Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (13 page)

Jeff shook his head. “Would you rather wait and be five minutes from death to figure this out? You're not bedridden, Betty. You're not feeble or mentally incompetent. You could have at least another twenty-five or thirty good years ahead of you if you wanted it. Stop worrying about what other people think. I've never let someone's expectations of who they thought I should be get in the way of who I really am.”

“How did you know who you really are?”

“I always listen to my heart, never my head. The heart doesn't lie.”

She considered the comment. “But how do you know if it's really your heart talking. Maybe it's your head talking and you think it's the heart. Or maybe it's all complete nonsense? Or maybe you're lying to yourself –”

“Spoken like someone who still thinks from her head.” He checked the time. “I have to go open the store.”

Betty stood across the dining room table from him, suddenly feeling a sense of loss. “Oh?” She pulled herself together. “Yes, yes. Of course, you do.”

Jeff headed to the front door and then turned in a contemplative manner. “There was a old woman who lived on our street when I was nine. We called her Aunt Mimi. She had been confined to her bed as long as I'd ever known her. One day her husband decided to move her bed to the front living-room window so she could see outside. Each day as we walked to school in the morning and came back in the afternoon, we'd go by her front window and Aunt Mimi would wave to us. That went on for years, until I was probably thirteen. And then one afternoon, we walked by that window and she was gone. I figured the worst, so I went up to the front door and rang the bell and damned if Aunt Mimi didn't answer the door. She was standing upright, her hair in a little neat bun and dressed quite nicely. I was stunned. I said, ‘Aunt Mimi, what happened? How come you finally got out of bed after all these years?' And she said, ‘It was time.'” He smiled. “It's time, Betty.”

Jeff left as Betty peered outside the front window. He got onto his motorcycle, and drove away. She wondered if anyone in the neighborhood was watching. But that other part of her hoped they were.

She took a two-hour nap – probably the deepest sleep Betty had in years – and was awakened when the phone rang. Checking the Caller ID, she saw it was Judi and answered the phone.

“What in hell happened last night?” Judi asked, her voice slightly edgy.

Betty felt her stomach drop. “What do you mean?”

“I got a call from Tom Reed. He said you were very…how should I say this…
rude
. That's not like you, Betty. Is everything all right?

God, she wanted to scream. She wanted to tell her everything. But how? How in the hell do you tell someone you're not the same anymore?

“Oh, hell, Betty. It's Peggy, isn't it? Of course, it is. Her memorial service is tomorrow, and I know how those things affect you.”

This was the first time Betty heard that Peggy was even having a service. “I was under the impression from some comments she'd made a while ago that she didn't want a service –”

“People say a lot of things when they're sick. She
has
to have a service. It's the right thing to do. It's at 10:00 am at the church on Fourth Street. I'll see you there and we will talk.”

And that was that. The conversation was over. Betty sat there for several minutes as her blood slowly boiled. She tore into the kitchen, reheated her two cannabis oil concoctions to re-melt the oils, and then carefully strained them through a piece of cheesecloth into a large bowl. Once completed, she transferred them into her freezer to allow the water and oil to separate. She stood there, arms crossed, and stared at the closed door on the freezer for what seemed like an eternity. A furnace of indignation fired up her resolve, and she picked up the telephone, dialing Peyton's cell number.

He answered, and Betty heard the sound of reggae music playing loudly in the background. Apparently he was working the first shift at the grow store. “I'm doing this, Peyton,” she declared.

“Awesome!”

Even though she was alone, she spoke confidentially into the phone. “I tried a tablespoon of the oil…quite by accident, of course.”

“A
tablespoon
?” he softly chuckled. “Wow. Did you surrender to the stone?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you allow it to take you where your body and mind needed to go?”

Betty reflected on his question. “I don't think I had much of a choice, to be honest. One does have to…” she hesitated, realizing what she was about to say, “let go…and not be afraid when it hits.”

