Sweetgrass

by Monroe, Mary Alice

  Blackjack’s barking alerted the family. The boys’ laughing stopped abruptly and their heads swung toward the road.

  “He’s home!” Mama June exclaimed in a choked whisper.

  In a rush, Morgan and Nan rushed past to greet their father. Mama June remained frozen on the porch, clutching the back of a wicker chair. She closed her eyes, feeling an odd separateness.

  “Mary June?”

  She opened her eyes, grateful to see Nona’s face near her own. Nona, who knew her so well. Nona, who had plucked her from her darkest moments. Nona’s dark-brown eyes probed far beneath the veneer.

  “What’s the matter?” She moved closer and laid a hand on her arm.

  Mama June knew that it was fear that held her back, fear of what his homecoming meant. “Oh, I’m just nervous, is all.”

  “Of what, honey?”

  “Fear that I won’t do right by him. What if Adele is right? I’m not skilled. What if I fail? The stakes are so high. He deserves better than me.”

  “You’re the only one he wants, Mary June! You’re the only one he’s ever wanted. There’s no one better than you. Now, go on out there. Your husband’s home! What’s he gonna think if you’re not outside to greet him?”

  She squeezed Nona’s hand, nodded her affirmation, then took a deep breath and stepped forward to begin what she knew was the next phase of her life.

  As the paramedics transported Preston up the front stairs, the family drew nearer in excitement, calling out his name in welcome while Blackjack’s bark echoed joyously.

  Welcome home! We missed you! Look who’s found his way home!

  The front door swung open as the group followed him indoors, all save Blackjack, who commenced whimpering and pawing at the door. Ignored, he threw back his head and yelped pathetically, desperate to be near his master after such a long absence.

  They placed Preston on the hospital bed in the middle of the room and settled him. The mood changed as the excitement of his arrival waned and the reality of his limitations became apparent. Nan and her boys hovered on the fringe. Chas and Harry’s eyes were wide with shock at their grandfather’s frailty, more obvious now that he was back in the familiarity of home. Morgan hung back near the door. He stood slump-shouldered with his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes unreadable.

  Mama June’s gaze swept the room then alighted on her husband. She saw immediately that he was confused. The family voices that she heard as music filled with joy and excitement, she knew he heard as a ferocious white noise he couldn’t recognize.

  Light blazed from the chandelier, flowing mercilessly down on Preston, pinning him like an insect under a microscope. Gone was the proud patriarch that sat at the head of the table with authority. This strange, thin man lay helpless with his right arm held crunched up against his chest and his fingers curled tight. Despite the tightness of muscle that held his body rigid, however, there was an uncontrollable shaking, and his eyes looked from left to right in panic. Mama June surveyed the scene with a profound sadness.

  Then she saw Kristina approach him slowly and stand at the foot of the bed. There was a palpable power to Kristina’s silence. She stood watching him for several minutes, biding her time, as everyone around them fell silent, too. Mama June could hear Nona rattling dishes in the kitchen, a mocking-bird’s song and the scraping and sniffing of Blackjack hunting a spider on the porch.

  Preston’s wandering gaze at last landed on Kristina. She seemed to grasp and hold his focus. Gradually, Mama June saw the wariness slip from his eyes. That must have been what Kristina was waiting for, because she walked around the bed to his side and, still without speaking, reached out to take his hand in hers and bring it to her chest. It seemed to Mama June to be a warm, even intimate, gesture. She could almost feel the connection between them herself. They remained looking at each other, his hand in hers, until slowly, gradually, his shaking subsided.

  Only then, when he was calm, did she speak. “Hello, Preston. I’m Kristina,” she said in her lilting voice. “And I’m here to help you.”

  Mama June released a long sigh of relief and thought to herself, I am not alone.

  As if she’d heard, Kristina turned her head toward Mama June and, with her free hand, reached out and gestured for her to come near.

