The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  Derrick caught his breath, hand pressed to his chest, and seemed for a moment not to know what to say. Cici did.

  “See, what did I tell you?” She grinned. “Magic.”

  TEN

  The true mystery of the world is in the visible, not the invisible.

  Oscar Wilde

  Megan sat in a blue vinyl chair in the Intensive Care waiting room, hugging her arms and rocking back and forth gently, almost imperceptibly, nursing her pain like she would a fussy child. She had been there all night, drinking coffee, pacing back and forth, praying. A doctor had talked to her about cardiac failure and leaking blood vessels that were too fragile to repair. The nurses had brought her a blanket and sympathetic progress reports—still unconscious, stable but critical, doing as well as could be expected—and had allowed Megan to go in and stand beside the bed for five minutes every four hours. They told her Annabelle Stephens was dying.

  But they didn’t know Gram.

  She had called her mother. And then she had spent the longest time staring at Nick’s number on her contact list, needing him, wanting more than anything in the world to call him, aching for the sound of his voice, the strength of his arms around her, his chest beneath her cheek while her tears soaked into his shirt. And unable to make herself push the buttons.

  Megan looked up hopefully as the nurse approached, and the other woman was smiling. “She’s awake,” she said gently, and Megan leapt to her feet. The nurse stopped her with a light hand upon her arm. “I don’t want to give you false hope. Very often terminal patients will recover consciousness and lucidity near the end. Go and sit with her, and take all the time you need to say good-bye. It could be an hour, or another day, or only a few minutes.”

  Megan gave the other woman a tolerant look, and pulled her arm away. “Thank you,” she said. “But with all due respect, I’ve heard that before. And you don’t know my grandmother.”

  Annabelle was propped up against the pillows, an oxygen cannula taped in place beneath her nostrils, a clear IV dripping into her arm. Monitors beeped and glittered. Megan smiled as she approached the bed. “This was funny the first time, Gram,” she said.

  But the effort to return Megan’s smile seemed too much for her grandmother, and Megan’s chest tightened with alarm. Annabelle fluttered her fingers, and Megan came to sit beside her, folding her grandmother’s hand inside her own. It was cold.

  “Looks like Moses and I have something in common,” said Annabelle. Her voice was weak, but steady. “Neither one of us is going to make it to the Promised Land.”

  Megan tightened her hand around Annabelle’s fingers. “Stop talking like that. You’re going to get up and walk out of this hospital, you know you are.”

  Annabelle’s face softened with compassion, and she lifted her free hand as though to touch Megan’s face, but could not quite make it. “Ah, sweet girl,” she said. “You always knew this was going to be a one-way trip, now didn’t you?”

  Megan’s chest flooded with tears and her eyes went hot, but she pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to give voice to the pain. No, no, no ….

  The door swooshed open and Megan turned, dashing away tears. Her mother, disheveled, un-made up, wearing wrinkled cotton slacks and a misbuttoned sweater, rushed toward the bed. “Thank God!” she whispered. “I thought I would be too late!”

  Annabelle smiled then as her daughter sank down beside her, clutching her other hand. “No, Marion, honey. You’re right on time, just as you always are.” She let her head sink back against the pillows and the lines in her face relaxed into contentment. “This is nice,” she said. “My two girls together, here at home. Where we belong.”

  Marion bent her head over her mother’s hand. “Mother,” she said thickly, “I never got a chance to tell you … that was why I was so upset when you left town … all these years I never got a chance to thank you for what you’ve done for my little girl.” She looked at Megan, her eyes wet and ravaged, and filled with a silent plea for understanding. “For giving her what I couldn’t. The time, the patience, the confidence … You helped her become the woman I always wanted to be.”

  Megan stared at her mother, her breath caught somewhere in the back of her throat, but she couldn’t speak. She didn’t even know what to think.

  Annabelle said, “I only wish I could have given it to you, sweetheart.”

