by Laurel Dewey
She wasn’t going to rummage through her usual box of excuses. “Please don’t do this. Please. Let’s just go along and continue our day and –”
“And then what? What happens tomorrow, Betty? Or next week? How are you going to explain me away then?”
“I think that’s rather harsh, don’t you?”
“No. I think that’s rather honest, actually.” His eyes misted. “I understand you, Betty. I bet I understand you better than all of your friends and family combined. And I’ve always accepted you, even when you couldn’t accept yourself. But I wasn’t blind either. I was completely aware of your attempts to keep me hidden away. I put up with it, because I hoped that your basement garden and the people you were helping would mellow you…that you’d wake up one day and realize it’s okay to be happy. That it’s okay to feel something besides regret and grief every damn second of your life. But it seems you haven’t yet communed completely with those basement plants. If you had, they would have shown you how to release it all…that I’m not a risk or a threat to your future…that every decaying thing or thought you keep holding onto is crumbling.” He moved a step away from her. “I know you’re scared of death, Betty. But there you are, dying in front of me.” He turned and walked out of the park.
Chapter 31
This is what it felt like to die, she told herself.
Betty stood in place for several minutes as the world around her collapsed on cue. Retreating to a shady spot under a tree, she tried to sort out what to do next. But after half an hour of indecision, she gave up and walked to her car. It was then she realized that Jeff had a mile to walk to his motorcycle. She drove along the roads that led back to the parking lot but didn’t see him. When she arrived at the parking lot, his bike was gone. She stared blankly into the spot where they left it and wondered if it was all real. Had she only imagined the last three months? Was it all a dream and would she lay her head on her pillow tonight and wake up tomorrow back in early May? Contemplating that bizarre notion, Betty felt a defined sadness surround her. Suddenly, just the thought of going back to how it was became viscerally repugnant. Sitting there in that car, she felt abandoned and more alone than ever. “Help me, Frankie,” she whispered through her tears. “Help me, please.”
When she got home, there were two messages on her voicemail, both from Arthur. Jean wanted to see her immediately and she didn’t need to bring any chocolates. Betty arrived at their doorstep a little over an hour later, as the late summer sun hovered low like an orange orb in the western sky. Arthur greeted her with sad eyes and led her back to Jean’s room. He took a seat on Jean’s left side while Betty walked around the bed and sat opposite him. Jean’s eyes were half-closed and her breathing was shallow.
Betty held Jean’s hand and spoke quietly to Arthur. “I shouldn’t be here. This is your time with her.”
Arthur pressed Jean’s hand to his face. “It’s okay, Betty. She told me she wanted you to be here.”
Jean tried to speak. She opened her eyes a little more and made contact with Betty. It was almost imperceptible, but Betty heard her clearly. “Don’t be afraid.”
Betty swallowed hard, but she couldn’t stop the tears.
“Thank you…” Jean said softly, “for everything…”
Betty held onto Jean’s hand tightly. “You’re so welcome, darling.”
Jean turned her head and gazed into Arthur’s eyes. She mouthed the words, “I love you.”
“And I love you too, my love,” he replied, choking up.
They didn’t move from that spot for another hour. As the sun set behind the far mountains, and twilight put that August day to bed, Jean slipped gently behind the luminous veil that separates the worlds.
Arthur released her hand and collapsed on his wife’s body, sobbing uncontrollably. Betty placed a reassuring hand across his back as the toll of the day gripped her heart. She realized that within the tragedy, Jean had given her the gift of witnessing a “good death.” There was enigmatic beauty and a sense that as Jean left her besieged body, she was reborn and made new as she walked back into the light.
The next day, Betty still couldn’t shake the scene. She retreated to her girls and spent two hours repotting some of the veg plants into larger containers. As she’d come to expect, within half an hour of coddling them and telling them how beautiful they were, they returned the favor by soothing her troubled mind. These “weeds,” she realized, almost had a sentient knowing that they somehow transmitted to Betty along unseen currents. She stood back and admired them for all they were and all they would one day become. There was nothing cruel there; nothing caustic nor evil. Somehow, they understood their purpose in their short lives and they preened quietly, knowing the sweet control they had over their often-bewildered masters.
