The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Jilly…” Rose rested her head on Jilly’s shoulder.

  They hugged tightly, rocking, opening their arms to include Birdie. They each felt so exposed they had to hold one another tightly as though bandaging one another’s wounds. Together, they wept for Merry. They wept as they could not at her funeral. They wept for the sister they had loved and lost twice. Once to fate, another time to death.

  Later, when they were reaching for tissues and wiping their eyes, Jilly felt drained but peaceful, the way a soldier might feel in the foxhole after the bombing had ceased. She flopped back on the small sofa and stretched her long legs out on the coffee table. Looking out the window she saw plump, white cumulus clouds in the beautiful blue sky. She thought of Netta.

  “It’s the theory of relativity,” Jilly said in wonder, beginning to understand Netta’s meaning at last.

  “What?” Birdie asked, lifting her head.

  “Relativity. This wise old woman I met on the plane tried to explain it to me. I didn’t understand it then, but it’s suddenly making sense. We each have our own version of what happened in the pool that day. And even though they are different, each one is valid. It has something to do with traveling at different speeds. I’m afraid I didn’t catch that part.”

  Birdie’s eyes lit up as she caught the gist of Jilly’s meaning. “That’s rudimentary physics these days. Basically it means there is no one correct view of the universe. We each see things from our own frame of reference.”

  “So then we’re all right in what we remember of that summer day?” Rose asked, sitting forward.

  “Or wrong…”

  “Maybe if we’d understood this we could have helped one another,” said Jilly. “Or at least understood one another better. That would have led to forgiveness.” She thought of all the misunderstandings, the years lost to secrecy and silence. “We’re sisters, after all.” She looked at Birdie questioningly. Aren’t we?

  Birdie held her gaze and nodded. Yes, oh yes.

  For a minute no one spoke.

  “That wouldn’t have changed the outcome of that day,” said Rose, in her own line of thought. “No matter what we each remember of that day, none of us can change the immutable fact of Merry’s brain and lung damage—though I’d give anything if I could.”

  “It happened, and we were never the same,” said Jilly. “That’s what I meant about how our childhood ended that day.”

  “Only it was much more.” Rose clenched her hands. “We changed after the accident. We grew up—I don’t know—wounded. I know I became indecisive and afraid,” she added almost inaudibly.

  “I tried to make everything right,” Birdie confessed. “As though I could somehow make up for what happened. I tried to be the perfect daughter. Then later the perfect wife, doctor, mother. Talk about putting pressure on yourself.”

  “I saw the way Mom looked at me,” Jilly said in a dark tone. “I guess I figured if I was already a bad kid, then what the hell.” Her eyes flashed. “Boy, did I show them. Weren’t they proud of me? Especially Dad.” She looked at Birdie. “You were the good sister and I was the bad sister.”

  “Oh, Jilly,” Birdie said wearily, “can’t we get past the competition between us? There is no good sister, no bad sister. There’s only you and me. And Rose.”

  Jilly wondered if she really meant this. If so, then there was a chance for reconciliation. “And Dennis…”

  Birdie looked at her squarely. “Yes,” she said from her heart. “And Hannah. And Anne Marie.”

  Feeling a deep relief, Jilly nodded gratefully, hearing Birdie’s acceptance and forgiveness. Before she could respond, a knock sounded on the door. They looked at one another questioningly.

  “Oh, hell.” Jilly hurried to answer the door, tightening her robe en route. A bellman stood at the door with a polite smile. “I have a package for Miss Jillian Season.”

  Jilly tipped him and returned to the group, her eyes wide with wonder. In her hands, she carried the time capsule.

  “Oh my, what’s that doing here?” Rose asked.

  “Here’s a note that came with it.” Jilly tore open the note and scanned the contents. “It’s from Anne Marie.”

  “What does it say?” They gathered close on the sofa.

  I appreciate more than I can ever say that you gave this time capsule to me. I’ll carry the sentiment of the gift with me always. But the contents are personal for you and your sisters and I’d be happier knowing that these treasures were safe with you. You’ve already given me the greatest gifts I could ever want: my own life and the life of my child.