  “You tried,” said Marion. She brought her hand, still linked with Annabelle’s to her face to wipe away the drenching tears. “I never had the courage to take what you were offering. But I’ve always loved you for trying. Please believe that.”

  Annabelle’s eyes, once tired and faded, suddenly grew brilliant, as though lit from within, and the faintest flush of color came to her face as she turned to Megan. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed softly. “I remember now! I remember the birthday present my father gave me!”

  Only seconds ago she had been a frail and fading vessel for the life that sustained her, but now she was animated, her voice strong and her muscles full of life. Megan laughed through her tears as hope and relief soared through her. “I told them not to count you out, Gram! I told them!”

  Her grandmother looked at her intensely, her expression filled with joy. “It was the best present a little girl could ever have, and do you know why? Because it meant he loved me. I want you to have it, and every time you look at it remember how very much you were loved. Promise me you’ll find it, sweet girl. Don’t let our great adventure die in this room.”

  Megan squeezed her grandmother’s fingers happily. “Of course I’ll find it, Gram. We’ll find it together.”

  Annabelle smiled and squeezed her fingers back. She looked then at Marion and said, “Now. Let’s talk about the funeral.”

  At the distress that crossed her daughter’s eyes, she raised a hand of protest. “I know, I know, you already made other arrangements. But it’ll do you good to improvise. I want to be buried in the family cemetery at that little church outside of Falls Creek, Virginia. I know it’s still there, I looked it up on the Internet. The pastor’s name is Jacob Williamson, and I’ll just bet if you get to work on your charm he’ll do everything he can to accommodate you. I want the place filled with pink roses, and you should call one of those worthless nieces of mine and have them ship you my white silk Diane Von Furstenberg dress, the one with the beading on the sleeves. And the Jimmy Choo heels. I know no one will see them but I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for an occasion special enough to wear them and it just doesn’t get any more special than this.”

  She looked at her stunned daughter sharply. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down? I know it’s a lot of work, but I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to get it right.”

  After another stunned and motionless moment, Marion scrambled through her purse until she came up with a pen and paper. She began writing furiously. Megan shared a grin with her grandmother.

  “Now,” said Annabelle, “I want all the nephews and sons-in-law to be pallbearers. They’ll have to fly in from all over the country, but since I haven’t seen most of them in thirty-five years, it seems only fitting. And see if you can schedule the funeral for the middle of the week, will you? They’ll all have to take off work and that will really piss them off. Now, for the processional I want the choir singing, ‘At Last.’”

  Marion stopped writing and her eyebrows flew up, but Annabelle demanded, “What? If it’s good enough to inaugurate a president, it’s good enough for me. Besides …” her expression softened, “that was the last song your father and I danced to. Good times. Then,” she went on, “after everyone has given me all their rave reviews, and they’re carrying out the casket, I want you to play Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover. The original Simon and Garfunkle cut will do fine.” To Marion’s horrified look she responded brusquely, “Oh, loosen up, sweetie. It’ll do you good.”

  Megan burst into laughter. “Gram, you are a card!” She dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “Do you know how much I love you?”
>
  Her grandmother patted her cheek. “I hope it’s a lot, sweet girl, because your job is the hardest one. I want you to leave this hospital room right now, before your mother can talk you into staying and helping her with all the things she’s got to do, and I want you to drive to that place we’ve been looking for, and have your picture taken on the front steps sitting just where I was sitting all those years ago. Then I want you to have both pictures blown up really big, and set them on either side of the casket, so that the whole world—or at least the ones that give a damn—can share our last adventure, and it will give them something to talk about for years to come. What do you think about that idea?”

  Megan smiled. “I think it’s one of the best ones you ever had. And as soon as you get out of this place that’s exactly what we’re going to do. You can be the one to take the picture.”

  Annabelle smiled. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said with a sigh, “I wish I could.”

  And then she closed her eyes, and she died.

