Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners

by Gretchen Anthony

  The taste of disinfectant on the air brought her crashing back. To the hospital. To her sinus-infected doctor. To the presence of memories she could not yet see or reach. She scowled, and then winced anew from the radiant waves of pain racing across her face and skull.

  Cerise took her hand and caressed a thumb along its surface. Violet could feel it bump as it passed over each vein and knuckle.

  “The nurse is on the way with your pain meds. That should help.”

  This was not a game, it was not make-believe, and she swallowed back the panic threatening to rise in her throat. She forced her eyes open. The room wasn’t too bright. The flourescent daylight wasn’t painful anymore.

  Well, at least that was something.

  Her overnight bag was on the windowsill. Packed. She was going home today. To her own bed. To the quiet of her own house. No more assaults by nurses obsessed with her blood pressure.

  Ed had promised a freezer stocked full of Häagen-Dazs mango sorbet.

  Finally she could see the pieces lining up obediently in her mind.

  “I stopped by the house.” Cerise again. Why was everyone whispering at her?

  “I made sure your favorite robe was washed and ready. And I bought you these.” Cerise pulled a soft pink bundle from the bag beside her chair. “The woman who sold them to me said they’re the world’s softest pajamas. But I like them because they don’t look like pajamas at all.” She smiled reassuringly. “I know how much you hate lounging around.”

  Violet reached out a finger and touched the fabric. Soft, yes.

  She pushed them back into the bag with as much force as she could muster. She didn’t want pajamas. Soft was not a virtue. These words mocked her.

  “This isn’t a game of make-believe, Cerise.” The thoughts, mere seconds ago arranging themselves into an orderly space in her head, threatened to mutiny. She could feel them, shuffling and jeering.

  “Of course not, Mom—”

  “Cerise,” she said, looking at her lovely, pink-faced daughter. Cerise met her eyes. “Such a sweet girl. My wonderful girl.” She touched her cheek. It helped. Yes, the quiet was good. One more piece of her thoughts took its place in line. “You’re about to make me a grandmother.”

  Cerise let out a long breath. “Yes.”

  “Which means you are about to become a mother.”

  “Also true, yes.”

  The truths fell from her mouth without warning. She hadn’t known them until, suddenly, there they were.

  “Promise me this pregnancy wasn’t a—” She grasped for the words flitting across her addled brain, but they were too quick. “I mean, you want this baby? It’s a baby you want?”

  She thought that’s what she wanted to say. The words, though. They weren’t cooperating.

  Cerise was close now, her cheek nearly touching Violet’s. “Yes, yes, of course. This baby is very much wanted. Very much loved.”

  “Because it was a surprise, you know. We were surprised. We weren’t ready.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m so, so sorry. If I’d known...”

  “That’s just it.” There, she felt something click. Neurons connecting. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the baby.”

  She paused, the clarity lifting her, pushing her forward like the opening of a curtain onto the morning sun. Then, memory. Rhonda Nelson blinding in sequins. Samuel Alcott thumping his wife’s back. Martini rain. Cerise’s cheeks. Her father’s face. Pinkie fingers.

  And there. The final connection. The truth standing in silent vigil awaiting her arrival.

  Her daughter had gone and gotten herself pregnant and Violet hadn’t even known.

  9

  Cerise

  “MRS. BAUMGARTNER! IF you don’t lie down we’ll be forced to restrain you.”

  It took two brawny orderlies and her mother’s no-nonsense nurse nearly ten minutes to restore peace.

  “What set her off?” the nurse barked, her voice cresting the din of the orderlies’ tussles. “What upset her so suddenly?”

  “I’m not sure,” Cerise said. “She was calm, asking me questions, and then bang! Something flipped. I think her memory is coming back.”

  Her mother stopped thrashing, then turned and glared at Cerise with a look she hadn’t seen for years. As teenagers, Kyle had dubbed it “the Watchtower,” and it held a place of preeminence among her mother’s tricks.

