All the Dancing Birds (10 page)

By the time I was sixteen, her eyes saw only darkness and defeat. She would sit hour after hour in the quiet of her chair, John Milton the Cat ever present on her lap. Now and then she would gamely mutter victory over her eyes, but we all knew she had lost her heart for the fight.

Still, your MeeMaw sent me off to school every day to learn what she could no longer teach. Because she had taught me to read so well and because that translated into everything else taught in school, I had gone ahead of my class. I was to do something that neither Ma nor Pa had done. I would graduate from high school.

The day of my graduation, I announced at breakfast a speech that I had rehearsed for a long time. I was done with school, which left me free to care for your MeeMaw without interruption.

I never got to finish my speech for the commotion that erupted.

Your MeeMaw would hear of no such nonsense. Claiming me gifted, she declared that neither she, nor the God who gave me such giftedness, would stand for anything less than my heading off to college in Boone. Standing up from her chair and swinging her arms in front of her sightless face, your MeeMaw insisted I was not to end up the poor, blind wife of a mill worker.

Your PaaPaw, of course, took sputtering umbrage to that.

The rest of that evening was filled with the question of God’s realm in my life and Ma’s realm in her household. I wish you could have witnessed how reasoned and civil a Southern house could be, even in mid-argument over the destiny of a child.

Your MeeMaw stood her ground, those beautiful blind eyes of hers flashing like lightning from heaven’s hand, her own hand smacking the table like a clap of thunder. Your PaaPaw didn’t have a chance over those eyes‌—‌or the striking words that issued from your MeeMaw’s mouth.

I was given no say in the controversy‌—‌thus was the South in those days. Children, regardless their age, were respectful and, above all, obedient. Even in the heat of an argument, children, even children graduated from a higher grade of school than either parent had seen, were expected to be civil and gracious.

And silent.

In the end, the question was settled by your MeeMaw’s flawless persuasion and your PaaPaw’s quiet acquiescence.

I went off to college.

On my first day at school, I met a young student by the name of Ivan Daniel Glidden‌—‌the man who would become your father. You’ll need to decide for yourself if our meeting was miraculous or serendipitous. I have my own thoughts, but since I’ve kept them to myself all these years, it doesn’t seem right to talk now about something I’ll never be able to prove. In a way, I’m still that Southern girl who stood in the kitchen silently, obediently, wondrously and fortuitously listening to her parents argue about her future.

Next, perhaps I’ll tell you about the way your father’s generous smile absolutely ruined every good ounce of sense I ever had.

Love,

Mom

There‌—‌at last! There it is. The first mention of my Ivan and how it was we came to find each other. I think of Bryan and Allison reading this account and hope they will feel the same sense of wonder I found all those years ago.

I also consider that Allison might (upon reading this letter) realize that some misunderstanding‌—‌even a terrific and terrible argument‌—‌is something auspicious and meant to let fly.

I crush the letter to my chest, letting tears fall willy-nilly down my face and onto the front of my blouse. At last, I’ve found my beloved and he lives within a few words written, front-to-back, on two pages of flowered stationery.

In spite of the day with its myriad distresses, I fall asleep with thoughts of Ivan’s hands on my body. In the morning, I’m puzzled to wake up fully dressed, my letters scattered in a wobbling trail from the closet floor, and, most disturbing, a suitcase squatting like a small, dark gnome in the middle of the living room.

I write a reminder in my notebook to ask Bryan if I’m going somewhere.

Chapter Ten

I
t’s turned now into those late summer days when the back garden gasps in the heat; I can nearly hear its great heaving discomfort. I go to the garden shed on the back side of the house to find my garden gloves and sun hat. Then I drag out my tools and my little gardening stool, intending if nothing else to clip a few heat-sodden flowers and bring them inside to the air conditioning. I select a few blossoms still fresh enough to grace the kitchen table, scooting my little stool along the edge of the flower bed as I go, placing each cut bloom in a basket. On I go. Clipping. Scooting. Gathering.

I’m troubled by the simple task of controlling where my clipping hand lands. I’ve lost the ability to pick a spot and then command my hands or my feet to end up there. I suppose some part of my broken brain is causing damage to my relationship to things outside my own body, causing me to move and drift now in confounding ways. Even holding a flower stalk in one hand doesn’t keep my other hand from clipping at the blank air beside it in clumsy, empty strokes.

