Home to Big Stone Gap

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Anyway, I agreed to talk to him. So he met me after my shift—I’ll never forget it, because he said he made dinner reservations at the Wise Inn. I wondered what the hell he could say that would make me agree to have dinner with him, so I made him tell me on the spot instead of going to the restaurant. He said, ‘I can’t live without you, and I want you back. I’m not going to murry whatever her name is over in Greece, I realize now that I want you.’”

  Iva Lou’s face looks shattered. “Well, I have to tell you, I was never so angry then or since. I told him that he would never know what it did to me to give away my daughter and that I had no further interest in him or his family. He cried a bit, and then he left. We didn’t make it to the Wise Inn, needless to say. And I never saw him again, until a few days after Christmas, this year, when I drove up to Ohio with Lovely.”

  “Lovely told me you were going to see him.”

  “At first I wanted no part of it, but now I’m glad we went.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Tommy’s a widower. I doubt he’d of seen us if his wife were still alive. He has three children of his own. When I walked in with Lovely, he could hardly take it. I guess it hit him hard what he had done. It was funny, I didn’t shed a tear. Through all of this, I’ve wept and wept, but when I saw him, I wasn’t even tempted to cry. Not one tear.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told Lovely that he abandoned me. That he forced me to make a terrible decision, and that if she was going to hate anybody, to please hate him because it was all his fault. He then told her the thing I think she longed to hear most. He said, ‘I loved your mother.’ See, no matter where you go or what you do, a child needs to know that. They need to know that you brought ’em into this world with the best intentions, that you came together for a divine purpose, no matter how misguided the results might be. That’s all anybody needs, really, to know they’re wanted. What I tried to say to Lovely was that she was wanted by me and the parents I gave her to. I trusted them. I read their application letters, and then a nun—Sister Julia, I don’t think I’ll ever forget her—came in and told me that if it was her baby, she would not hesitate. She would trust the Rosshirt family.

  “Life is not doled out by chance. I know that sounds crazy, coming from a woman who accidentally got pregnant, but it’s true. You don’t have a choice about when a child comes into the world or when they go—I don’t care how much science they fool with. Nope, there’s destiny involved. There is purpose in all of it, and Lovely needed to know that as crazy as this was, it was her story. She needed to stop looking at her origins like a mistake, to own them like they’re her glory.”

  “And did she?”

  “The three of us, awkward as it was, left it on a very friendly note. Lovely told Tommy that she didn’t want anything from him, she just needed to know the truth. She showed him pictures of her parents; her husband, Sam Carter; and her daughters. Tommy seemed relieved that she had a happy life and that she had turned out well.

  “Now, that there is my cross. I can’t claim what must be the most satisfying knowledge in the world, which is to know that you gave someone life and then all the things they needed to grow into a good person. I’ll never know what it would have been to make my daughter a home, to give her a place in this world, and then, once she was grown and confident, to set her free to have her own life. I knew when I gave her up that I was giving her up to a world of chance and uncertainty. What I couldn’t know was whether I did the right thing. Was it the right decision for her? That part of it haunted me. I know for sure she was raised in love by good people, and that’s more than most folks get, even from their own parents. All I can do now is be her friend.”

  “You’re great at that,” I say.

  Iva Lou starts to cry. “I’ll never know if I would have been a good mother. After I had her, I swore I’d never have another baby or get murried, which is why I was so drunk the day Lyle and me got hitched. I couldn’t believe I was going back on my word to myself. But at that point, children were out of the question, so I only went back on half of my promise.”

  “You did the right thing in giving her up. It was the only thing you could do.”

  Iva Lou dries her tears. “I don’t know. If it was right, why did Lovely come lookin’ for me?”

  “She wanted to know you. I know what that feels like. It’s hard to live with pieces missing from the story of your life. It’s almost unbearable. And then when you get the pieces, you have to sort it all out.”

