The Remedy for Regret

by Susan Meissner

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. His voice was very low. I liked it. “I’m Samuel Mayhew.”

  “Mark Longren,” my dad said, returning the handshake.

  “You must be Tess,” Samuel Mayhew said, looking down at me from what seemed like three stories. I just nodded.

  “Let’s get you inside and get your jackets,” Corinthia said, helping me off with my coat and taking my Dad’s as he handed it to her. “We can sit in the living room for just a few minutes while you meet the rest of the Mayhews.”

  The house was warm and clean, but the carpet was worn in places and the furnishings were simple and sparse. Dad and I sat on a sofa that was soft and lumpy. Over its back was a beautiful hand-stitched quilt. Corinthia called for her other children.

  The oldest I recognized right away as being Jewel even before Corinthia said her name, not just because Corinthia had told me she had a twelve-year-old daughter with that name but also because I had seen the girl at school. Jewel smiled at me. She was holding an infant in her arms. Corinthia moved on to the other children.

  “Now this is Noble, he’s next after Jewel and he’s ten. This here’s Shepherd who opened the door for you and he’s eight. Here’s Renaissance, we call her Rena, and she’s four. And Jewel’s holding Marigold who is four weeks old today!”

  I think my Dad was on the verge of laughing. Neither one of us had heard such interesting names before. I think he thought they were kind of ridiculous. But I thought they were wonderful. Each one meant something, made you think of something. I didn’t know if Tess meant anything at all. My dad had told me it was just my mother’s favorite name.

  We were invited into the dining room, which was long and narrow; the table in its center filled it from one end to another. Jewel placed the infant in a cradle next to her chair like she already knew it would be her job to tend to her littlest sister if she made a fuss during the meal.

  “Tess, you can sit by Jewel so y’all can get to know each other. Dr. Longren, you can sit by Samuel,” Corinthia said.

  “Oh, you can just call me Mark.” My dad took a chair on the end by Jewel’s dad.

  “No, no,” Corinthia said. “You worked hard to get that title. I’m surely going to use it! Now, Rena, you help me bring in the serving dishes.”

  I recognized the ham, but there were some other things I hadn’t seen before. Okra was new to me then, as were the yams. But everything smelled wonderful. I had forgotten what it was like to be in a home where there was a mother who cooked.

  When all the dishes were in place, Corinthia took her place at the other end of the table.

  She held her hands out to Noble and Rena on either side of her.

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, may we hold hands while we ask the Lord to bless this meal?” Jewel’s father said to my dad.

  My father looked a bit taken aback but he lifted his hands from his lap and extended them. “Sure,” he said. I lifted mine too. Jewel’s hand was soft and slender.

  Pastor Mayhew began to pray.

  “We thank you, Almighty God, for Your abundant goodness toward us, for your tender mercies, for your everlasting kindness. Bless this meal to our bodies. May it make us strong to live our lives in ways that please You. Bless our new friends Dr. Longren and Tess. May they always have your kind favor upon them. In the blessed name of Jesus, Amen.”

  I felt funny opening my eyes after that. I think my dad did, too. We both looked at each other for a split-second. Then Jewel squeezed my hand and the prayer was over.

  Jewel kept eying me during the meal like she wanted to talk to me but didn’t know where to begin. And I did the same thing. The adults found things to talk about; most of the dinner conversation centered on the places my dad had been stationed in his nearly twenty years in the Air Force.

  When the meal was over, Corinthia invited me to help in the kitchen, which surprised me but touched me, too, as I think she knew it would. I had been asked to take part in a mother-child mini-event—the washing up of the dishes. Renaissance and Jewel started bringing dishes into the kitchen. Pastor Mayhew took the baby into the living room where he and my Dad continued their conversation on the political problems in the Middle East. I scraped the dishes while Corinthia rinsed them and then placed them in a dishpan of hot, soapy water. Dad and I did the dishes all the time like this, but it was different somehow doing it with Corinthia.

  “I sure like your name, Tess,” she said to me as she plopped a plate into the water.

