The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  Gran’s gaze landed on me. The lack of recognition in her eyes alarmed me.

  “I’m Hope,” I volunteered. “Your granddaughter.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course. Hope, honey! It’s so good to see you. My mind is all clouded up right now—you’ll have to excuse me. How long have you been here?”

  “Since early this morning.” The clock on the wall said it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, which meant I’d been there for about twelve hours. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  I’d gotten the call from Gran’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Ivy, at eight thirty Saturday night. I’d been in my sublet apartment in Chicago, pulling on my pajama bottoms—the ones optimistically printed with sheep jumping over fences—and surfing the on-demand cable TV menu for a movie I could stand to watch.

  Which isn’t as easy as it sounds, now that I’ve grown bored with revenge movies. I’ve been bloodthirsty for nearly twelve months, and I consider it a sign of progress that I’ve moved beyond wishing the horrible, painful, humiliating things portrayed on the screen would happen to my ex-husband.

  Still, I can’t stomach romances. All those happily-ever-afters make me want to hurl. I can’t stand movies about friends, either, because the woman I’d caught in my bed with my husband had been my very best friend—my high school BFF, my college roommate, the maid of honor at my wedding, who’d helped me pick out the very linens she was lying under my husband on.

  So anyway, I was surfing for a quirky independent film, or maybe an action/adventure movie, while tugging on my pajama bottoms at a ridiculously early hour in the evening—which I know is a pathetic thing for a thirty-one-year-old single woman to do alone on a Saturday night, but then, I’m apparently no better at being single than I was at being married—when the phone rang. I hopped over to the bedside table, one leg in my pj’s, one leg out. The area code was southern Louisiana, but I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hope?” said a wavering falsetto. “It’s Eunice Ivy—your grandmother’s neighbor.”

  A cement block of alarm hit my chest, sinking me to the edge of the bed.

  “I’ve already talked to your uncle Eddie, and he asked me to give you a call,” she said.

  Heaviness pressed on my clavicle, constricting my airflow. I immediately feared the worst. “What happened?”

  “Your grandmother fell.”

  My free hand covered my mouth. “Oh no.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she did. Her new neighbor on the other side—he’s Griff and Peggy Armand’s widowed son-in-law; he moved to Wedding Tree a few months ago with his two children. He bought the old Henry place. He’s a very nice man, and—”

  “My grandmother,” I interrupted. “What’s happened to my grandmother?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said, her southern accent maddeningly slow. “Matt Lyons—that’s his name, the name of the new neighbor—saw Adelaide’s shed door open, which was unusual—it wasn’t even the day that Mr. Pickens comes to mow her lawn, and anyway, he’s very conscientious and wouldn’t just leave the door ajar—so he went over to check. He knocked at the front door first—he’s very polite, this Matt Lyons—but Adelaide didn’t answer. So he went around back to the shed, and that’s when he found her.”

  My palm was so sweaty the phone started to slip. I tightened my fingers around it. “How is she?”

  “Well, she fell. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Yes, but what . . . Was she . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to think, much less actually say, the words. It was a telephone call a lot like this one that had brought me the news about my mother. I shouldn’t have answered the phone, I thought wildly. If I hang up, maybe it won’t have happened. I wanted to hit the “End Call” button; I wanted it so badly I could practically hear the dial tone. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Mrs. Ivy repeated.

  So tell me already. For God’s sake, just tell me! But another part of me wanted her to continue her conversational meandering, to put off the facts as long as possible.

  “He found her lying on the floor of the shed,” she continued. “Apparently she hit her head and fractured some ribs.”

  A flashlight beam of hope gleamed through my fear. People don’t talk about fractured ribs if someone is dead—do they? “How—how is she?”

  “Well, pretty bad.”

  “But she’s alive?”

  “Yes.”

  I lay back on the bed, relief melting my bones.

  “The ambulance came and took her to the hospital,” Mrs. Ivy continued. “I have the key to her house, so I went in and got her insurance card, then took it to the hospital. You know how hospitals are about getting the paperwork right. They don’t want to do anything unless they have the insurance information, so I found her purse—it was in the kitchen, by the—”

  “Mrs. Ivy, I really appreciate all your help on this,” I broke in, “but please, just tell me . . . How bad is Gran? Can she talk?”

  “Oh, no, dear. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, which has the docs pretty worried. They fear she had a stroke. They’re running all kinds of tests, and Eddie is catching the first flight out. He asked me to call you so he could hurry up and make his travel arrangements. He said he’ll call you as soon as he’s en route to the airport.”

  Gran and Uncle Eddie were the only close family I had left. My father had died when I was seven, and Mom was killed in a car crash three years ago—which was one of the reasons I think I married Kurt as quickly as I did; I wanted to feel like I belonged to someone.

  “I’m coming, too. Can you . . .” I hated to ask, but I hated the idea of Gran being all alone at the hospital far more. “Can you or someone else in town stay with her at the hospital until Eddie or I get to Wedding Tree?”

