by Neil Hetzner
“I’ve learned about evil. But I’m not sure what else. I still don’t know what I should do. It’s very hard to know. The only thing that has become clear from all of this is that I, and probably everyone who has been in a situation like mine, must begin to think like a Buddhist. All life is sacred. Yet, even when I think that, there is a part of me that’s trying to figure out what to do with those black pines that are sick out there.”
Bett pointed through the window and took a big breath. Through her tears Nita watched her mother’s fingers tremble so that vermiculite was shaking free from the gobs of soil that she was shoving into pots. Nita chose to remain quiet. After several false starts of half-sentences and ellipsistic thoughts, Bett grew quiet, too. Mother and daughter worked next to one another until all the flats had all of their holes filled.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Nita didn’t turn to watch her mother hobble from the room. She tried to avoid hearing the scraping sound of the footfall of the favored leg. It hurt her chest to breathe, but she didn’t feel like she was going to cry. Even though neither had acknowledged what just had occurred, the daughter knew that the fear, confusion and honesty her mother had just shown to her betokened a great trust. Nita shut her eyes to hold onto the immensity of the gift her mother had given her. She hoped she could respond in kind.
Bett returned with a large box in her hands. She smiled at Nita.
“Your mother’s treasure.”
“What is it?”
After opening the lid, Bett held up three small jars. Inside each was a teaspoon’s worth of fine black seed and a small piece of lined index card.
“Cleome.” Bett held a jar sideways and rotated it until she could read the piece of paper.
“Pink… Here’s the white. And this one’s my favorite—deep purple.”
“I don’t remember. What’s it look like?”
“Sure you do, honey. The leaves looks like marijuana and the flowers look like orchids and smell like skunk. Remember now?”
“With that description, yeah. Sure. It gets huge, right? And has thorns?”
“Yes. Cleome sends us a mixed message.”
“Like life, Mom?”
Bett put the purple cleome down on the scarred counter and reached back into the box.
“Zinnia. Candy Cane.”
She shook another small jar that once might have held jam. She licked her lips and leered at Nita.
“Tomatoes. Romas, but real Romas from seeds the Antellis brought back from Italy.”
“My God, Mom, how long ago was that? It must be ten years. I don’t think I was even in law school yet.”
“At least ten years.”
“You’ve saved the seeds of those seeds for ten years?”
“Sure.”
“You’re incredible.”
“I like what I like. These are wonderful tomatoes. They’re so much better than any plum I can get here. They remind me of the ones Opa used to grow.”
“Why would a German jeweler grow Italian tomatoes?”
Bett stood still for a moment with the jar in her hand.
“I don’t really know. I can’t remember them ever being used in a tomato sauce. Oma never made anything like that. Mainly, we just cut them in half and salt and peppered them and ate them. I always liked them because they weren’t too seedy. Since we’ve been in Rhode Island, now I know what to do with them. Anyway, I like having them; it’s worth a little effort.”
Bett held up more jars and several creased envelopes.
“Morning glories. Beggar’s lice. Spanish broom. More zinnias. Pumpkins. Luffa squash.”
Nita’s sense of wonderment at her mother’s hoard of seeds mutated into revulsion as her mother began displaying other seeds—basil, cicoria, fennel—that were contained in brown plastic pill vials. She held tight to her feelings and continued to nod and speak her approval.
“What’s first?’
“That’s probably a moot issue. It’s already late to be starting a lot of this. For the tomatoes, eggplant, snaps and peppers, I’m at least a couple of weeks behind. Especially after such a warm winter. I’m not too bad for basil or zinnias.”
“Is it really that late?”
“Normally, I wouldn’t have planted my starts until maybe early last week, but it’s been so warm I think everything will go in early this year.”
“What if it gets cold?”
“Cold would be very nice. I’ve learned to love the cold. If it does turn cold, then pinch, pinch, pinch. I’ll end up with some very pot-bound, eager-to-grow seedlings.
Later, after hundreds of seeds had been hidden inside the moist richness of Bett’s potting compost, Nita asked, “Where are you going to put all of this stuff?”
“A lot goes into the gardens.”
“But there’s so much here. What about the rest?”
“Well, I always grow a few flats for friends. Some more for the church plant sale. And some for the Historical Society sale. Obviously, I won’t be making much of a contribution to them this year. And, then, I usually take a few flats and plant them around.”
“Like where?”
“The veterans’ memorial and a couple of old untended graves I like in that little cemetery back behind Howsers.”
“And no change this year?”
Irritation, the quick scowl of a tired mother with an insistent child, flicked across Bett’s face.
“Nita, after what I’ve just been through.”
Bett stopped and corrected herself.
“After what I’ve just done, I think it’s more important I do it this year than ever before.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, one, just for the strength of habit. So much of my life is in chaos I need to hold on to what isn’t. It’s affirming. Plants—flowers and food—are life-affirming. And I need to remember that. “Gratitude. Things aren’t right. They certainly aren’t as I would have them, but I’m not dying in the sand in some strange war far away from home. I’m not abandoned or forgotten.
