Two Charity Falls, Oregon
Two
Charity Falls, Oregon
Daisy
Audrey arrives tomorrow.
Luckily I remembered where I stored the lavender potpourri she sent me some time ago, heaped some in a cut-glass dish, and gave it a home on the hearth.
It’s a bit on the overpowering side, to be honest. But something had to be done.
I keep pacing the rooms of this drafty old place, imagining how Audrey will regard it after so many years.
I swear this here knotty-pine paneling darkens more every decade, and it’s closing around me like a fist.
I must have been around Audrey’s age when I drove that Meals on Wheels route to shut-ins—old folks in old houses that smelled like old books and cat dander and dementia. Is that me now?
Was it wrong to ask her to come?
I’m horrified that I’ve dragged her away from her life. If she’d wanted to come, she’d have come a lot sooner. But what choice did I have? Even with her help, how on God’s green earth will I uproot from this place?
Out front, the Oregon grape hedges have gone rogue, and I swear those aspen shoots that poke up through the front-step cracks are mocking me. It’s like they know I can’t in good conscience use that awful, toxic weed killer that Dean used to spray. They know I’m helpless.
I should’ve at least planted some color in the window boxes. It’s practically summer. Why does everything have to be so ding-dang hard these days? Once upon a time, this was a welcoming place. Once upon a time, I could run out and buy a half flat of marigolds at the drop of a hat.
At least the birds don’t judge or miss a visit.
And there goes Myrtle Rose, eyeing a starling from her cushion on the window seat and twitching.
Such is my world now, and God knows I try to be grateful.
It’s just me and a wheezing refrigerator and the occasional snores of the old man in the bedroom.
A man who disappears from me a little more every day, like a bar of soap.
That’s him stirring now, clearing his throat. Oh, I’ve a few minutes yet. If he doesn’t knock over his water glass again. Deep breath.
I’d like to believe seventy-six isn’t so old.
Lord, I remember Granny Margaret chasing hens and baking her cement cake and even shoeing horses well past my age.
True, Granny Margaret wasn’t harried, trying to help her husband hold on to his peace and his mind.
And I bet she never lay awake worrying she might be losing her own.
That wasn’t her cross. But for crying out loud, the least I can do is plant a few posies.
Lately I catch myself staring out the window for heaven only knows how long—at the mountains, or the sprinklers, or some random plastic grocery bag rising and falling on a gust of wind. I’d like to think I’ve been contemplating deep, important things. But no. Just staring, point-blank.
Judy’s daughter waltzed through here yesterday with her fancy window cloths and her tote full of organic cleaning potions that she makes herself with some kind of oils.
When Judy calls today to ask how it went, as she surely will, I’ll say that her girl did a fine job.
She did in fact set things to right. I just wish I could figure out where she put my egg slicer.
And I must admit, the guest room, which of course will always be Danny’s room to me, smells fresher.
Lemongrass, she said. I don’t hate it. Still, after she left, I re-wiped the kitchen surfaces with Pine-Sol. Now that’s what clean smells like.
There’s Dean’s low murmuring now, and the sounds of him fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand.
I have to confess it somewhere: Hearing him awaken makes my stomach quaver.
And not in the way it did all those years, day after day, when his Ford crunched over the gravel, alerting me he was home from work.
How many times did he come in and land a sloppy, wet kiss on my cheek while reaching around to sneak an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie off the cooling rack? Countless. I miss that dance.
My jolly early riser now sleeps away what he used to call the meat of the day. Which is probably better for both of us. But something inside me is breaking. And something is hardening.
God help me, I don’t want to be crusty.
I picture Audrey here, coursing with purpose and promise and beauty, and I can’t help but think what an artifact I’ve become. This isn’t only about Dean. I hardly recognize myself anymore.
Lord, for quite some time, you’ve been my chief companion.
You’d think by now I’d be some kind of holy.
But, okay. I’ll keep dragging my cross down the Via Dolorosa if that’s what you ask.
So make me brave today. And could you maybe just send me a sign or something?
I believe you’re there, of course. But sometimes, well, you know. Forgive my unbelief.
Oh, and traveling mercies for Audrey while you’re at it.