A Different Kind of Normal

by Cathy Lamb

  When I had finally broken or destroyed anything I could get my hands on, I stopped, panting, in the midst of that total destruction, windows shattered, pots crumbled, dirt scattered, tables overturned, lanterns smashed, my sister trying to breathe while chanting, “It’s all my fault, all my fault, it’s all my fault.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled, deeply, my heart palpitating, racing. I breathed in again, one more time. A third time.

  My eyes flew open.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  It couldn’t be.

  I dropped to my knees and breathed in all those herbs, spices, and teas at one time . . . one breath, two . . .

  I didn’t smell death.

  I inhaled again, exhausted and ruined, utterly crushed . . . but one more time I breathed in . . . then another . . . I couldn’t be wrong . . . I couldn’t hope if there was no hope, I couldn’t believe, if there was nothing to believe in. I could not imagine something that wasn’t there, because it would kill me.

  But there it was.

  It was.

  There.

  A scent I had longed for, hoped for, prayed for. . . . There was no death wafting up from the herbs, spices, and teas. No blackness, no threat, no rot, no rancid fume. None.

  All I smelled was . . . Life.

  Life.

  I smelled life.

  My cell phone rang.

  20

  “The doctors are looking for you!” my mother said, sprinting on bare feet, toward Caden, Brooke, and me as we burst through the front doors of the hospital, then ran down corridors to the ICU. My mother had never abandoned her high heels, never. Neither had she ever abandoned makeup, but she had given that up, too, and her hair was as messy as mine. Unprecedented. “Come in, come in quick! They want to talk to us right now! Hurry! Hurry!”

  With Caden’s help, I wobbled and limped down the last corridor, as if my balance was gone, despair mixing with the hope of the impossible, the hope of a wispy scent of life.

  We took the elevator up to the fourth floor, Caden tapping his foot and repeating, “Atta boy, Tate, you can do it, my boy.” Brooke clung to my mother’s hand, my mother whimpering, gripping the cross on her charm necklace. When the doors opened we stumbled toward the nurses’ station, as I fought to stay upright, weak from terror. My mother was propped up by Caden, as the doors at the end of the hallway, leading to the ICU, opened. My sister leaned against a wall, sickly, frail, and I reached out a hand to hold hers.

  She took it. I leaned over, my other hand on my knees to keep me upright, my charm necklace swinging.

  We saw Ethan, Dr. Raminsky, and two other doctors emerge in scrubs. Ethan pulled off his paper mask.

  He was ripped with fatigue. He had hardly slept, same with Dr. Raminsky. They both had lines deeply drawn on their faces. The two other doctors with them were both ghastly looking, too. One of the doctors wiped a hand over her brow, her blond ponytail swinging behind her, the other rolled her shoulders.

  They did not see us at first, my mother, Caden, Brooke, and me, a ragtag bunch of desperate people now only half sane. The doctors were not smiling, they were talking back and forth, rapid fire, their tones abrupt, terse.

  It was a serious, intense discussion.

  Ethan turned and saw me, hardly able to stand, my hand gripped in Brooke’s, Tate’s Other Mother.

  I waited, my eyes begging him, begging, as they filled with yet more tears and the tears rushed down my face as if in anticipation of confirmation of an irreplaceable loss. I heard my mother sucking in air, hoarse and raspy, and my brother’s continual, “Oh my boy, Tate, oh my boy, save him, Lord,” muffled because he could hardly speak through his sobs. Raw sounds of hopelessness tore from Brooke’s throat.

  “Please, Ethan,” I croaked out. “Tell me he’s okay. Tell me he’s all right.”

  Oh God, please. For my son, for my son. For Tate. Please, God, anything. Anything. I want my son.

  All four of the doctors turned to us, the Bruxelle family, beyond desolate, beyond lost, clinging to their last shred of hope....

  They smiled.

  Tate was alive.

  He was not conscious, but he was alive, his brain scans were normal, his heart was beating, and he was breathing on his own.