Bett paused for a moment.
“And, then, Ellen.”
“Ellen?”
“My friend. The woman I met in the hospital.”
“Oh, I remember. The woman with the colostomy.”
“Yes. She insists.”
“Insists?”
“That I try to maintain my habits. She’s very positive. She’s very solid. We’ve visited a lot lately, and when we do, a lot of my confusion disappears. For a time, anyway. Obviously from the dithering you heard earlier, not all of it. I’m not sure why all of that came out.”
A tenderness which Nita could never remember feeling before sweep over her.
“Probably because it was in there and wanted out.”
“Ellen gets a lot of it.”
“I’m glad.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you say that?”
“It upsets Dilly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It bothers Dilly both that I’ve had all this confusion and, maybe worse, that I take most of it to Ellen.”
“Rather than to Dilly?”
“Yes.”
“Forget it, Mom. Dilly always wants to own everything and mother everybody. You talk to whomever you feel like talking to.”
“People get possessive about some very peculiar things.”
“They do. Most of the lawyers I know, even ones with huge practices, practices that are absolutely out of control, don’t make many referrals. They’d rather stagger through on a case dealing with some aspect of the law about which they know nothing rather than pass it on. And fathers who have ignored their kids for years don’t want their wives to have custody.”
Bett used the edges of her hands to gather the potting soil that remained on the bench. As her mother formed the spillage into a mound, Nita lifted the nearly empty basin and held it against the edge of the workbench. When Bett drew her hands back, the spilled dirt cascad
ed into the old white enameled tub.
“Good team, huh?”
“Very good team, honey.”
“Not to emulate my older sister, but is there something I can do to help with dinner?”
“You could make a salad.”
“That’s it?”
“Everything else got done earlier.”
“Why did I guess that?”
“The power of habit. It can get us through a lot of bad days.”
Bett leaned against the work bench to take some weight off her leg.
“I think I’ll lie down for awhile.”
“What about Dad?”
“He should be on time. He knows you’re coming.”
In the middle of setting the table and baking the scrod, and shredding carrots and tearing romaine, when there was so much to do that each was provided with a bolt-hole of activity, in a voice flat, quiet and calm, Bett asked Nita if she would help her make out a living will.
After a dinner during which her mother ate almost nothing, but kept her mouth full of household words and where her father ate heartily but, unusually, in almost full silence, Nita took a short walk along the silent, amber-lighted lanes of Clarke’s Cove. Later, after an hour of desultory conversation and several hands of rummy, everyone went to bed.
In the morning, after breakfast and after her mother left for a doctor’s appointment, Nita called an acquaintance from law school with a practice in Providence.
As yet, Rhode Island didn’t have living wills, although they might get to it by the end of the present legislative session—if there were time after all the banking and ethics and budget issues were taken care of. The state dealt with its citizens’ ideas of the good life with a durable power of attorney for health care. The client instructed a friend, the friend instructed the doctors. He could mail her the form, or if she were in a hurry the easiest thing would be for her to pick up the form from the nearest fire chief. No, he had no idea why the state had chosen the fire chiefs as conduits. Just Rhode Island logic. Rhode Island politics.
Half-way out the door to the fire station, a thought stopped Nita. She made her way to the plant room. The green and black cartons that were arranged all around the sunlight-soaked room looked exactly as they had the afternoon before. There was no sound beyond her breathing; there was no movement except her own; there was no smell except for the mushroom smell of the soil itself, yet, Nita knew, inside each carton’s incubative cells, water and warmth were making miracles. In a moment, or a day or two, dehiscent seeds would spill their marrow. Following a plan programmed into them over a thousand generations, the hardest of materials would soften. Cells would double and double and double again. Hard brown seed would twist itself into translucent tender flesh. The most delicate of strands would heave through a mound of dirt to lead itself to light. Silver would turn green. A pointed sprout would unfurl a set of tiny leaves. More leaves. More leaves. Flower. Fruit. The most mundane act—billions and billions of seeds turned into millions of acres of wheat—and the most exotic—in less than ninety days, a hard black dot, smaller than a poppy seed, turn into a five foot cleome with dangling pods, ten inch blossoms of wands and petals, thorns, a strange smell—were miracles that had been too small or too big ever to have been much noticed by her. Gripping the edge of the worn work bench Nita lowered herself to her knees.
After a few seconds of being without thought and without prayer and feeling mortified, Nita pulled herself back up on her feet and half ran to her car.
* * *
“Hi, how was it?”
Bett shrugged.
“I picked up the forms while you were gone.”
“The living will?”
“Yes. Except that here it’s called a durable power of attorney for health care. It’s not quite the same. You need to choose someone and tell them your wishes. I read through it. It’s pretty simple. If and when, let me know and we’ll go through it.”
