Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  “Okay, that’s just … well, I don’t even drive yet.”

  “Neither do I.” They both laughed. “So, what’s up? You heading out on a bike ride or something?”

  He had regained his composure by now, and a sly little grin spread across his face. “No, something better. I have a great idea about your mom.” He reached his hand out for hers. “Come with me.”

  Madelyn pulled her greasy hand back. “Where are we going?”

  “Delia’s waiting in the car. She’s going to drive us over to the high school.”

  “Delia? You told her?” Madelyn was shocked.

  “No, no. She thinks we’re just checking out the school. I kept my promise—well, mostly. There’s a summer school teacher there who I told about the situation, but I didn’t tell her who I was talking about. She said we could come in and talk to her.”

  . . .

  That evening as Madelyn sat in the living room holding a book that she wasn’t reading, Mrs. Cutler’s words from earlier that day came back to her. It was like she already knew her mom even though they’d never met. Initially, all Madelyn had told her was that she knew someone who she thought might be illiterate. Instead of asking about that person’s reading ability, or lack thereof, Mrs. Cutler’s questions had gone in a different direction. “Does this person have difficulty with numbers?”

  Of course she does and always had. Madelyn had almost given Mom away in her response, “Yes, I have to handle, well, I help this person with her banking because she’s unsure of herself.”

  Mrs. Cutler had simply nodded. “Would you say she’s an organized person, always on time, keeps a neat house, that kind of thing?”

  She’d had to stifle the laughter with that one. “No. I think she thrives on a certain level of chaos. We always seem to make it to church on time, but then that’s probably because –” Too late, Madelyn realized her subterfuge was lost. So, she straightened up and owned it. “If it were up to my mother, we’d never be on time, but my sister Jillian has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. She manages Mom.” Until Madelyn said it, she hadn’t realized how much of an adult Jillian was, or more likely, had to be. Madelyn didn’t know if she was proud of her or embarrassed for her—maybe a little of each.

  Mrs. Cutler nodded again, without acknowledging the complete confession or even looking in Madelyn’s direction. “Those are behaviors that are consistent with someone who is illiterate. You might be overreacting about your mother’s reading ability, but those other signs wouldn’t likely be things you would know about. It could, of course, be nothing. I would need to meet with her.” Before Madelyn had a chance to decide if she was being insulted or not, Mrs. Cutler said, “Have her come see me tomorrow.”

  Madelyn kicked a dust bunny at her feet, “Well, she … she doesn’t know … I mean she …”

  “Oh, I see. Well, here’s my number. Call me when she’s ready.”

  The whole meeting took no more than five minutes. Madelyn was grateful Zane was there. He didn’t say much, but she knew he was standing behind her. It gave her courage to speak. Or maybe Madelyn sensed her escape route was blocked. Either way, she was taking the first step toward helping her mom rather than being ashamed of her. It was definitely a better feeling.

  Mulling over these thoughts behind her open book, Madelyn watched Mom. Jillian and Daniel had gone to bed, and it was just the two of them now. Mom was pouring over the pictures from another craft magazine, the lamp beside her reflecting light off the glossy pages, illuminating parts of her face. Madelyn found her features to be both familiar and foreign.

  How could someone be so different from who you thought they were, especially someone you’d known your whole life? Madelyn wasn’t sure, but she was finding that the more she learned, the greater her concern and empathy grew while her judgments lessened.

  Madelyn followed Mom’s movements as she dropped her magazine to the floor and then began to gather materials for a project she and Jillian had planned for the next day—pictures of the finished project, felt, glue, scissors, and so on. She was taking them into the kitchen, but her arms were too full.

  “Mom, can I help?” Madelyn said, setting down her book.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Together it took them only one trip, and they spread out all the materials on the kitchen table so they would be ready for the next day. When they finished, their eyes met. Mom’s were questioning, knowing Madelyn had been upset, and now hopeful that she might be ready to talk.

  Madelyn wanted to be, she truly did, but being disappointed in a parent is not something one gets over easily. She opened her mouth to ask her mother straight out, to put everything into words, but she couldn’t do it. Instead, she simply said, “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Thursday

  Early the next morning, Madelyn made her way outside to think, taking her weeding supplies with her. When a weed came up easily, she would be determined to talk to her mother, confront her, challenge her to learn to read. But when the weed was stubborn, she just as easily decided that leaving things alone would be best. Her mom had made it this far in life without reading, surely she could continue on in the same way. If she’d really wanted to learn, she’d have done it by now anyway, right?

  She heard the door swing open behind her and Jillian was soon casting a shadow over her patch of ground. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  Her stomach rumbled an answer. “Yeah, that would be great. I haven’t eaten anything yet this morning.”

  “Here’s a banana,” Jillian said, producing the yellow fruit from behind her back.

  “Wow. Thanks, Jilly.”

