The Violets of March

by Sarah Jio

  “Hi,” she said a little limply.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  I knew her too well to believe that. “Tell me,” I said. “I know your voice. Something’s wrong.”

  She sighed. “I told myself I wasn’t going to tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  There was silence.

  “Annie?”

  “All right,” she said. “I saw Joel.”

  My heart started beating faster. “Where?”

  “At a café on Fifth.”

  “And?”

  “He asked about you.”

  I was practically breathless. “What did he say?”

  “I told you I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Well, you did, and now you have to finish the story.”

  “He asked me how you were.”

  “Did you tell him I was here?”

  “Of course I didn’t. But I did tell him you were dating someone.”

  “Annie, you did not!”

  “I did. Hey, if he can play house with another woman, he deserves to know that you’re moving on.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “Well, if you want me to tell you that he started bawling right there, he didn’t. But he didn’t look thrilled, either. His face said it all.”

  “What did his face say, Annie?”

  “That it hurt to hear of you with someone else, dummy.”

  My heart throbbed deep inside. I sat down—I had to sit down. I felt weak, and a little sick.

  “Em, are you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See? I shouldn’t have told you. Look what it’s going to do to your healing process. Remember, Joel left you. In such a betraying way, I might add.”

  It was as certain as the freckles on my nose, but somehow hearing Annabelle say it again—well, it stung.

  “I know,” I said. “You’re right.” I sat up straighter. “I’m going to be fine. Just fine.”

  “How many times can we say ‘fine’?”

  I grinned. “Fine. Do you have any other bombs to drop?”

  “Nope,” she said. “But there is a tragedy happening in this apartment.”

  “What?”

  “You’re out of ice cream.”

  I remembered my late-night affair with Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia before I left for the island. “A tragedy, indeed.”

  “Bye, sweetie,” she said.

  As I set my cell phone on the table, Bee’s phone began ringing. After four rings, I picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Emily, is that you?”

  “Mom?”

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “So, did you hear the wonderful news?”

  “What news?”

  “Danielle,” she said in a high-pitched voice, “is pregnant!”

  I should have said, “That’s so exciting!” or “Oh, the miracle of life!” but I just shrugged and said, “Again?” This was Danielle’s third child. But as far as I was concerned, it might as well have been her thirteenth.

  “Yes, she’s due in November!” Mom cried. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  That’s what she said, but what I heard was: “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” I sensed a Danielle lovefest beginning and quickly changed the subject. “So,” I said, “Bee said you called. Was this what you wanted to tell me?”

  “Well, yes, but dear, I heard about Joel. I’m worried about you. How are you doing?”

  I ignored her question. “How did you hear about it?”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “that’s not important.”

  “It’s important, Mom.”

  “Well,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Your sister told me, dear.”

  “How did Danielle know? I haven’t talked to her in months.”

  “Well, I think she read that you weren’t married anymore on the World Wide Web,” she said. My mother was the only person, I think on earth, who referred to the Internet that way, yet it was endearing somehow. She also called Google “Goggle.”

  I remembered my Facebook page. Yes, I had adjusted my relationship status in my profile shortly after Joel had done the same—but there was something wrong, on so many levels, about your own mother hearing about your divorce via Facebook. “I didn’t know that Danielle even used Facebook,” I said, still a little stunned.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Well maybe she Goggled it.”

  I sighed. “The point is, Danielle knows. You know. Everybody knows. I was going to tell you, Mom, eventually. But I guess I just wasn’t ready to face my family yet. I didn’t want to worry you and Dad.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “I’m so sorry that you’re going through this. Are you holding up OK?”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “Good,” she said. “Honey, was there another woman involved?” This is what everyone wanted to know when they learned of my marriage’s demise, so I didn’t fault my mother for her curiosity.

  “No,” I said. “I mean yes, but no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I looked down at the phone cord, which I’d somehow wrapped so tightly around my finger that it was cutting off the circulation. I didn’t know if I was angry about my mother’s obvious prying or angry at Joel for precipitating the reason for the prying. But mostly my finger hurt, so I focused on that, as Mom chattered on. I could see her there, standing in the kitchen in front of that horrible old electric stove—avocado green with the oven mitts hanging from the handle, knitted in rainbow-colored yarn.

  “I worry about you all alone, dear. You don’t want to end up like your aunt.”

  “Mom,” I said a little more sternly than I had anticipated. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

  “OK, honey,” she said, sounding a bit wounded. “I’m just trying to help.” And I suppose in her own way she was.

  “I know,” I replied. “So, how did you know I was here?”

  “I called your apartment. Annabelle said you were staying with your aunt.”

  Mom never called Bee by her first name. She always referred to her as “your aunt.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She invited me to stay for the month. I’ll be here through the end of March.”