  “Oh, it’s already arranged, dear. Your grandmother’s women’s circle from church and her poker club and her Yahtzee group are taking shifts until Eddie or you arrive. And I’m pet-sitting Snowball—she’s right beside me, wagging her tail—so you don’t have to worry about her.”

  Thank God for close-knit small towns. The very thing my mom had always hated about Wedding Tree—the way everyone was always up in everyone else’s business—was a blessing at a time like this.

  As soon as I hung up, I flew into frantic action. I booked the first flight out, threw God-only-knew-what into a suitcase, and called my boss’s voice mail to explain I wouldn’t be at work on Monday—which wasn’t really a problem, because I didn’t really have a boss.

  For that matter, I didn’t really have a job. I was working as a temp at a graphic design firm, where I mostly updated websites. I used to run the ridiculously upscale art gallery Kurt and I had bought with my mother’s inheritance, but we sold that—for a huge loss, I might add—as part of the divorce settlement. We also sold the extravagantly expensive home Kurt had insisted we buy—a house with a mortgage far greater than its value, thanks to the real estate market crash—and I currently would be homeless if a friend of a friend hadn’t sublet me her apartment while she spent a year in New Zealand. As a result of the divorce, I had no home, no job, and next to nothing left of the considerable amount of money I’d inherited.

  Money that, in hindsight, was the real reason Kurt was so keen on marrying me in the first place. He’d burned through it at a rate that would have horrified me if I’d know the full extent of it—but I hadn’t, because I hadn’t wanted to see it. Like an ostrich, I’d kept my head in the sand. I still try very hard not to think about that, because it makes me feel like even more of an idiot than I already do.

  Anyway, I landed at the New Orleans airport around three in the morning, then rented a car and made the hour-long drive to the Wedding Tree Parish General Hospital to find Eddie and Ralph already there. The three of us had been keeping a bedside vigil,
taking turns dozing in the room’s two recliner chairs and talking with a constant stream of visitors, ever since.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Dr. Warren asked Gran.

  “Talking to Mother.”

  Eddie pressed his lips together as if he were trying not to cry. I awkwardly patted his back. Even though he was my mother’s brother and a generation older than me, there was something boyish about him that brought out my maternal instincts. Maybe it was his babyish cheeks or his teddy bear build—but most likely, it was the way he wore his tender heart on his sleeve.

  He squeezed Gran’s hand. “Mom, Grandmother’s been dead for more than forty years.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking to her down here,” she said in a don’t-be-silly tone. “I was talking to her up on the ceiling.”

  Eddie blinked, his eyes overbright and moist. “Do you remember falling?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember going to the shed? That’s where your neighbor found you.”

  “What on earth was I doing out in the shed?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Beats me, but it looked like you’d taken a shovel off the hook on the wall.”

  I saw a glimmer in Gran’s eyes. She remembers, I thought—but instead of explaining, she turned to Dr. Warren. “When am I getting out of here?”

  “That depends on where you think you’re going.” His craggy face creased in a friendly smile.

  “Home, of course.”

  “Well, we’ll talk about that later. You’re here for a while, Mrs. McCauley. You sustained a serious head injury, and we need to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t have any bleeding or swelling in your brain. You’ve also fractured some ribs. We’ll have to see how you do when we get you up and around.”

  “But I’ll get to go home, won’t I?”

  Dr. Warren patted her leg through the blanket. “We’ll talk about all your options later. Are you in any pain?”

  “My head feels like it’s cracked open, and it hurts to breathe.”

  “I’ll order something to make you more comfortable. Just relax and get some rest, and I’ll be back to check on you later.” He said something to the nurse. As she fiddled with the IV drip, he scribbled on the chart, then signaled for us to follow him into the hall.

  “How is she?” Eddie asked as soon as the door closed behind us.

  “I’d say she’s doing very well, considering her age. There are no signs of a stroke. But she’s had a severe brain injury.”

  “She’s awfully confused.” Eddie folded his arms across his chest as if he were trying to hug himself.

  Dr. Warren nodded. “That’s to be expected.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “She’s likely to improve, but at her age, and with this level of trauma . . .” He paused. His face got that apologetic-sympathetic-uncomfortable look people get when they have to deliver bad news. “I’m afraid this was a life-changing event.”

  A life-changing event. A chill went down my arms. Such simple, everyday words, yet put together in that order, in this situation, they were catastrophic.

  The doctor flipped through the chart. “She was living alone?”

  Eddie and I both nodded.

  “I’m afraid that’s no longer going to be possible. You’ll need to make other arrangements.”

  “She’s very independent,” I said. “Can’t we wait and see how her recovery goes?”

  The doctor shook his head. “The fact she fell indicates that living alone is no longer a safe option. When you add in the effects of severe brain trauma, well, it’s just not advisable.”

  “What if she won’t agree?” Eddie asked.

  “You’ll need to convince her.”

  “What if we can’t?” I asked.

  A tense pause stretched in the air. “If a person is deemed to be a danger to herself or others, Social Services will step in. It’s preferable, of course, for the family to reach a resolution.” He looked at Eddie, then at me, his eyes full of that apologetic-sympathetic-uncomfortableness again. “Does she have any family in town?”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “Well, then, I suggest you contact Pine Manor.”