  As she started to eat, Jillian sat down beside her and began to pluck up blades of grass. Madelyn gave her a sideways glance. Her face was troubled. “Are you okay, Jilly?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me that she can’t read, Madelyn. But you’re right. It is important. I guess it probably matters to her.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t go to the store with her forever, you know.”

  Madelyn grabbed her in a big hug. “How did you get to be so smart? I’ll talk to her, all right?”

  “Today?”

  “You don’t make this easy, do you? All right, today.”

  . . .

  Madelyn waited until Mom and Jillian were almost finished making their decorative pot holders before she ventured into their space. When she entered the kitchen, Jillian’s head came up, and she smiled encouragingly in Madelyn’s direction.

  “Mom, I’ll be back to help clean up. I just need to run to the bathroom,” Jillian said as she slipped out of the room.

  “I haven’t seen you much today, Madelyn. Have you been keeping yourself busy?”

  “Well, I suppose so.” She cleared her throat and braced herself. “Mom, I’m not sure how to say this, but I’d like to help you … if you know what I mean.”

  Mom looked up from the materials she’d been gathering together. Her expression was bewildered, oblivious. Madelyn took a deep breath and tried again. “What I’m trying to say is that I’d like to help you learn to read.”

  Mom’s face registered the direct hit. It was a mixture of shock and something else akin to shame or possibly even anger. She looked down at the items in her hands, carefully laid them on the table then silently walked from the room.

  Jillian was standing at the doorway and watched her go. “I’ll clean that up, Madelyn. I know where it all goes.” But before she touched a single thing, Jillian reached out and hugged her sister. It was just the thing Madelyn needed.

  Saturday

  Mom said little to Madelyn over the course of the next couple of days. She wa
sn’t exactly rude—she’d say things like “Good morning”—but she wasn’t eager to engage in conversation either.

  When Madelyn finished mowing the lawn on Saturday, she noticed Mrs. Burnham tending to her roses. After putting away her things in the garage, she walked over. “They’re beautiful. I hadn’t really paid attention to them before, but I love this one,” Madelyn said, reaching out to touch the velvety petals of a cream-colored rose edged with pink.

  She waited for the snide comment to come, but it didn’t. Mrs. Burnham simply nodded in her direction to acknowledge her presence. “It’s called a peace rose. It’s one of my favorites as well.”

  Madelyn sat down cross-legged on the grass close to where Mrs. Burnham was working. “What do you do during the day, you know, to keep yourself busy?”

  She had been cutting off the dead rose blooms but stopped at the question. “I write books.”

  “Books? Like published books?”

  She nodded. “Would you mind grabbing a lawn chair for me? There’s one in the garage. You can grab one for yourself if you want.”

  Madelyn set up the chairs on the driveway where the shade from one of the trees shielded them from the July sun. “So, tell me about your books.”

  Mrs. Burnham gave her a genuine smile. “I write children’s books—mostly picture books.”

  “I didn’t know that. How many have you written?”

  “I’ve published over twenty different titles.”

  “Wow. How long have you been writing?”

  “You really want to know?” Madelyn nodded vigorously. “Well, when I became a widow, I made a point of finishing my education. I became a school teacher and taught elementary school for several years. You don’t make a lot that way, but I didn’t have a lot of places to spend it either, so I salted it away. When I felt I had enough, I quit teaching so I could write children’s books. I’ve been doing that ever since. It hasn’t made me rich, but it has made me enough.” She looked at Madelyn to see if she was still interested before adding, “Would you like to see them?”

  The books were charming stories that instantly softened Madelyn’s opinion of Mrs. Burnham. She found herself captivated as she flipped through the pages of each one. Jillian would love them, she thought—and maybe Mom would too. Before she could stop herself, Madelyn said, “Could you help someone learn to read?” She hadn’t intended to say anything, but now that she had, she wondered where it might lead.

  “Certainly. I love opening up a child’s mind to the world of books.”

  “What if it’s not a child?” Mrs. Burnham raised her eyebrows. Madelyn continued, “I don’t know why, but my mom can’t read. Could you help her? I mean, if she’s willing to learn?”

  The strange expression on Mrs. Burnham’s face made Madelyn instantly regret her words. What if she had just set her mother up to be an object of ridicule? What might Mrs. Burnham say to her mom? The only comforting thought was that at least it would go no further. After all, if Mrs. Burnham wanted to, who could she tell anyway?

  Madelyn moved away, anxious to leave, but before she could, Mrs. Burnham grabbed her arm. “Please wait.” Turning back around Madelyn was surprised to see tears running down her cheeks. “Please?”

  She nodded slowly, unsure of what was coming. Mrs. Burnham dropped her arm then started walking toward her kitchen. Madelyn followed her without a word.

  Not until they were sipping lemonade at her kitchen table did she speak. “I’ve been terribly mistaken.” She was shaking her head. Madelyn didn’t ask what she was talking about—torn between wanting to understand her odd behavior and wanting to escape it. After a few minutes of head shaking, she took to wringing her hands, and Madelyn began to wonder if she should go for help.

