Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

  A

  The days that followed were filled with special moments with Michael. Breakfasts of hot cocoa and bagels at dawn before I went to work. Laughter in the rain. Swinging Emma in the park and talking under the golden trees. Hiking up to the M on Mount Sentinel in the evening. Holding hands as we watched the sunset over the quieting city. I felt my soul bond to his. His voice, his laughter became a part of me.

  I was happier than I had ever been. After a long afternoon at a festival in the park, he dropped me off at my house. I watched them drive away, Emma’s balloon bobbing in the back window. I felt a cold finger of doubt touch my heart. Could I be trusted with their love? Did I deserve this? Or was the golden ring just out of my reach, glistening near my fingertips?

  I closed my eyes and tried to hush the strident voices in my mind.

  Chapter 32

  dc

  A game of phone tag, back and forth for days, finally resulted in a time set to visit again with May. She had some pictures to show me, she said. I couldn’t wait to see if they were of my father, hopefully better than the one Ricky gave me in Las Vegas with the features so blurred. I imagined he was handsome, feared he would be grotesque.

  I wondered if my mother would look big, pregnant with me.

  I called the ranch to see if anyone would be home if I drove that far down. Ann answered the phone.

  “Well, everyone is walking on eggshells around here,” Ann said when I asked how they were doing. “Zee has been condemned. A fate worse than death she says.”

  “What happened? Was it because she was so late the other day when I brought her down?”

  “Well, that was just another straw on the camel’s back. We got a call from the school a couple days ago and her dad—well me too—had finally had it. Was up to his eyebrows, he said. She’s grounded. For life, I think.”

  “What happened at school?”

  “She and a bunch of kids sneaked out of study hall and decided to redecorate the backdrop the drama class was making for the school play. I believe they put mustaches on all the characters in the portraits. The principal was not amused.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, no phone—fate worse than death. No TV—a mortal blow. Plus, an innovation your uncle thought up: community service. He thought it would be good for her.”

  I imagined Zee in a striped suit with a ball and chain attached to her leg, pounding nails into railroad ties.

  “A group of people take handicapped kids to the Dunrovin Ranch up there in Lolo. The volunteers—I will say Zee is volunteering—help the kids learn to ride and take care of horses. It’s good therapy for the kids. Hard, sweaty work for the volunteers. Lots of hay hauling, horse grooming, mucking out the stalls. Plus, they have to exercise the horses every day to make sure they are gentle enough for the kids.”

  It sounded like the perfect place for Zee to sort out her conflicts. Her love of horses could pull her out of the hole she’d dug for herself.

  A

  I headed through town and was just south of the Buckhouse Bridge when I noticed a rusty black Mercedes looming in my rearview mirror. Much too close, I thought. Suddenly, it revved its engine and shot around me, cutting back into my lane so close to my left fender that my heart stopped for a moment. I let off the gas as the car streaked down the highway in front of me. Well, there goes one of my nine lives, I thought ruefully. Why some people use the road to get revenge on their wife, son, boss, landlord, or whoever just made them mad, I’ll never understand.

  I arrived at Aunt May’s house and knocked on the door. Her face appeared at the front window and she waved me on in. Chester did his best to get under foot, purring like a racecar the whole time. I hugged May who apologized for cutting our last visit short.

  A pot of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies were already laid on the table.

  “So, your mom and this fellow you were asking about …” her voice trailed away as she went into the bedroom and bent down into the closet. She came back carrying a pink striped box that had a lid covered with lace.

  “I remember this fellow particularly well because he took an interest in my bitterroots. I went out one morning early to hang out the wash. Saw him standing there.” She pointed through the window at the long rows of flowerbeds in the front yard. “It was late June and these beds were blanketed in pink-and-white blooms.” She smiled wistfully. “He just stared a while, lost in their beauty. Then he asked me what they were. I was glad to tell him of course, and he listened. Most young people don’t pay much more attention to these flowers than to what they hear in school. State flower. That’s all they know. But, he took notice.” She smiled, remembering.