  “You do?”

  “It sounds soft like a lullaby,” she said. “I wonder what it means. Do you know?”

  I shook my head. “My dad just told me it was my mother’s favorite name. I don’t think it means anything.”

  “Oh, all names mean something. Maybe someday we should find out.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay.”

  “I like the names you have for your kids,” I added after a moment of silence.

  “They are a bit different,” Corinthia said, “But each one means something precious to me. Would you like to hear how Samuel and I chose them?”

  I nodded. Jewel and Rena just kept bringing in dishes, not saying a word.

  “Well,” she began. “Jewel was our firstborn of course and I had no idea how precious a child could be until we had her. She was beautiful and wonderful and I just wanted the world to know that her worth, like that of all children, is beyond reckoning. So she’s my Jewel. Now noble is a good thing to be when you are man. The world could use more noble men, don’t you think? So Samuel and me, we named our first son Noble to remind him that he is to be a honorable man who seeks after God.”

  Corinthia took another dish from me and went on.

  “We gave Shepherd his name because the Bible tells us Jesus is the Good Shepherd, and that He looks after us the same way a shepherd cares for his sheep, not just in any way but in the good way. Now Renaissance is a long, fancy name that most folks can hardly get used to using, but I love what it means. You ever heard of the Renaissance, Tess?”

  I wasn’t sure.

  “Does it have to do with art museums in France?” I asked.

  Corinthia smiled. “Well, yes, in a way it does,” she said. “Renaissance means ‘re-birth.’ An’ there was a time when art had itself a kind of rebirth back in history. But all of us needs to have a re-birth, Tess. All of us needs to be recreated new. And do you know why? ’Cause we get born the first time in a broken world that doesn’t know God or love God. We get born the first time needin’ someone to rescue us. You know Who that someone is, Tess?”

  I just blinked at her.

  “Why, it’s Jesus,” she said simply, like she was saying, “Why, it’s seven o’clock.”

  I was pondering the whole notion of a re-birth, thinking how wonderful it could be if I could just go back and do it over and this time my mother would live, when Corinthia moved on.

  “Now, my Marigold, well, her name just makes me think of sunshine and flowers, like the most beautiful place you ever saw. Like heaven.” Corinthia laughed. “People don’t mind Marigold’s name as much. I think they’re just glad I didn’t name her something like ‘Beautiful Day’ or ‘Third Pretty Girl.’”

  I laughed, too.

  By this time, Jewel and Renaissance had joined us in the kitchen as all the dishes had been brought in.

  “Jewel, why don’t you take Tess in to see your room? Rena and I can finish up here,” Corinthia said.

  Jewel smiled shyly at me. “You wanna come?” she said.

  “Okay,” I answered.

  I followed her to a staircase by the front door that led up to the second story. Jewel’s room was the first one at the top of the stairs. It was painted yellow and there were books everywhere.

  “I guess you can tell I like to read,” she said softly, smiling like she was embarrassed.

  “I like to read, too,” I said.

  Then I noticed that on her desk was an open sketchpad. A half-finished drawing of a giraff
e was visible.

  “That’s really good,” I said. And it was.

  She just shrugged. “The neck isn’t long enough.”

  She showed me the rest of her drawings and some of her favorite books. She was quiet and very unlike Blair, but I liked Jewel. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever astonish me. I felt like she was transparent, honest. It was hard for me to imagine her ever being silly or disrespectful. Or unkind.

  My dad called up the stairs a few minutes after that and said it was time to go. We still had to make up the beds and such. He seemed relaxed and at ease as we got ready to leave and so I was pretty sure Samuel Mayhew had not preached to him. I was glad my father seemed happy because I liked this house and I wanted us to come back. I liked how it smelled. I liked the sound of other children playing. I liked Jewel. And I liked Corinthia.

  Over the next few weeks and months I spent a lot of time at the Mayhews’ house and with Jewel especially. A couple times I convinced Blair to come with me, but Blair liked being able to call the shots. For some reason, she didn’t feel comfortable doing that at Jewel’s house. She didn’t mind doing it at mine, though. When the three of us were at my house we usually did what Blair wanted to do.