  Mama June cleared her throat and stepped forward, surprised that her heart was pounding. Kristina took hold of her hand and placed Preston’s hand in her own, connecting them.

  “You need time alone with your husband,” Kristina told her. “I’ll be in the next room. Just let me know when you’re done.”

  Mama June turned her attention to her husband and found him shaking again. She looked up in alarm, but Kristina was already herding the rest of the family out of the room. She brought his hand close to her chest, as she’d seen Kristina do.

  “Preston,” she called. His skin felt flushed and covered with a sheen of sweat. “Preston,” she repeated with force, tightening her grip.

  Preston’s gaze stopped shifting to fix on her. Mama June held his gaze, sensing with each second that she was his beacon to guide him through his confusion. Looking into his bright blue eyes, she smiled reassuringly and, not releasing her eye contact, leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

  “Welcome home,” she told him in a soft tone.

  She could tell that he knew it was her, yet he still seemed not to register what she’d said.

  “You’re home,” she repeated. “You’ve come home to Sweetgrass.”

  She saw at last understanding and the first signal of peace she’d seen in the blue waters of his eyes since this painful ordeal had begun. His eyelids drooped with fatigue.

  More comfortable now, she leaned against his mattress and smoothed the thin cotton blanket over him. “It’s been a hectic morning, hasn’t it? Why don’t we both just sit here a spell and catch our breath? We can pretend we’re sitting on the veranda, watching a sunset. Shall we?”

  He released a ragged sigh.

  They sat together in silence while out on the veranda they heard the creaking of the porch swing and the occasional laugh punctuating the low murmurs of conversation. Gradually Preston’s shaking subsided and his breathing grew regular.

  “Look at us,” she said. “Holding hands like a couple of kids.” Her smile lingered and she said wistfully, “We haven’t done this in a long time, have we?”

  She felt a faint squeezing of her hand. To her, it felt like a bear hug.

  “I know that we haven’t been close in a long time. Too long. But that doesn’t matter now. I promise you, Preston, I’m here by your side to stay. You’ve got me, for better or for worse. I’ll do my best to get you through this. And you will get through this.”

  His eyes shone back at her and she wished she could comprehend what he was thinking.

  “Well now, I just wanted you to know,” she said, feeling awkward after the show of emotion. She kissed the back of his hand and tucked it under his blanket. “I’d best let Kristina do her job.”

  His expression changed.

  “What?” she asked, peering closer. “You don’t want me to go?”

  His eyes blinked.

  “Kristina is a lovely girl. Easy on the eye, too, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  He blinked twice, with a deliberate slowness that caught her attention.

  “I swanny, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to talk to me.” She thought for a moment then asked, “You wouldn’t be setting up some kind of…communication system?”

  He blinked twice.

  She leaned forward, eyes alert. “Is that two blinks for yes?”

  He blinked twice.

  “You are!” She brightened as a grin stretched across her face. “Dear, clever man,” she said with a light laugh. “Why, I think we just might do all right after all.”

  7

  “In coiled baskets, the shape is created by building the foundation, row upon row. The process is slow and deliberate and requir
es a remarkable continuity of precision.”

  —Row Upon Row

  THE WEEKS PASSED. The Lowcountry bloomed as the days grew warmer, but no one paid much attention to the change going on outside the house. Inside, Preston’s care dominated the passing days as everyone kept busy settling into new routines.

  Kristina took over the supervision of Preston’s daily care with an ease that Mama June found humbling. The therapists that came into the house had their specific goals and duties. From the moment Nona stepped back into the house, she managed its care with her usual formidable efficiency. As for Mama June, she helped out in the daily chores and made herself available to assist the therapists in any way she could.

  It physically pained her to stand at the side of Preston’s bed while the speech therapist worked with him. Her own mouth moved as she watched him struggle to form even a syllable, much less a word.

