Wild and Precious Life

by Deborah Ziegler

  The weather was miserable. It rained and/or hailed every single day. We stayed at the same riverside hotel, but the gray days and endless rain made the view a moot point. Brittany was using terrible-tasting, tarlike medical marijuana in the evening. I prayed that the cannibis would slow tumor growth. I prayed every night looking at the endless rain. “Please God, if you are there, show us the way. I’m so lost, in every way possible.”

  I’d bought Brittany more sweatshirts with sayings. I pulled the tissue-wrapped package out of my suitcase and held the red sweatshirt up. “Ta-da. To cheer you up,” I said.

  Brittany stared at the white lettering and started laughing. “No way in hell,” she said. “Momma, I am not walking around Portland in a sweatshirt that says ‘I am adored.’ Add to that, it’s freakin’ hard to tell what it says.”

  “Well, I’ll wear it,” I said.

  The next day I was waiting outside the MRI area, when a woman sitting near me said, “I love your sweatshirt. I’m adopted, too!”

  I quickly crossed my arms across my chest, and we had a conversation about how great adoption was.

  When Brittany came out after hours in the MRI area, I had to tell her. My humiliation was complete when she laughed her head off. “I told you! I can’t believe that happened the first time you wore it.”

  I heard her regaling a friend with the story on the phone that night. It was worth the embarrassment to hear Brittany’s magical laugh again.

  I wanted to find a house for Britt, rather than an apartment. I wanted my girl to live in a neighborhood and have a backyard. I hoped we could bring her beloved dogs up. The housing rental market was different than in California. Realtors seemed uninterested or unable to show us rental homes, but finally one told us about a website with some listings.

  After visiting several houses, we saw one that was up a steep hill with gracious, older homes on winding tree-lined streets. The rental was a darling two-story yellow home about a hundred years old. We loved the hardwood floors, the wavy old glass in the windows, the large three bedrooms upstairs, and the bedroom/office downstairs. There were so many windows, looking out at enormous trees and a garden. Brick steps led to a front door adorned with an old-fashioned knocker.

  We didn’t know it, but we’d just stumbled onto a rental in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Oregon. All I knew was that it felt right.

  As Brittany looked around in the backyard, I walked across the street to a little glass display on a post. Under the glass was a sheet of white paper with a printed poem.

  Upon closer inspection I saw that the poem was titled “When Death Comes,” by Mary Oliver, who would become Britt’s favorite poet. I shuddered and read about death like a bear, or an iceberg, or a man taking coins from his pocket to buy our lives.

  I shivered again. It had begun to mist. Had this been foreordained somehow? I walked back across the street to our house. In my mind, it was already our house.

  “It’s really beautiful here,” Brittany sighed, “and I just know that Dan and Gary would hate it.”

  “They won’t like the age of the house, the age of the plumbing, the tiny bathrooms.” I smiled at her.

  “I’m going to see what that is.” She pointed at the little glass display across the street.

  “It’s a poem, Britt. It might . . .” I walked with her, thinking the poem might upset or hurt her.

  “What?” Britt arched her eyebrows.

  “Nothing. It’s very beautiful.” I watched her read the poem, gobbling it up, eyes moving swiftly left to right. I saw her start over and read it again, more slowly. Her lips mouthed the words about stepping through a door. She turned to me, eyes glistening. “Don’t you think this is a little bit of kismet?”

  My voice was stuck behind the lump in my throat. “Fate,” I croaked. “The first good thing that’s happened to us in a long time.”

  “What do you think? I know the house isn’t modern or sensible, but I love it.”

  “I think we should rent it. Right now,” I said. We got in the car and drove to the property management office.

  Before we went inside, Britt said, “Gary and Dan can fix almost anything that needs fixing. We’ll just tell them up front, this is where I want to die.”

  “Then the house is ours.”

  About forty-five minutes later, we walked out of the office with a lease that took effect on May 1. We wouldn’t move until around June 1, but we had signed, and we were faxing it to Gary for his signature.

