Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (10 page)

I gave Giles some extra dollar bills for the boys to use on their trip. Still thinking of his decision about the chemo, I felt giddy as I imagined alarm bells sounding at his doctor’s office, and an APB extending all through Blacksburg and areas surrounding. “Be on the lookout for an educated cancer patient who chose not to pick his poison!”

I let my head fall back, startled by the very notion of laughter flying from my deepest heart. Joy was an emotion I had never associated with cancer. Yet Giles seemed to find a place for joy in all of life’s experiences. He reminded me of a gambler at the table with his last chip. He would enjoy the game until the final deal.

This was a whole new idea for me. The freedom held in just one second of realizing that everybody in this world is going to live until they die brought tears to my eyes. My cancer didn’t put me in a special category, I told myself. Like everyone, I would live until I died (perhaps because of cancer, or perhaps it would be from something else, like a Coca-Cola truck barreling through an intersection).

I took a tissue from my purse to wipe my eyes, giggling to recall how Dick resisted vitamins his doctor ordered for him, explaining that he would have to “read up more.” He scanned all the labels on his food and wrote down his weight from week to week on special index cards. He lived in the illusion of control. It was very understandable but also quite annoying. And how I’d missed that illusion for myself. It seemed a thousand years had passed since I’d last felt bulletproof.

But what I’d missed the most was simply being Carol, without the postscript “cancer survivor” added to my name.

Giles was silent. We folded our cancer diagnoses into our list of things in common. The difference was, Giles acted like it was the least among his problems.

“With practice, possibly, I’ll learn to be like you,” I told him.

“No, not like me,” he protested, and an unexpected cloud crossed his face.

“You’re quite amazing. Did you know that, Giles? Everybody says so.”

Suddenly, he seemed aware of being cold. He brushed off the
snow accumulating on his cap and along the shoulders of his jacket. He stamped his boots to free them of the packed-on ice.

I gave a grateful wave to Giles and walked toward the bookstore where I was meeting Dick. Giles went in the opposite direction, back toward the Christmas tree lot.

I felt a peace I hadn’t experienced in ages. I wasn’t alone. We’re often told that, but in this moment I was able to believe it. I turned around to catch another glimpse of Giles, and saw my footprints filling up with snow. When I turned back, Dick had crossed the street and was walking toward me.

“What’s happened?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You look different. Good. Did you get your hair cut?”

“No. It’s just . . .” I heard carolers in the distance. Their voices mingled beautifully. I tried to think of a way to explain this feeling to Dick, but I couldn’t. So I simply said, “I found the perfect Christmas tree.”

I
t was the wee hours of Sunday morning, the week before Christmas. I stood under a giant clock whose sweeping second hand was like a cricket leaping with mechanical precision over every centimeter of the unforgiving hours. Dick was with me, and an ER doctor faced us within the bowels of Valley Hospital.

My mother battled for her life. She had been brought in by ambulance at about midnight after falling in her apartment. It was a stroke. Dr. Bell, the neurologist on call, let us see the scan. An ugly continent of blood spread through her brain tissue, with the evidence of damage still evolving.

An hour ago, IVs installed, she had roused herself to say good night to me. I asked how she was feeling, and she answered,
without conviction, “Okay, I guess
.
” But as the sun came up, I noticed her face drooped more, and she could no longer speak. Her right side was paralyzed.

Just the week before in their apartment at the Hearth, I had shared in the fun of helping Mama wrap a stack of Christmas presents for her grandchildren. Daddy wandered a bit, but he seemed to have a sense of purpose, and to feel some engagement with the familiar holiday activities.

Mama had always loved Christmas. We worked together by her bed, which we’d transformed into a wrapping table. Her fingernails were almond-shaped, and perfect, painted with pale peach polish she’d applied herself. Here in the hospital, in the hours after her stroke, the polish had been unceremoniously removed because they needed to see her nail beds.

Dr. Bell spoke to me of stabilizing Mama. She’d have to do a “swallow test” to see if she could handle solid food. Then she would start physical therapy as soon as possible. Dr. Bell maintained eye contact with me, but the note of resignation in his voice told me a lot.

I had tried to seem alert as Dr. Bell continued talking, but my mind wandered to the phone call I’d received from the nurse at the Hearth shortly after midnight. Daddy had found Mama on the floor. Her speech was garbled. In a single effort that made sense, he found the nurse. “My wife needs help. I tried to pick her up, but she can’t talk and things aren’t working very well.” His puzzled, blinking eyes were all too easy for me to imagine. Almost everything else behind them had been emptied out, but
in Mama’s hour of need he’d come to her rescue, just as he always had.

Now I followed Mama’s gurney to an upstairs floor, where she’d been assigned another room. Christmas cutouts decorated the walls. We passed sad-looking poinsettias sitting at a bank of windows in the hallway.

I waited outside while they settled my mother in her new room. My purse hung heavy on one shoulder and my mother’s purse
dangled from the other. I thought of how she’d tripped in Dr. Mitchell’s parking lot when I was supposed to be watching her. I wondered if she’d ever carry this purse again, and if our chatter would ever again fill a room or set the phone lines buzzing.