  “A whole month?” She sounded annoyed, or vaguely jealous. I knew she wanted to be here too, but she was too prideful to admit it. She hadn’t been to the island since Danielle and I left for college, which is when our summer visits ceased.

  “Oh, Mom?” I said. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s something Bee and I were talking about,” I said, pausing.

  “What is it, honey?”

  I took a deep breath, unsure of the emotional land mines that might lie ahead. “She told me that there was a time, many years ago, when you were working on some sort of project—one that changed your relationship with her.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, so I continued. “She said she told you the truth about Grandma. I wish I knew what she meant by that.”

  I could no longer hear her fiddling around with her spatula and kitchen pans in the background. There was only silence.

  “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “Emily,” she finally said, “what has your aunt told you?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “She wouldn’t tell me anything, just that you decided not to be a part of the family anymore. She said it changed things between the two of you.” I looked over my shoulder to be sure Bee wasn’t hovering. She wasn’t. “She said you stopped coming to visit. Why, Mom? What happened?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I can’t recall the details. And if Bee tries to tell you anything, I wouldn’t believe it. She’s getting up there in age and her memory is fleeting.”

  “Mom, it’s just that—”

  “Emily, I’m sorry, I don’t want to discuss this.”

  “Mom, I deserve to know the story.
”

  “You don’t,” she said simply.

  I frowned.

  “Honey, don’t be angry,” she said, detecting my mood as only mothers can do.

  “I’m not angry.”

  “It’s in the past, dear,” she continued. “Some things are better left that way.”

  I could tell by the tone of her voice that the door was closed. Bee, Evelyn, and now my mother had made it very clear that these secrets were not for the taking. If I wanted to know their stories, I would have to work for them.

  Later, after Bee’s nap, she mixed a gin and tonic for herself, and offered me one. “Sure,” I said, leaning back on the couch and enjoying the punch of the first sip, which always tastes like pine needles.

  “Did you ever call your mother back?” Bee asked.

  “She called here again about an hour ago,” I said. “She wanted to tell me that Danielle is having another baby.”

  “Another one?”

  I loved that Bee’s response was similar to mine. Perhaps it was just that we were childless, but I think we both agreed that anyone who willingly has more than two children is clinically insane.

  I took another sip of my drink and buried my head deeper into the blue velvet couch cushion. “Bee, do you think Joel left me because I never cooked for him?”

  “Nonsense, dear,” she said, setting her crossword puzzle down.

  I tucked my knees into my body and clasped my arms around them tightly. “My mother is so—”

  “She’s had a more difficult life than you know, Emily,” she interrupted.

  The statement took me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Bee stood up. “Here, let me show you something.”

  She began walking down the hallway, so I followed her. Two doors past the guest room where I was staying, she stopped in front of another door. She reached for the knob and then her pocket, from which she pulled out a key ring and selected a small gold key that she then inserted into the door.

  The door creaked open and we stepped inside. I batted away a cobweb from my face. “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been in this room in a very long time.”

  Next to the small white dresser there was a child’s table, set with two pink teacups on saucers, and a Victorian dollhouse. I bent down to pick up a porcelain doll from the floor. Her face was smudged and her brown hair matted. She looked as if some little girl had left her there, just like that.

  “What is this room?” I asked, confused.

  “It was your mother’s room,” she said. “She lived here with me for a time when she was very young.”

  “Why? What about Grandpa and Grandma?”

  “Something happened,” she said simply. “Your grandparents . . . they were going through a rough patch, so I offered to have your mother come stay with me for a while.” Bee sighed, smiling to herself. “She was such a dear little girl. We had the most fun together, your mother and I.”

  As Bee opened the closet door, I thought of my grandparents and wondered what could have precipitated them leaving their child with her. She reached to the top shelf and retrieved a shoe box. She blew a layer of dust off the lid before handing it to me. “Here,” she said. “Maybe this will give some insight into your mother.”

  Bee pulled the keys from her pocket and they jingled in her hands, which was my cue to walk back to the hallway.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking at the box in anticipation.

  Bee turned toward her room and said, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  In my room, I set the box down on the bed. What could be inside? Would my mother approve of me riffling through her things?

  I lifted the lid and peered inside. On top were three dried roses tied together with a shiny red ribbon. When I picked up the little bunch, three delicate petals fell to the floor. Next I pulled out a child’s picture book; a long gray feather, which looked like a seagull’s; a barrette; a pair of tiny white gloves; and a small, leather-bound volume. It wasn’t until I moved it into the light that I could see what it was: a scrapbook. I opened it and waves of emotion flooded my body. On the first page the word Mother was handwritten, surrounded by tiny flowers. I blinked hard, and turned the page to find a collage of sorts. There were clippings from magazines, of women with perfectly coiffed hair and pressed dresses. There were dried flowers and black-and-white photos—one of a baby, and one of a house, simple and small with an old car parked in front. What is this? Why did my mother create this scrapbook, and why did Bee want me to see it?

