The Lavender Hour

by Anne Leclaire

  ten

  ON THURSDAY, I rode with Faye to our volunteers' twice-monthly meeting. She had baked a pan of brownies, and the car smelled sugary with chocolate.

  Our group met in the Methodist Church in a cinder block basement room used on Sundays for church school. There was a framed picture of a blond Jesus—all pastel piety—hanging from a nail that had been drilled into the concrete block and an old upright piano that I imagined was used to accompany the children's hymns. Jesus loves me! This I know. At Lily's insistence, Ashley and I had attended Sunday school in a room almost exactly like this.

  Including Faye and the hospice chaplain, there were nine of us, gathered, Faye told us, to offer “a circle of support for one another.” Early in the training, I had felt shy around the others. Beth and Ben and Gordon. Sal and Jennifer and Muriel. Although I knew there was no such thing as absolute virtue, at first I attributed the purest motives to the other volunteers, ascribing them goodness approaching sanctification. But as I got to know them and with greater clarity, I saw them as they were. Flawed and ordinary people with free hours in their lives, wanting to be of use and to do good in a world that surely needed it and in return finding satisfaction in knowing they were helping. Lily would have been happy in their company. Later in that fall, they would divide and take sides—for or against me—but that spring, they were without exception kind to me. I thought I reminded them of their daughters.

  We sat in the folding chairs Faye had set up in a circle, and the chaplain opened the meeting with a quote by Leonard Nimoy, of all people: “The miracle is this—the more we share, the more we have.” Beth, the former teacher and most anal of the group, asked him to repeat this; then she took out a pencil and wrote it down in round Parker penmanship. I could picture it affixed to her refrigerator with a magnet.

  Next, Faye tended to some business. A new e-mail address for the hospice. The date for the next meeting. And then—going clockwise—we went around the circle, each taking a turn. Beth was still having issues with the nurse on her team, who, she maintained, was just short of being rude and seemed to resent her presence. Faye listened, and then said, in the most nonjudgmental voice imaginable, that occasionally some of the nurses developed proprietary feelings for their cases. “Remember, it all comes out of caring,” she said, which appeared to mollify Beth to some degree. Sal reported that he'd built a wheelchair ramp for his patient with MS, and Muriel said she was still working on the photo album with her patient, the woman with congestive heart failure. Her patient. A slight smile crossed Faye's mouth at the use of the possessive.

  Jennifer said her son couldn't understand why she wanted to be around dying people, didn't she find it depressing. “I told him that to participate in one of the most important days of someone's life, to be close on the final journey, is a transcendent experience,” she said. The others nodded. When it was my turn, I told them about Luke and the Steinbeck short stories and backgammon. There were things I was unwilling to share, things I wanted to hold private, so I didn't tell them that he was teaching me birdcalls or that I had given him a back rub or how, when we sat in the moonlight, he had held my hand. I certainly didn't mention Luke's having an erection. “Any problems?” Faye asked. I told them about the hostility I occasionally felt from Paige. I didn't say a word about taking Luke out for a ride and the disastrous consequences. And of course I didn't say anything about my feelings for him. Faye's gaze held steady on my face while I spoke, but I avoided her eyes, fearing she would read in them all the things I was omitting. I suppose if I had shared more, they wouldn't have felt so betrayed later.

  It was Gordon's turn next, and he paused several moments before he began. He had to swallow a couple of times and kept saying sorry while he gained control. He told us that Roger, the forty-year-old man with the failed bone marrow transplant, had slipped into a coma. He wasn't expected to last the night. Gordon had brought his cell phone with him, although this was usually discouraged at the meetings. He struggled to keep from crying. Sal laid a beefy hand on his shoulder, clasping it in the hearty way men did when they wanted to offer support. Gordon leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. He stared at the floor. “I have such mixed feelings about going there if they call,” he said. “I'm sixty-seven, and believe it or not, I've never seen anyone die.”

  Faye asked how many of us had been present at a death. Ben and Muriel raised their hands. I didn't, and Faye looked over at me but said nothing, although I was fairly certain that she knew I had been in the car with my daddy when he'd had his attack and died.