  ~*~

  Derrick and Paul had spent the past two days calling event planners, booking agents, florists, limousine companies, wine vendors, and decorators up and down the east coast. None of them had ever heard of the Hummingbird House grand opening, and when they were asked, on a note of hope that grew fainter with each call, about availability, they either laughed or hung up. Now they faced each other blearily over coffee seven hours before the first guests were due to arrive, all but ready to admit defeat.

  “Whoever she used, they’re not in the phone book,” Derrick said, “or on the Internet.”

  “Of course not. She’s HavenHome Hotels. She has her own people.”

  Derrick rubbed a hand over his stubbly cheek, groaning out loud. “How could we not have noticed even one name?”

  Paul frowned. “I’m used to delegating. So are you. The only reason we knew about the caterer was because you signed the check.”

  “And thank God I did. She must have used her personal credit card or her own good name to secure the others.” Derrick took a sip of his coffee, staring at the kitchen clock with its maddening, unrelenting, steadily ticking second hand. “At least we’ll have food, although God only knows who we’ll have food for if she canceled the limousine service.”

  Paul, on the other hand, was gazing out the window, where a steady gray rain was fogging up the screens and digging mud puddles in the garden. His expression was surprisingly reflective. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” he said. “We did this exact same thing with the girls when we first moved here. It was easier to let them take care of things, so we did. Before long we were counting on them to take care of things. And when they put their collective feet down about it, we just went looking for someone else to depend on. We should have listened to them in the first place. All of this is Karma. We deserve it.”

  Derrick considered this unhappily. “You’re right, of course. What does it take for us to learn our lesson?”

  Paul sighed and turned away from the window. “I, for one, feel sufficiently schooled. Maybe the girls are right about something else, too. Maybe we have been trying too hard. Simple. Artisanal.”

  Derrick looked skeptical. “It’s too wet to pick wildflowers,” he said. “And you’re not seriously suggesting we let Purline’s cousin sing?”

  The sound of a large truck rounding the drive distracted Paul from what he was about to say. He glanced at his watch. “That must be the caterer. He said he’d be here by nine.” He stood and forced a smile. “Game faces,” he advised. “We’re on.”

  Derrick said, “Can’t I just sit here and cry?”

  But after another moment and a last, bracing gulp of coffee, he followed Paul out onto the front porch. And he stopped.

  “Good lord,” he said, peering through the rain at the steel-sided tractor-trailer that was now screeching a back-up beep as it maneuvered its way around to the entrance, “did he bring his whole kitchen?”

  “That can’t be the caterer,” Paul said, alarmed. “How many people does he think he’s going to feed?”

  Behind the huge truck came another, smaller van, followed by several cars. Two men jumped out of the cab of the big truck and went around to open the trailer. Paul called, “Um, can I help you?”

  Derrick grabbed two umbrellas from the stand by the door and handed one to Paul. The men swung open the back doors of the trailer and jumped inside. “Hello!” Derrick called. They started down the steps.

  People began to swarm from the van and the other cars. More vans pulled up. A giant basket of lilacs and a small dogwood tree bobbed down the driveway, carried by two women in black suits with black umbrellas. From the big truck there came a huge clatter as steel poles were tossed on the ground. A young man dashed through the rain with a huge plastic-wrapped roll of what appeared to be brown paper under his arm. “Morning!” he called as he ran up the steps.

  Paul, turning in almost a full circle from the truck to the steps, replied, “Excuse me, may I ask …?”

  A man in jeans and a rain slicker jogged up to Derrick, his hair dripping. “Hi,” he said, “where’s the kitchen?”

  Derrick, slack jawed, pointed, and then the air was pierced by a decibel-shattering mechanical screech. Everyone winced, stopped, and turned. “Listen up!” called a megaphone-amplified, mercifully familiar voice. “No one, and I mean no one, enters the house until the floors are covered! Tents go east and north. Stay out of the flowers beds! Dogwoods in the foyer, lilacs in the dining room. Fountains, follow me. Move it, people, move it! ”

  She marched through the rain in a long black cape, fuchsia striped galoshes, and an oversized red rain bonnet, looking huge, ridiculous, and magnificent. She lowered the megaphone as she approached and called, “Hello, boys.”