  It was no different with the other therapists. As the physical therapist went through the body exercises, Mama June squeezed her hands together in sympathy when Preston couldn’t move even one finger of his right hand. She nervously fumbled with the buttons of her blouse as the occupational therapist patiently helped Preston maneuver his clumsy left hand over a large button while training his left side to take up what the right used to do.

  As she looked at him in the shadowy light, Preston appeared a mere silhouette of the man she once knew. She bent her head, closing her eyes in exhaustion. She felt so utterly depleted she could barely stand. Yet tired as she was, she knew her despair did not compare to his.

  “Are you all right?”

  Mama June swiftly turned her head to see Kristina standing beside her, her eyes soft with concern.

  “Yes, dear, I’m fine,” she replied, straightening her shoulders. She cleared her throat. “It’s been a tiring day, that’s all.”

  “Well, you don’t look fine. You look worn out.”

  Her first inclination was to deny it, but Kristina had a way of getting past all pretenses. Mama June offered a weak smile and admitted, “Well, I am a little tired.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed early tonight? I can bring you a tray.”

  “Heavens! The last thing you need is another patient. I’m fine and I’ll eat with you in the kitchen.” She covered a yawn. “But yes, I think I will turn in early tonight.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but is something else bothering you?”

  She turned her head, feeling torn between keeping silent about her odd sense of displacement and voicing her concerns. “I don’t mean to sound complaining or self-indulgent,” she began hesitatingly. “It’s just—” Mama June sighed. “I don’t feel particularly useful.”

  Kristina’s eyes widened. “How can you say that? You work from dawn to dusk. You do everything!”

  “That’s just it. I want to be his helpmate, but it sometimes seems that everybody has a role in my husband’s care—except me. I’m sure you could all manage very well without me.” She hated the petulance she heard in her own voice.

  “We probably could,” Kristina agreed. “But he could not.”

  Mama June looked up.

  “You’re thinking that taking care of Preston only has to do with organizing the schedules and bathing him, giving medicine, that sort of thing. Right?”

  Mama June nodded.

  “That kind of work is easy to measure. But there’s another realm of caretaking that’s more personal. It involves the mental well-being of the patient, his cooperation, his motivation, his desire to recover. Without it, we’d all fail. The responsibility for this part of caretaking falls squarely on your shoulders. You’re a big part of his therapy.”

  Mama June cast a baleful look at Preston’s bed. “Then I’m not doing a very good job of it. Every day he struggles to accomplish the smallest task, and every day he seems to sink deeper and deeper into depression. I thought he’d be fired up once he got home, but he seems more frustrated than ever. He’s giving up.”

  Kristina nodded, her brow gathering with concern.

  “That’s not like him,” Mama June told her.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s not a self-pitying kind of man. You should have seen him before his stroke,” she said wistfully. “He cut a fine figure. He was always so filled with life. And coordinated! Why, he could cast a fishing line into the water with the finesse of a master swordsman. Or let fly a net that would unfurl and spread so gracefully into the air, you’d swear you were watching a blossom unfold before your eyes. He could pluck any song on the guitar, too, just playing by ear. And he’d drive his car so fast, he was shifting gears more on instinct than anything else.” She laughed lightly.

  “So he was a redneck?” Kristina asked, teasingly.

  Mama June’s eyes softened with affection. “When it came to his car, he was just another good ol’ boy in love with the open road. Some nights, we’d barely be on speaking terms by the time we got home, he’d get me so spooked with his driving. He drove fast just to rile me.” She sighed and glanced back at the man lying on the bed. “Truth is, I wasn’t ever really afraid. No matter what, he always made me feel safe.”

  “Men like that are rare,” Kristina said softly.

  Mama June nodded, her misting eyes betraying her composure. “That was the Preston Blakely I knew.” She turned abruptly away. “I don’t know who this man is.”

  “You can’t give up now,” Kristina urged. “He needs you.”

  She looked at the girl sharply, surprised that she’d think such a thing. “I’m not going anywhere!” she replied. “I didn’t mean that. I’d never leave him. But frankly, I don’t know if I’m being any good to him.”