  Bee’s silence at dinner told me that she didn’t want to discuss the mysterious room or the box of hidden treasures, so I didn’t press my luck. I cleared the dishes, and just before I started to load them into the dishwasher, the phone rang.

  “Get that, dear, please,” Bee said from the hallway. “I’m afraid it’s lights out for me. I’m exhausted.”

  “Sure,” I said, picking it up. “Hello?”

  “Emily?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Evelyn.”

  “Oh, hi, Ev—”

  “No, no, dear, Bee must not know that I’m calling you.”

  “OK,” I said cautiously. “What’s going on?”

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “With what? Are you OK?”

  “Yes—well, no. I need to speak to you. In person.”

  I paused for a second. “Do you want me to come over?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m just up the beach, honey. The big house with the wisteria arbor in front, about six houses past Henry’s. It’s a bit chilly out, dear, so wear a coat.”

  I didn’t tell Bee I was going out, a decision I regretted once I got to the beach. The tide was coming in, which made the water seem menacing, as though it was stalking me, extending its frothy hooks onto the shore and making eyes at my feet. I imagined that bats were flying overhead, even though they were probably just seagulls nestling into the treetops for the night. I zipped my coat up and told myself to look straight ahead. I passed Henry’s house, which was dark, then started counting. One, two, three. The homes looked cozy nestled up against the hillside. Four, five, six, seven. I wondered if I had misinterpreted her directions. Eight, nine. I looked up and saw Evelyn’s home in the distance. The wisteria looked bare and vulnerable clinging to the arbor, but somewhere deep inside its branches was the promise of spring, and when I looked closely, I saw a few pale green shoots emerging from the trunk. I turned to walk up the steps, and when I did, I saw Evelyn on the front porch, sitting in a rocking chair. I could see that she was in a nightgown. Her hair, usually carefully styled, looked matted and messy.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, reaching for my hand.

  “Of course,” I replied, squeezing in response.

  Her face looked ashen. She appeared weaker, more frail than she had only days ago.

  “It’s the cancer,” I said. “You’re—”

  “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

  I nodded.

  She pointed to a rocking chair next to hers, and I sat down.

  “I’m going to miss this island.” Her voice was distant, far away.

  I swallowed hard.

  She looked out to the shore. “Did you know that your aunt Bee and I used to go skinny-dipping out there? We’d strip right down and just dive in.” She turned to me. “You should try it. There’s absolutely nothing like feeling Old Man Puget Sound on every inch of your skin.”

  Laughing would have been the appropriate response, but I couldn’t summon anything but a half smile. What do you say to someone who is reminiscing about her life for perhaps the final time?

  “You will take care of her, won’t you, Emily?”

  “Of course I will,” I said, looking into her eyes. “I promise.”

  She nodded. “Bee isn’t an easy person to get along with, you know. But she’s as much my home as this island is.”

  I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “She told me, after my husband died, that I wasn’t a
lone—that I’d never be alone. And as long as Bee has been in my life, that has been true.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s not right that I’m leaving her. It’s just not right.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, throwing her feeble fists into the cold air as if threatening the island, challenging it.

  I jumped up and put my arms around her, and she turned and buried her face in my shoulder.

  She wiped away the tears on her cheek and sat down. “I can hardly bear the thought of leaving her.”

  I leaned in so she could see my face better. “I will look out for her. Don’t you worry.”

  She sighed. “Good. Will you come in for a moment? I have something to give you.”

  I nodded, following Evelyn through the front door. The warm air inside felt good on my face.

  Evelyn’s living room looked like the quarters of a sick woman, as it should have. Magazines, books, mail, and piles of paper covered the coffee table alongside a collection of water glasses and dishes encrusted with old food.

  “I’m sorry about all of this,” she said quietly.

  I shook my head. “Please, don’t apologize.”

  “I think I left it in the other room,” she said. “It will be just be a minute.”

  I wasn’t sure what it was, but Evelyn looked as though her life depended on finding it.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

  I knew I didn’t have much time, so I worked fast, first collecting the dirty dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. I threw away the tissues that had been piled high in a heap, and after I’d moved a mound of mail to the kitchen table to be sorted, I gave the table a quick wipe down. There. Then I sat down on the couch near the window. My eyes found their way to a nearby bookcase, where shelves displayed trinkets and framed photos.

  Next to a glass vase filled with sand dollars, there was a photo of Evelyn on her wedding day—so beautiful and elegant with her tall husband standing by her side. I wondered what he was like, and why they’d never had children. There were photos of dogs—a Jack Russell and a dachshund that looked as if he had been fed pie for dinner every night. But then I saw a portrait of a woman, and I recognized her instantly. She was the same woman in the photo at Henry’s house. In this shot she was smiling, standing next to someone else. I squinted to get a better look. She was standing next to Bee.