Annie,” he said, opening Leota’s door and leaning in to unhook her seat belt. He scooped Leota up and lifted her out carefully. “I’ll come back for it.”
“Trying to impress my granddaughter,” Leota said, chuckling. He didn’t understand a word she said, but he smiled slightly, as though he guessed what she might be saying. He carried her right up the front steps, waited for Annie to open the door, and placed her gently in her old recliner.
Oh, Lord, it’s good to be in my own home. She smiled, feeling the left side of her mouth lift. Annie was beaming. Never had anyone looked more beautiful to Leota. She could see Jesus shining right out of the girl.
Corban went out to Annie’s car to bring in the wheelchair.
Annie looked at her. “We’re going to do just fine together, Grandma. I’ve already moved into the other bedroom. Susan’s mother has been working with me on the care aspects.”
Leota could smell fresh paint. The living room hadn’t looked so clean and polished in years. The wood on her side table was shiny. The rug had been shampooed and vacuumed. The windows were clean. Not just the one Corban had cleaned the first day he came, but all of them. Knowing Annie, Leota could imagine all the windows were so clean they looked wide open to the world outside.
“I love you, Grandma,” Barnaby bellowed and bobbed his head up and down, walking back and forth on his perch.
Leota chortled.
Not only could she smell fresh paint; she could smell something wonderful cooking. For the first time since she had been taken to the hospital, she felt hungry.
Corban came to touch Annie’s arm. “Anything I can do before I leave?”
“You can stay and have dinner with us.”
“Not tonight, Annie. Can I have a rain check? I’ll be back tomorrow. How about I collect then?”
Annie saw him out the door. She whistled happily as she went into the kitchen. When everything was set for dinner, she came back and helped her grandmother into the wheelchair. In the kitchen Leota could see right out the newly washed windows to her garden beyond, where the leaves had been raked and additional trimming and pruning done. It was plain to see from all directions that Annie had been busy, even getting special silverware for her to use. The spoon handle was curved to make it easier for her to eat without assistance. Annie watched as she worked on the meal, but she didn’t interfere.
The evening was full of firsts, and every hurdle was taken successfully. Leota was touched by Annie’s tenderness. Annie didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed when helping her with the most personal aspects of her care. Leota was so tired, she had no strength left by the time Annie helped her into her nightgown and into her own, wonderfully familiar bed. It wasn’t until Leota was lying down that she saw the pink walls and white molding, the lace curtains, the tall potted fern. As she relaxed against her own pillow, she saw Annie had painted words on the wall in exquisite calligraphy that sparked rose-sweet memories: Sand castles. Bubble baths. Jehovah Roi. Kisses. Holding hands. El Shaddai. Dancing. Music. Savior. Flying kites. Old movies. Nature walks. Friends. Good dreams. Rainbows. Christ the Lord. Pillow fights. Feather beds. Seashells. Jesus. Animals. Birdsong.
Leota read until Annie leaned down, kissed her good night, and turned out the light.
And then she saw on the ceiling the fluorescent stars Annie had glued there. Leota drifted off to sleep, imagining herself staring up at the night sky from a chaise longue in her garden.
Chapter 21
Leota sat in her wheelchair, outside on the small patio. Annie had made sure she was bundled in a warm blanket and a soft, wool hat pulled down to cover her ears. Her hands were in wool-lined leather gloves. Annie had even gone so far as to heat a flat pillow she’d filled with rice and seeds in the microwave. It lay warm over Leota’s shoulders and against her back, smelling of lavender.
Her breath puffed in the cool afternoon air. She liked the feel of biting air against her skin and could see the result of it in the flush on Annie’s cheeks and the red tip of her nose. Leota had longed to be outside, and only this morning, Annie had understood what she was saying.
The garden was dying down for its winter sleep. Two things were coming into their glory with the approach of the Christmas season: the holly bush and the pyracantha. As soon as their berries were fully ripe, the birds would come and have a festival. It had always amazed Leota how they knew the exact day, as though invitations had been sent out for a party. They’d swarm over the bushes, eat their fill, and flutter away like drunken sailors returning to their ship.
In January the lavender heather and white candytufts would bloom. February perked up the plum tree, and March would bring forth the daffodils, narcissus, and moonlight bloom. April lilacs and sugartuft would blossom along with the pink and bloodred rhododendrons, bluebells, and the apple tree in the victory garden. As the weather warmed, miniature purple irises would rise amid the volunteers of white alyssum and verbena. The roses, dahlias, white Shasta daisies, black-eyed Susans, and marigolds would bloom from late spring to early fall.
Leota could see it. She knew exactly where she had planted everything, and with Annie’s tender care the garden would bloom again. She saw Annie’s unique touches here and there. The funny bowling balls, looking like dinosaur eggs, the metal sculpture that was now a starburst of color, the wash bucket and wheelbarrow that served as planters. She could imagine them spilling color come spring.
In this world of New Age philosophies and El Niño weather patterns, of gambling in almost every state, of drugs, abortion, crime, gay rights, and Dr. Death, there was still an oasis.