  She folded the note and tucked it in her pocket to treasure forever. Then she sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. “Let’s open it.”

  Rose’s eyes widened. “Now?”

  “Why not? When’s a better time?”

  “Sure, why not?” Birdie said. “Who knows when we’ll all be together like this again.”

  Rose looked at the time capsule with knitted brows. “I don’t think we should just open it. I mean, this is important. Shouldn’t we do or say something special?”

  “You mean something ceremonial?”

  “Yes. Some kind of ritual.”

  “Well,” Jilly said, her mind whirling with ideas. “Let’s bring another chair to the table for Merry. She’s here. I can feel her. I’ve felt her presence all afternoon.”

  “I feel her, too,” Rose said, getting up to drag an empty chair into their circle. That done, she sat down beside Jilly and tucked in her legs. “Okay. I feel better now. The circle is complete. The Four Seasons are all here.”

  Jilly handed Birdie a small butter knife from the tea tray. “Do a little surgery on this box, would you, Doc?”

  Birdie looked at the pitiful tool, set it down, then went to her purse to pull out a small red Swiss Army knife. “Always be prepared.”

  “Typical,” Jilly teased.

  Birdie held up the knife. “For Merry,” she said, then cut through the tape with the same skill and care that she would use to perform a surgical incision. They all leaned forward with anticipation as the tape peeled off the edges of the ragged little shoe box. The white box had been painted in boisterous colors with flowers, mermaids, a sun and a moon, stars and clouds in the free style of children.

  “Who should open it?” Birdie asked when she finished.

  “Rose,” Jilly said firmly.

  Rose’s eyes gleamed appreciatively as she moved to the edge of her chair. “Okay, here goes.” With her delicate fingers she slowly, carefully, lifted the top of the box.

  They all held their breaths and leaned farther to peek inside. A beige-colored cloth lay over the top of the contents, wrapping it like a piece of tissue.

  Jilly recognized it immediately. “My shawl!” she exclaimed, pulling it out. She fingered the soft chamois rag as her mind hurtled backward in time. This had been her most treasured possession as a child. Holding it, she recalled how she’d made-believe the rag was her shawl when she was a beggar woman in the Lower Kingdom clutching her child to her breast. She slipped it around her neck, relishing the fragile softness against her skin.

  Rose leaned forward and pulled out a crumpled tiara made of sparkly blue-green paper. The pointed tip was bent but it was still brilliant with color.

  “That’s my mermaid crown!” Birdie said, all amazement. “I’d forgotten I’d put it in there.” Her eyes were wide with childlike wonder as she handled the fragile tiara about to crumble into pieces. “I remember telling Mom to be careful putting it in the box so that the sparkles would stay on.”

  She gingerly placed the crumpled tiara on her head. Short red spikes of damp hair mingled against green sparkles. “I loved this tiara more than any of my trophies,” Birdie said softly, looking at her sisters. “Mermaids was such a great game, wasn’t it? I mean, we really played.”

  “For hours and hours.” Jilly reached out to gingerly touch the bent point of the tiara. “And what about your treasure, Rose?”

  R
ose reached in and pulled out a small painted box that she instantly recognized. She’d painstakingly painted each intricate design on it. Birdie bent close as she opened it. Inside was her most treasured possession in the world at seven years of age—her very best collector’s stamp. The one she’d hunted for, saved for and waited by the mailbox for. It still had the power to thrill her.

  While Rose admired the stamp, Birdie reached into the time capsule to take out a photograph from the box. “What’s this?” she asked, checking the back. In their mother’s handwriting was written, My mermaids and me. Turning it, they saw another photograph of the four of them at the poolside, dressed in their tiaras and smiling big red-lipped smiles. Only this one was a close-up, and their mother had joined them.