  I eyed the box under her hand and shifted in my chair. “How long did he work here?”

  “Not long. A few weeks maybe. Your mom helped out a bit too with the animals. I never did see much of Kathy after that. Except when you were about a year old, I saw you both at Martin and Ann’s. You were such a sweet little thing. I sure did worry about you though. Her married to that Clark fellow. You didn’t take after him much. Just as well,” she said with a sniff.

  She opened the box and pulled out a stack of photos in a plastic bag. She set them in her lap while she pawed through the box.

  I craved details, but it was like digging in sand. You ask too much and the whole thing may fall in, leaving you with less than if you had asked nothing at all. “Do you remember anything else about him? Skip, I mean?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Hard worker; strong as an ox. Polite. Quiet sort. Dan would remember more. He had a great memory for people. I swear he could list off every man we ever hired on. First name and last.” She pulled out a picture of her husband and gazed at it for a moment. “I miss him,” she said.

  I waited, not wanting to interfere with her memories.

  “Why are you asking about this man, anyway?” she asked suddenly with a cock of her head. “He important somehow?”

  “Maybe.” I hedged, not ready to share what I knew … or thought I knew. “I’m just trying to find out more about my mom and her … history.”

  “Well, here it is. A photo from that time. Here’s your mom, and I guess that must be the man you are asking about.”

  She pointed at my mother, a younger version than the one I remembered. She was holding a platter of food by a table under the tree in the front lawn. Her hair was long, tied up behind her head in a ponytail. She looked tired. Worn for her age. She wore a loose-fitting shirt and faded jeans. No way to tell if she was pregnant.

  A checkered cloth covered the table where a half dozen or so farmhands sat, squinting in the sun. My great-uncle Dan, easily recognizable in his scruff of a beard and bandana around his neck, leaned an elbow on his knee, his foot on a bench. May must have been taking the picture. A stack of hay on a slip behind a tractor made up the background.

  A broad-shouldered man was beside my mother. He was just reaching down to pick up something—a cooler maybe—when the camera snapped. Only his profile was visible beneath a cap. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out his features to no avail. I took in every detail of his appearance. Striped shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled up. Powerful forearms. Jeans darkened at the knees with dirt. Worn boots. A hard worker. Strong. But what was he like inside—his personality, his soul? What did he believe in?

  I wondered how they had met. What caused them to break apart just as my life began? Did he even know that my mother was pregnant?

  “This help you at all, Jenna?” Aunt May broke through my thoughts.

  I sighed. “I’d just like to know more about this man.” I glanced at her. “I don’t know if Ann told you, but there is a chance he may be my real father.”

  I watched her face; her mouth slowly drew into a tight line.

  “Hmm. I can see how that could be. I had wondered about that but didn’t want to say.”

  “I’m trying to find out about him. And her. What happened …” My voice trailed off. “I just want to know who I really am.”

 
Her face was full of sympathy when she spoke. “I wish I had more for you. As I said, he worked for us for a short time—they both did. He seemed a decent fellow. I don’t know where they went or what became of them afterwards. I can see why you would want to know and I hope you do find out more. But it matters less where you came from than who you are, you know.”

  She was thoughtful for a moment, then placed the photo album on the table and stood. “Here, I want to show you something. Come with me.” She gestured for me to follow her through the kitchen into the garage.

  Alongside one wall of the garage was a green potting bench, neatly organized. Spades sprouted out of terra cotta pots. With some difficulty, May stooped down, opened a small cupboard, and withdrew a square pot half filled with dried and tangled roots. Fine clods of dirt still clung to the reddish-brown threads.

  “I’ve had these in the garage for a couple of years. I keep forgetting about them.” May picked up a scraggly root about three inches long between her crooked fingers. She laid it in the palm of her hand and held it under my nose. “They’re bitterroots.”