  “What are your memories of that moment?” Faye asked Ben and Muriel.

  Ben spoke first, his voice low. “If you mean the precise moment when my father died, I missed it,” he said. “I was there in his room, but I missed it.”

  “It can come so fast,” Muriel said, nodding in agreement. “You can be waiting and waiting, and then, in the time it takes to draw a breath, it's over. It's not dramatic, like you might think, but gentle. A sigh. Like an inhale, except it's an exhale.”

  “Yes,” Faye said. “The moment of death is very much like giving birth. There is a contraction, and then a release. And as in birth, the labor of death comes in the days and hours and weeks before.”

  Or it doesn't, I thought, remembering my daddy. It just comes. Sharp and sudden as an arrow made of lightning.

  Faye continued, talking about what our patients might think during this period. She said, “This can be a time to turn inward and ask the existential questions that can provoke great anxiety: What makes a good person? Has my life been worthwhile? How many unresolved conflicts am I taking into my death?”

  The chaplain nodded. “What we are doing,” he said, “whether we know it or not, what it is our great privilege to do, is to bear witness.”

  For nearly two hours, we sat on hard metal chairs and drank coffee and ate brownies, and beneath the benevolent gaze of a church school Jesus, we talked about dying and death. When the last of us had finished, Faye spoke of our need for self-care. She reminded us that, as part of a hospice team, we, too, were under a certain degree of stress and urged us to practice loving kindness to ourselves, to engage in stress-release activities, and to develop strategies to maintain well-being. “I recommend chocolate,” she said. Everyone laughed and reached for another brownie.

  “Don't forget,” she said, “hospice workers need respite, too. Let your team members know when you need some time and distance.” Again, I felt her gaze settle on me.

  Just before the meeting ended, Gordon's cell phone rang. We all fell into silent waiting. “Roger's going,” he said after he hung up. “The family asked if I could come now.” We hugged him, even the men. Faye told him to call her later if he needed to talk, no matter how late it was. “Love is more powerful than fear,” she told him. “Remember that. The most important thing you can give to the family is a sense of no fear.” Gordon slipped out; the chaplain closed with a prayer, but I wasn't listening. I reflected on Faye's words and wondered if it was truly possible to get to a place beyond fear. Could you grow beyond the fear of pain and deterioration, of separation and loss?

  We stayed on after the others left. I folded and stacked the chairs while Faye rinsed out the coffeemaker. “How do you stand it?” I asked. “How can you keep doing this?”

  “Remember, I was a pediatric nurse before this,” Faye said. “Believe me, this is easier.”

  “Easier?”

  “This is natural,” she said. “Death is natural.”

  “Even for someone like Roger? I mean, he's only forty.” I blinked back tears. “Shit,” I said. “Don't you ever get tired of the suffering?”

  “There's value in suffering,” Faye said.

  How Buddhist of you, I thought, suddenly angry. “Tell that to Roger,” I said sharply. Or to Luke. Or Nona.

  “That is something I suspect Roger has already learned,” Faye said, her voice calm in the face of my outburst. “Our job is to witness the suffering and remai
n compassionate, but not to get overly involved in it.”

  Right, I thought. My heart didn't know the first damn thing about detachment.

  eleven

  IT WAS PAST nine by the time Faye dropped me off after the meeting. When I opened the door, the phone was ringing, nearly causing my heart to stop. Luke, I thought. And then, Please God, no, not yet. The receiver shook when I lifted it.

  “Where were you?” Ashley said. “I've been calling for hours.”

  “I had a meeting,” I said, able to breathe again.

  “What meeting? That hospice thing?” In past calls, Ashley had shared with me her theory that one of the reasons I currently had no love life was because my volunteer work was morbid and depressing. Better to be making phone calls for United Way, she had said. I thought of Jennifer's comment at the meeting about how she told her son that hospice work was a transcendent experience.

  “Yes,” I said, “the hospice thing.”