  “Gran hates Pine Manor,” I protested. I’d gone with her to visit some of her friends who lived there last Christmas.

  On the way out the door, she’d grabbed my hand. “Promise you’ll give me cyanide before you let Eddie put me in this place,” she’d begged.

  I can’t say that I blamed her; the place smelled like old carpet, canned peas, and pissed Depends.

  “Well, it’s the only elder care facility in Wedding Tree,” Dr. Warren said. “But there are some fine nursing homes and assisted living facilities in Hammond and Covington.”

  Eddie shook his head. “There’s no point in moving her someplace where she doesn’t know anybody. If she has to move, she’ll come with me to San Francisco.”

  “That’s your call, of course.” He closed the chart and pushed his wire-rim glasses up on his nose. “In any event, she’ll be here for several more days, so you’ll have a little time to reach a decision. If need be, we can temporarily put her in Pine Manor or a similar facility until you complete your arrangements.” He slid the chart into the plastic holder on the back of the hospital room door. “I’ll check back on her in the morning.”

  Eddie rubbed his jaw as the doctor’s loafers thudded down the hall. “Ralph and I have tried to talk her into moving to California for years. She can live with us, or move into an assisted living center.”

  I’d sat in on many of those conversations—the last one being during the past holiday season. “As I recall, she wasn’t really opposed to moving.”

  “No. The problem is, she insists on sorting through everything in her house here first. She keeps saying she’ll do it, but the truth is, I don’t think she even knows where to start.”

  Ralph’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Well, it is a daunting task.”

  “Beyond daunting,” Eddie sighed.

  They weren’t kidding. Gran had grown up during the Depression, and her mantra seemed to be “Never know when this will come in handy.” She’d mended socks and underwear, saved bread bags and twist ties, and reused sheets of aluminum foil long before recycling was trendy. Her home was clean and orderly—she was by no means a candidate for Hoarders—but every drawer, every closet, every shelf was stuffed.

  “We should hire one of those estate liquidation companies,” Ralph suggested.

  “I tried to talk her into that a couple of years ago,” Eddie said.

  I remembered it all too clearly. “It was the Thanksgiving you were in London, Ralph.”

  Eddie nodded. “She threw a fit. I’ve never seen her like that.”

  I’d never seen Gran so agitated, either. She’d thrown her napkin on the table, her face flushed, the cords standing out on her neck. “I won’t have some stranger pawing through my things!” she’d hissed. “I’ll do it myself, and that’s all there is to it.” She’d left the table in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner and refused to sit back down until we promised to drop the topic.

  “Well, she doesn’t have a choice now,” Ralph said.

  “Maybe she does.” I was thinking aloud, and was a little surprised to find the words coming out of my mouth. “Maybe I can stay in Wedding Tree and help her.”

  Eddie put his arm around me. “Hope, honey, that’s a sweet thought, but it’s just not practical.”

  “Why not?” The idea felt like a beacon in my brain, clear and bright, shining through the fog of depression and lassitude and indecision that had immobilized me since my divorce. My pulse rate kicked up.

  “Hope, it would take months,” Ralph said gently.

  “I’ve got the time.” The light in my brain gained additional wattage. Heat flowed through my veins.
r />   Eddie’s arm tightened into a squeeze. “I know you want to help, but you haven’t thought this through, honey.”

  What he really meant was, Here Hope goes again, making another rash decision. It hurts to admit it, but I have a bit of a track record of acting first and thinking second.

  There was that time on my college study abroad program when I didn’t make the plane home from Athens because I’d decided to run by the Acropolis one last time, and the professor in charge called Mom, who insisted he file a missing person report—but something got lost in translation and the police thought I was a fugitive wanted by American authorities, and I ended up spending two terrifying nights in jail.

  And the time I lost the rarer-than-hen’s-teeth entry-level job at the Art Institute of Chicago that my mother had pulled all kinds of strings to get me, because I changed around an exhibit to showcase Renoir’s little-known Vase of Flowers instead of his more famous Two Sisters, which, in my opinion, is overexposed.

  And, of course, there was my disastrous decision to marry Kurt four months after my mother’s death.

  My mother used to say I am overly optimistic and too impulsive, even on my ADHD meds, but I didn’t believe her. Her death and my rebound-from-grief marriage had changed all that. I no longer had boundless faith in the goodness of the universe, the intentions of others, or my own abilities.

  “You’d have to put your whole life on hold,” Eddie said gently.

  “What life?” I turned my hands palm up. “I don’t really have one.”

  Ralph patted my back. “All the more reason you need to stay in Chicago and build one.”

  “Maybe this is just the way to do that.” Conviction swelled in me like a religious experience, infusing me with a sense of energy and purpose that had been lacking for months. Maybe years. “A few months in Wedding Tree would give me a chance to figure out my options and decide what I want to do next.”

  “A few months in Wedding Tree will make anything look like a better option,” Ralph said.