  “You better find some kind of way outta here,” Kyle would sing, channeling Hendrix as they made their escape to his hand-me-down Buick. “Said your mother with her glare.”

  They knew her mother deployed the Watchtower only rarely, and always strategically. It was a look that said, You can’t hide from me, and when it came, they ran.

  Today, Cerise withered.

  She reached out and smoothed the bandage wrapped around her mother’s forearm—eight stitches from a broken Champagne glass. And after she’d been so adamant with the caterer—“absolutely no plastic.”

  “Mom. Please relax. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  Her mother closed her eyes.

  “Well, she seems to have calmed so I’m going to see where the doctor is,” the nurse said. “We can’t release her until a final consult and he’s going to want to know about this. Call the nurses’ station immediately if she shows any more sign of agitation.”

  Cerise nodded and fell into the chair beside her mother’s bed. She kicked the bag of pajamas away with her foot. She’d spent all last night arguing with Barb, the trauma from the party continuing to take new forms like an emotional shape-shifter, relentless in its hunger.

  “Didn’t I warn you?” Barb said, not yelling but close enough.

  “Warn me? No. You hinted. Called me Daisy May and talked about my screwed-up family instead of your own.”

  “Buchanan!”

  “What?”

  “Daisy Buchanan, not Daisy May!”

  Because fictional accuracy was what mattered. Cerise threw up her hands and went to bed to not sleep.

  Now she welcomed the quiet of the hospital room. Her mother hadn’t stirred for several minutes and Cerise watched her rest. The bruises on her cheek were deepening—Cerise figured she must have hit a table as she fainted. The goose egg at the back of her head would take some time, too. She tossed in her sleep trying to find a comfortable position. Maybe Cerise should buy one of those foam neck pillows they advertise on late-night TV.

  That would probably go over as well as the pajamas.

  Beads of perspiration ran from her mother’s forehead and streaked her face like tears. Maybe there were tears, too. Hard to tell. Her mother rarely cried, but Cerise knew the pain must be awful.

  And because she caused it, she knew she’d also have to fix it.

  They were taking her home today, but what came next, she didn’t know. Her dad would need some sort of help.

  Her poor dad. By the time the ambulance had arrived, he’d gone white, his skin nearly translucent, holding her mother’s hand, oblivious to the quiet chaos swirling around them. Cerise didn’t know what had upset her more, the sight of her mother lying on the gurney, or her father, forlorn as a child.

  He was finally sleeping at home again. She’d convinced him to leave after two nearly sleepless nights in the hospital recliner that left his back so torqued he couldn’t stand up straight.

  “She’s going to need you when she comes home, Dad. You’ve got to get some good rest.”

  That’s where he was now, paying a few bills and answering phone calls so that he would be distraction-free as soon as Violet left the hospital.

  Cerise’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Do you know where your mother keeps the queen-size sheets? This darn sheet I pulled out is far too small—keeps pulling up at the corners.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” she whispe
red. “I already changed them. Just put the old ones back on. Or leave it. I’ll make the bed up when I get there.”

  “No, I’d like everything ready when she gets home. I’ll put the old ones on, like you said.” She could hear the sheets rustling against the phone as he spoke. His voice was confused with irritation but quick with the urgency of an incomplete to-do list.

  Had her father gotten old while she wasn’t paying attention? He was only sixty-eight. Just weeks ago he was running a world-class laboratory; now he couldn’t change the sheets on the bed.

  She tucked the phone into her pocket and looked over at her mother, who appeared to be still asleep. Her skin was growing thinner with age, too. Not yet translucent, but nearly paper fine.

  “I can feel you looking at me, Cerise. I’m not dead.” She opened her eyes and looked at her. “I was resting my eyes.”

  “I didn’t think—anyway. Dad’s at home taking care of a few last things. Hopefully the doctor will be in to see you soon. Then we’ll sign your discharge paperwork and bring you home.”

