Leota's Garden (48 page)

Eleanor let the curtain drop back into place. Barnaby moved to the far end of his perch, as far away from her as he could get. She turned and glanced pointedly at her wristwatch. “I said I don’t want any coffee, Mother. I’m late enough as it is.”

“You wouldn’t mind if Leota had cappuccino, would you?” Corban’s tone was pure ice.

“Excuse me?”

He made a point of ignoring Eleanor as he looked at Leota. “Would you like some cappuccino, Leota?”

She tried not to smile at his defensive manner. Who would have known . . . ? “Yes, I would.”

“I’ll fix it then.” He went back into the kitchen.

Eleanor stared after him in consternation. “I’ve never met anyone so rude.”

“He’s just being protective of me. Oh, I know he could use a bit of polishing, but then, so could we all.”

Eleanor shifted the strap of her shoulder bag and straightened her jacket. “Are we settled now about Thanksgiving?”

“Absolutely. Annie and I will have Thanksgiving dinner here. I hope you’ll join us.”

Eleanor’s cheeks flushed. “We’ll talk about it more later.” Yanking the front door open, she walked out, banging it shut behind her.

Corban came out of the kitchen a few minutes later with a cup of steaming cappuccino. He set it carefully on her side table. “Careful. It’s hot.”

“Thank you, Corban. What about you?”

“No, thanks,” he said glumly. “Sorry if I was rude, Leota.” He nodded
toward the closed front door. “Annie’s mother, right? Boy, is she a piece of work.”

She looked up at him. “You could both do with some tenderizer. Sit down, Corban.”

“I’d better get going.”

“Not yet.” She nodded toward the sofa. “Sit and tell me what’s troubling you.”

He sat, looking pale and strained. Leaning forward, he raked his hands back through his hair. When he raised his head again, she saw he was struggling not to cry. He shook his head. “I can’t.”

Leota watched the struggle. She could feel his grief as though it were her own, even not knowing the cause. He reminded her of Bernard. “Confession’s good for the soul, Corban. Have you ever heard that?”

“I’m not a religious man.”

“I’m talking about faith, not religion.”

“I’m not a man of faith either.” A muscle jerked in his cheek. “Besides, I’m not the one who needs to be confessing.”

“If you talk about it, get it out in the open, it’ll lose its power over you.”

He shook his head again. “It’s too soon,” he said in a choked voice. He rose and looked at her in apology. “I’d better go. I wouldn’t be good company today.”

“You’re right. I would miss your usually sunny personality.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “Say hi to Annie when she calls you.”

“You know her number. If it’s easier to talk to her, give her a call. But get it off your chest, whatever it is.” As he turned away, she said his name and waited until he was looking at her again. “Don’t let the root of bitterness take hold, Corban. If you do, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to pull it out.”

He closed the door quietly behind him. Leota heard his car roar to life. As the sound of it faded, despair came down over her like a suffocating blanket. She was all alone again. Her chest ached so terribly. She thought of Eleanor and George.

Nothing is ever going to change,
she realized.
All right, old woman. Accept it. Just get up and go into the kitchen and take those pills you’ve been hoarding for the past year. If one is supposed to keep your blood pressure down, the whole bottle ought to give you a peaceful passing.

“I love you, Grandma.”

The words startled her. “Annie?” Had her granddaughter come in quietly, without Leota noticing? How could that happen when she’d been sitting in her recliner facing the front door? Had Annie parked in the driveway and come in the back door? Leota looked around her chair, but didn’t see her. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and dreamed about taking all those pills and leaving the anguish of living behind her.

“I love you, Grandma.”

Leota stared in amazement. It was Barnaby, speaking in Annie’s voice. Clear. Sweet. Full of tenderness.

“
Now
you talk.” She was filled with disappointment. “Lord, did You ever stop to think that I’ve had enough? I’ve done all I can think to do. And I’m done. Finished. I’d rather be up there with You than down here in the middle of this mess. And if I have to do it myself . . .”

“I love you, Grandma.”

Annie. What would it do to Annie to find her grandmother’s body crumpled on the floor and then learn she’d swallowed a whole bottle of pills? Leota knew what it would do.

“I love you, Grandma.”

“Shut up. I heard you the first time.” She supposed this was His answer, too.
I love you.
Was He telling her to stop feeling sorry for herself and keep up the good fight?

“Most people get to retire . . .”

“I love you, Grandma.”

Fine, Lord. All right, all right!
She knew very well if she went into the kitchen and swallowed all those pills, it would hurt Annie. No telling where she would pass out. She would hardly be a pretty sight, crumpled and dead and discovered several days later.
Far
from dignified.

“I love you, Grandma.”

“I heard you already. Now, eat some birdseed!”

But Barnaby kept it up all afternoon, until Leota’s fighting spirit was back in full measure—and she was ready to wring his scrawny neck.

Chapter 17

The last person Leota expected to call her was her son. But call her he did. She was pleasantly surprised by George’s voice on the telephone . . . until she understood the point of his call.

“Mother, Nora mentioned she met a young man at your house the other day.”

“Corban,” Leota said after a brief hesitation. Disappointment filled her, making her heart ache. “Corban Solsek. He’s a volunteer for an elder-care agency I called. I suppose Nora also told you I got the number from a television ad.”

“What do you know about this young man, Mother?”

“He came with a reference and he’s willing to help. What more should I know?”

“He could be anything, Mother. I don’t think it’s wise to allow a stranger access to your house.”

To the house. Not his mother. “A better question might be why it’s necessary for an old woman to call and ask for help from strangers.” She regretted the words as soon as they passed her lips. She was pouring on the mother guilt and building the walls higher. She could feel them going up, brick by brick. The mortar dried in the silence.

