Court of the Myrtles (13 page)

“Of course, but nothing's going to happen to you. Not my girl.”

“I don't mean to be angry, Mother, not at you, I'm just scared.”

“I know. I'm scared too. But over my dead body I'm letting you go.”

“No, Mom. Over mine.”

But they found themselves mourning over Scotty's dead body. A cold had turned into pneumonia and then there were complications arising from his compromised immune system and everything—from diagnosis to death—had happened so incredibly quickly that it was almost too much for the mind to take in.

Joy waddled down the church aisle in black, her seven-month pregnancy protruding through the black maternity dress. You could read the minds of the friends and family, the unspoken pulsing off the mahogany-paneled walls. “You're next, Joy. You're next.”

The visiting nurse fluffed several pillows for Joy as she arched her back in frustration, trying to find a comfortable position, all the while juggling a thermometer between her lips.

Alice stood a few steps behind feeling helpless. She fingered through the many “get well” cards on the dresser, the windowsill, and all over the bookshelf. Alice never realized how much her daughter was loved: cards from the police academy, the realtors' office, the paramedic team, the community center, the senior center, the church, her many girlfriends, her husband's friends, his baseball team from Saturday afternoons… so many cards, so few places to display them. Funny that Joy was so emotionally unavailable to her mother, yet so giving and loving to others. Alice could only hope this nightmare would all go away and she'd have the chance to make things right with her daughter.

“Fever's down,” said the nurse, startling Alice back to the present, shaking the glass stick and placing it in its disinfecting pouch. “A bit lower than last night.”

“That's good news. Thank you,” said Alice, nodding to the nurse as she left.

Alice took Joy's limp hand in hers, rubbing and studying her palm's lifeline. She worried whether her daughter, so delirious these past two weeks, would even remember that her baby had arrived still-born.

After a few moments, Joy stared at her mother's face as though she could almost read it, so Alice quickly changed her thoughts. “I was a bad mother,” said Alice softly.

“What do you mean ‘was'? You going someplace?” said Joy, smiling.

“No,” whispered Alice. “I'm not going any place at all.”

“You weren't a bad mother, so don't say that. You were a
great
mother. You
are
a great mother.”

“You're right. I raised you,” said Alice, feeling some relief. “And you're pretty perfect.”

Alice moved to the side of Joy's s bed tucking in the blankets around her a bit snugger.

“You told me once when you were packing up Daddy's clothes that you didn't want to live to be so old that you felt pain.”

“Yes, I said that,” said Alice.

“I know what you mean now. I'm not old, mother, but I can't take the pain anymore.”

“Yes, I understand,” Alice's voice cracked, as she paused at the foot of the bed where she was stooped over for a final blanket tuck. The look on her face went from hope to hell, registering that Joy had just given up her will to live, her tone softening from the usual sarcasm to regret.

Joy turned toward the window. The blackened sky stared back at her. A tear ran down her check and she began to tremble. “Pack up the stars and the moon, Mother…”

“Who said that?”

“I don't remember. I think it's from some sad movie.”

Alice reached over to pull the blinds down. “I was always too busy doing what I
had
to do instead what I wanted to do—spend time with you,” said Alice. “It should be me lying in that bed. You have everything to live for. And you have a love for life that I'll never understand.”

“Mother, please. What I need right now is for you to just tell me that you love me because someday when I'm gone, you'll
really
have something to feel guilty about and it'll be too late.”

“Get over it. Right?” said Alice, nodding through blurry eyes as her tears fell down on her daughter's arm faster than the intravenous drip flowed. But Alice knew she'd never get over it.

“I love you,” said Alice.

“And?”

“I'll take care of little Sophia,” added Alice, pretending that the baby was fine. “I'll be the best grandmother in the world. I promise.” It was the first time Alice ever felt good about an outright lie.

“Sophia's dead. With Scotty. In heaven.”