  “Damn, there goes my fantasy of you on a date. Little sister, you've got to get yourself a life.”

  “I've got a life,” I said.

  “I'm thinking, maybe not so much,” Ashley said.

  “Don't start.”

  “I'm only saying—”

  Well, I knew where this was heading and cut her off at the crossroad. “How's Lily?”

  “In love and acting like a teenager. She's dying for you to meet him. She wants you to come for a weekend before they set sail.”

  “I have a photo she sent. Mama and the Walking Yawn.”

  Ashley laughed. “Whatever floats her boat, and take it from me, Jess, it's obvious the boy toy knows a thing or two about levitation.”

  Why, I wondered, did everyone insist on sharing her opinion of Lily's sex life with me? “Well, what do you know about him?” I said. “Has anyone checked into his background? I mean, Daddy left Lily a chunk of money. For all we know, the Yawn could be after that. Think about it. He's taking her on a trip across the ocean. Just the two of them in a boat. We both know Lily is clueless on a boat. Doesn't that sound just a tiny bit suspicious?”

  Ashley laughed again. “Do you think you can ratchet down the paranoia a degree or two?”

  “Go ahead, laugh,” I said. “I still think it would be a good idea if you have Daniel check him out.”

  “What? You mean hire a private detective or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jess, honey, you've been overdosing on the DVDs. He's a dentist.”

  “That doesn't mean anything,” I said. “Maybe you should watch the news.”

  Ashley ignored this. “So, listen,” she said. “Aren't you curious about why I'm calling? Aren't you just the teensiest bit interested in hearing about who's back in town, asking around about you?”

  “You're going to tell me anyway.”

  “Bill,” she said.

  “Bill who?”

  “I can't believe you've forgotten,” Ashley screamed. “God, for months on end, you bored the rest of us to distraction with your talk about Bill this and Bill that and guess what Bill is doing this weekend. Bill Miller.”

  I remembered then. Bill was the lacrosse player I dated my senior year at Thomas Jefferson. I'd heard he had become a lawyer.

  “He's moved back to Richmond,” Ashley said.

  “Really?” I said, thinking ancient history. “I haven't been keeping track.”

  “Maybe you should have. We're talking tall, dark, and divorced.”

  I thought of Luke—tall, dark, and dying. Sorrow hot as bile burned in my throat.

  “Helloooo,” Ashley said. “Anyone there?”

  “I'm here,” I said.

  “So here's my plan,” Ashley said. “You fly down for the weekend, and I'll set up a dinner party. Casual. Not anything huge. Three or four couples. No, let's stick with three. I'll ask Nan and Bob Davidson. You remember them. And Bill, of course. Not back in town one week and asking about you, Jess. He's seriously interested. Interested and eligible. So what do you say?”

  “About what?”

  “Jesus be, have I been talking to myself here? The dinner party. We can't do it this Saturday. That won't give me enough time to set it up. How about next weekend?”

  “Next weekend?”

  “Jeez, Jess, are you smoking something or what? Yes, next weekend. You could fly down on Friday, hang out here. The boys miss you. They haven't seen you since Christmas. I miss you. We can visit; you can see Lily. She'll be over the moon to hear you're coming. Hell, maybe I'll even include her and the boy toy in the dinner so you can meet him. No, that won't work; we want to keep it fun, no parents. So we'll do lunch with them Saturday at the club and save the evening for Bill, a romantic dinner, candles, but still casual—I'll farm the boys out for the night—and then you can fly back on Sunday.”

  I let her run down. “I can't,” I said.

  “The following weekend, then. You don't want to waste time. He's fresh meat on the market, but Lord knows he won't last out there for long.”

  “I can't,” I repeated.

  “Why not? Is it the plane ticket? Listen, I'll send you the money.”

  “It's not the money.”

  “What, then?”

  I hesitated. “It's Luke. I can't leave him now.”

  “Who the hell is Luke?”

  “Luke Ryder,” I said, barely concealing my impatience. I'd told Ashley his name, told her about Nona. “My hospice patient.”