“If I had more time, I’d be over there helping you out,” George said tautly. “But I’ve got a business to run, and it’s all I can do to keep my head above water with the competition the way it is. You know that.”

“Of course, I know.” He had told her that every time they talked. Usually when she called and interrupted him. “Just don’t begrudge me getting help where and when I can. Annie visits several times a month. She’s met Corban. She likes him. If you and Nora have questions about his character, maybe you should talk with her. Or the agency.” She gave him the name and telephone number. She hoped he wasn’t talking to her with his cell phone while driving on a freeway. “He’s a university student, George. Dean’s list, I’m sure. Sociology, I think. Does that set your mind at ease, dear?”

“I didn’t call to get a lecture.”

She sighed. No matter what she said to make peace, it always backfired. Better if she said nothing and just went on with her life the way it was. “I know why you called, George.”
Lord, I wish I didn’t.
“Did you have anything else you wanted to say to me?”

“No, nothing else.”

“We can talk more about it when you come for Thanksgiving.”

“Nora said she’s having Thanksgiving at her house.”

So that was how Eleanor intended to get her way. “Then I suppose you’ll have to make a choice where you’re going to be. Annie and I are still planning on having Thanksgiving dinner here.”

“It’d be less work for you if Nora did it.”

Poor Annie. She’d be in the middle of the mess. Pressured on all sides. “Go where you want, George. I’ll be here.” He said nothing to that, but at least he didn’t hang up on her the way Eleanor did whenever she was thwarted. Leota let her breath out, hoping it would ease the ache in her chest. It didn’t. “I have something to ask you, George.”

“Go ahead.” Clearly, he was not enthusiastic about it.

“Is there anything in this house that you want? Anything at all? You’ve only to tell me.”

“I can’t think of anything offhand.”

“Well, think about it and let me know.”

“Why are you asking me a question like that? Are you planning on giving things away?”

She could tell he was still thinking about Corban, the interloper.
“I’m asking because I won’t be here forever. I need to know so I can give you what you want.”

“I suppose I’d like half of what the house and property are worth.”

She swallowed hard. So there it was. Cut and dried. Money. That’s all he wanted.

“Mother?”

Leota supposed Eleanor felt exactly the same way. She could imagine her children sticking a For Sale sign in her front lawn and holding a garage sale within a few days of her death. They’d put all of her possessions out on the sidewalk with little price tags attached. Everything marked down for quick sale. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

She glanced around the living room, trying to see things through their eyes. She supposed most of what she possessed was junk by their standards. They didn’t know that every knickknack, stitchery picture, and stick of furniture meant something to her. Everything in her house held special meaning and sparked a memory. These were not just things to gather dust. Her house held a library of stories, most of them private, some heartbreaking, some lovely, some tender. She would have been more than willing to share those memories had her children been interested in listening.

“Mother?”

Lord, I could become bitter. It would be so easy to give in to anger right now and curse George and Eleanor for the pain they’ve caused me over the years by their neglect and indifference. But then, they don’t see it that way at all, do they? They’ve abandoned me because they felt abandoned
by
me.

She knew it was true. They’d been hurt and now they wanted to hurt her back. They’d wanted their mother at home, waiting, at their beck and call—fixing every situation, soothing every fear, and fulfilling every dream. And when she couldn’t be, they’d set their hearts against her. They had chosen to cling to the lies they were taught by others rather than listen to the voice of their mother. Not once had they sought the truth.

Oh, God, why will they not turn to me and ask why things had to be the way they were? How much of the way they are is my fault because I wasn’t willing to tell Bernard’s secrets or crush Papa Reinhardt’s pride? Or Mama Reinhardt’s, for that matter. How many years did it take before Mama realized the truth and then had to grieve over poisoning the children against me? Better had she confessed to them than left me with uncovering her shame. Would they even believe me now if I told them the truth? Oh, Jesus, blessed Savior, Lord God, still my beating heart and bring me home! I’m sick of this life! I’m sick of waiting and hoping and grieving! I’m sick of the disappointment. When will this life end?

“Mother!”

“I’m here, dear.”
But not for much longer, I hope.

“What did you want me to say?” His voice was quiet, defensive.

What did she want him to say?
“I love you. . . .” “I’d like to come for Thanksgiving. Thank you for the invitation. . . .” “I’ve missed you, too. I look forward to sitting down and hearing about your life. . . .” “Show me the past through your eyes, Mother.”

They’re so sanctimonious, so self-righteous, so independent. They’ve lived their whole lives in denial. They’ve never been willing to look at or hear the truth. Eleanor casts blame; George hides. Every time I’ve tried to tell them what really went on during those early years, I’ve failed. They’ve concertina wire around them, and every time I try to get through to them I end up lacerated.

Leota couldn’t speak a word past the lump in her throat.
Take me home, Lord. Take me right now while he’s on the telephone. Maybe then . . . oh, blast, what good is this stinking self-pity!

“Mother?” Impatience this time. “Look, I’m sorry, but I haven’t got the time for this right now. I’ll call back later.” He hung up.

She supposed he would have the time to call Annie and the elder-care agency and check up on Corban. She supposed he would have time to call Nora and report. She put the telephone back in its cradle and sat thinking for a long time. She thought about George and Nora and Annie. Michael Taggart, her grandson, didn’t even come into the equation. He had deserted the sinking ship long ago. She wished him well. A pity she couldn’t even remember what the boy looked like. The picture on her mantel was five years old.

Opening a drawer in her side table, she found her personal address book and the number she needed. She pressed in the numbers carefully and listened to the telephone ring.