There was a long silence and then Alice lay down next to Joy. “Maybe it was my own unhappiness that made me less maternal. But you, you, would have been a great mother. Me, I was unfulfilled. But you're always so happy. Even now. You love every ounce of life. Me, I can't remember a time I was ever really happy…”

“In your garden. You were happy there,” said Joy reaching out for her mother's hand, always the protector instead of the child. “Look, mother, I don't know where all this is coming from, but you didn't have to sew sweaters or bake cookies to make me happy.”

“I never baked cookies.”

“No kidding. I grew up on the Oreos in the cupboard. But did you have to put them way up on the fourth shelf?”

“That was you? And all those years I thought it was your big brothers I was hiding them from. No wonder you never ate your vegetables.”

“Hey, I loved your homegrown spinach. How many kids can say that? Even though you forgot to rinse the sand out of it.”

“Couldn't afford one of those fancy salad spinners.”

“Oh, Mom, life isn't about what you can and can't afford.” Alice looked down, ashamed. Joy took her hand in hers and continued, “And I never had a tomato as good as your beefsteak prize winners!”

“I used to think that if I were rich like your in-laws—one of those people who go from an air-conditioned house to an air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned office… I'd have—”

“C'mon, what good is air-conditioning in a garden? And look; I'm rich and what good is money now?”

“You're absolutely right,” said Alice. She pulled the covers up and neatly tucked them around her daughter's neck, flattening them out on the sides. “Oh Joy, I wish you'd eat something.”

“Where I'm going I won't need food.”

The truth slammed Alice in the face. Her daughter was dying right in front of her and there was nothing she could do except get right up into her face and kiss her. Which she did.

“Mother?”

“Yes,” said Alice, holding her lips against Joy's cheek.

“I'm scared.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Alice, without missing a beat. A chance to make up for all her failures.

“No, Mommy, of course I don't.” Mommy. A word Alice hadn't her Joy say since she was seven. She had reverted back to being a little girl. “Mommy, I'm tired. Tell me about Daddy.”

“Oh your father, before he was a tired old cop, way back when I first met him… well he was just the most handsome young man.”

“I know,” Joy said matter-of-factly. “He's right there. At the bookshelf. See?” A smile crossed Joy's face, her complexion suddenly bathed in happiness, like a Vermeer painting, the lighting so warm on her delicate features.

Alice knew she must turn but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she studied Joy's face while rubbing a hand across her limp and matted hair. She knew it was nearly time. So Alice took the washcloth from the ice bowl on the nightstand and washed Joy's fevered body down until they both finally fell asleep. Joy in her bed, Alice in the chair.

It was just past midnight when a gentle tap on the shoulder stirred Alice. She gazed up from her doze into the sad eyes of a nurse. Alice sat bolt upright, remembering why she was there.

“I'm sorry, Alice. She's gone.”

Attempting to maneuver my car into the large harbor lot I barely avoid hitting a fisherman busy unloading lobster crates to the side of the sea shanty. In the distance I can see a ferry anchored at the dock, while on the clapboard shed hangs a sign that reads: “$10—Park All Day!” Ridiculous, I think to myself, putting my car in reverse and opting to leave, just as an old man in Bermuda shorts and Red Sox cap taps on my window. He jiggles a tin can and I read his white shirt: “Welcome to the Whale Watch.” I roll down my window.

“Here for the whales?” he asks cheerfully. “Last weekend of summer to do it! Problem is you missed the morning boat.”

“Did I? Darn!” Another reason to leave while I have the excuse.

“Yup. Went out early cuz of the tides.”

“Oh well, thanks anyway,” I say, turning to check behind me before backing up—my car already in reverse—I
knew
I didn't have to go through with this. I can give Alice the old “Well, at least I tried.”

“Next one's at two o'clock,” he says.

Oh joy, I think to myself.

“Ever been?” he says, smiling and tipping his cup toward me for the $10.

I reach into my purse and he leans into my window, elbows on the edge of the door. “Best boat ride you'll ever experience. You're gonna love it! Takes you out beyond P'town.”

