When the Morning Glory Blooms (28 page)

In the early days, I assumed she made me go with her because we were alone, the two of us. She couldn’t very well
leave her little girl home alone in the middle of the night when a furtive knock at our door sounded the alarm that she was needed  . . .  that
we
were needed. I was her “assistant.” The mothers-to-be accepted me as part of the package. Mother and I were a team.

If I’d had a father, as a child I could have stayed snuggled under the covers until morning. He would have taken care of me, listened for me, and tended to my needs until Mother returned. If morning had dawned and she still had been holding a laboring hand, I could have made breakfast for Daddy. He would have been so proud of my talents in the kitchen, for such a young thing. I could have learned to make his tea and surprised him with its morning-defining aroma.

“Pumpkin!” he’d have called me. Or “Princess! How kind of you! What a sweet girl you are! Come give your papa a hug.” And that’s how we would have started our day.

But if I’d had a father, how would I have learned all I needed to know to fulfill what was asked of me? How would I have learned the stages of labor and their transitions, having no children of my own, if I had not attended nearly every birth my mother attended?

How would I have gained the stamina to endure if I’d not practiced at my mother’s knee? From what source could I have gathered the insight to know when the path of labor was leading to a life-threatening precipice, when a doctor’s expertise was required, when and how to prepare a woman’s heart to bear the unconscionable agony of miscarriage, the twisting pain of stillbirth?

God knew what comforts I needed to go without.

Ivy—1951

Ivy’s pencil disengaged with the page once more. Anna’s voice always took on a poetic quality when she spoke of the past. When not reminiscing, even at eighty-six she talked like any young woman of the 1950s. A “cool cat,” some might say. But when her memories took over, the storytelling that flowed from her wrinkled lips and love-smoothed heart held an almost Victorian elegance.

Although mesmerized by the rhythm of the words, Ivy remained glued to the stories themselves, often rereading them at night in her room, catching bits of wisdom she’d missed when focused on committing it all to paper.

What would happen to Anna’s words once the story was complete?

Ivy couldn’t imagine God meant them only for her.

And she couldn’t believe she’d just considered that God had given her even a moment’s intentional thought. What was happening?

“Ivy?”

“I  . . .  I need to sharpen my pencil.” She pulled the small sharpener from her purse, bent over the wastebasket, and twirled the pencil to a fine, fresh point, leaving curls of yellow-edged wood shavings in the basket.

“Turn to a new page, would you please?”

Ivy complied, anticipating a new chapter, maybe more about Mr. Grissom and where he fit.

“Jot this down please, Ivy.” Anna cleared her throat. “ ‘My dear Drew. It’s time I told you a most amazing story about the life we’ve created and ask you to forgive me for not including you in the miracle before now.’ ”

Ivy’s pencil shook as it hovered over the paper. “I really need to get home. It’s getting dark earlier these days.”

Anna lowered her gaze. “Then write fast.”

21

Becky—2012

Becky’s best imitation of aerobic exercise was bending into some lesser-known yoga shape and holding her breath while she plugged the Christmas tree lights into the outlet buried behind the donated tree. Only four something in the afternoon, but the room needed the lights. It got dark so early these days.

The donated tree—thanks to a sympathetic tree farmer from church—wasn’t at all the kind she liked. She loved the smell of balsam fir and appreciated their softer needles. This one was as prickly and pale as a bleached-out cactus. But it was free. At the moment,
free
scored top points with her.

Becky vacuumed twice a day to keep the family room from acting like a minefield of prickles. With Jackson no longer an inanimate object, rolling off the play blanket and to interesting locations like under the coffee table, keeping the minefield effect to a minimum grew more important by the hour.

As he played now with a stuffed penguin that mere months ago had been Lauren’s, Becky studied the tree. The lights disguised a lot of imperfections  . . .  as long as she focused on the glow. When her eyes drifted to the bare spots on the branches or to the crooked top—Angela, the homemade angel, leaned
a little left of center—Becky felt the bare spots as if they were crusty scabs on her skin.

Jackson giggled, apparently responding to the joke the penguin told, blissfully unaware of the family and financial dynamics swirling around him, unaware of the national debt, the health-care debate, the cost of education, the starving children in Africa, the melting polar ice caps, and the fact that the Korean War never really ended.

Oh, to be unaware.

Becky couldn’t picture their traditional Christmas tree resting anywhere other than that spot in front of the sliding doors to the patio. Couldn’t imagine leaving the room that once was Mark’s. Couldn’t imagine squeezing twenty-plus years of married life into half a house. Couldn’t imagine how Lauren would keep her half clean.