  Just as she had determined the best way to sneak out, Mrs. Burnham spoke once again. “Madelyn, I have misjudged your mom. All these years I could have helped her. Instead, I resented her, thinking she was unfriendly and cold.”

  “But she isn’t! She –”

  “I know that now. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Your dad always greeted me, but I couldn’t understand why your mom rarely did. She never made an effort to get to know me. Even if I said hi to her, she wouldn’t engage in a conversation. This explains a lot of things.”

  “What are you talking about? How does her not being able to read have anything to do with it?”

  “Madelyn, think for a moment about what your life would be like if you couldn’t read—especially if others didn’t know and you wanted to keep it that way.”

  “Well, I’ve thought about what she couldn’t do. She couldn’t read books or magazines or even recipes. And, of course, street signs would be hard. Oh, and I already thought about the grocery store—or at least Jillian did.”

  Mrs. Burnham was nodding, but Madelyn could see she was still missing something. “Madelyn, that’s part of it, but quite honestly it’s just the tip of the iceberg. You use reading more than you know—reading a map, following written directions, checking your child’s homework or even understanding a note sent home by a teacher. The list could go on and on. But what about the other side of things? If you couldn’t read, and you didn’t want others to know, like your neighbors, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’d avoid situations where I’d be expected to read—definitely no book groups, I’m thinking.” Madelyn laughed at her attempt at humor, but Mrs. Burnham merely smiled.

  “Sure, but wouldn’t there be other, not-so-obvious moments?”

  Madelyn had never thought of it in terms of having friends or being neighborly. “Well, I think other times might be hard to predict—like you wouldn’t want to go out to lunch and have to read a menu, or maybe talk about something from the morning newspaper.” Madelyn was beginning to see the larger concerns.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to avoid conversations and interactions altogether? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about where they might lead. No need to be rescued from drowning if you don’t even approach the riverbank.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that before. That would make you kind of lonely, wouldn’t it?” The irony of who Madelyn was saying this to dawned on her. She reached over and put her arm around Mrs. Burnham. “I guess there are a lot of reasons to be lonely, aren’t there?” she said.

  Mrs. Burnham just nodded, but after a few quiet moments, she straightened up, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m so sorry she can’t read. What a burden that must be for her.” She gave Madelyn a rueful smile. “I’d like to make things up to her, for not being the neighbor I could have been or should have been. Going your whole life without being able to enjoy books or even just get along in the world—that’s tough.” She was shaking her head. “She wouldn’t have even been able to read you bedtime stories.”

  “Well, actually that’s how I figured it out, but not in the way you might think,” Madelyn laughed. “Dad used to read me stories until Mom memorized them. She’s read—or whatever you want to call it—the same books to all three of us for years. If we hadn’t liked those stories, it would have been tough luck for us. But the other day, she was reading to Jilly, only she was reading the story wrong. It’s funny that the book she could read told me that she couldn’t.” Madelyn smiled at her neighbor. “You know, I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but I’m glad I did.”

  “Me too.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Well, when I talked to my mom about not being able to read, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t respond in any way.”

  “Isn’t that a response, in and of itself?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. The problem is I want to help her learn, but I ca
n’t if she won’t admit to it. What should I do?”

  “Just be patient and wait. I imagine she’ll come around.”

  1974

  He expected the attic to smell musty, but the dry Colorado air had worked in William’s favor, and dust was the only thing that assaulted his senses. Climbing the ladder had reminded him he wasn’t a young man anymore, and he paused to rub his stiff joints before reaching up to pull the string for the single bulb suspended in the middle of the attic space. The dim light it gave out wasn’t much, but at least he could see where to put his feet now. Reminders of Hazel were somewhere in this room. It’s the only reason he was up here.

  The attic had always been the place to arbitrarily drop things and, other than the Christmas decorations, promptly forget about them. But memories were what William was searching for this time around.

  It was nearly midnight. He’d been unable to sleep—hadn’t slept much actually since the car accident that took his Hazel only a couple months before—unless you counted the drunken stupor that often overcame him.

  There was only one reason he was searching through the attic instead of drinking at this hour—Hazel. She never liked him drinking, and to keep the peace, he rarely drank when she was alive. She didn’t like how easily he could get drunk, and when he was drunk, he was a different person, according to Hazel. He had to take her word for it—he didn’t usually remember much afterward.

  But something had been different earlier that day. He’d had lunch and reached for a beer, but he could have sworn Hazel wouldn’t let him—it was like she was pulling his hand back and whispering in his ear. He kept himself busy all afternoon—whether to avoid thinking about alcohol or to avoid trying to understand what had happened, he couldn’t be sure. When the same experience replayed itself at dinner, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Hazel was still around, and she must love him enough to care what happened to him—or more likely, what he did to himself.