Irises (32 page)

“You think I don't love or sacrifice?”

She ignored him again. “The one thing that became really clear that night is that there was no way that Mother would want me to leave Mary behind. Dreams need to take into account the present, the circumstances that are handed to us, the people who are given to us to love. So my dream has to include her somehow.” She smiled. “I miss the faith that Mary has. You know, Mary's faith is simple and pure. Maybe if I spend more time with her, that faith will come to me.”

“So . . .” He looked as if he was wondering what it was she wanted from him or why she had come to see him.

“I could use your help. The church's help as well.”

She saw him exhale. “Tell me how I can help you.”

“I need you to tell the deacons that Mary and I need more time. We can't move by June first.”

“Pardon?”

“We can't move just yet. I don't know when, but it won't be June first.”

She saw him cross his right leg first and then his left. “Surely I need to give them a date.”

“Tell them I'm willing to pay some reasonable rent, but we need to be in our home for at least a few more months.”

“A few more months?” he stammered.

“The church owes that to my father, to my mother, to Mary and me.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds and then he smiled. “You're a tough negotiator.”

“Please, I need your help with this. It's for Mary. She'll have a better chance at understanding what needs to be done if she doesn't have to worry about moving. If we decide to let Mother go, it would be better if we were all at home.”

“Okay,” he said, “I think that's reasonable. I can talk to the deacons and let them know we agreed to an extension.”

Kate closed her eyes and said a silent thank-you. It was the closest she had come to praying in a very long time.

 

R
enata called Mary to tell her she had talked to her mother, and her mother was one hundred percent all right with being Mary's guardian and having Mary live with them. Mary could stay with Renata until Jaime moved out and then she could use his room. Mary told her that she needed to think about it, but she knew that moving in with Renata meant putting Mama in a facility, and she couldn't do that.

After she hung up, Mary went to lie down on Papa's bed. She turned on her side to look at Mama. Sometimes, when Mama had her eyes closed, she looked so peaceful. Mary wished she could feel that peace. What she wanted most of all was to talk to Kate, just talk to her. She wanted Kate to be her older sister, to hold her hand in these hard times. She missed her.

She heard Kate come in, and got up from Papa's bed. Kate was in their bedroom changing her clothes.

“How are you?” Kate asked. There was a concerned tone in her voice.

“How are
you
?” Mary responded.

Kate put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. “We need to talk.” She had the same look Papa used to have whenever he had bad news.

“Okay,” Mary said, scared. She started to sit on her bed.

“Not here. Let's go outside.”

That worried Mary even more. The only people who ever talked outside were Papa and Kate.

They sat on the wooden chairs. Mary noticed the climbing roses on the chain-link fence. The vines had woven themselves in and out of each link, becoming a permanent part of the fence.

Kate turned her chair toward Mary. “I've been thinking a lot about what you told me the other day, about how you don't enjoy painting anymore.” Her words came out slowly, one at a time, like the last, tired drops of a rainstorm. “I should have noticed it before, but ever since Mother
.
.
. became ill, you're different. It's as if the happy, joyful Mary that you were disappeared.”

“Oh.” It was true, Mary thought. She was different since Mama's accident.

“Remember that time when I sat just about where you're sitting now, and you painted my portrait?”

“Yes.
.
.
.”

“There was something in you then that is no longer there. I can't describe it. The best I can do is to use the same word that you use
—
light
. There was a light in you that has gone dark. You yourself said to me how the lights you used to see in and around you were not there anymore. Do you remember telling me that?”

“Yes.” Mary was glad that Kate remembered.

“I've never been able to see the light in people, but I
felt
it in you once, and now I don't. When Mama was well I used to see that light in her eyes as well.”

“Kate, you're worrying me. What are you trying to tell me?”

“I think that your light and Mama's light are connected somehow, that when hers went dark, so did yours.”

“So
.
.
.” Mary's voice trembled.

“So we need to make sure you get that joy back. We need to let your light shine again.”

“But how?”

“That light of yours, that joy of yours, came from Mama, but now it must come from you. You need to find it inside of you. That will only happen if you stop grieving for Mama. Right now it's as if you see her die every day. Your grief is wi
th you
always. Mary, we need to do what Mama would want us to do.”

“Kate
.
.
.”

“She would want us to let her go.”

“No!” Mary managed to say. It felt as if somebody had gripped her throat.

“Mary, just hear me out. It's the only way for your light to return, the only way you'll be able to paint again, the only way you'll be the person you're supposed to be.”

Mary's heart thumped so loud she could hear it. “No, it's not possible.” She began to stand.

Kate stood first, put her hands on Mary's shoulders, an
d gently
pushed her back into the chair. “Think of what Mother would want. She would want us to live our lives, wouldn't she? She's gone, Mary. She needs to be with Father in heaven.”