  “The fisherman with cancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can't leave him for a weekend to meet your future husband, the future uncle to my boys? I don't mean to sound callous, Jess, but have you lost your mind? Just get your ass on a plane and get yourself down here. So you'll come, right? I can count on it?”

  I didn't answer.

  “What?” Ashley said into the silence. “What's going on?”

  “I just can't, Ashley. That's all.”

  My sister gave a little laugh. “Have you fallen for this guy or what?”

  The wire hummed between us.

  “Oh God,” she said. “You have, haven't you?”

  I struggled to keep my voice light. “Oh, you know girls like me. That's what we do. Remember how you used to say I could create a relationship standing in line at the grocery store.”

  “Oh, Jess, honey,” Ashley said, not fooled at all. “Don't do this to yourself.”

  I started to cry.

  “Oh, baby,” Ashley said. “Listen, would it help if I came up?”

  “No.” I inhaled, concentrated on making my voice steady, persuasive. “I've had a bad day, that's all. Really, I'll be fine tomorrow.”

  Ashley wasn't convinced. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me you aren't in love with him.”

  “I'm not in love with him,” I parroted tonelessly.

  “Oh, Jess, you sweet, foolish baby. There's no future in this. You know that, don't you? Come home. Promise me you'll at least think about coming home.”

  “I'll think about it,” I said. A lie, and we both knew it. I thought suddenly of that one-month therapist who'd said I had to fall in love with a guy before I could break up with him. Would he consider this progress? For the first time in my life, I wasn't going to leave a man before he could abandon me.

  I TOSSED in bed half the night, Ashley's words echoing in my head. There's no future in it. Well, I knew that. I wasn't completely stupid. Later, in the fall, I would tell myself I should have resisted when in fact, I did the exact opposite, gave myself over, fung myself straight into the heat of desire. But this wasn't about being smart or foolish. Some things you couldn't control. I couldn't help myself, people said when rushing headlong into folly, as if possessed of madness. And it was a kind of lunacy, a passion that took over, erasing reason, wanting only to be fed. In retrospect, I would see that it was inevitable. It is always what lies beyond our grasp that we lust for most.

  twelve

  RAIN LASHED AGAINST the windowpanes, and it was a moment before I und
erstood that it wasn't the storm that woke me but the phone.

  “Jessie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come?” Nona's voice was so weak, it took me a moment to recognize it as hers.

  “I'm on my way,” I said. I threw on the first thing my hands landed on and rushed off without stopping to wash up or brush my hair. On the way over, I whispered every prayer I knew. I switched the wipers on high, but their metronome beat was half that of my heart's, thumping inside its cage of ribs. As soon as I turned onto his street, I saw the ambulance, its flashing lights, greasy and myopic through the rain-blurred windshield. “Oh God,” I said for the umpteenth time, my heart beating even faster, though I wouldn't have thought it possible.

  No siren. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Wasn't it? I jumped out of the car—key in ignition, door open—and caught sight of a face peering from behind curtains in the neighboring house. I tore past the ambulance idling in impatient silence and ran to the house. A paramedic stood inside the door, jotting notes on a clipboard.

  “I'm from hospice,” I said, the words so rushed they came out as one. “Where is he? How is he?”

  The EMT stared at me. I must have looked frantic, mad, my hair so wild it looked electrocuted. And then I saw Nona. She was stretched out on the plaid couch with two paramedics bent over her, so big and burly, their presence filled the room. One knelt at her side and was strapping a blood pressure cuff around her arm; the other was rooting around in a defibrillator case.

  “Nona?” I said, confused. Luke sat at his mother's feet. I crossed to him. “What's going on?”

  “She woke up about an hour ago with chest pains. Some dizziness. She was having trouble getting her breath.”

  I lowered my voice. “Heart attack?”

  “They're not saying anything.”

  The man with the clipboard turned to us. “She's stable at the moment, but we're going to take her up to the hospital,” he said.

  “What's wrong?” Luke asked.

  “Her blood pressure is elevated, and her pulse is slightly irregular.”