Jeff called mid-day, but she didn’t pick up. He left a message saying he’d heard about Jean’s death and that Betty was with her when she passed. He didn’t litter his message with placating homilies about death. Instead, he seemed to understand every emotion she was going through at that moment, as if his heart had eyes.
Changing out of her gardening clothes, she donned a casual dress and headed to the farmers’ market. The prospect of perusing cheese and heirloom fruit buoyed her momentarily. But when she arrived, nothing excited her. Even the first delivery of Palisade peaches didn’t trigger her culinary imagination. She was in a daze, floating aimlessly from one booth to another, sampling the jellies and fruits but unable to discern their flavors. This is what it felt like to die, she told herself. Taste is one of the first senses to go. But hearing is the last one. And it was easy to hear the blaring megaphone issuing forth from the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance. Without carefully constructing a well-thought approach, Betty walked across the parking lot and stood in front of their booth.
“Do you have any idea how loud you are?” Betty asked them. “Every time I come here, I have to ignore all you bleating hearted liberals.”
The tank-topped, skinny woman with the megaphone set it down on the table. “We got a right to express ourselves!” she countered. “Last time I checked, it’s still a free country.”
Betty looked up at their banner that hung above their table. “Did any of you ever notice that if you remove the number four, your acronym spells ‘C.A.N.T.?’”
The women looked a bit taken back by this information. However, one of the more antagonistic members moved forward to defend their group.
“That might be so. But we are unified!” the woman gloated.
“That’s all well and good, my dear. But I don’t suggest you change your group’s name to the Coloradans Unified 4 National Tolerance. That acronym would be far more odious than C.A.N.T.”
Another woman stepped forward. “We’re not taking the word ‘Activists’ out of our name. It’s not a dirty word, honey. You may not like it. It may offend those who are sensitive. But I’d rather be getting attention for something that makes people uncomfortable than for sitting back and bitching about things and doing nothing.” She grabbed another megaphone. “You want to live in a bubble? Be my guest. But there better always be people like us who carry the needles that burst that bubble.”
And with that, the woman turned on the megaphone and continued her rant. But Betty couldn’t hear a word of the noise. Nor could she hear her name being called across the parking lot. Hearing was the last to go before the death knell. She realized, standing there, that she had indeed died. And like her friend, Jean, it was a good death.
She arrived home empty handed and stood in the bright sunlight, amidst what was left of the old canopy elm tree in the backyard. She walked to the large trunk and stared at those two words Frankie carved so prophetically on the tree. “Okay,” Betty whispered. “But I’m terrified.”
Walking inside the house, she called Judi, Renée and Helen, asking them to come to her house later on that Saturday afternoon. When they each asked what was going on, she gave them all the same answer. “It’s time for a goo
d talk.”
The women arrived nearly simultaneously and Betty gathered them anxiously in the living room.
Judi looked as nervous as a snake in a wheel rut. “Are you dying?” she asked, her eyes fixated like brown orbs on Betty.
Betty carefully considered her question. “Yes.”
The women looked deeply troubled. Even crusty Helen seemed distraught.
Betty quickly continued. “But it’s a necessary death.”
“What?” Renée questioned her, almost in shock.
“If I’m…” Betty replied, trying to figure out the right words, “lucky enough to have a useful death and the three of you can allow yourselves to know me when I begin again...” Her voice trailed off.
“Wait a second,” Renée said, walking toward Betty, “are we talking about six feet under death or existential death?”
“The latter,” Betty quickly replied.
The three women released a sigh in unison.
“Has this got something to do with Jeff Carroll?” Judi asked pointedly.
“Who’s Jeff Carroll?” Helen asked Judi.
“Apparently, Betty’s boyfriend.” Renée answered.
“Boyfriend?” Helen exclaimed, clearly disgusted. “Ech! Teenage girls have boyfriends. Grown women have husbands or dead husbands!”