  I picked up the little root. The rough, brown plant was stiff and crooked, its shriveled fingers reaching out in all directions. I wrinkled my nose. “It’s kind of …”

  “Kind of ugly, isn’t it?” May finished for me. “But incredibly resilient. In the spring, I can put these in water for a couple of days and then plant them. They’ll bloom into beautiful flowers.”

  I was incredulous. “After two years in the garage?”

  “Even longer. The nutrition the plant needs is there until it’s ready to put it to use. These flowers grow in almost any kind of soil: sand, clay, whatever. They are so hardy, they just find the light and move toward it until their skinny little tubular leaves push through the ground. They simply don’t give up,” May said, admiring the shriveled-looking roots.

  “And here’s a bit of a secret.” She leaned toward me confidentially. “It took me a long time to have the courage to do this to one of the poor things, but if you cut the bitterroot in half …” She took out a small knife, laid the root on the table, and sliced it down the middle. “See, there is a red center, just at the top of the root. It’s the heart of the bitterroot.” She nodded her head solemnly. “The heart of the bitterroot,” she repeated. “A tough little flower with a lot to give.”

  I took the root in my hand and lifted it toward the window till a shaft of light fell on it. I squinted. Sure enough. A deep pink heart.

  “In fact,” she continued, “some say there is a tradition the Shoshone Indians have. They believed this flower could ward off a bear attack. I’m not so sure that they really did believe that,” she admitted with a smile, “but it makes a good story.”

  May returned the roots to the dark compartment. She brushed a trail of dirt from the wooden bench into an empty pot and stacked several pots in the corner. She turned to look at me then, her eyes bright.

  “Jenna, you are a great, good girl. Seems to me that you are a lot like these flowers of mine.”

  I cocked my head, thinking of the dried, shriveled roots, wondering if this was a compliment or not.

  “Your beginnings were pretty rough. You went through some pretty ugly times. But you took root where you were planted and drew upon that nourishment you had deep in your soul. You are blooming now … a beautiful young woman. And you have that great heart,” she said, her hand on my shoulder, “and that’s what counts the most.”

  I felt the blood flush into my cheeks. It seemed like I had spent much of my life struggling to just stand on two feet, wondering where I had come from and where I would end up. It was hard to think that I had that kind of foundation inside me, an internal gift I could draw on to create a beautiful life.

  May patted my shoulder. “It’s too bad the flowers aren’t out now, but come with me. I have lots of pictures I can show you.”

  I followed her back into the house and she pulled a box of pictures from a closet near the living room. I sat on the flowered sofa and leafed through an album filled with dozens of photos of the delicate pink bitterroot flower at all phases of its growth. There was a picture of Aunt May on a hillside amid a carpet of pink, her arms around her two grown girls. A photo of Aunt May leaning over her raised garden bed, grinning up at the camera, a smudge of potting soil across her nose.

  “See this one.” May showed me a snapshot that seemed to be nothing more than a close up of a field cluttered with clumps of mosses and weeds. “It’s full of them, just not bloomed yet. Do you see them?”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to pick out the flower.

  “Here.” My aunt pointed them out. “And here.”

  Suddenly I could see them, every few inches as plain as day.

  “You just have to know what you are looking for.” May nodded knowingly. “That’s the way with a lot of good things in life.”

  Pictures of flowers and gardens gave way to pictures of family—children, cousins, grandparents.

  I peered into the young faces of Martin and Ann, smiling in front of a new truck, shortly after they were married. I thought of what lay ahead of them beyond the picture frame—children born, laughter, financial struggles, loved ones lost, the never-ending toil of daily life. I thought of my mother and the shifting episodes that, stitched together, made up the fabric of her life. I thought of Michael and Emma and tried to place myself into the picture of their world. A deep longing couched in an icy fear gripped me. Hadn’t they been through enough? What if I failed them? Maybe I was genetically predisposed to simply implode—or explode—midlife. Was I an unsafe bet?