  This felt like it was meant to be. If my daughter was going to die in rainy Oregon, it was going to be in a charming old house with lots of personality, just like her. Brittany and I explored the area near the house. Our new street dead-ended in a beautiful park with walking trails. Up one trail was a panoramic view of downtown Portland. This vista was just a short hike from the house. We also liked a historic area called Nob Hill, which had eclectic restaurants, homey pubs, and charming shops.

  Dan joined Brittany and me in Portland for the weekend. We showed him the house though the rental was a done deal, signed by Britt, my husband, and me. The weather cleared, and we drove to Multnomah Falls and to the Columbia River Gorge to watch steelhead trout jump the ladders of the dam.

  Britt left with Dan to take her friend Mina’s offer of the lodge in Yellowstone. By May 1 they would be marveling at geothermal features, subalpine forests, buffalo and elk above a super volcano. Back home, I combed the local thrift stores and consignment stores for furniture. I found a beautiful four-poster king bed with a headboard, two cherry nightstands, and a double dresser. It was important to me that Britt love the bed, because if a miracle didn’t come along, my child would die in this bed. I purchased all the things we’d need to furnish the house and make it homey. I also spent time with my elderly father, who was confused by my many comings and goings in the past four months. I told him Brittany was sick and that she needed my help, but nothing more than that.

  In mid-May, the gardener banged on the front door of Gary’s and my home. “Fire!” he said, pointing across the street. I could see a large cloud of smoke. The phone rang with a reverse 911 call telling our neighborhood to evacuate.

  Pamela called from Dad’s assisted living care to say they were evacuating the elderly population. “I’ll go with him and get him settled in for the night,” she said. “You won’t be able to get here, because the main thoroughfare is blocked by the police.” What would I do without her?

  I tried to get to Dad’s and was turned back by police. So I went home and packed Brittany’s baby albums, my jewelry, and an overnight bag. We watched helicopters pull water from the local golf course pond and dump it on the hill nearest our house. “Are you ready?” Gary asked.

  “I am. Daddy has been evacuated. Can you believe this? What else can go wrong?”

  “Don’t ask that question, Deb. Life is teaching us that just when we think it’s over, another blow can try to slap us down. Our beloved daughter with terminal brain cancer; Erica, our sweet niece, with stage four colon cancer; my brother needing a heart transplant; and now fire threatening our home. There can be more. There might be more. Never tempt fate by asking ‘what else?’ But know this: together we will be all right.”

  Arms wrapped around each other, we stood and watched the firefighters, who saved hundreds of homes. One person died, eighteen apartments were destroyed, and eight single-family homes were left either gutted or gone. Although we were thankful we didn’t lose our home, in the grander scheme of things, it just wasn’t important to either of us. We were in the midst of losing something much more sacred.

  18

  Berkeley Girl

  Summer 2004—Summer 2006, Ages Nineteen to Twenty-One

  Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you.

  —Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles

  While Brittany was i
n Costa Rica, Gary helped me move furniture into her rental apartment in Berkeley, and I cleaned everything. We had decided to sublet one of the bedrooms in the place, and I interviewed and found a nice young woman to live there and pay part of the rent.

  At first when Britt returned from Costa Rica, she suffered a bit of culture shock. The weather was so rainy and dark in Berkeley. Sometimes when she called, she sobbed on the phone, and it broke my heart. She shocked me by saying that her professors at the community college had been more engaging than the ones at Berkeley. I flew up several times during her first semester to hang out and see how she was doing.

  We went to the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory and took the tour. I bought a T-shirt that said “(Extra) Bitter” across the front. I thought it was hilarious in view of my decision to never marry again. The first time I wore it, I joked that my two former marriages had made me (extra) bitter. Brittany said something extraordinary.

  “You aren’t bitter, Momma. That’s the thing. You have this eternal hopey-ness. Like you think if you’re just a good enough person, things are bound to get better. I’m more logical than you are.” She popped a piece of sample chocolate in her mouth. “I think Gary’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  “But honey, he’s fourteen years older than me.”

