Marta's Legacy Collection (97 page)

53

Shivering, Carolyn stood in the garage, surveying the massive project ahead of her. Dad’s white Buick Regal still took up half the garage. Mom had forgotten to take the keys out of the ignition. Carolyn backed the car out of the garage and parked it behind Dawn’s car.

Shelves lined the walls. One section displayed canned vegetables and soups; jars of peanut butter, jelly, and jam; cans of tuna; and boxes of macaroni and cheese. Another rack of shelves held small appliances in their original boxes and enough Costco plastic-wrapped boxes of Kleenex, toilet paper, and paper towels to last a year. Carolyn set a kerosene lamp near the door. They might need it. Cabinets lined the back wall: one held shelves of vases in all shapes and sizes; another Korbel champagne, Johnnie Walker Scotch, bottles of Mondavi cabernet sauvignon, Wente Brothers zinfandel and chardonnay, all dusty.
The devil prowls like a lion.
After more than thirty years of sobriety, Carolyn felt the sharp urge to drown her sorrows.

She still attended AA meetings, but Cornerstone Christian Church filled another gap in her life. It had started with Pastor Daniel’s compassion the day Dad died. Then Georgia openly shared her life on the streets before God got ahold of her. Others with less-than-pristine pasts rejoiced over restored lives and made others, still struggling, welcome. Carolyn made friends, though she never let anyone as close as Chel, with whom she had shared all her secrets, even the one she had never told Mitch.

Why was she thinking about all that now?

Carolyn looked over Dad’s tools, mounted neatly above his worktable, all rusting in the sea air. She counted five boxes tucked in the rafters. She set up the ladder, pulled her tiered skirt up between her legs and tucked it into her leather belt, and climbed. Brushing away cobwebs, she brought them down one by one. She was warm by the time she lined the boxes on the cement floor. Mom had labeled each:
Family Pictures
,
Clothing
,
Trip
,
China/FRAGILE
, and
Mama
.

Carolyn pulled open the top flaps of the box marked
Mama
and drew out a hand-crocheted granny-square afghan. It reeked of damp and mold, holes eaten away by mice or rats. She folded it into the garbage can, annoyed that Oma’s labor of love had been stuffed in a box to rot. Next was a shoe box. Carolyn uttered a soft gasp when she found Oma’s leather journal on top of bundles of thin, folded airmail letters with Swiss stamps. She took out the journal and carefully opened it. A picture slipped out and fell on the floor: Oma sitting on a chair holding a baby, a little boy beside her, and a tall, blond, very handsome man in a dark suit standing behind them. He was holding a little brown-haired girl and had his other hand on Oma’s shoulder. Carolyn picked up the picture and turned it over.
Winnipeg, 1919.

“Mom?” Dawn stood in the doorway, bundled in a down coat. “Please come back inside.”

“I was just going through a few boxes.” She tucked the picture back into Oma’s journal and glanced around. “It is going to be a big job.”

“Not one you can finish tonight. Granny fixed corn bread. The table is set for dinner. We can bring in a few boxes and go through them later, if you’d like.” She examined one of them. “Might be kind of fun.”

Carolyn put Oma’s journal on top of the shoe box and stacked them on the box labeled
Family Pictures
. May Flower Dawn lifted the box marked
Trip
. They carried the two boxes into the house and put them in the living room. “It’ll just take me a minute to get the others.” When she’d stacked the other boxes in the middle of the living room, she washed her hands in the kitchen sink before sitting down with May Flower Dawn and her mother, who gave the blessing.

Carolyn put her napkin on her lap. “I found Oma’s journal.”

“My inheritance.” Her mother snorted, scooping stone soup into bowls. “She gave Rikka a few pieces of jewelry. She’d already given Bernie her car. Cloe earns a stipend for handling the college trust Mama set up. I got her recipe book and a box of letters, written in German.” She set a bowl in front of Dawn and filled another for Carolyn.