Soon, the nurse came out. “All right,” she said. “You can go in now.”

I went inside and stood beside the bed. Mama looked like she was only sleeping. Feeling oddly disconnected from the scene, I wondered if I was morphing into someone terrible, a stranger to myself—a power of attorney, next of kin, whose primary emotion was shameful relief to be the one who was upright, well, and whole.

Then inspiration struck. I took a piece of paper out of a zipper compartment of my purse and softly said, “Mama, here are Giles’s recent plans. He calls it
Mrs. Wall’s Wildflower Garden.
Here is his description: ‘Location: backyard . . . adjacent to birdbath. Border to be built with stones (kite) from the river (arora)—
Rudbeckia hirta
(black-eyed Susan),
Trillium undulatum
(painted
trillium),
Silene virginica
(fire pink),
Cypripedium acaule
(lady’s slipper).’”

Sensing that she heard me, I paused. I felt my voice about to break, and yet I hurried forward. “Mama, this is going to happen in the spring. It will be a smaller version of Sarah Driscoll’s meditation garden. Giles will do the hard work. You and I will sip our sweet iced tea and supervise. Rhudy will curl up under your chair, so happy to see you. Now, don’t forget!”

Her eyeballs raced beneath lids that now seemed parchment-thin. The fingers of her good hand flickered briefly, where they rested against the starched white sheets. It was tempting to imagine she might weave my words into a pleasant dream of flowers in an earthly garden somewhere that was yet to be.

•   •   •

Giles stopped by our house one evening while Mama was in the hospital to deliver a steaming pot of beef stew and a dish of rice from Bienta. Giles said that the stew was called
Pilau
in Swahili. Bienta took great pride in the secret spices she added to her version of the dish, and she didn’t give her recipe out to many people, he explained. “But, with you, she is making this exception. You have had so much stress with your mother. And you were kind enough to help the soccer team raise funds. Please keep the contents of this envelope strictly to yourself. Bienta has taped this to the pan for you.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’m an excellent keeper of secrets.”

Dick and Giles started into the kitchen to warm the stew. I
followed them and gently pulled Bienta’s secret envelope from under the tape on the lid of the heavy metal pan.

“I will call Bienta with my thanks,” I said to Giles.

“That is not necessary,” he quickly insisted, once again taking on that tone of nervousness I’d come to associate with him and Bienta. “I will tell her how pleased you are.”

Once Giles left, I read Bienta’s letter.

Dear Mrs. Wall,

I have been pondering a very important question that affects my family. For some time, I have felt troubled and have, from our first introduction, wanted to speak with you in confidence. Believing, as I do, that my husband’s trust in you is well founded, I would like to request about an hour of your time for a meeting at my house. I will arrange a time when the boys and Giles will be away, as I want them to know nothing of this matter until a decision is made. Would Tuesday afternoon of next week be convenient for you? If you could stop by after school, I would appreciate it so much. Below are directions to our house. My family’s secret spices for the stew are included on the back of this card.

Gratefully,

Bienta Owita

I turned on the backyard spotlights and then stood at the kitchen window, rereading the note. If only she had given more clues. Clearly, the family’s spices for the stew weren’t the only secret being kept here.

•   •   •

I walked down the Owitas’ sidewalk on the scheduled afternoon, my arms encircling Bienta’s stew pot. The winter air was dry, I was four minutes early, and my nerves were on edge. The note on the stew pot read something like a summons.

My winter boots made prints across the frosty grass of the Owitas’ landscaped yard. A picture window at the front of the house offered a hazy glimpse of Christmas cactus and poinsettias.

The pot was heavy and I shifted it onto my hip and rang the bell. After a time, Bienta answered.

“Hello,” she greeted me, polite and guarded as always. Her eyes went to the empty stew pot.

“It was absolutely wonderful,” I said. “And your secret spices are safe with me.”

Her face grew just a little milder, and I felt myself relax a notch as well.

“Please do come in,” she said.

Once inside I said, “Bienta, you have kept me in suspense too long. Is everything okay?”

“Okay? Of course! What would be wrong?”

“Well,” I said, fishing for a plausible answer, “I guess I was thinking of Lok.”

“Lok is fine. There is nothing new to report.”

“Last summer, I snipped three roses from Sarah’s meditation
garden and pressed them. I will give you one so you can send it to Lok. Giles says it’s her favorite flower.”

“That would be very nice,” Bienta said. She looked toward the bookcase in their living room, full of photographs of happy times.

Bienta’s hair was wrapped in silky fabric patterned in brown and black and white. She was dressed elegantly in a long-sleeved blouse and flowing, floor-length skirt. By contrast, my boots and jeans and belted leather jacket looked distinctly L.L.Bean. I envied her grace and femininity. It seemed to come naturally to her, whereas I always felt that I had to work a little too hard at it. “You look so beautiful,” I said.