Leota knew the Lord was with her everywhere she went—even in that depressing hospital—but she had always felt His presence here the most. Is it because everything of great importance happened in a garden, Lord? Man fell in the Garden. You taught in a garden. You prayed Your passion in a garden. You were betrayed in a garden. You arose in a garden. I love this place, for when I sit out here, I see the wonder of Your creation. I smell the earth and flower-scented air, and it soothes me. It reminds me that Your hand is in it all. For I heard the voice of the Lord in the garden, calling to me.
Instruct Annie, Lord. Teach her as You taught me.
It wasn’t enough to love the flowers. Annie would have to hate the weeds that tried to choke the life from them. She would need to soften the soil and plant the seed so that she could watch the Father bring forth the growth. She would have to cut away the branches that died. It took harsh pruning sometimes to bring forth the fruit, all so that others might partake. Oh, Father, will she see that a garden is color and proportion and rhythm and line and balance and focus? Will she come to understand that some of us are poppies, blooming bold and brief? Others are ornamental vines, passionflowers, or trumpets. Still others are shy violets and wallflowers. But we are all in the garden by Your design, each one here to proclaim the glory of Your name. Oh, Father God, teach Annie that a garden is for sharing, for meditating on Your Word, for exercising faith and experiencing the surpassing joy of Your grace.
She closed her eyes, imagining the scent of stalk, hyacinth, sage, mock orange, gardenias, star jasmine, honeysuckle . . .
Oh, Lord, that my life could have been a fragrant aroma, a soothing sacrifice to You. Oh, that this desert of an old woman could have bloomed and brought You a bouquet of blossoms.
“I’ve decided to put in a vegetable garden this year, Grandma,” Annie said from where she worked. “Our first crop will be this summer. Sweet corn, beans, carrots, peas, onions . . .”
Leota savored every moment, watching her granddaughter tend the garden she had loved for so many years. She knew now it wouldn’t die.
Corban was standing in the corridor, next to Professor Webster’s office door, when he saw the portly instructor approaching. The dark eyes looked straight at him, no hint of emotion.
“I need to talk with you, Professor. Would it be convenient now, or sh
ould I make an appointment?”
“Now would be fine,” Professor Webster said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He stepped inside, leaving the door wide open for Corban. As Corban stepped inside, he saw what seemed to be chaos. The shelves were packed with books, and more were stacked on the floor. Files and papers cluttered the professor’s desk, leaving only a small work space. An old electric typewriter was on a stand in the corner. But Corban knew appearances could be deceiving: Professor Webster knew his subject.
“How’s your paper coming, Mr. Solsek?”
“That’s what I’d like to talk about with you, sir.”
“Sit.” The professor set his briefcase on the floor and took his seat behind the desk. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“The paper is in the trash, sir. Since there’s not enough time to start another, I’d like to drop the course.”
“It’s too late for that.”
Corban had figured as much. Still, his stomach dropped. He had worked hard to hold his standing. This would cost him dearly, but he knew it was right and fair. Anyone with half a brain didn’t ask for pity at a university this size. The competition didn’t allow for it. “Fair enough, sir. I’ll take the F. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to sit through the classes until the term ends.” He still had a lot to learn.
Professor Webster put his glasses back on. “What’s the trouble with the paper you started?”
Corban could feel the heat climb up his neck into his face. He let his breath out slowly. “I was on the wrong track.”
“The wrong track?”
“You start housing facilities for people no one cares about, and it’ll become too easy to do away with them. No matter how good it looks on paper, the bottom line is there’s too much government control and too much temptation to take easy solutions to long-term difficulties. With everyone griping about taxes and demanding relief, the first to be sacrificed are the ones who can least defend themselves. Right now, it’s the unborn. I don’t want to be part of making it easy to do away with the elderly, too.”
“One old woman taught you this?”
“Leota Reinhardt tried to teach me, sir, but I was deaf to what she was saying. It took two other women to get in my face and show me.” Ruth Coldwell and Nora Gaines. They’d never meet, but they had a lot in common.
Professor Webster leaned back in his chair. “We have a student body of brilliant young men and women here. I’ve had students come as puffed-up little peacocks, thinking top grades and high SAT scores make them something special. They’re so full of themselves, they think they know more than anyone else, including the PhDs with twenty years’ experience behind them.”
Corban’s face burned hot. Of all people, he knew he deserved a dressing-down. “You have my apologies, sir. I’ve been an idiot.” He started to rise.
“Sit down, Mr. Solsek. I’m not done yet.”
Heart sinking, Corban sat and waited for whatever else he had coming.
“In all my years of teaching, Mr. Solsek, I can count on one hand the number of students who’ve had the courage to come to me and admit they were wrong and take an F without complaining.”
An odd warmth filled Corban at the professor’s words. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome to attend class. I’ll give you an incomplete on the condition you enroll in my class again next term. Agreed?” The professor rose and extended his hand.
Corban stared at him for a moment, not quite sure what had just happened. Then he jumped up from his seat and shook the professor’s still-extended hand. “Agreed, sir! And thank you.”
The professor released his hand and smiled. “I’ll be interested in seeing what you come up with next time.”