  “Harmony!” they exclaimed on a single breath, and rushed toward her, splashing through the mud, umbrellas bumping.

  “Are we ever glad to see you!” Derrick cried, beaming as he reached her. “We thought—”

  “Harmony, I am so dreadfully sorry,” Paul said, grasping her hand. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Thank you, thank you so much for coming back.” Derrick grasped her other arm and led her toward the house. “We’ve been just miserable over what happened. I know we don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if you would just give us a second chance …”

  She looked from one to the other of them with big, confused eyes. “What on earth,” she demanded, “are you talking about?”

  They stopped, falling back a step, looking at each other, looking at her. Rain spattered and popped on their umbrellas and seeped into their shoes. Finally Paul said, “What I said the other day …”

  “Didn’t mean a word of it, of course,” Derrick put in quickly.

  “It was rude and thoughtless and I’m most abjectly sorry …”

  “But if you could ever see your way to forgive us …”

  Harmony handed Paul the megaphone and tucked one hand through his arm, and the other through Derrick’s. “Fellows,” she said, “you are really very sweet, but sometimes you can be a little weird. Whatever it is you’ve got on your minds, could it wait? We have a grand opening in a little over six hours!”

  They started up the steps, and Paul and Derrick shared a look of abject bewilderment and utter relief over her head.

  At the top of the steps, Paul dropped her arm, gathered his courage, and stepped in front of her. “Harmony,” he said formally, “it occurs to me we’ve never properly thanked you for all the effort you put into this event. I would like to take the opportunity to do so now. Thank you,” he said, “with all my heart.”

  Derrick took her hand, bowed and kissed her fingers. “Thank you,” he echoed.

  Harmony dimpled. “Well, are you just the cutest things? It was my pleasure, gentlemen, because the spirits tell me this is just the beginning of a long and prosperous partnership.”

  And before either of them could register alarm at that, she smiled that smile that could melt stone and
met Paul’s gaze. “By the way,” she added, “how do you like my earrings?”

  She gave a little toss of her head, revealing two of the ugliest speckled partridge feathers Paul had ever seen dangling from her ears. He returned her smile. He couldn’t help it. “I think,” he told her in absolute sincerity, “they are perfect.”

  ~*~

  Megan felt a sweet quiet calm riding in the empty seat of the big old car beside her that puzzled her most of the way across the state. It wasn’t until she passed through Charlottesville and was back out on the open highway that she knew what it was. She finally understood why her grandmother had kept taking her on adventure after adventure, even though Megan had continually shied away at the last minute when it came time to face the challenge. She had been afraid, but she had done it anyway. And that was what courage was all about.

  She missed her grandmother. She missed her wit, her spirit, her stories, her zany ideas. But she wasn’t alone. And after the funeral she was going to go home, she was going to find her husband, and she was going to fight for her marriage. She was going to fight for herself. She knew how to do that now.

  It started raining when, according to her calculations, she was little less than an hour from her destination. She let the windshield wipers hypnotize her for a while, and it never once occurred to her, even when the rain grew hard enough to diminish her visibility, that she was driving without her headlights on. When she turned onto the county highway, there was more traffic than she had expected and she fumbled for the GPS she had pulled up on her phone, not wanting to miss her turn. She did not realize she was drifting into the opposite lane until she looked up and saw the headlights slashing through the rain in front of her. By then it was too late.

  Josh had stayed on the bus when everyone got off at the rest stop in Charlottesville, and he slept through the change of drivers. He wasn’t really sleeping, though; it was more like he was thinking, drifting through possibilities and events and options with a peaceful clarity he really had not had time to know before. When it took everything you had just to stay alive, it was hard to think straight. But maybe all that time with Artie, feeling safe, eating good, not worrying about somebody stabbing him in his sleep or how he was going to get from one place to the next, had done something to his brain. He could think more clearly now.