But after the shock waves subsided, she did see the wisdom of the plan. In theory. And in theory, even though it felt as if they’d given up so much in the aftermath of Lauren’s one-night stand, two-night stand—
Oh, Lord, I don’t want to know how many nights’ stands there were!
—and even though more sacrifices were on the way, the shining light covering the bald spots was Jackson.

Unto them a child was born. A precious, well-loved, happy child. Joy to their world.

Becky scooped Jackson sans penguin into her arms, snuggled him close in the valley where lies a grandmother’s heart, and thanked God for him in the shadow of an imperfect tree.

The phone interrupted the reverie. Didn’t phones always interrupt?

“Becky? It’s Monica.”

“Hi. I’ve been meaning to call you. How are you doing?”

“Better. Then not. Comes and goes.”

Becky hugged Jackson a little tighter. “What helps?”

“You always could read my mind.”

“What?”
And no, not always
.

“It helps to get out and do something for others.”

The tentative bridge they’d begun to repair made Becky double think every word. “Win-win, huh?” She should have thought three times on that one.

“I’m doing so much volunteering, between church, the library, and the women’s shelter, that it’s  . . .  it’s created a problem I  . . .  I wondered if you could help me solve.”

Becky set her grandson back on his play blanket. If Monica asked her to volunteer nonexistent time  . . . 

“I know you and Gil are going through some money struggles.”

And the gap widens
. In a corner of her mind, Becky heard the whisper of a high-end dishwasher in someone else’s kitchen.

Monica drew a noisy breath. “And I wondered if you’d consider working part-time for me? Cleaning?”

Was four seconds considered dead air? Becky rushed to fill it. “Hey, Monica. Love to talk about that sometime, but there’s someone at the door. Can I call you back? Thanks. ’Bye.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. Disappointment stood in the doorway, sticking out its tongue.

“Any responses to the résumés you sent out, Gil?” Becky turned down the covers on her side of the bed while Gil sat on his side, rubbing heel healer into his winter feet.

“You mean, in the six hours since you last asked that question? Nope. Nothing.” He switched to the other foot. “I imagine
there’s a bidding war for my talents, lawyers constructing proposals I can’t walk away from. No phone calls yet. I wonder if I should see if there’s something wrong with our phones.” He rolled into bed like a clown might roll out of a basket. Ta-da!

Becky slipped between the sheets, regretting their decision to crank the furnace down so low at night. Did blanket sleepers like Jackson’s come in her size? She pulled the comforter under her chin and shivered for good measure. “I wasn’t trying to be a pest about it. Just hoping.”

“Yeah,” he said, no longer the clown. “Me, too.”

“It was snowing the night we looked at that duplex.”

“Right.”

“Was there a yard? I don’t remember.”

Gil turned on his side to face her. “Kind of a bad news/good news thing. Not much of a yard, but it will only take one pass with the lawn mower. Imagine the time we’ll save on weekends.”

“Captain Lame-o?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can I have a little spot to plant morning glories?”

“Boom! We just cut the mowing time in half.”

“Oh, Gil!”

“Laugh or cry—our only two choices.”

Becky pulled the sides of her pillow over her ears as she lay on her back, focused on the textured ceiling. A bug smudge, likely from the summer, held her attention. “We have a third choice.”

“Go crazy?”

She dropped her grip on the pillow. “Okay, four choices.”

“What’s the fourth?”

“I can call Monica back and tell her I’d be honored to be her scullery maid.”

The call came at nine the next morning. Ron had an interested party who wanted to see the house.

“Christmas week? Gil, come on. Really?”

“The place looks  . . .  festive.”

“No, really. This is impossible. They want to see the house today?”

Gil jiggled Jackson on his hip while Becky brushed her teeth. “I’m going to go wake Lauren. She’ll have to help with the cleanup.”

Becky spit and rinsed. “I’m serious, Gil. This is worse than impossible. We can’t have this house ready for a viewing today. Have you seen Lauren’s room? The garage? The basement?”

“In this kind of market, I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

She had stooped as low as she thought she could go, an emotional limbo-dancing champion. The tropical music beat in her head even now as she bent over backward and slid under the ever-lowering bar of life challenges. “Seriously? Christmas week? Better idea. Let’s put an ‘as is’ sign on the front door and hop a flight to the Caribbean. Seems appropriate.”