I notice a flower, a long-legged aster, lying on the ground, gasping, crippled now at its knee and sadly a victim of my heavy foot.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, little flower,” I say into its purple petals, its orange center. I’m certain it’s a childish thing to speak aloud to a flower, but I nearly expect the poor, broken creature to answer. I’ve stepped on the dear thing, most likely expecting I was stepping somewhere else. I take the mute and dying flower into my hand and try to straighten it at its crushed and broken place. It won’t stand and instead falls loosely at its bend, oozing liquid from its mortal injury onto my gloved hand.

“So, so sorry,” I say.

“Mom?”

“Oh, Bryan. I didn’t hear you.”

“You okay?”

“Certainly, dear. But I don’t think this poor flower is doing very well.”

I add the aster to the bundle of other flowers in my basket‌—‌a few roses, their edges curled from the heat, a couple of sun-bleached hydrangea large as lions’ heads, some lavender and yellow freesia‌—‌all stricken, first by the heat, and now by the clippers in my hand.
So, so sorry.

I stand. I’m sure there’s most likely a look of guilt on my face, but if so, Bryan seems not to notice.

“Here, Mom, let me get those for you.”

“Oh, my. I’m afraid I’ve really mangled these unfortunate little flowers. I’d hate to hurt your nice suit too.”

“I’m good. I’ve got a genius of a cleaner.”

“It’s nice to see you, dear,” I say.

“Let’s go inside. It’s too hot out here for you.”

“Is it? I hadn’t really noticed.”

I follow Bryan inside and watch as he places the flowers into a vase and pours cold water over their wounded legs. He sets the vase on the kitchen table and we sit down, the bouquet a sad commentary between us.

“I talked to the doctor today,” Bryan says.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask. “Or maybe it’s time for wine. It must be time for wine.” I take off my sun hat, hang it by its strap on the back of my chair and move to rise from the table.

“It’s still morning. Really, nothing for me. I need to get back to the office. I just thought I’d stop by and tell you about my conversation with the‌—‌”

“Oh right. The doctor… how is she? Dr. Alli… something, isn’t it?”

“Dr. Ellison.”

“Oh, yes. Sure I can’t get you something? Lemonade?”

“No. I just came by to talk to you.”

“That’s so nice of you, dear.” I sit down again. “How’s work going for you? Do you like your new office?”

“Mom, I’ve been there a year and a half.”

“You have? That long? My goodness. How do you like it? Here, let me get us a couple of glasses of wine. You can tell me all about it.” I stand again and move toward the refrigerator. “Chardonnay for you, right?”

“Mom!
Please
. I just want to talk to you about the doctor.”

“The doctor? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Bryan looks up at the ceiling, then back to me. “Here, come, sit down.” He pats the seat on the chair next to him.

I shuffle back to the kitchen table. Bryan places his hand over mine as if to keep me pinned to him; his eyes look like the world has jumped into them. “Okay, here’s the deal. Your latest MRI shows definite shrinking of your brain. It’s especially obvious in the hippocampus region, pretty much confirming what we already know. It’s obviously been shrink‌—‌”

“Shrinking? My hips? Oh, goody.” I clap my hands in mock delight. “Every woman wants little hips.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I know… I know this means I’m still heading downward.” I look at the flowers with their heads now slumped over the side of the vase. I wonder how long it will be before their petals fall onto the table, how many days before
their
heads are gone?

“Yes, you’re moving a bit southward. It’s to be expected, I guess.”

“I’m, in spite of it all… I’m okay, though. Are you okay, dear? You look a little peaked.”

“I’m all right. It’s just that this is really so sad for you… for us. But the doctor was hopeful. She wants to try a new medication… maybe even submit you for a trial.”

“I have to go on trial? Whatever for? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not, Mom.”

“Oh, good. How about cookies, then? Would you like some cookies? I might have some in the cupboard… I don’t know.”

“No. No cookies. No tea. No wine. No lemonade. No
nothing.
I just stopped by‌—‌”

“I know. Just to tell me what the doctor said. What did she say again?”

Bryan brushes his hand over the petals of the fallen astor.