  I felt compelled to ask. “What is the secret, Aunt May? What is it that keeps one family in one piece when another comes unraveled?”

  “It’s a lot of things,” May said, smoothing the page of an album on her lap. “Keeping traditions alive. Those simple birthday get-togethers Ann always has for everyone. They create memories and knit people together. Having faith and holding to good principles, a sense of fun—that helps. A family takes nourishing, like the sun and rain on my little flowers. Put them in a good spot where they can grow and they flourish.

  “And a good deal of forgiveness,” she said firmly. “Without forgiveness, I’m afraid we would grind each other into dust. Everybody is here to learn something. I think we need to give each other a little elbow room.”

  She rose, went to the crowded desk nearby, and took a manila envelope from a shelf. She gathered the picture of my parents and some of the photos of the bitterroot and slipped them inside the envelope.

  “Here, you should keep these,” she said. “I hope they help you remember the past and turn your history into fertile soil to grow in.”

  I shrugged into my jacket. May walked with me to the door. She stopped in front of her kitchen window and gazed lovingly at her flowerbeds. The afternoon sun cast a gentle glow on her face, softening lines as her eyes sparkled.

  She gave me a hug. “Come back in the spring and I’ll give you some sprouts to plant in pots on your patio. They will do just fine there. And when you get a place of your own, I will give you some bitterroot ‘starts’ to plant around your house.”

  A place of my own, I thought, a place to flower. I tried to picture that, a place with Michael and Emma, but their faces swam in my vision. The picture faded away.

  Chapter 33

  dc

  I was just handing a ticket to the last person in a long line that had been in front of my counter when I saw Michael standing across the hall leaning against a post, a serious expression on his face. My heart quickened instantly as he made his way to the counter.

  “Hey, Terry,” I said, “can you watch the desk for a minute?”

  She looked up as Michael approached and nodded with a knowing look.

  Michael handed me my jacket as we walked toward the café. “I think this is yours.”

  “Oh, I wondered where that was,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a wonder I have any coats at all at the rate I lose them.
”

  He smiled thinly. We walked in silence for a moment and I wondered at his mood.

  “Have you turned up anything new about your father? Any luck finding information on his family?” He put his hands in his pockets as he walked beside me. His voice was strangely distant.

  “I finally got to finish my talk with Aunt May. She gave me a picture of my father, but it isn’t very clear. She told me he and my mother had worked for her and my great-uncle for a short time when my mother and Skip were down on their luck. But she didn’t know anything else about them really.” I sighed. “And I’ve been looking online to see if I can locate my father’s sister, but it’s tough going. I’ll just have to keep trying.”

  He nodded his head and pursed his lips. “Keep at it. You never know what will open up.”

  “Listen, I contacted the artist I thought Zee would like. She will probably give her a call and invite her up to see her gallery.” He spoke quietly, avoiding my eyes.

  “Oh, that’s great. Thank you.”

  He fell silent as we came up to the tall glass case in the waiting room. A giant stuffed brown bear reared on his hind legs inside, towering a good seven feet over two Chinook salmon, frozen in an acrylic stream.

  “Are you OK?” I asked, puzzled by how withdrawn he seemed.

  “Yeah.” He looked off down the corridor as the luggage belt in the baggage area beeped and sprang into action beside waiting passengers.

  “Look, Jenna, I …”

  “Jenna!” a voice called from behind me.

  I turned around in surprise to see a middle-aged woman with short salt-and-pepper hair coming toward me. It was Debra, my old boss when I was in Los Angeles.

  “Hey, kiddo, how are you?” As she reached to hug me, the heavy tote bag she had on her shoulder slipped and nearly hit the floor, making her laugh.

  “Oh, hi! It’s so good to see you,” I said. “What on earth brings you to Missoula?”

  “A jewelry-making conference up at Flathead Lake. You know, my favorite hobby.” She flashed a hand filled with rings. “I was hoping I’d see you. We sure miss you down there.”