  One day in February, Corinthia sat me down at her kitchen table where she had a library book lying open.

  “Remember how I said all names mean something?” she said to me and her eyes were twinkling. “Well, I found out what ‘Tess’ means.”

  She pointed to a place on the right hand page of the open book. I read what was written there:

  Tess: From the Spanish and Portuguese name Teresa. Believed to be derived from the Greek word therizein: “to harvest.”

  She smiled broadly, like she had just discovered gold. It was like gold. From the Portuguese. I was speechless.

  “So, now you know why this was your Momma’s favorite name,” she said. “Harvest is a time of blessing, Tess; a time when the fruit of all your hard labor is finally realized. It’s a time for gathering in all the good things you have worked hard for. Isn’t that amazing?”

  I nodded and read the entry again. It felt weird to realize I had a name that actually meant something. I couldn’t help but wonder when I would be gathering in all the good things. It surely couldn’t have happened yet.

  In fact, a few months later, everything shifted for me. A strong gust pulled at my sail and I found myself on a new course on unfamiliar seas. One unforgettable day in May—the day I found my mother’s medical records—I pretty much ceased to contemplate what good things awaited me. I began instead a different kind of meditation, one I still can’t seem to wring free of my thoughts.

  I was looking for summer clothes. I knew they had to be in a box that my dad and I hadn’t had to open yet since moving in. There were several boxes marked “MISC” sitting in the garage, filled with unrelated things that the movers had thrown together when they had just odds and ends from various rooms left to pack. Dad was at the base. It was a Thursday afternoon, about four o’clock.

  The first box I tried was stuffed with appliance manuals, a bag of fishing tackle, a set of Tupperware bowls, a broken soap dish and two empty photo albums. The second had a set of ugly brown curtains on top and then, thankfully, my shorts and summer shirts. I started pulling them out and was almost finished when I came across a couple file folders bound together with a thick rubber band. On the tab of each was my mother’s name: Madeline Longren. Stamped across the front of both were the words “Medical Records.”

  I had been on my knees, but the moment I realized what I was holding, I sat back on my bottom. I fingered the tabs for several minutes before taking the rubber band off, as I knew I would.

  It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. Every entry was in chronological order. I just headed to the entry that bore my birthday. There was a lot written there. Several pages. I didn’t understand most of it, but I was really just looking for one word. Embolism. I figured when I found it, I would find out how in the world my mother got one. Eventually I saw the word, though I almost missed it because there were two other words in front of it. It was on a document labeled post-mortem. I read the three words, saying them out loud.

  Amniotic Fluid Embolism…

  A tremor ran through me. I knew what amniotic fluid was. I had been swimming in it when I was living inside her. My heart began to pound as I read more:

  Amniotic Fluid Embolism suspected by attending when seizures started. Shortness of breath began during last stage of labor. Pt. became slightly cyanotic during episiotomy repair, alterations in mental status preceded coma. Traces of lanugo and vernix found in lungs on histological examination indicative of AFE.

  Something was being revealed to me, I could sense it. But I didn’t know what it was.

  I took the files into the house, into my dad’s study. I looked at the books on his shelves, hoping that the one I wanted wasn’t at his office on base. I figured it wouldn’t be. It was a college textbook on medical terms and he hardly used it anymore. I saw its blue binding and I stood on his desk chair to reach it. I turned to the A’s. Within moments I found it. Amniotic Fluid Embolism. I read in silence, understanding at last what had happened. Amniotic fluid had entered my mother’s blood stream and had flowed into her lungs where it wasn’t supposed to be. Whose fault was that? I wondered. I didn’t know what lanugo and vernix were but her records said they were indicative of AFE, of amniotic fluid embolism. I turned to the L’s and read in horror. I turned to the V’s and my shock turned to despair.

  Lanugo was the soft downy hair that had covered my tiny body inside her.

  Vernix was the white, creamy protective layer that had covered my skin.