“I read once that cannabis can act as ‘training wheels' for meditation. It helps you become more receptive.”

She cogitated on his statement. “Training wheels…I like that.”

“Dude, I'm proud of you. Four days ago, could you ever have imagined all of this would happen?”

“You have no idea, Peyton. I hope I can find the right patients with your help.”

“No worries. It's like
Field of Dreams
. If you make the chocolates, they will come.”

She swallowed hard, realizing she was about to walk into a strange new world. “I need to get my card. Do you know of a doctor I can go to?”

“Absolutely! Dr. Jan. She rocks.”

Don't these people have last names anymore,
she wondered? “Where is her office?”

“She works out of different locations. But primarily, she's got a van.”

“
A van
? Dr. Jan has a van?”

“Yeah. We call it the Canna Van.”

Betty took a hard breath. “She's a real doctor, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I saw her degree…in a frame.”

“A frame? Well, that certainly makes it authentic.”

“Hang on a sec. I have her schedule on a piece of paper in my wallet.” He recovered the information and came back on the phone. “Dr. Jan's gonna be at Irving and Cooper all day today. If you want me to, I can give her a call and see about getting you in today. It helps to have a referral, you know?”

Betty agreed. Half an hour later, he called back and told her she scored an appointment at the odd time of 4:20.

“That's another excellent sign, Betty!” he raved. “This is all meant to be! I'm tellin' you Betty, you get your card and I'll help you get set up with everything you need. Between your chocolates and your green thumb, you're gonna be the toke of the town!”

Betty parked two blocks from Irving and Cooper at 4:00 on the dot. There was no way she was going to park her Taurus too close to Dr. Jan's traveling van and risk being seen. She had a difficult time figuring out what to wear to her visit, as suitable attire for such an appointment wasn't established yet. So Betty donned a floral summer dress with sleeves of an appropriate length and carried her favorite sweater with the unraveling sleeve tucked under just in case the Colorado weather took a turn for the worse. Her formal taupe heels clicked brightly against the pavement as she walked the short distance.

It wasn't tough to locate Dr. Jan's van. It was clean, sparkling white and painted with a huge cannabis leaf, a green cross and an “Rx” on both sides. At first glance, it didn't look like any place where “medicine” would be practiced. In fact, cut a window in the side and replace the marijuana leaf with a popsicle and it could be an ice cream van. Outside the vehicle, a dark-haired woman in her early forties sat on a folding chair, organizing multiple manila folders on her lap. Between her teeth, she clenched a pen and muttered indecipherable words.

“Hello,” Betty said, greeting the woman. “I'm Betty Craven. I have a 4:20 appointment with Dr. Jan.”

The woman looked up and chuckled. “I bet you do. You come from church?”

“What?”

“A wedding?”

Betty glanced down at her dress. “No. This outfit is certainly not appropriate for church or a wedding.”

The woman regarded Betty with some apprehension. “Look, if you're with the Feds, we've got our paperwork all in order. I don't want any hassles.”

After several minutes, in which Betty explained in great detail who she was and why she was there, the woman interrupted her.

“Okay, okay!
I get it
! Pull up a chair.” She motioned to a canvas, folding chair that leaned against the van. “I need your driver's license to get started.”

Betty sat down. “Who exactly are you?”

“I'm Jan's nurse, slash assistant, slash notary, slash mediator. You can call me Pam.” She proceeded to jot down Betty's information on a sheet of paper.

“I'm new to all this, Pam” Betty meekly offered.

“No shit?” she said with a sarcastic, droll tenor. Pam filled out part of the page and then handed it to Betty, along with her license. She instructed Betty to continue filling out the form and then gave her three more pages filled with every known disease and malady. “Check off every problem you have,” she instructed her.

Betty began filling out the form. By page two, she'd already checked off sixteen boxes. Yes, there was even a box for ear problems. But she wanted to be precise, so she told Pam that it wasn't always “pain” but more of a “disagreeable flutter.” Pam regarded her with a look that's usually reserved for baristas dealing with difficult patrons, who order complex cappuccinos with a whisper of froth and soy milk at Starbucks.