This was already getting out of control. “No! It’s got nothing to do with Jeff,” Betty interjected, then realized she misspoke. “Let me rephrase that.” She steeled herself. “He’s part of it…a big part of it…but I don’t know what the future holds there. And that’s not why I asked you to come over. I want to show you something. It means a great deal to me, and it will be in my future for as long as possible. Follow me.”
Betty led them through the living room and down the basement stairs. The scent from the open bloom room door was evident to perceptive senses like Renée’s, before they even reached the bottom step.
Renée nervously piped up. “Betty? Please tell me this isn’t what I think this is!”
Betty stood in the main room of the basement as the women gathered around her. Both doors to the veg and bloom room were wide open, displaying the plants blowing freely amidst the fans and the blast of bright lights surrounding them.
Judi’s mouth dropped open. Helen screwed her face into an ugly expression. Renée steadied herself against Frank’s old desk.
“Holy shit!” Renée exclaimed.
Betty took a deep breath. “These are my girls.” She turned to the plants. “Girls? Meet my friends.”
“Oh, my God,” Judi said, inching closer to the bloom room. Turning to Betty, she was overwhelmed with shock. “Oh, my God!”
“Really, now,” Betty offered, “it’s not that big a deal!”
“Not a big deal?” Renée declared. “I shouldn’t even be in this room!”
“Oh, please Renée, spare me,” Betty said. “You’ve seen worse things on Christmas morning!”
“I’m feeling dizzy,” Helen griped, grabbing a chair and sitting down.
Betty rested an assuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s the trichomes on the buds, Helen. The resins are still developing and they put off a heady scent.”
“I’m going to pass out,” Helen insisted.
“Put your head between your legs, darling.” Betty instructed. “Just like gas, it’ll pass.” She turned to the other women. “I can bring out the little microscope and let you see what the trichomes look like when they’re magnified. It’s like a fairyland!”
“I don’t want to see it,” Renée stated.
“Why?” Betty asked.
“Because this is five kinds of wrong, Betty! What in God’s name got into you?”
“It’s just a plant, Renée,” Betty quietly said.
“A plant with an agenda!” Renée countered.
“No, dear. It’s people who have the agenda about this plant. And frankly, I’ve grown quite fond of this endearing weed.”
Judi wandered into the bloom room, gazing around at the plants in stunned silence.
“Are you drunk?” Helen asked, lifting her head from her lap.
“Maybe she’s high?” Renée queried, checking Betty’s eyes.
“I’m neither drunk nor high!” Betty’s voice raised a few octaves. “These plants have been a saving grace for me. They’ve taught me a lot –”
“Taught?” Renée interrupted. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Taught you what?”
“Compassion,” Betty announced. “Seeing beauty in something that is erroneously labeled as ugly. I admire their ability to withstand the slings and arrows and grow in spite of it. They only demand dedication and love, and in return, their fruits provide insight I’ve never experienced before.”
“So, you are loaded!” Renée spitefully pronounced.
Betty’s back went up. “No, Renée. I don’t get loaded. I get introspective. And that’s far more dangerous than getting loaded. And if you’d been at Judi’s summer party last week and eaten one of the chocolates Helen mistakenly brought to her house, you would have experienced that deep introspection for yourself!”
Renée regarded Betty with a look that bordered on shock and horror.
Judi walked out of the bloom room and glared at Betty. “You fed my guests pot chocolates?!”
“Just four of your guests, Judi…And one of your caterers who requested my business card.”
Judi’s mind traveled back to that day. “Oh, dear God…That’s why old Doc Gordon told me he felt like an astronaut floating through space! I thought he’d downed too much of that mango punch! Pesticides on strawberries, my ass! Jesus, Betty! Somebody could have gotten hurt!”
“Helen looks normal to me,” Betty said succinctly.
Renée nearly choked on air. “She ate…”
“What?” Helen asked, totally out of the loop. “I ate what?”
“She didn’t!” Judi exclaimed.
Betty turned to Judi. “Do you really think she figured out that if you flip the letters around in the word ‘Santa,’ it spells ‘Satan,’ without a little nudge from the bud?” Betty looked at Helen. “How did you sleep last Sunday night after Judi’s party?”