  “So what? Take the happiness. Grab it, Mom. He is a wonderful man, and he’s been following you around like a puppy for almost five years now.”

  “You want me to marry again? You told me to never marry again.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, I was eleven years old then!” Brittany cocked her head to the side. “Is that why you keep telling Gary ‘no marriage’? Because of something I said when I was a little girl?”

  “Kind of. I didn’t want you to ever have to . . .” My voice choked.

  “This is different. He’s different.” Brittany squeezed my hand. “He’s a keeper. I love him. He’s been more of a father to me than anyone.”

  “I’ve turned him down so many times.” I felt a twinge. “What if he doesn’t want to get married anymore?”

  “Momma, that man adores you. Anyone can see that. It’s written all over his face. My girlfriends all want a man like Gary.”

  I smiled. I’d actually heard one of her friends saying that she wanted a man who treated her like Gary treated me.

  Gary and I announced to our family and friends in a New Year’s card that we would be getting married in the coming year. Some family members seemed surprised that, since we’d both tried and failed at marriage twice already, we were willing to take a walk to the altar again. We got mixed reviews on our happy decision. Nothing fazed us. Our relationship was stable, our love unwavering. Brittany’s approval had cinched the deal for me. We were in no hurry but Gary and I were going to be husband and wife.

  In Berkeley, Britt haunted the open-air farmers’ markets. She wasn’t afraid to grab ugly tomatoes, beets, globe eggplant, and even figs, and use them all in one fabulous dinner. She was the girl you see touching all the fruit, laughing with farmers, selecting gigantic bouquets of flowers, and stuffing organic goat cheese and fresh-baked bread in her backpack.

  Brittany was the girl who walked home popping fresh strawberries in her mouth or dripping peach juice on the sidewalk. Watching my daughter at a farmers’ market always made me think, Where did this lovely foodie creature come from? My mother was a typical World War II British rationing cook. I was a single mom cook. Not a lot of organic or farm-fresh veggies, though I refused to use canned.

  Ellis went up to visit a few times, and that cheered Britt immensely. She had volunteered to work at a suicide hotline and caught the bus to get there. She would call either Ellis or me to talk all the way to Oakland, because the area was rough. She found the work rewarding and challenging.

  Brittany kept her apartment for the second year in Berkeley. If she took summer courses, she could graduate by the following December. She stayed there for the summer, and Ellis moved up to be with her. He had applied to medical schools throughout the country. They knew that the relationship might be tested soon, and they lived as if there were no tomorrow.

  There were no more sad phone calls; in fact, there were almost no phone calls. The summer of love in Berkeley flew by. That June, Gary and I flew to Italy for a pre-honeymoon trip, as we’d decided to get married in November. While my twenty-year-old daughter experienced love in Berkeley, I let my guard down and fell deeply in love with Gary. Brittany was in the spring of life, while Gary and I were in the fall of our lives. I was forty-nine, Gary sixty-three. The summer of ’05, Britt and I joked that we were like the Gilmore girls—both in love.

  Summer drew to an end, and Ellis decided to go to med school on the East Coast. Exactly what Gary and I had worried about happened. It was painful to watch. Brittany toggled back and forth between anger and sorrow. I flew up to Berkeley and helped her “de-Ellis” her home. Pictures were taken down, and new photos put in the frames. My brokenhearted daughter stormed about her apartment, bitter and angry. Though her wrath wasn’t rational, Britt somehow thought that if Ellis had valued their relationship enough, he could have found a good med school closer than the opposite side of the country. I knew that being angry was easier than being sad. I also knew that it would be good for Brittany to meet other men, try out different relationships. She was only twenty, and Ellis had been her first true love.