“I can’t just make my wishes known?”
“No, you have to pick someone who acts as your agent.”
“Oh. I think I’ll rest for a few minutes.”
“Sure. I’ll start something for lunch. Are you hungry for anything special?”
“In my mind, I’m always hungry, but nothing much ever wants to go down when it’s actually in front of me.”
In less than twenty minutes Bett joined Nita in the kitchen.
“Can we do it now?”
“You sure?”
“I’d like to get it done.”
The flushes surging through Nita felt exactly the same as the breakers of nausea which always preceded the crest of her period.
“I’ll go get it.”
Nita hoped her hurried exit looked like purposefulness rather than flight. The wind she made as she rushed to her bedroom helped to cool the hot spots that had formed under her eyes and over her temples.
Sitting next to her mother at the kitchen table, Nita heard herself explaining things too quickly. She commanded herself to slow down. She had walked many people through many pages of dense print meant to change their lives. This was no different. Her mother was a client.
“Whoever you choose as your agent, as your attorney in fact, has the right to tell your doctors what to do. Your agent can deny consent to treat, to maintain, and even to diagnose. You have the option of spelling out, in as much detail as you wish, types of treatment you wouldn’t want to go through. For example, you could say no to more surgery but yes to another round of chemotherapy, or you could allow yourself to be fed intravenously, but keep yourself from being put on a respirator, or on one for more than a week, or a month or a year. Whatever you want.
“In these paragraphs, here and here, you’re told you can revoke or override the POA, sorry, power of attorney, anytime you want, as long as you’re of sound mind.
“Here, you’re given the right to limit the decisions of the agent.
“The places I’ve marked with checks explain that attending physicians and employees of health care facilities can’t act as your agents. All of this, obviously, makes everybody a little jumpy. You have to have two witnesses. Your agent or an alternative agent, if you chose to have one, can’t be a witness. And, here, one of the witnesses has to be disinterested—not related by blood or marriage and, as far as the person knows, not entitled to any part of your estate.
“You see, it’s simple. But I’m not too sure it’s going to be easy. This kind of stuff never is. You may want to talk to your doctors to find out what’s involved in worst case scenarios and work back from there.”
In the same distracted manner in which she had nodded her head while Nita had gone through the form, Bett said, “Yes, honey, that sounds like a good idea.”
“Have you talked to Dad about, I hate this phrase, your wishes? Because none of us wish for any of this.”
Bett’s “no” sounded to Nita as if her mother were upset at the question.
“You haven’t? Why not, Mom?”
“He’s been so busy at work.”
“Oh, Mom, c’mon. One of the best things about Dad is he’s always been there when anyone needed him.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“He’s never had this many problems. He’s very worried about what people will think about him after the hearings were on TV. The bank has never had this many problems. He’s very distracted.”
“I guess you’re right. Last night was weird. I’ve never seen him so quiet. This has been a hell of a year, but I still think it must be something else. If you wanted to talk about this, I can’t imagine his response being anything but encouragement and support.”
“You think it’s my fault?”
“No, you know, I don’t mean that. My God, none of this is easy. I know that. And you know that I know that. You’re not used to being a patient. No one’s used to you being sick. On almost anyone’s list, you’d be the last person anyone would ever imagine being sick. So there are lots of reasons for ever
yone to be miscommunicating. I’ve seen a lot of divorces where one or both parties could never have imagined themselves divorced. Those are usually some of the worst ones because the disbeliever keeps sliding out of the situation. They keep shutting their eyes and, then, opening them expecting to find themselves back in Kansas. But Kansas and Toto and Auntie Em are long gone.”
“Nita, do you think I’m doing that?”
“You? Dad? Me? Dilly? The doctors? All of us? Who knows? Where does hope end and delusion begin? You touched on it yesterday. When does trying to maintain normal living habits in a tough time go from being a good discipline to folly? I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone does. Especially, with cancer. Lise told me that no one understands remission.
“Please, Mom, talk to Dad. Let him know what you would want him to do. If anything were to happen, it would make it easier on him.”
Bett drew the form toward her. She stared at the paper for a long time.
“Nita, I don’t want your father to be my agent.”
Only years of training controlled Nita’s response. She spoke softly.
“No?”
Bett was silent for a long moment. Her fingers picked stitches from a garment that could not be seen.
“I sicken your father.”
Nita grabbed her mother’s forearm.
“No, Mom, no.”
“I think so. I’m almost certain.”
“How can you say that? Dad loves you more than anything.”
Her mother’s face dissolved into shimmering patches of pinks and beiges. Nita squeezed her eyes trying to focus, but the image remained as impressionistic as one seen through an acid-etched door. She felt the same kind of distance she used to experience standing in some near stranger’s shower staring through the curtain at the moving abstract painting that was his robe. His voice near, reverberating inside the steamy isolation booth of the shower stall, but all else, of necessity, so far away.