  Her mother hmm’d approvingly. “He didn’t have the wrong sheet,” she said. “It was sideways. He was trying to stretch the horizontal edge across the length of the bed. He’s always done it. That’s why I make the beds.”

  Apparently she and Kyle hadn’t been the only targets of the Watchtower.

  “He’ll pay the bills, sort the mail and fill the car with gas on the way to the hospital,” said her mother. She smiled, and then began, gingerly but determinedly, the process of sitting up. “He’ll be here within the hour.”

  Cerise put a gentle hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Mom, no. You’re under strict orders to take it easy.”

  She scowled and looked Cerise in the eye. “Are you interested in changing my bedpan, then? Because if not, you need to walk me the restroom.”

  Right. Of course.

  Together, they eased her legs over the edge of the bed, and then paused to give her head time to adjust to being upright. Gradually, Violet transitioned her weight to her feet.

  “Please make sure the back of my robe is closed, Cerise,” she said, swatting at the fabric closures along her back. “You can spare me at least that one small indignity, can’t you?”

  And so it had begun, the subtle jabs Cerise knew to expect until their collective power exhausted itself. She could ignore this one, but it wouldn’t be the last and she was prepared to swallow the bitter pill of her guilty fate.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if her mother actually had lost her memory, it would have made the situation just a tiny bit easier. She was going to tell her parents about the baby when the time was right—after the retirement party, after her father had had his time in the spotlight.

  She felt her spine arch as her thoughts began to spin anew.

  After all, Rhonda Nelson owned a big fat slice of responsibility for this mess, too. And Kyle—Rhonda had to get her information somewhere. Kyle had been calling Cerise nonstop for three days, begging her not to blame Rhonda, that she didn’t know the baby wasn’t common knowledge, that she felt so unbelievably bad and did she think her mother would appreciate a visit from Rhonda in the hospital?

  “Ow!” She felt her mother flinch. “My arm is not a lemon, Cerise. You needn’t squeeze so hard.”

  Cerise loosened her grip and let out a long breath. “Take all the time you need, Mom. I’m right here.”

  CEDAR-ISLES NORTH STAR SAILOR

  APRIL 18, 1996

  Cerise Baumgartner, age 8, took home the blue ribbon in the Cedar-Isles Elementary School Spelling Bee. She defeated 24 fellow schoolmates to advance to the Minneapolis Public Schools Elementary Spelling Bee Finals in May. Baumgartner is in third grade. Her winning word was fortuitous.

  CEDAR-ISLES NORTH STAR SAILOR

  MAY 9, 1996

  Cerise Baumgartner, age 8, of Cedar-Isles Elementary, won a blue ribbon in the Minneapolis Public Schools Elementary Spelling Bee, defeating 28 fellow students representing elementary schools throughout the district. Her winning word was indefatigable.

  There are no further levels of elementary competition within the district, so Baumgartner’s parents have petitioned the school district to allow their daughter to participate in the Secondary Schools Spelling Bee Finals scheduled for May 18. According to her mother, Violet Baumgartner, “It’s irresponsible for a school board to stifle a child’s abilities and desires. No wonder the Chinese are beating us in education. Any mother in China would do the same.”

  CEDAR-ISLES NORTH STAR SAILOR

  MAY 23, 1996

  Cerise Baumgartner, age 8, of Cedar-Isles Elementary, is scheduled to appear at the Minneapolis Public School Board meeting on Thursday, May 25 at 7 p.m. The Board held a special, out-of-session vote late Sunday evening to allow Baumgartner, who recently won the Minneapolis Public Schools Elementary Spelling Bee, the opportunity to display her exemplary spelling skills by spelling nine challenge words, one selected by each member of the Board. The event is open to the public.

  CEDAR-ISLES NORTH STAR SAILOR

  MAY 30, 1996

  Cerise Baumgartner, age 8, was awarded a $5 gift certificate to Swenson’s Ace Hardware, as well as a Certificate of Accomplishment by the members of the Minneapolis School Board at their May 25 meeting. Baumgartner, recent spelling bee champion, correctly spelled eight of the nine challenge words selected for her by the members of the Board, faltering only on the word deferential. Her mother reports that she will donate the gift certificate to charity.