“Check the box, Betty,” Pam advised. “We're not splittin' the atom here, okay?”

Betty continued to fill out the form and then handed it to Pam. By that time, Pam had already finished all the important paperwork Betty would need when she sat down with Dr. Jan. She then began to explain the somewhat involved process of how she would notarize the official form, and that Betty could
only
use a blue ink pen on the form. When Betty asked why it had to be blue ink, Pam didn't have a clue but stressed that if it wasn't completed in blue ink, the form would be returned. The intricate process continued. Pam stressed, with great fervor, the importance of including a personal check, not a money order for the ninety dollar fee to the state. She also explained the need to mail the completed forms by “Certified Mail with Return Receipt Requested” as proof of delivery, as well as a few other vital steps to make sure the Colorado Department of Health didn't return the documents because of a failure to follow their complex protocol. It was obvious to Betty that Pam had repeated this process far too many times, as indicated by the singsong and somewhat irritated nature of her voice.

“Excuse me,” Betty said, after closely listening to Pam, “but shouldn't we be discussing all this after I am approved for a card?”

Pam regarded Betty with that same tired look. “Honey, you're over fifty and you've checked more than thirty squares. You've got at least one of the qualifying medical conditions. The only thing barring you from getting a card is pissing off Dr. Jan.” Pam glanced down to the first page. “Hey, right here where it says, ‘Describe the intensity of your neck spasm pain,' you checked off ‘mild.' Are you sure it's mild?”

“No. Sometimes it's quite debilitating and I can't move. It even froze up last –”

“Then why did you check ‘mild'?”

Betty's back stiffened. “Because I don't want to appear like I'm an invalid. Plus, I don't think it's right to characterize something as ‘severe' when it can be moderate.”

Pam put down her files and stared at Betty. Just stared at her.

After a long thirty seconds, Betty spoke up. “Is there a problem?”

“You're not the typical patient who visits Dr. Jan. Let me be clear. Colorado requires certain wording accompany specific problems. When Dr. Jan asks you to describe your neck pain, you might want to tag it as sometimes
severe.
You hearin' me?”

Betty nodded. “Yes. Severe. Gotcha.”

“Hey, you didn't fill out what you do for a living.”

“Oh, I guess I'm retired.”

“What did you do?”

She considered the question. “Well, I raised my son and…then…I gardened…and cooked…and, um –”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture.”

Betty realized how vacuous she sounded. “I owned a gourmet chocolate store for a while. High-end cacao. Not pedestrian offerings. Specialties, you know?”

The look of bemusement on Pam's face was classic. “But you don't have that store anymore, do you?”

“No. The economic downturn took care of that.”

“Wow. Imagine that. You'd think even with a depression where people are losing their homes and cars and jobs, they'd still want to fork out ten bucks for a dot-sized chocolate. We call that poor planning where I come from.”

Betty slightly stiffened. “Well, now hang on. I thought I was contributing in my own little way and providing people with something beautiful they would appreciate, and they'd feel good about themselves when they ate my chocolates.”

Pam sat back with a mystified expression. “Damn, honey. You really believe that, don't cha?”

“Yes. I do. What's wrong with giving someone something beautiful they can look forward to every day? For that short moment in time, they feel happy and special and everything's perfect. Just because we live in a chaotic world, doesn't mean you have to throw out all the beauty. For some people, those moments are what keep them going.” Betty had never been so forthright with any stranger. She had no idea where this candor was coming from, but she didn't regret a word of it.

There was movement in Dr Jan's van as her 4:00 patient exited the sliding side door. Betty cautiously checked out the individual but didn't know them, thankfully. After another minute, it was her turn.

