Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Evelyn
March 2002
Outside the wind rustles the evergreen trees, the ground soft and sodden with the last few days of melted snow. As spring approaches, there are only small icy patches left over in the shadiest corners of the yard, the greenery withered, the grass brown and littered with sticks and leaf debris that had been frozen over since fall. Joseph works in the garden, though it is only March, arguably too early in the season with the threat of more snow to come. But this morning we woke to the tips of green shoots poking through the mulch and he raced through breakfast, not even finishing his coffee, to clear their path, snipping and raking the decay left by winter. I wonder if he imagines Rain and Tony kneeling together in turned soil each spring hereafter, as it blooms again with color and life.
I haven’t left this spot, attempting once more to write my letters, discouraged that Joseph had already finished his. Envelopes tucked inside the hinged seat of the piano bench for safekeeping, for after . It was my idea, something for the children to read when we are gone, in hopes of bringing them some semblance of peace. But it is hard to know what to say. Given the chance, how do we begin a goodbye, to include everything they will need to hear after we are gone? Especially when we are choosing to leave them behind. Leaving, when there are so many more important reasons for us to stay. I am filled with guilt and uncertainty once more. I wonder why we ever made this choice...one we can still take back. I want to reconsider everything, make Joseph see, before it’s too late.
It’s not only the message giving me trouble. I lose words, names; ideas dissolve before my pen hits the page. A new kind of loneliness I never imagined, trapped in the maze of my mind, but the threat is real and hangs around like an eerie fog, imminent, cloaked and haunting me. The seasons change and time moves too fast and I am behind, struggling to catch up, to hit Stop on the clock, to rewind and begin again, to have a choice that will allow me to stay as I was, not as I am. What can I say in the letters to comfort them when I am so scared myself?
The grandfather clock strikes nine in the morning, although this time tomorrow the clocks will read ten. A strange trick of daylight savings that reminds me how flimsy our sense of the world is, and rumbles a bitter anger coming in waves lately, so strong and sudden, like physical contractions of pain. How time is false and constructed, that it can change because we say so, and we can frivolously lose an hour while we sleep. No matter how I try to stay right here, in this moment, it will slip through my fingers like sifted flour, like the finest sand.
I try to focus on a memory to keep myself alert, a trick of Joseph’s to help keep me in my own mind. After the symphony, we celebrated over dinner in that crowded Italian restaurant on Hanover Street. I work to re-create in my mind’s eye how beautiful and imperfectly perfect they all were. Their smiles aglow in the candlelight, the hum of the other patrons surrounding us, tucked in our own cocoon of laughter and conversation. Jane beside Marcus, at last, where they belong. Everything a haze of dishes clinking and servers in black ties and aprons weaving between tables, but Joseph clear as day as he rubbed his thumb across my knuckles, fingers interlaced with mine.
This life, together. It was enough. It was everything.
“You know how much I love you, right? How thankful I am to have had you as my mom?” Violet’s eyes fill, as we sit together on the couch, a fire in the hearth, tucked beneath a knit blanket, sharing stories, remember when’s. These conversations coming often, assurances of love, of gratitude, and I echo them back to my children like a lullaby, I love you, I love you, I will always love you. How lucky I was to call you mine.
“It’s only March, sweetheart,” I tease. “You’re a few months early for goodbyes.”
She laughs, wiping at her eyes. “I’ll bank some extras.” She takes a deep breath, contemplative. “Do you think you’ll be together, after? You and Dad?”
I twist my wedding ring between swollen joints. “I don’t know what to believe. It’s nice to hope, I suppose. If it were up to me, we would be together here instead.” I meet Violet’s eyes. “But that’s not an option for me, not the way that I want it to be. I’ve lived a full and beautiful life. I couldn’t have asked for more out of it.”
“You know, I’ve been talking to Thomas and Jane, and, we have an idea.” Violet smiles, a sly, sneaky grin.
“Alright...” I say, uncertain.
“Let’s throw a party,” she announces, eyes glittering.
I laugh, not expecting this. “A party.”
“A party. Just family, just the ones who know. You and Dad said, at the very beginning of this whole thing, you wanted this year to be a celebration, right? And we can’t keep sitting around here crying.” She laughs, wiping her eyes. “So yes, a party. A celebration of life.”
“You’re going to throw us a funeral before we’re even gone?” More laughter, surprising myself with how much I like the idea, how nice it would be to be there, to not miss anything, especially this.
“A party . Nothing sad. No crying allowed,” Violet says, and crosses her heart.
“You said it,” I tease, and hug her. “A party sounds perfect.”
“Soon, you think?” Violet asks, studying me, concern etched in her face once more.
“How about May, the garden in bloom?” I say, hoping to emit confidence, to stave off my symptoms by sheer force of will. “Something to look forward to.”
“May,” Violet agrees.
“A party.” I lean against her, thankful for my daughter, for this gift, a beacon to swim to as I tire, carrying me through. For something, even now, to celebrate.