“What happens if I don't see any whales?”

“Never happens,” he explains. “But if it did, guess we'd give you a rain check.”

I smile and hand him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Okay, you win,” I murmur.

“What's that, you say?”

“Oh nothing, Time to get up the courage to see the whales.”

“Doesn't take courage to see whales. You just go,” he says, lifting his money cup up toward the wild blue yonder.

“No, I was…”

“You tourist types—always complaining.” He looks to the sky after handing me my change.

“I'm not a tourist.”

“Everybody's always got something to say about the weather but don't you let those rain clouds frighten you off. Gonna be a
beauty
out there!”

“Clouds don't frighten me,” I say, because it's just what my mother ordered. Rain to make a rainbow to bring out her spirit in some whale, just like she promised, I think to myself, as sarcastically as I can.

“And you know,” he says, “Sailing helps to save the whales.”

“Really? How's that?”

“We got a floating classroom—donate a portion of our proceeds to Greenpeace.”

“That's nice,” I say, following his arm and finger that directs me to the gravel spot he'd like me to park in. I couldn't care less about saving whales right now. I'm more interested in saving my soul, my sanity, rejoining my mother, somehow, someway, someday. Today in fact.

“Got the best state-of-the-art jet-powered boats in the northeast. Get you there in no time,” he says. I'm out of my car and slam the door.

“Wonderful,” I say. The faster the better. Get this over with.

“Got four outside viewing decks, too. Did ya pack a lunch?”

“No.”

“Can get a scallop or clam roll—the good ones—clams with the bellies. Right over there at the wharf. Of course they serve food in the galley if you want a donut and coffee or a soda pop.” I nod and smile. I've had enough of this guy. “Or forget coffee,” he leans in whispering. “We got wine and spirits, too, 'case you need a good stiff drink. Wet any sailor's appetite, a good one will, on a hot summer day.” He winks.

I force a laugh. He lets me off the hook.

“Enjoy now!” he waves after me. “You'll come back with a
whale
of a tale!” He chuckles at his own joke before moving onto his next victim.

Tossing the remains of a fried scallop roll into a nearby trash barrel I make my way to the dock. Can't imagine why I thought I was hungry. I knew I should stay away from that extra helping of tartar sauce. I should have just stayed home.

And then I look up at the pier ahead, making me even queasier. An unexplained nausea kicks in though I haven't even boarded the damned boat yet. Complete chaos
everywhere: adults with coolers, babies in strollers, barking dogs circling on leashes, a Japanese tour group gibbering a mile a minute, and everybody else pushing in line as the first mate lowers the plank for us to board.

The problem is I'm not interested in boarding. Not without Alice.

I crane my neck through the crowd to find her, then glance anxiously at my watch: 1:30 exactly. And just in time I hear, “Marla! Over here! Marla!”

I look up to see Alice, high on tiptoe, flagging me down, her arm waving overhead. She's already on the boat so I stretch both arms up in the air waving back over the heads of the tourists, my fears suddenly calmed.

“Oh, Alice!” Suddenly I feel like a sailor who's just been tossed a life jacket. “I thought you'd never make it,” I say, making my way toward her against the line of tourists moving forward, handing their tickets to the harbormaster. “How'd you get up there so fast?”

“Didn't. I've been here since noon,” she hollers over the heads in the crowd. “Sunbathing on the deck side.”

We walk to where the waves gently slap at the anchor side of the boat.

“The sound of water says what I think,” says Alice.

“I like that.”

“Well,” she exhales loudly, “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” I say, exhaling louder.

“Is this good?” asks Alice, choosing two white bench seats on the upper sun deck.

I nod.

“All aboard!” shouts the First Mate.

“This is it, kid,” says Alice. “The moment of truth.”

“Yup. This is it,” is all I can say, suddenly feeling uninvited. Is it okay to mess with somebody else's hereafter?

“Weather said ‘chance of showers.' Did we have to do this in the rain?” says Alice.