  10

  Violet

  VIOLET HAD A choice to make. She could obey doctor’s orders to sit quietly at home and thereby surrender the Faithful Redeemer Christmas Fair to Eldris and her assorted crew, or she could layer on a good concealer and surprise the do-gooder church gossips who would otherwise spend the day spitting the Baumgartner reputation out the blunt end of the social meat grinder.

  There didn’t seem to be any choice about it.

  “I most certainly will not drive you to church tomorrow.” It was already 9 a.m., but Ed was still in his pajamas at the breakfast nook. He had his laptop open next to him and Violet could tell he’d been checking for BiolTech news. An artist’s rendering of intestines emanated bold and pink from his screen.

  “My head hasn’t hurt for days, Ed.”

  “Wonderful. But you’re still on strict orders to take it easy.” He closed his laptop, as if to punctuate the refusal.

  Violet flinched.

  They’d had this discussion at least a half-dozen times since she’d returned home, yet here she was, still confined within the same four walls because some doctor with a nasal condition decided he knew better than she did about her own health.

  Not to mention that Ed, just a week into retirement, was also stuck at home, forced into the roles of caretaker and traffic cop.

  All this fuss.

  “You heard the doctor, Violet. You are to do nothing but rest until your exam next week. A Grade 3 concussion is nothing to mess around with.”

  “Nor is providing Christmas to more than a hundred people. All I’m asking is—do not roll your eyes at me, Edward Baumgartner.”

  He may have thought she wouldn’t see, but she had. Or at least she thought she had. She was still forced to squeeze her eyes closed from time to time when her vision blurred. This morning she blamed his plaid pajamas—they were too busy and awful. Her mind couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Never in my life have I rolled my eyes at you, Violet. I wouldn’t dream of starting now.” He stood and emptied his coffee mug into the sink, then took her hand and eased her into one of their kitchen chairs. He sat down beside her. “We’re about to become grandparents. We need our health so we can enjoy every minute of it.”

  He smiled and placed a gentle hand on her knee. She covered it with her own. His hands had always been a bit roug
h—all those chemicals in the lab, she’d figured. Now they were already softening.

  “Healing takes time, Violet. Give it time. That’s all I ask.”

  “But people are talking, Ed. The fiasco at the party. The baby. Cerise. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  He shook his head no. “Let them. It’s just talk.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. How could he say such a thing after what they’d experienced? Here was a man who hadn’t voluntarily picked up the telephone since the day they married, but now carried it with him wherever he went—even, she shuddered to admit, into the bathroom. He had to. It rang all day and night. And every time it did, she was forced to listen to him recount the details of that awful evening.

  She could see the phone sitting beside him right now, atop the legal pad on which he’d scrawled the speaking points she insisted he use.

  Violet suffered a serious concussion, though is feeling much better now.

  Her doctor expects her to make a full recovery. She’s already bouncing back beautifully.

  The fall was caused by her sheer excitement about becoming a grandmother. We could not be happier about the news.

  Cerise and the baby are both healthy. She is due in May.

  We are blessed to have so much support from friends and family. The phone rings day and night.

  The best thing you can do to help us is to support the upcoming Faithful Redeemer Christmas Fair for the Homeless on December 23. We have all that we need, but so many people in our community are hurting.

  The notes were meant to help Ed manage his answer consistency. Every caller asked the same series of questions and it was crucial they each receive the same information, given that each person’s next call would be to a friend with whom they could compare notes. He’d balked, of course, but she’d worn him down after insisting he call Lois Jacobsen back to correct a number of his statements.

  And now to hear him say, let them talk.

  “Honestly, Edward. I suppose you’d let the inmates run the asylum, too?” She stood, but too quickly, and the world buckled under her feet. She grabbed the back of her chair to steady herself.