“I am going to a wedding shower later in the afternoon,” she said. “Please, tell me how your mother is.”

“She’s about the same. The doctor says it will take time.”

I scanned the bookshelves and assorted photos. One captured Lok, age five or six, posing on the shores of Lake Victoria. A blue sky stretches endlessly above the dull green surface of the placid water. Another picture showed Giles in a white lab coat, out in a field in Kenya, it appeared. He is surrounded by a dozen young men holding up large cabbages.

Bienta invited me to sit. I chose the sofa, but she settled for an uncomfortable wooden chair that faced me.

“There is something I would like to ask you,” she said. She pulled an index card from the pocket of her skirt and consulted it briefly. There was writing on both sides. “There are so many
things I need to talk about. The school where you teach, Saint Benedict’s. Your children went there. Yes?”

“Oh. Yes. They did. All three of them are graduates.”

“So, you would recommend it highly, I would guess? We are thinking about it for our boys.”

Relief rendered me limp. School was an easy subject compared to whatever mysterious question I was dreading. “I would recommend it highly. Yes,” I confirmed. “And if your boys attend, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to be their English teacher someday!”

“Oh, indeed. That would be nice.” Once again she removed the card from her pocket and took her time studying it. Her expression turned cloudy. “Your mother,” she said. “Tell me more. You mentioned that you might want my advice. I have worked with many stroke patients.”

“My mother . . .” I started to say, but stopped and tried again. “She looks so terrible,” I blurted out. “And I know in my heart that she’ll never be the same. Recently, she’s started closing her eyes when I come into the room. It’s almost as if she’s angry with me and can’t bear to look at me.”

“This is very, very normal. In my nursing I have seen such situations many times. Your mother has both receptive and expressive aphasia. That is very limiting. She strikes out at you because she knows you will understand and love her, no matter what. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but try to think of this as a compliment, in the same way that a child would run to place
her head on her mother’s lap when she is upset. She has always been able to count on you. Yes?”

“Yes.”

I felt relief at finally admitting my selfish fears about Mama. Then immediately I felt envy once again. Bienta sat in front of me, serene and calm, as if she could face anything and emerge with her dignity intact. It’s how I would like to be.

Bienta stood to point out photos of the children growing up. Then she came to her wedding picture.

“Dick and I married young, as well,” I said. “And have been very happy, too, except for the usual spats and misunderstandings.”

She offered no response.

I felt myself growing frustrated, as if I’d been tested without knowing it and had failed miserably. “I’ve been talking too much. I think there must be something else you wanted to ask me about.” I stopped talking and this time I pledged to be the one to wait quietly until Bienta filled the silence.

“I’ve told no one,” she began, and then hesitated. She paused and placed a hand on the table for balance. Her expression was troubled. Was she afraid of something or someone? She suddenly looked up toward the front of the house. “Wait. Did you hear a car?”

We both startled when Giles burst through the door. He wore a pair of neat-pressed khakis and a heavy jacket only partly zipped. The navy collar of his Foodland shirt was sticking out.

His schedule had been “rearranged,” he explained. He had noticed my car parked outside and was delighted to see me.

“The boys are still at practice,” he said to Bienta. “It will be ninety minutes more.”

“Oh. All right. Of course. I’ll pick them up,” she said. Her tone was cool and closed again. It seemed as if every time I got close to penetrating Bienta’s shell, something came along and she shut herself up tight again. “In any case, I have some errands now.”

It struck me that she suddenly seemed almost frantic to get away. In her rush, she dropped her car keys. As she scooped them from the floor, I noticed how her fingers trembled.

“We were speaking of my mother,” I broke in to say. “Bienta has been so helpful, giving me welcome perspective based on her experience.”

“Oh, yes,” Giles readily responded, looking toward Bienta, his eyes sparkling with genuine regard and admiration. “Bienta always has the answer.”

“I should go,” I announced.

“Perhaps you’d like to show Mrs. Wall your backyard projects when she leaves,” Bienta suggested.

“I’m really short on time,” I said. My nervous fingers went to my knotted belt to pull it tighter. “In the next few days, I’ll pick up some brochures for you, Bienta. About Saint B’s.”

Bienta thanked me and left, then Giles escorted me through the kitchen and out the back door to a barren stretch of grass, which, unaccountably, he seemed quite happy with. Bright blue
tarps covered much of the yard, and what was exposed looked blank and lifeless to my eyes. As I strolled, pretending to admire the view, I wondered what surprised me more—the untended state of Giles’s backyard, or the obvious tensions in the Owitas’ marriage.

Giles led me toward a small magnolia on the far side of his slightly tilting garden shed.
“This is from a shoot of the magnolia tree in Mrs. Driscoll’s yard.” Giles trapped a bloom between two fingers and held it out for me to see.

“Yes. I see. It’s pretty, and I know it will be happy here,” I said.

“In Blacksburg, which is in the mountains, it’s too cold for a magnolia. But here, in our fertile valley, with the air a little warmer and more humid, such a tree may well exceed its normal upper limits.”