“She said you’re sick.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m sick. I mean, everyone gets sick now and then. I remember one time when you had a fever and‌—‌”

“Let’s talk about this later. I tell you what. I’ll stop by tonight and check on you.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, dear. I’ll make my famous Southern spaghetti. You can call Allison, maybe. I haven’t seen her in such a long time.”

“How ‘bout I bring pizza? Does that sound good?”

“Wonderful.” I stand abruptly. “My goodness. I need to dust if I’m going to have company tonight. What time did you say?”

“I’ll be here around six. And no dusting, you hear? It’ll just be me.”

“And Allison?”

“Don’t worry about Allison. Here, sit down. I’ll make you some tea before I go.”

Bryan stands and walks to the stove on legs that seem to have turned into slender, broken flower stalks.

“Bryan?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay, you know. I’m okay with being sick… it
is
part of life, you know. It’s a shame I’m so clumsy with the flowers, though.”

“You should have a gardener. I’ll get you a gardener.”

“No. I don’t need a gardener. Just new feet and, well, maybe a new brain.”

Bryan brings me a cup of tea and kisses my cheek. “We’ll be okay.”

“Of course.” I look at the vase. “We’ll all be okay.”

After Bryan leaves, I drink my tea and talk to the flowers on the table. “I guess we’re all going to lose our poor little heads pretty soon, aren’t we?”

The silence from a vase of too-late-in-the-summer flowers is my answer.

I spend the rest of the afternoon looking through letters from the cedar box. I find the next letter about Ivan and let its words take me back, back, back.

Dearest children:

Your father, my Ivan Daniel Glidden, was a beauty! On the day we met‌—‌my first day in college‌—‌he leaned into me with those great blue eyes of his, eyes that could cause a mountain to cleave in half. His was a smile stronger than the wind that blew the upside-down snow at The Blowing Rock. He was a beauty, all right; a third-year student determined to leave behind the simplicity of the Appalachians for the complexity of anywhere else. Your father pulled me into his whirling vortex of life and left me gasping for more. That first day of school, he caught me up by the hand and never let go until the day he died, twenty-eight years, two children, and one massive heart attack later.

Ivan held me close to his chest on the day that Ma died of heartbreak for her eyes and he held me even closer when Pa died just six months later from a lungful of Carolina sawdust and his own blind and broken heart. He helped me box up memories and books and scoop up John Milton the Cat so I could hide that poor old cat in my dorm room because I couldn’t bear to leave him behind. When it came time, my Ivan helped me bury John Milton in the yard of your MeeMaw and PaaPaw’s silent and ghostly house. Then, he let me cry bitter tears across his shirt when new people moved into the only home I had ever known.

Five days after I graduated from college, Ivan took me once more by the hand to marry me forever and ever, amen. I had no Pa to walk me down the aisle or lift my veil to kiss my face goodbye, so Ivan simply eliminated the aisle. We stood at The Blowing Rock, surrounded by a generous spring wind and blessings smiled from the lips of Pastor Lonigan as we gave ourselves to one another.

I swear I could feel your MeeMaw’s eyesight finally blowing up from the bottom of the gorge in time to watch her only child become a woman.

Your father cared for me like no other; I cared for him the same. On the day of our wedding, standing beside The Blowing Rock, our fingers trembling with the thought of one another, he brushed the hair from my face with such tenderness I thought I would die right then. If the wind had not had the sense to blow upward, it might have carried me right out over the gorge and far into the Appalachian Mountains before anyone could have caught hold of the hem of my dress. I swear, that fierce wind blew into our faces and forced its way into every crevice of our young hearts. It caused us to hold to one another until we knew that no wind we ever encountered would ever be stronger than the wind from the bottom of John’s River Gorge. It made us wrap our arms about one another until it was impossible to separate us‌—‌through early days of our marriage when I was pregnant so quickly we had to laugh and gasp and then, through the next pregnancy that happened so quickly again, we could only look at each other large-eyed and incredulous. We were wrapped together completely; there was no crevice for any wind to come between us, nothing wild enough to pull us apart‌—‌not babies that stole our sleep and consumed every waking moment, or jobs gained and lost, or the tiny worry over sniffles and chicken pox, or the larger, fearsome worry when you two were teenagers.