  Iva Lou nods. “So, that’s the story of Lovely,” she says, and looks down at her hands.

  We sit in silence for a moment, until I confess quietly, “I did judge you.” Iva Lou looks at me, and for the first time in months, I see the old fire in my friend. Nothing pleases her more than honesty. I go on, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I couldn’t believe that someone I was so close to and relied upon could keep such an important event in her life a secret from me.”

  “There was never a good time to tell you, Ave Maria.”

  “I understand that now. You couldn’t have told me when I was a spinster, because it might have driven me farther back into the cave of fear I was living in. And when Etta was born, I was so happy, you wouldn’t have ruined it for me, because that’s the kind of person you are. And then when my son died, you couldn’t tell me, because you probably thought my loss was worse than yours—at least you could think of your baby in a good home with loving parents. And let’s face it, since Joe, I judge anybody who gets a choice in life when I didn’t get to choose the fate of my son. But what I know now”—my voice breaks, and the tears come—“is that you’re a better mother than me because you knew what your daughter needed, and you let her go when you most wanted to keep her.”

  “It was a different time then. I can’t hardly even explain it. Nowadays it’s all changed; hell, the world spins differently. I grew up believing that a child needed a mother and a father. Now I’ve seen every incarnation of family life, and I know that there are many ways to do it. But at the time, in London, Kentucky, I was trapped by the way the world was. I was alone. I couldn’t take on the world.”

  “Does Lovely understand that?”

  “She tries. But you know something—I’ve learned this in my life and in my job—everybody has a hole in them that can’t be filled. It might be better when you can give it a name, but everybody’s got one. Hers—Lovely’s—was me. Me and Lovely talked about it on the ride back from Ohio. I’d rather been her hero, or her teacher, or her everyday mother, but what I got is where we are now. And I think the world, and the way things are now, helped her find me. Families are put together every which way these days, so she felt comfortable enough to come looking for me. She didn’t feel alone when she was looking; there are lots of people in the same boat. And I guess I wanted to be found, because when I signed her away, I checked the box that said unseal with adoptee’s consent. I don’t know another girl in the Sacred Heart Home who did that. They all wanted to put it behind them. But I wanted my girl to know if she ever needed me, she’d just have to look.”

  “And now she found you.”

  “Thank God. I remember when you and Fleeta came over to the hospital after I got my double mastectomy. You came in the room, and you were upset because I was crying. I guess y’all thought, Well, it finally dawned on ole Iva Lou that she could be takin’ a dirt nap with this cancer. But I wasn’t crying about dying, or losing my party horns, or even the pain of it, which was substantial—I paid for every sin I ever committed with the pain of that surgery, I promise you that. I wasn’t crying about me. No, I was crying because I thought if I did die then, I’d never meet my daughter. But I felt that it was Lovely’s place to find me. If I went searching for her, she may not have wanted that. So I had a dilemma.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I let it set. I trusted that if it was going to happen, it would. I didn’t force it.” Iva Lou reaches out and pats
my hand. “The same way with you. I wasn’t going to bother you.”

  “I wish you would have.”

  “I wasn’t ready,” replies my dearest friend.

  “I guess I wasn’t either,” I say truthfully.

  Iva Lou and I eat our lunch and talk about general things—books, local news, Lyle’s back problem, and Jack’s heart. We’re both a little wary, and why wouldn’t we be, after this patch of winter between us? But we’re still who we are. We catch up as though years have passed, even though it’s been only a few months.

  I’ve learned so much from Iva Lou in our long friendship, but I never thought that she’d be the person to teach me forgiveness. I have a hard time forgiving myself. Once again, she shows me how by her example. I hope we are blessed with the gift of time so I can return the favor.