  My hair, my skin.

  Bits and pieces of my little body had floated off into her bloodstream and suffocated her.

  I sat there in my dad’s office, choking back sobs. I wanted so much to ask my dad if it was true, did this really happen, because, like all people who are suddenly given bad news, I wanted it to be a mistake.

  But I didn’t do it. I went back out to the garage and put the records at the bottom of the first box, underneath the appliance manuals and fishing tackle. I replaced the tape and then shoved the box back where I found it. When my father came home that night, I pretended to be sick with menstrual cramps. I had only been menstruating for four months, but Blair had recently told me cramps were a good excuse for hiding other kinds of aches. He gave me Tylenol and I spent the evening in my room, on my bed, wishing with all my heart that Corinthia was right, that there was a way to be re-born. To go back and do it over and this time get it right.

  I shake this image of me lying miserable on my bed in Arkansas out of my head. The plane is now starting its wild, rushing jaunt across the tarmac in preparation for its lift skyward. I want to convince myself that Simon is right, that I did not kill my mother. I didn’t mean to. But he didn’t mean to kill that woman and her little daughter, either, and look at him. He is languishing in his regret.

  Regret.

  That single word brings Corinthia back to the forefront of my troubled mind.

  A few days after I learned the truth, when I was still walking around in a fog of remorse, Corinthia had asked me what was bothering me. We were in her backyard and I was helping her hang laundry on her clothesline. I wanted to tell her everything but I was afraid. I just told her I had done something I wish I hadn’t.

  “Well, you know what the remedy for regret is, don’t you?” she said.

  I shook my head. I didn’t.

  “Find a way to make it right,” she replied.

  Her answer left me feeling hopeless and I started to cry in front of her.

  “What if there is no way I can make it right?” I said.

  She must have wondered what it was I had done, but she didn’t ask.

  “Well, can you live with it?” she said instead.

  I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think I could.

  “No,” I whispered.<
br />
  She leaned down so that her eyes met my eyes and rested her hands on my shoulders.

  “Then find someone who can make it right,” she said, looking deep into my soul.

  I think even then I knew whom she meant. But that was also a hopeless suggestion. Even God has limitations.

  Give it a rest, for God’s sake. You didn’t kill your mother, Tess.

  Simon’s angry words are repeating themselves in my head as the plane surges forward. I want to believe he is right but that’s not how it feels. Now everything else is suddenly swirling in my head; Simon’s grief and his unrevealed news, the remembered scent of Monica’s baby, memories of the abandoned infant in the peach box, my father’s phone call earlier today, the sound of Corinthia’s voice and lastly the face of the woman in the airport who told me I was the answer to her prayers.

  I feel weighed down. I want to be above it all. I want my own world to be far behind me as I rush to Blair’s side.

  The plane pushes upward against the gravitational pull of the fallen earth, willing itself heavenward, but I can feel the resistance all around me; that force that wants to send me back to the broken world where I belong.

  Six

  St Louis, Missouri

  As I get off the plane at the St. Louis airport, I am only vaguely aware that this place is unfamiliar to me. I have never flown into the St. Louis airport before. The few times I’ve been to this city, I have come by car. Like all major airports I’ve been in, this one is bustling with activity and I am alone in it. There is no one here to greet me, and though this does not surprise me, it doesn’t bother me either. Dad and I traveled so much when I was a child that I grew up accustomed to living out of a suitcase for weeks at a time and being in a strange place where I know no one.

  I make my way to baggage claim, watching all the travelers around me who I can tell have just come home. I can see it in their walk and in their faces. They look relaxed and nearly bored. The thrill of travel is over for them. They are from here. They are home.

  I find it interesting and unsettling that one of the first things people want to know about me when I meet them is where I am from. It shouldn’t be that difficult a question to answer and for most people, it probably isn’t. But like a lot of children of military parents, I struggle with the answer. In the past I’ve been tempted to say that I’m from nowhere. But even in jest, that sounds far too poetic. Or arrogant. Like I believe myself to be above space and time. Like God.