  “Of course you are. What more do you think you can do?”

  “I don’t know. But there has to be something….” She tsked with frustration and crossed her arms, holding herself tight. “I knew his recovery wasn’t going to be easy. That it would take a long time. The doctors drummed that into my head hard enough. But I was so confident I could do this.” She shook her head. “The reality is another thing altogether, isn’t it? I didn’t plan on him being so discouraged, so frustrated. It’s like he doesn’t care! I don’t seem able to cheer him up or inspire him in the least.”

  “He has to deal with his body not doing basic functions that he used to take for granted. In a lot of ways, his body is like a baby’s. He has to learn to do things over again. That can be very frustrating for him. But his mind is still sharp,” she added as encouragement.

  “That somehow makes it worse. He’s trapped. Preston was a very independent, determined man.”

  “That hasn’t changed with the stroke!” Kristina replied. “He has to use that determination. He has to work hard because he has a long way to go. But he can improve.”

  “He’s always worked very hard. I can’t remember when he spent a whole day in bed.”

  “That’s the man you have to remember. The strong, determined man. You have to help him remember.”

  “How?”

  “Talk to him.”

  “I’ve been doing that for weeks! I’m just babbling. It’s getting so I hate the sound of my own voice.”

  “Don’t talk at him. Talk with him,” Kristina insisted.

  “But that’s impossible in his current state.”

  “Trust me, you can,” she said quickly, dousing the frustration that sprang in Mama June’s eyes.

  Mama June didn’t understand. “But how can you expect him to communicate if he can’t speak?”

  “Words are only one way to communicate. I’ve watched you with him. How do you know if he’s happy?”

  “His eyes,” she replied with certainty. “I can tell what his feelings are by looking into his eyes.”

  “Exactly. And there are other ways you can reach him.”

  “You mean, without speaking?” Mama June thought for a moment, then shook her head in confusion.

  “Well, he can smell,” Kristina prompted. “A scent can trigger a memory i
n an instant, unexpected but powerful. And taste. What foods might bring back a special memory for him? Watermelon on a hot summer day? Hot cocoa when it rains? For me, it’s cotton candy. Whenever I smell or taste it I’m immediately a little girl again at a carnival.”

  Mama June smiled, thinking that a huge cloud of pink cotton candy would elicit the same response from her.

  “Think about using all the senses,” Kristina continued. “There’s one more, and it’s the best one of all.”

  Mama June’s mind raced through the possibilities: hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting…

  “Touch,” she replied.

  “Bingo. You can communicate a lot just by laying your hands on someone. It takes you to a new level. A higher level. Think how powerful someone’s touch can be. Or the lack of touch. Babies thrive when fondled and held, and fail to thrive when left untouched. Why would it be different for adults? Come on, Mrs. Blakely! You’re his wife. Give him a massage.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about massages,” she replied in a dismissive tone. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a formal massage,” Kristina hurried to explain. “You can begin by doing his exercises with him. Don’t be afraid to touch him. You can’t hurt him. It’ll do him good, no matter what. What’s important is that while you’re touching him, you’ll remember him. The real him. And as you remember, so will he.”

  Mama June brought her hand to her throat as a wave of anxiety surged through her. “I can’t do that,” she said.

  “Why not? You’ve practiced his exercises.”

  “I can help him with his exercises, of course. But this massage. Remembering…I…I can’t. It’s too hard for me.”

  Kristina put her hand on Mama June’s arm. It was surprisingly warm and comforting. “But we need to think about what’s best for him.”

  Mama June had not thought of it from that point of view. Remembering the past was something she’d always avoided. She needed to do that to survive. Whenever stressful memories arose, she pushed them back and forced herself to think of other things. Didn’t her mother, her friends, everyone encourage her not to dwell on things? Could she really have been so intent on her own avoidance of grief all these years that she hadn’t taken into consideration whether Preston might have needed to revisit the past?