  Ann Season, with her red-blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, was crouched down beside Merry. One arm was wrapped protectively around her baby, the other clutched the metal pool ladder for balance. Jilly was flamboyantly perched high on one of the ladder steps, one arm around her mother’s shoulders. Birdie was hanging off the other side of the ladder, one arm out as if embracing the world. Rose sat demurely on the top step, right below Merry, beaming at the camera with her wide-eyed innocence. The Season family resemblance was powerful—the varying shades of red hair, the pale skin freckled in the sun, the magnetic smiles. The one emotion that poured out from the photograph was joy.

  It filled Birdie’s heart with sadness. “I never saw this one. Who put that in here?”

  “I’ve never seen it before, either,” replied Rose. “It must’ve been Mother. She’s the only one who could have. We gave her our treasures to put into the box and she sealed it.”

  Jilly took her turn to study the picture and felt a stab in her gut when she saw her arm around her mother. They were so close then. When she was thirteen, her mother was her hero.

  Rose dipped into the box again. All that was left were several pastel envelopes. On seeing them, Jilly and Birdie put their hands to their mouths and shifted back in their seats.

  “Oh, God, I forgot about those,” said Jilly, her voice soft.

  “I think I spilled out my guilt to write that and sealed it away.”

  “But we didn’t seal the guilt away,” Jilly said. “That’s what I’ve been realizing ever since this search began. It’s like memories. They’re always there, like these letters, sealed inside of ourselves. Come on, we’ve gone this far. We might as well open them.”

  “I don’t remember these,” Rose said, perplexed. “I remember everything else, but not these. What are they?”

  “I can’t believe that you of all people don’t remember this,” Birdie said. “It all started when Mom gathered us together to tell us that Merry was coming home from the hospital.”

  Jilly remembered the scene as vividly as though it had just happened.

  The girls were seated on the living room sofa in a row, their legs hanging over the edge and their hands in their laps. They knew this was a very serious discussion and no one dared utter a peep.

  “I want to explain to you what’s happened to Merry,” Ann Season told them in her most serious voice. She was sitting with her knees together and her hands clasped tight in her lap. Her face was pale and strained and her eyes were red. “Merry won’t be coming back to us quite the same. She’s had some lung damage from all the water she took in. She can breathe all right now, but…” Her voice trailed away as she yanked a tissue out from the cuff of her dress and dabbed at her eyes.

  Jilly sneaked a glance at Birdie. Both wondered if their mother would make it through the discussion without dissolving into tears. She’d been crying a lot since the accident, long into the night, and nothing seemed to console her.

  When she began again, the strain made funny lines on her smooth face. “Her brain is not the same, either,” she said a bit shakily. “The water damaged that, too. She’ll still be our own dear Merry, but she won’t grow up the same as you will. She’ll always be a little girl. Do you understand?”

  “Will her body grow up?” Birdie wanted to know.

  “Yes, but her brain will still be a child’s.”

  “Merry is retarded?” Jilly blurted out as understanding slowly dawned on her. The word burst from her mouth, striking fear into her sister’s faces. How could someone in her family be retarded? She wasn’t born that way, how could that happen now?

  Her mother bristled. “We’re never to use that word in this house. Never! Is that understood?”

  Jilly had a thousand questions in her mind, but she knew she’d never be able to ask her mother a single one. Not ever. They all nodded meekly.

  “I still don’t remember,” Rose said, looking at the time capsule. “I must’ve blocked it out.”

  “After mother told us that Merry wasn’t going to grow up,” Jilly continued, “we decided to dedicate our own adulthood to Merry. The one we lost for her. Can you imagine?”

  “That’s so sweet, actually,” Rose murmured, her eyes glistening.

  “So we came up with the idea of the letter.”

  “Not a letter, actually,” Birdie interjected. “More a form letter. That was my idea,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “Let’s do it.” Jilly reached for the envelopes, handing one with Birdie’s name on it to her, then one to Rose, and kept her own. The final one was of the thick Crane’s stationery that their mother had always used. It was addressed To the Four Seasons in their mother’s handwriting.

  “Oh, boy,” Birdie said, looking at it. “I sure didn’t expect to see that in here.”

  “A letter from Mom?” Rose asked, incredulous.