Dr. Jan greeted her with a warm handshake. She was in her mid-thirties, with short, curly, red hair and casually dressed in jeans and a neat shirt. Betty sat across from the doctor on a bench built into the van. After a few minutes of nervous, filler conversation on Betty's part, Dr. Jan looked over the many boxes that Betty checked on her form. When she was finished taking her blood pressure and pulse rate, she checked her eyes.

“How's your eyesight?”

“Oh, it's so good I'm seeing things that aren't even there.”

Dr. Jan smiled. “I gotta remember that one.” She brought out her otoscope and looked into Betty's ear. “You currently smoke pot?”

“Good God, no.”

“So, why do you want a medical card?”

Betty considered the question carefully. She could give an answer that would sound good and legitimate, but the more she thought about it, the more she didn't want to just rattle off some pointless excuse. “I have a lot of pain,” she said with a halting voice and then realized it was the very first time she had ever admitted that to anyone. “I know what it feels like to be stuck, physically and emotionally. Maybe…by being a caregiver, I can help people. And if I'm lucky, maybe I can also help myself.”

Dr. Jan stopped what she was doing. “That's the best damn answer I've ever heard.”

Fifteen minutes later, Betty walked out of Dr. Jan's “Canna Van” with her signed paperwork. After making copies and taking a short trip to the post office, Betty would be officially legal. It would take at least five months to get her Colorado license in the mail, but right now, she could walk into any dispensary and buy whatever she wanted, including three plants. Once she got another medical marijuana cardholder to sign up as her patient, she could acquire another three clones, until she reached her limit of five patients and eighteen plants in vegetative growth.

As she walked back to her car, a child-like giddiness enveloped her. All at once, she felt slightly devilish but also dutifully aware of what she needed to accomplish. Betty had a little secret folded in that envelope and she would keep it to herself. Well, okay, she'd show it to Peyton, of course. And if Jeff was still at the store, she'd covertly show it to him too on her way home. By the time she got to her car, the last vestiges of the old Betty Craven were beginning to fall away. And while she tried her best, she couldn't stop smiling the entire way home.

Sleep was an elusive bedfellow that night. It wasn't from anxiety; it was born from pure excitement as her mind reeled with all the things she would need to set up her grow operation. She'd used up every bit of the money Peyton had given her from selling her chocolates to his patients. Turning on the TV as background noise, Betty dug through her drawers and closet to find anything of great value she could sell quickly. Hearing a somewhat familiar gravel-toned voice, she turned to the TV. It was “Doobie Douggie, and he was rolling down the sidewalk in his wheelchair, draped in a scarf with marijuana leaves painted on it, ranting to a local Denver reporter about how “pot was the people's plant.” Apparently, this pied piper of pot, arrested
again
for growing marijuana without a license, had held the courtroom captivated with an emotionally charged, yet compelling address to the judge. But then, feeling the need to give the other side of the story, the broadcast went live to the studio where the sharp-tongued, proselytizing voice of Reverend Bobby Lynch launched into a mini-tirade during an in-studio interview. Betty realized Lynch was quite a bit shorter than she'd thought. Strange how she'd never noticed it before. Also, unattractive beads of sweat formed above his lip as he spoke. When he started banging his bony fist on the arm of his chair, she turned the channel. Settling on another nature program, she continued to rummage through her bureau. She opened her jewelry box and brought out Frank's gold wedding band.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she rolled the heavy ring back and forth in her palm, again factoring what it might weigh. She was aware of the coldness she felt and the palpable disconnect between that ring and her heart. In the background, the narrator's hypnotizing voice explained how various insects adopt the use of camouflage in order to blend in and adapt to their wild surroundings. Other insects had grown tougher shells over millennia as a response to weather conditions. The whole point, noted the rather dry narrator, was adapting to one's surroundings in order to survive. Adapting, he stressed, was what separated those who lived from those who perished. “Adapt or die,” he stated in an offhanded manner. “Adapt or suffer.”

The price of gold was currently twelve hundred dollars an ounce. And the irony of what that would buy sent Betty into fits of giggles for another ten minutes.