Dawn took a spoonful of soup and smiled. “Yummy.” She glanced across at Carolyn. “It’s not just a collection of recipes, Granny. When we visited her, Oma gave it to me to read one night. She told me she only wrote important things that made a difference in her life: tips on how to keep a house, yes, and some recipes, but also quotes from people she met, important dates like when you were born and the circumstances, ranch schedules, a funny poem a boy wrote about Summer Bedlam, her thoughts on life. It’s wonderful. It defines her. I’d love to read it again.” She looked at Carolyn. “She sent me a journal after that visit. Remember?”

“You sent her a diploma.” Carolyn smiled, pleased to know that week had meant something to May Flower Dawn, that those few days in Merced had left her daughter with fond memories of Oma.

“The journal she sent me is leather and has my name engraved in gold.
May Flower Dawn.
I have it with me. I think of Oma every time I open it. I followed Oma’s lead. I didn’t write a lot of teenage nonsense in it. I wrote goals, favorite Scriptures, meaningful dates, places Jason and I have lived, dreams . . .” She smiled wistfully. “I wish I’d known Oma better. Oma’s journal meant more to her than jewelry, a car, or money, Granny. She gave you the best of herself.”

Carolyn’s mother looked surprised—and a little perplexed.

The lights flickered and went out, enclosing them in complete darkness. “Wow.” Dawn’s voice sounded louder in the inky wrapping. “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”

Carolyn hated the darkness. “I forgot the kerosene lantern in the garage. Where’s a flashlight?”

“In one of the kitchen drawers, under the dish cabinets—middle I think—but the batteries are probably dead.”

Carolyn fumbled around in the darkness, opening drawers and feeling through contents.

“Just wait a minute, Carolyn. Or did you forget you and Mitch put in a generator? There it goes.” A distant whir sounded, and then noise.

Dawn laughed. “No muffler on that baby.”

The lights came on. Relieved, Carolyn returned to her seat. Her mother sat calmly, hands folded on the table. “I don’t think I ever thanked you, did I?”

“No. You didn’t. But then we didn’t ask your permission either.” If they couldn’t get her to move, they’d make sure she had heat and power. Four thousand dollars, not to mention the money spent on a lawyer who took over the fight with the Coastal Commission, and not one word of thanks until now.

After clearing and washing the dishes, Carolyn joined her daughter and mother in the living room. She hesitated on the threshold when she saw them on the couch, May Flower Dawn holding her granny’s hand on her abdomen. They spoke in whispers. Biting her lip, Carolyn stepped back. She felt like an intruder. Mom glanced up and frowned. “Why are you standing there? Come feel the baby moving.”

Carolyn treaded carefully around the stacked boxes and knelt in front of them. Dawn took her hand and placed it on her abdomen. Carolyn didn’t feel anything. Dawn sighed. “Little Miss must have fallen asleep again.” Carolyn rose and sat in the yellow swivel rocker.

Her mother pushed herself up and settled into her recliner. “This is nice, having the two of you here, together.”

Dawn grinned. “Three girls on a sleepover.” She winced in pain and shifted on the couch until she looked more comfortable. Carolyn remembered the final month of pregnancy when her babies had pressed against her rib cage and bore down on her pelvis. The last month was the hardest.

Dawn yawned. She looked so tired.

“Why don’t you go to bed, May Flower Dawn?”

“It’s only eight, Carolyn.”

“She looks exhausted, Mom.”

“I’m not ready for bed yet.” Dawn gave them both a tired smile. “I want to sit and visit.”

“You can lie down and visit.” Carolyn got up and lifted Dawn’s legs onto the couch. “Your ankles are swollen.” Dawn murmured a weary thank-you and said not to worry. Carolyn tucked a needlepoint pillow under her head and draped a soft, white knitted blanket over her. She brushed a wayward strand of blonde hair back from her daughter’s face. She was perspiring. “Do you have a fever?”

Dawn took her hand. “Relax, Mom. It’s a lot of work carrying around an extra thirty pounds.”