  “Let’s hold off on this one,” Jilly said with an edge in her voice. She set it down on the table, far away from her.

  Then she opened her own letter. She saw in her own handwriting a simple sentence, like the form letter Birdie had described. Seeing it, she recalled the care and precision she’d undertaken to write it. Jilly laid the single sheet of paper on the table for her sisters to see.

  I want to be an actress when I grow up. I dedicate this to you.

  “I remember now,” Rose said, deeply moved. She hurried to open her own and lay it on the table.

  I want to be an explorer when I grow up. I dedicate this to you.

  Birdie looked at the two dedications side by side, then smiled in bittersweet recollection. She opened hers and set it down beside the others.

  I want to be a mother when I grow up. I dedicate this to you.

  Jilly looked at Birdie with new eyes. “A mother? That’s what you wanted to be? I would have thought a doctor or an astronaut or something like that. You had such big dreams.”

  “I know,” Birdie replied in a far-off voice. “But this was my greatest dream.” She looked at them and shrugged lightly with a crooked smile. “So? I always wanted to be a mother.”

  Jilly wondered if she would have made fun of Birdie’s dream, had she known, or perhaps teased her for picking something so unimaginative. Probably. Now that she was a mother, she understood better. “I guess your dream came true.”

  “But I almost lost it. I’m very lucky. Your dream came true, too, Jilly. You became an actress.”

  “Rather cryptic, wouldn’t you say? I started acting about the time I wrote that.”

  “I forgot that I wanted to be an explorer,” Rose said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Me of all people. The one who never even left our family home.” She looked away from them. “I guess I never fulfilled my dream.”

  “But you did!” countered Birdie. “You explore the world on the Internet. You collect stamps from every country. You have the heart of an explorer, Rose.”

  “Absolutely,” Jilly agreed. “And tomorrow is your greatest adventure.”

  “DannyBoy,” Rose whispered.

  “We’ll be with you every step of the way,” Birdie said.

  “Come on, Rose,” Jilly urged, seeing Rose’s slender shoulders begin to slump. “Lead the way! We’ve come a long way together on this jou
rney. You said it yourself. We can’t just go back to the way things were. We’ve come home at last and like good ol’ Odysseus we have to slay the enemies. Pull back the arrow and let fly at that fear and indecision.”

  “But I’m not that brave.”

  “Yes, you are,” Birdie said with emphasis, picking up the slip of paper with Rose’s childlike handwriting spelling out her dedication. She handed it to Rose.

  I want to be an explorer. I dedicate this to you.

  “Hoisted on my own petard,” she joked, laughing at herself. This was her dedication to Merry. She felt an overpowering resolve not to let her sister down a second time. She bent to pick up the other two pieces of pale blue stationery from the table. She handed one to Jilly and the other to Birdie, then looked at them with challenge sparkling in her eyes.

  “If I can do it, so can you. In 1969 we dedicated our futures to Merry. It’s 1999. Let’s renew our dedication starting this very moment.”

  They held their dedications out so that they all touched in the circle between them. “To Merry!”

  They talked and talked until Rose’s head was bobbing to her chest, yet each knew that they hadn’t even scratched the surface. The topic of Merry’s near-drowning had only been broached. They hadn’t yet had time to individually process it. That would take much more time and many more conversations. But for tonight, they were exhausted.

  “I’ve got to go to bed,” Rose said, stretching her arms high into the air. “I’m falling asleep here. And I’ve a busy morning.”

  “Me, too. Hannah’s probably wondering where I am.”

  “Okay, let’s call it a day,” Jilly said. She yawned noisily and dragged herself up from the sofa to walk her sisters to the door. “I’ll see you both tomorrow, then. What time are you meeting Danny?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Okay,” she said, yawning again. “I’ll be ready, I pray. God, I’m exhausted. We’ve been through the mill.” She leaned forward. “Good night, my honeys.”

  They kissed on the cheeks and Jilly knew that no matter what pain or sorrow might erupt as they worked through their problems, their connection as sisters was indestructible. They were family. Shared blood ran through their veins. All this she understood in her sisters’ touch.