Nora hadn’t spoken to Anne-Lynn in ten days, not since their telephone conversation two days after her mother had gone home from the hospital. “Would you like to help me, Mother?” Anne-Lynn had said. “One afternoon a week would make a big difference.”
“And if I agreed, I’d only be encouraging you to go on with this madness.”
“This is what I want to do.”
“Oh, so you wanted to quit art school and move away from your friends and give up dating? You want your life to narrow down to taking care of an old woman day in and day out for as long as she lives? You want that?”
“Mom, what better way can I spend my time than loving Grandma Leota?”
Nora had almost said, “You could love me,” but something held her back. Maybe it was her memory of the look on Anne-Lynn’s face when George had accused Leota of wasting their inheritance.
Now it had been more than a week since her telephone conversation with her daughter. Surely, Anne-Lynn had had more time to think things over and realize what she’d taken on. Nora dialed her mother’s number and waited. Within two rings, she heard Annie’s voice greeting her with a cheerful “Hello!”
“It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn. I—”
“We’re sorry, but we’re unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Thank you!”
An answering machine. That was a new addition. Nora listened, debating whether to leave a message or not. “It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn. I was just calling to check on you.” She gripped the telephone receiver a little tighter. “How are you two doing together?” She couldn’t truthfully add, “Well, I hope.” Unable to think of anything more to say, she held the phone away and pressed the button to disconnect. With a heavy sigh, she put the receiver against her aching heart for a moment and then placed it carefully back in its cradle. She had errands to run before she attended the University Women’s Literary Society luncheon. And there was Christmas shopping.
Christmas. How she hated Christmas.
Would Michael even call this year?
Did you call Leota last year?
She couldn’t get away from the past all the rest of the day. Every memory that came to mind brought misery with it. When Nora finally returned home late that afternoon, her answering machine was blinking a red 5. Her dentist’s receptionist had called to remind her of her appointment the next morning; Fred called to say he would be late getting home; someone from her old church had called to invite her to a women’s ministry night—a cookie exchange. The next was silence and then a click. Probably another sales call.
The last message was from Annie.
“Hello, Mother. Thanks for calling.” Her voice softened and became husky. “We both listened to your message. Grandma cried. We’re both doing fine. We’d love for you to come by for a visit. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime, Mom. If I don’t answer the doorbell, just look for us in the garden.”
Nora’s throat closed as she listened to her daughter’s voice. “You’re welcome anytime, Mom . . . just look for us in the garden.”
In the garden this time of year? The leaves were falling.
Nora remembered seeing her mother outside during the cold season, sometimes even in the rain. Raking leaves. Pruning. Putting plastic over the plants that couldn’t take the cold.
The ache within Nora grew.
Walk with Me. Talk with Me. You are My own.
She pressed the button and listened to the message again. And again. And again.
What should I do?
She kept hearing what George had said about their inheritance. The money mattered to him because he wanted to get out from under debt. Who could blame him? Nora didn’t care about her mother’s possessions, and her mother certainly had no money. How had she managed to live on Social Security all these years? Fred was wealthy, so Nora had all she’d ever need. What did she care about the house? Maybe she could help a little . . .
George had called several times, asking if she had managed to talk some sense into Annie. Nora had found herself defending her daughter, not for her actions but for her heart. “She’s not the kind of girl who’s out to steal your inheritance, George. I resent you even thinking such a thin
g!”
She felt so torn.
“Don’t you think I know that?” George had almost shouted into the telephone. “But Annie’s naive. Your daughter takes her religion a little too far! This is my inheritance she’s talking about, Nora—and yours. She’s going to do something stupid, like a reverse mortgage. Whatever she gets might provide a little money for the short term, but it’s going to strip us of everything in the long run!”
Nora had prevailed upon Fred to talk with Annie.
“Annie assured me she’s not going to do anything until the situation arises that makes it necessary,” he told her after he had stopped by for a visit. “By the way, your mother looks much better. She said to give you her love.” He hadn’t said it to be sarcastic—she knew that—but she had felt the pinch of guilt for not having asked about her mother’s condition before asking what Annie had said about money matters. She just wanted to get George off her back.
What a mess this situation had made of her life. It would’ve been easier on everyone if her mother had died of the stroke instead of ending up an invalid. Invalid. What a terrible word. What kind of life was Annie going to have confined to a little house in a ghetto neighborhood with an old woman as her only company?
Maybe a few more weeks of handling twenty-four-hour-a-day care all by herself with no help from anyone would bring Annie to her senses quicker than words could do. Nora could only hope so. She pressed another button and listened to her daughter’s voice one last time before deleting the message.
“We’ve had a steady stream of visitors.” Annie grinned at Corban. “Arba is here every day after work to collect the children.” She held up another hook for him to screw into the eaves.
“You’re taking care of them?” He looked at her in surprise. Once the hook was secure, he draped the string of lights. They’d look like shining icicles hanging from the eaves. Annie had already woven strings of tiny white lights through the front rhododendron bushes and the trimmed flowering plum. Devoid of foliage, it looked dramatic with the tiny lights wrapped around and around the trunk up through the center of the tree. Then she’d wrapped the two thickest lower branches outward, making a cross.