Carolyn took her seat and watched Dawn fall asleep. She snored softly. “I guess she is tired.” After a few minutes, she fidgeted in her chair. She felt night fold tight around them, the glass their only barrier against it. “I guess we could go through the boxes.”

“I don’t want to go through those boxes.” Her mother shook her head. “Not tonight. Besides, Dawn would probably get a kick out of it.” She rubbed her leg as though it ached. “You stood in the doorway just now. Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Stand outside a door, peer around corners, listen in.”

Carolyn felt the words like a slap. “Like a sneaky little mouse, you mean. Like I’m planning to steal a bit of cheese?”

Mom looked shocked. “No.” She shook her head. “Like you don’t belong. Like you’re waiting for an invitation.”

“I was told to stay out.”

“Who told you that?”

Why not tell the truth? Mom never spared her feelings. “You did. You said you never wanted me anywhere near you.”

“That’s a lie!” Her eyes darkened in anger.

Carolyn pressed her lips together. She should have known better than to say anything.

“I suppose Oma told you that!”

Heat flooded Carolyn. “You always blame Oma for everything, but I remember you yelling right into my face, ‘Get out of here. . . . Get away from me.’ Not Oma.”

“When did I ever do such a thing?”

“It’s the earliest memory I have.”

Mom’s expression changed, as though remembering. “When you brought me a bouquet of flowers . . .”

“Wildflowers. You didn’t want them.”

“You dropped them. They scattered all over the floor. I picked them up. Oma brought me a vase.”

Picked them up? Put them in a vase? “I never went into your room after that.”

Mom looked stricken. “I was sick, Carolyn. Don’t you remember how sick I was?”

Carolyn didn’t want to go back and visit that time. She wanted to close the trapdoor that had sprung open. She didn’t want to look down into the darkness and see what lay hidden there.

“I had tuberculosis. No one but Dad and Oma were allowed in my room, and they had to take precautions. Do you remember any of that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I
loved
you, Carolyn.”

Loved.
Past tense. Why talk about the past? Why bring it up at all? Chel told her once that just because you were family didn’t mean you got along. Her father hadn’t liked her. “You just live with it and move on,” Chel said. “Don’t waste energy trying to make them love you.”

Chel. Why was she thinking about Rachel Altman now? Why were her words ringing in Carolyn’s head after all these years? Twice in the last few hours.

Carolyn tried to close that door on the past, but memories kept flooding in. She remembered sitting in the tall grass, plucking petals from a daisy.
She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me; she loves me not . . .

Oma loved her.

Mom and Dad loved Charlie.

Charlie. Oh, Charlie.
The pain came up quick, squeezing her heart.

“What are you thinking about, Carolyn?”

“Charlie.” She spoke without thinking. Did the mention of her brother still bring Mom pain? “Sorry.”

Mom appeared calm, pensive. “What about Charlie?”

“He told me you got sick after I was born.”

“Not right away. I let myself get run-down. I knew better. I’d had TB before.”

“When?”

“Your father and I were courting. I thought you knew all this.”

“I guess I don’t know anything.”

“I spent months in Arroyo del Valle Sanatorium. I got better, but the disease is always there, hiding, waiting. When I got sick again after you were born, I thought I was going to die. Oma came so I could come home. Die at home, I thought. I didn’t want to leave your dad in debt. So Oma moved in and . . . took over everything.” She smiled sadly. “That may be what gave me the incentive to get well—watching Oma take over my family.”

The rain pounded harder, like fists on the roof. “Oma loved me, Mom.”

“Yes. And you loved her. Exclusively. You never came to me. You always went to Oma. That’s why I told her to go home.”

“So I wouldn’t have anyone?”

Mom looked crushed. “You were
my
little girl, not Oma’s.”

Carolyn’s fingers curled around the seat cushion. She remembered Dad shaking her and telling her to stop crying or else. “I felt so alone.”

“You had
me
.”

When had that ever been true? “No. I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!”

Carolyn refused to let it pass this time. “We moved out to the new property! You and Dad worked all the time on the house and gardens.”