  How did she do it? How did she let go of her daughter and trust that one day Lovely would find her? Iva Lou loved her only child so much that she gave her the best life she could without expecting anything in return. I can’t say I’ve ever done that. I certainly did not do that with my children. The expectation was always that I knew best for them, and by God, they were going to listen, because my love was the stamp of approval. How ridiculous that seems in light of everything I’ve learned from Iva Lou. No wonder I was angry with her; I was angry with myself. I wasn’t judging her, I was judging me. I hold everyone I love so closely, it’s a miracle they can breathe. I’ve held on to the memory of my son so doggedly, it’s a wonder that I made it through the second half of my life. I clung to Etta with such force, I’m lucky she didn’t leave for Italy sooner.

  Iva Lou knew her love for her daughter was true and that there were no expectations. She didn’t want a thing from Lovely. Iva Lou trusted in the purity of that mother love so deeply, she knew Lovely would find her someday. I was always afraid my love wasn’t strong enough to bind my children to me. I had to grip them tightly in every way and never let go. That was not good for them or for me. Even death itself did not loosen the bond I had with Joe. Up until a few weeks ago, I was still looking for him, half expecting him to return, as though his death had been a terrible mistake, a mix-up that could be rectified by the strength of my own will. I held my dying son in my arms, and even that wasn’t enough. The proof of my love was in my forever longing. Love would not change, grow, or end. I made this child, and by God, he was not going to leave me.

  When I got on the plane to go to Etta’s wedding last fall, I planned to talk her out of getting married and into my way of thinking. I was going to bring her to her senses, so she would cancel the wedding and come home, go to college, and follow my plan for her. Luckily, when I saw her in Schilpario, I knew that she wasn’t pulling a stunt or manufacturing an act of defiance to break from me; rather, she was following the path of her heart. She really loves Stefano, and I knew it when she was a girl. I dismissed that as a schoolgirl crush because I didn’t want it to be true. No daughter of mine was going to marry young and live in a foreign country with an ocean between us. How wrong I was to judge my daughter. Thank God I didn’t ruin her wedding day with my own agenda. The truth is, my heart wasn’t open to my own child. But now it is. This is the great miracle of my long winter. I am beginning to let go, and as I do, just like Iva Lou, I trust that peace will come.

  Huff Rock

  My husband rolls over and wakes me with a kiss. “Good morning.”

  “Did I oversleep?”

  “No, it’s early. But I know you wanted to spend some time with your dad before we drive everybody over to the airport.”

  I sit up in bed. I look out the window to where the sun glows pink at sunrise. “I haven’t slept like that in forever.”

  “I’m glad you made up with Iva Lou. Now the tossing and turning is over.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  My husband nods.

  “Never underestimate the healing power of a clean slate,” I say. It’s true that I feel rested for the first time in months.

  “It was only a matter of time.” Jack leans back on the pillow. “Maybe life can get back to normal.”

  “Normal? Don’t you know who you’re married to?”

  Jack, Theodore, and I wave to Papa and Giacomina as they board the commuter for Charlotte, where they can catch a connecting flight to Newark and then home to Italy. I don’t cry. I really feel that I’m learning not to hold on so tightly to those I love. It makes the good-bye temporary.

  “Come on, let’s grab lunch before my flight,” says Theodore.

  “Let’s go to the Cracker Barrel,” Jack suggests.

  “Good idea.” Theodore gives Jack a pat on the back. “I want to get my cholesterol nice and elevated before I return to New York.”

  “Then order the chicken-fried steak.”

  “I’m an addict!” Theodore shrieks. “If they took a picture of my arteries right now, they’d look like concrete pipes filled with goo. I ate Fleeta’s cooking every chance I got. I know for a fact that between the ham biscuits, the gravy, the dumplings, and that banana pudding, I consumed a tub of lard.”

  The hostess at the Cracker Barrel who leads us to our table is a long-legged, lanky Southern girl around sixty. Her blond hair is swept up into a fountain with clips, and her nail tips have tiny diamond accents. Her cinch belt seems to cut off her circulation, but she’s going for sexy even though she’s bordering on matron. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Iva Lou always said that a woman who works in a restaurant is most likely to find a husband, regardless of her age. “Men like to eat,” Iva Lou said. “Forget the fancy clothes and perfume, and just feed ’em.”