Mary shook her head. “Do you even believe in heaven?”

“It's what Father believed, what Mother believed when she was alive. It's what you believe.”

“She's still alive.”

“No, she isn't. Not really. Not the way she's supposed to be alive.”

“I can feel her love and I give love to her. That's being alive.”

“Mary, if she were alive, she'd be aware of the love she gives us and the love we give her.”

“Do you really want to go away to Stanford so bad that you're willing to do this?” Mary meant to hurt Kate.

“It's not about that. Yes, I've been ambitious and selfish, but it's different now.
I'm
different now. I've called Stanford and they agreed to postpone my admission for a year. I'm staying here. I'll take courses at UTEP while we work this out. All I'm asking is that you think about this, pray about it. I went to see a lawyer last week to get some information about the process of letting Mother go, but we're not making any decisions until you've had time to think about this. Promise me you'll think about it.”

“There's nothing to think about,” Mary said softly. She could not imagine a life without Mama in it.

Kate turned to look at the roses. She spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper. “Letting go of her is not going to be easy for either one of us. We both love her so much. But I know she wants us to grow, and we won't be able to grow with her in the state she's in. Right now all our energies, our resources, our hopes go to Mama. But she would want all our energy and resources and hopes to go toward our dreams, the same dreams she had for us. I'm doing this for us, for you, so you can paint again. So you can paint with all your heart and soul like you used to. You're too young to be carrying so many burdens.”

What Kate said was true, Mary knew. Her painting had not been the same since Mama's accident, and now there was no painting at all. But she put away that thought and said, “What if I never agree with you?”

“I have faith that with time you will see it's the right decision. There's time. I'll go to Stanford next year, or the year after that. I'm not going anyplace. But letting Mother go is still the right thing to do.”

“I can't let go of her,” Mary sobbed.

Kate reached over to hold Mary's hands. “Listen to me. I'm bringing this up now because it is something we need to confront. We have time. We can stay in this house. I've talked to Reverend Soto. He agreed.”

“It's him, isn't it? This was his idea. He put this in your head,” Mary said, shaking her hands loose. “You like him. You're going out with him.”

“Yes, I've talked with him. But this is something that I feel is right because it is, not because anyone says it is. And no, there's nothing between us. Even though he's not as bad as you think he is.”

Mary spoke between sobs. “Mrs. Fresquez said she could help me, help us. She'll find a place for Mama in a facility. We don't need to let Mama go.”

“Putting Mama in a facility will not make things any b
etter.” Kate
began to cry too. After a while, she said, “Lo
ok at
us.”

“I didn't know you could cry,” Mary said sarcastically.

“It's all right, Mary,” Kate said. “It's okay to be angry. I'll wait until your anger goes away.”

“We're not going to make it, living together,” Mary said. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse, while Kate lifted the bottom of her T-shirt to her eyes. “You should go live someplace else. Mama and I will manage.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“We're not going to be sisters anymore.”

“Yes, we are.”

Mary let herself fall back on the chair. Kate tried to take Mary's hand again, but Mary moved it away. There was something new in Kate, a softness that she had never seen before. It was a strange softness that was hard to describe
— a softness that would not budge.

“Mary, even though this is hard for us, I know it's the right thing to do. I know it's right to start talking about this. I can't fully explain it. It's like a voice, like Mother's voice, telling me it's okay.”

Mary was struck by the fact that Kate
felt
it was the ri
ght thing
to do, that she heard a voice like Mother's telling her it was okay. She had never heard Kate speak that way before.

After a long time, Mary said, “I'm moving in with Mama. I'll sleep in Papa's bed.” She realized that she sounded like a six-year-old, but she didn't care.

“Okay. I'll help you pack,” Kate said.

Mary could see that she was trying not to smile. “It's not funny.”

Kate shook her head. “I know it's not funny. It's just that, here we are, just the two of us. We're all we have. All this time I've been dreaming of going to Stanford, and now it doesn't seem all that important. I don't want to go there without you. I'm even going to be lonely when you move to Mama's room.”

“Why do you want to do this, then?”

“I'm doing it for you, for us. Sooner or later, you'll believ
e me
.”

“It's Mama who keeps us together.”

“No, it's us that keeps us together, what we do for each other. Our memories of Mother will keep us together, the living Mother we carry inside of us.”

“Your problem is that you lost hope. You don't believe in miracles, but miracles happen. Mama could wake up again.”

Kate sighed. “Oh, Mary. Maybe I don't believe in miracles as much as you do, but I do have hope. I hope you and I can stay close. I hope I can be the doctor I'm supposed to be. I hope you can continue to paint. I've been trying to look f
or God's will
in all of this, the way you or Father would lo
ok for it
, and all I can see is that God's will is for the living. God wants us to live. He wants to give us abundant life. He wants to give us light and He wants us to be a light unto
others.”