“Like a log,” Helen grumbled.
Betty shrugged her shoulders. “I rest my case. No harm, no foul, ladies.” She needed to lighten up the mood. “No one has ever died from cannabis. Ever. You can’t overdose on it! If you try, you just go to sleep and you might wake up a little groggy but after one cup of coffee, you’re good to go!”
“Well, in that case,” Judi sarcastically stated, “let’s put it in the city water system!”
Betty shook her head, “Hey, dude,” she softly admonished.
“Dude?” Judi sharply replied.
Betty looked at her. “I didn’t say ‘dude.’ I said ‘Jude.’ Your name is Judi. Jude? Get it?”
“When have you ever called me ‘Jude?’”
“Nobody’s ever called you ‘Jude?’” Betty asked, trying to coyly sidestep her slip of the tongue. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Are you sure you’re not high?” Judi stressed.
“Please stop assuming that because I am not responding in the manner in which you are accustomed, I must be high! How can I get across to all of you that this endeavor is not the horrible thing you think it is? Because of this enterprise, I’ve met many people who I normally would never have befriended –”
“Peyton!” Renée exclaimed. “Oh, my God! You weren’t mentoring him! He was mentoring you on pot!”
Betty turned to Renée. “It was a two-way street, Renée. Trust me. And he’s just one of many I’ve learned from.” She took a needed breath. “I’m a caregiver. That means I grow for various people and make edibles for them. One of them is a doctor. One is a Republican!”
The women collectively gasped.
“And one of them died of cancer last night,” Betty said, her throat catching. “I only knew her a short time, but she taught me a lot. She taught me that fear is wasted energy and
that no matter how grim the situation is, there can still be grace and humanity, even as the world seemingly falls apart around you.”
“That’s quite poetic, Betty,” Judi remarked. “But you cannot convince me that this weed has any consistently proven medical value. If it did everything they claim it can do, don’t you think people would be screaming from their roof tops and demonstrating its ‘healing’ effects, so we could all see it for ourselves?”
“Judi, the proof is out there! Open your eyes as I did and do the research for yourself! Listen, a lot of people who use cannabis would love to scream openly about it, and some of them do. But most people keep it a secret, because they’re afraid of the social stigma, losing their job, losing their family’s respect, looking foolish, being called a ‘stoner,’ being marginalized –”
“Oh, my God Betty!” Judi interrupted. “You’re not just drinking the Kool-Aid, you’re making it!”
“No! It’s true. I’m not working with people who are lazy or stupid! How can I make you understand?” she pleaded.
“Jesus, Betty!” Judi exclaimed. “Enough! Have you forgotten what marijuana did to your own son?”
Betty bristled. “I know what pain did to my son. I know what hostility and depression did to my son. I know what ignoring his problems and forcing him to be someone he could never be did to my son. But I have no damn clue what marijuana has to do with any of that!”
“For God’s sake, Betty!” Renée contemptuously erupted. “Marijuana is a gateway drug! And Frankie proved that!”
“Bullshit!” Betty yelled. “The way I see it, marijuana is only a gateway drug when the gates are closed at home! And the gates of affection at this house were locked down when it came to Frankie’s father!”
“God rest his soul,” Helen dutifully said.
“No,” Betty retorted, “God damn his soul!”
“Betty! How dare you!” Judi shouted.
“I mean it! I grew so tired of the platitudes and well-meaning gestures during my supposed mourning period! Strange how I never got any of that thoughtfulness from anyone when Frankie died! Was his death just not clean enough? Was it too embarrassing? Not polite teatime chat-chat?” A fountain of remorse wrapped in rage erupted. “He was my son, goddammit! My only child! And his life, while imperfect, still mattered. His death, while disturbing, still deserved compassion. Doesn’t it make more sense to examine why we have so much pain in this world, instead of attacking those who attempt to quell it with whatever is in their reach? I pity all of you. You think the crust is unsightly, but that’s what holds the bread together. How lovely it must be to believe you’re so much better than everyone else, just because you haven’t sullied yourselves!”