  I take Jack’s hand as he reads the menu. Every chance I get, I touch him. I read an article that said a man’s blood pressure decreases when his wife holds his hand.

  “Okay, here’s the file from the Stonemans in Aberdeen.” Theodore gives me an envelope. “Here’s their e-mail, address, and phone. I sent them your information. It looks like a pretty simple exchange. They have a cat named Charles, so they won’t mind watching after Shoo.”

  “Good.”

  “They live right outside the city of Aberdeen. You can use their car, and they’ll need the use of one of yours. There’s only one tricky thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They have a garden. It’s a serious garden. They grow their own vegetables. Spring is when they do a lot of prep work on the garden, and since they won’t be there…”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jack promises. “I’d love to. I haven’t had a garden for years—it’ll be fun.”

  “And what else are you going to do over there?” jokes Theodore.

  Jack beams. “Are you kidding? I’ve got a list!”

  It makes me happy to see Jack looking forward to something. I haven’t seen this kind of pep in him since he coached Etta’s ninth-grade basketball team. You would have thought he was John Wooden, the way he strategized their plays.

  He’s methodical about planning for his absence. He made sure that Mousey and the boys have enough help with their construction company. Tyler Hutchinson said he’d hold Jack’s consultant position open until our return. Eddie Carleton is going to cover for me at the Pharmacy, so except for a learning curve about Aberdeen and Scottish history, we are good to go when springtime comes. It’s the power of something to look forward to: it changes the colors of the world from drab to gorgeous.

  Jack and I are having a little trouble adjusting to the quiet after our full house at Christmas, but with Scotland to look forward to, we don’t give our post-holiday blues much thought.

  After putting the last of the ornament boxes back in the attic, Jack is off with Tyler Hutchinson up to Huff Rock. I put on my coat and boots and hat and head for the woods. I promised Jack I’d take the pink lights off his bridge, and I’m finally getting around to it. It’s the last remaining sign in Cracker’s Neck Holler that Christmas was here.

  My feet crunch on the frozen ground as I make my way into the woods. The bright sun fills the f
orest with streamers of golden light. The gulley that will become a stream, come spring, looks like a black velvet ribbon following the curves of the hill and disappearing into the trees.

  I’m lost in thought when I hear the sound of footsteps. I turn to look, but I don’t see anyone behind me. I can see our field from this point in the path, but our stone house is almost gone from view. I continue toward the bridge. I’ve taken two steps when I hear a voice in the woods to my left.

  “Hey, Mrs. Mac.”

  I turn. “Randy! You’re back.” I must be too happy to see him, because he smiles but takes a step back, as if to say, “Whoa, lady. Calm down.”

  “I needed a sample of pokeberries. And you’ve got ’em in your woods.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Randy kneels down and pulls a pokeberry root out of the ground.

  “No berries this time of year. Sorry,” I tell him.

  “Not a problem. The berries are poisonous. We use them to make red ink.”

  “Really?”

  “The roots are what’s most valuable, though. You dry them and make tea out of them. Some swear it cures arthritis. We got a grant to do a study,” Randy says proudly.

  “There’s gold in these mountains.”

  “Of a type. They’re loaded with medicinal herbs. You know: wild greens. Woolly lamb’s ear. Catnip. Dandelion. That sort of thing. These mountains have been called a Native American medicine chest, and it’s not too far from the truth.”

  “I studied about it in school, though not much and not for long, because pharmacology is really about synthetic drugs now.”

  “Yeah, but synthetics are modeled on the real thing. You need the original to copy it in a lab.” Randy seals the bagful of poke root. “I’m almost done with the project at Berea. I’m going to miss this mountain. Did you know if you went into these woods and kept walking west that it’s thirty miles of pure mountain forest?”