  In her second year at Berkeley, Brittany became closer friends with a young woman who advised her not to graduate early. “Why would you graduate in December? Just because you can? Slow down, enjoy college life. Don’t be in such a hurry to get in the rat race.” Brittany slowed down in some ways, and sped up in others. She decided she would remain at Berkeley the full second year and not take a heavy load to graduate early. This enabled her to participate in other activities. She volunteered to visit the local state penitentiary and provide socialization by playing board games with felons as part of her psychology program. She also took an afternoon job as a nanny for three young children. Brittany picked them up from preschool and watched them until their parents got home.

  I flew up to visit for a couple of days. I watched in pleased amazement as Brittany met the children, loaded them in their stroller, and collected their belongings. Brittany’s charge didn’t have a coat on and the day had turned cold. Brittany unzipped her jacket, swept the girl up into her arms, and zipped her into the jacket. The child clung to Brittany’s neck, and was asleep within minutes.

  Her brother threw himself around Brittany’s leg. Britt walked with him clinging to her until she could load him into a stroller. She tucked him in, and we exited onto a neighborhood street. It began to rain and Brittany rolled her charges up onto someone’s porch.

  “You need a car,” I said, watching the sleeping child inside Britt’s jacket.

  “We’re doing okay. No worries.” Brittany swayed back and forth.

  Who was this creature? I thought. This young woman who took Berkeley, prisoners, lost love, rainstorms, and children in stride? Who was this lovely nanny, whom mothers and teachers fawned over at the preschool? My daughter was capable, full of common sense, and probably someone who could give Mary Poppins a run for her money. I was impressed.

  When I got home, I discussed the situation with Gary. “Did she ask for a car?” he said.

  “No. She walks to their house, then from there at least eight blocks to the school. It’s a lot of walking in inclement weather, and winter is coming.”

  “What if we get you a new Honda Element and take the one you’re driving up to Britt?” Gary grinned. “I’m so proud of her for getting on with life—without a car and without a boyfriend.”

  We couldn’t wait to give the car to her. I picked out a red Element, and Gary and I drove up to Britt’s the next weekend in the green one. No more dragging the children around in the rain. Britt called to say that now on clear days she loaded the kids up in the car and took them to the park.

  On November 12, 2005, G
ary and I were married. Brittany, Gary, and I flew to Dallas, Texas, so that my parents could attend our wedding. My sister Donna and her husband lived nearby. Sarah and her family, my sister-in-law Renda and her two girls, and both of Gary’s brothers and their families flew in to witness our union. My niece, Mary Iris, was my flower girl, and Brittany my maid of honor. It would be a small and intimate ceremony at the Baptist church I grew up attending.

  Then, my British mum threw one of her holier-than-thou, world-class hissy fits. She said she wouldn’t attend my third wedding. I was a tainted woman. It was a sacrilege. She simply wouldn’t condone it. God would not bless such an abomination. Then she began lecturing my nearly blind father and harassing him until he called me. “There will be hell to pay if I come to the wedding,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “The amount of grief that Mum would cause isn’t worth it. I understand.”

  At our wedding Brittany read a poem by e. e. cummings, “I Carry Your Heart with Me.” When my daughter said the words, “root of the root,” I started crying. I knew that for the rest of my life anytime I heard or read this poem, I would always see my daughter, her green eyes shining, reading a poem about love, even when her own heart still ached from losing Ellis.

  Brittany went to visit Ellis out east that winter. They had a tender visit and agreed that they still loved each other, but that they must move on and date others. On her last day there, Britt looked out the upper-floor window to see that Ellis had written “I Love Brittany” on the top of his car in the snow.

  Brittany graduated from Berkeley in May 2006. Gary and I drove to the Bay Area and stayed at a hotel. We treated Britt and one of her girlfriends to a lovely dinner the night before the ceremony. Brittany looked radiant the day of graduation. She pinned her graduation cap at a jaunty angle. I met one of her friends outside the Greek Theater. He touched my arm and said, “Brittany speaks very highly of you, and I must say that you raised one of the finest human beings I’ve ever met.” I felt grateful for the compliment.