  He was hooked up to every machine known to man, it seemed. There were medical personnel hovering around talking medical-ese, beeps and hisses, tubes and machines.

  “I think he’s going to make it, Jaden,” Ethan told me, an arm linked over my shoulder, a smile on his worn-out face, bruises under his eyes from fatigue and stress. “I think he’s going to make it.”

  I leaned over and kissed Tate on the forehead, my love for him coming through that kiss, all my love, my eternal, deep, protective love for my child. My tears dropped onto his face and down his cheeks, as if he was crying, too, and I remembered another day that another mother had dropped tears on his cheeks.

  My Tate was still with us. He was alive. He had improved. There were positive signs. He would wake up. He could, possibly, possibly recover fully and live for a long, long time.

  A normal lifespan for a kid who has never been normal.

  I was so happy, so relieved. So utterly grateful.

  I passed out.

  I remember dreaming.

  I dreamed of herbs dancing in giant flowered teacups. I dreamed of a singing silver spoon. I dreamed of crystal jars of spices with eyes and smiles chatting back and forth.

  I dreamed of my greenhouse. I dreamed of the sun streaking through, then the rain pounding down, a rainbow arching over head. I dreamed of our white home, the maple trees dancing down the drive, the red poppies swaying, singing in a group, the rows of roses laughing, the Canterbury bells and peonies turning into flower people....

  When I woke up, Ethan was leaning over me, his face pinched and worried, his hand on my forehead. “Jaden.”

  I couldn’t form his name with my mouth. I knew I was in a hospital bed. I knew he was Ethan. I knew I was scared, and I knew I wanted to cry again.

  My mother held my hand in her trembling one, my brother the other hand. My sister stood in the corner, and I remembered how I’d lashed out at her, a verbal fire-and-brimstone attack.

  “Jaden, it’s okay, honey. You’re fine.”

  “How . . .” I felt another wave of nausea. “How is Tate?”

  Ethan smiled, but this time there was joy in his smile. “He’s doing great. He just woke up.”

  “He’s awake?”

  “Yes. As soon as you’re up to it, I’ll take you there.”

  “Tate’s awake?” My son, whose heart had stopped even though they were operating on his head? He was awake? The tears streamed from my eyes like I’d burst two waterfalls in my corneas. “Is he talking?”

  Ethan’s voice crackled, and he sniffled. “He asked for you. He said, ‘Where’s Boss Mom?’ ”

  He asked for you. He said, “Where’s Boss Mom?”

  I was his mother.

  I am Boss Mom.

  I am here.

  I tried to get up, but I couldn’t, the nausea swamping me.

  “Lie back down, Jaden, hang on to your horses. . . .” Caden said. “I’ll carry you on in there if I have to, but get your breath, catch that breath of yours—”

  “No. I’m going to Tate.” I was limp and weak, dizziness spinning my head. “Get out of my way.”

  “Lie back, for a moment, honey,” Ethan said, but I fought him.

  “Breathe, baby,” my mother said. “Please breathe. Pretend we’re in a bubble of bubble gum.”

  I blinked at her, still struggling to get up.

  “Okay, no. That was silly.” She waved her hand, dismissing that idea. “Pretend we’re in a box filled with licorice.”

  What?

  “Not that.” Another wave of her hand. “Together, we are at the top of a roller coaster and it’s going super-sonically fast, and suddenly the car we’re in goes off the tracks and we’re loose and we’re flying through the free blue
sky—”

  For heaven’s sake.

  “I’m going,” I said, my head swirling. “Right now.” I tried to lever myself up through the nausea. I took a deep, deep breath. Deep enough for bubble gum and licorice and roller coaster rides that go haywire and send my mother and me careening into the free blue sky.

  “Help me up, please, help me.”

  Ethan had an arm around my waist, as did Caden.

  “We’re going to see Tate, honey,” Caden said, sniffling. “I can’t believe it. We’re going to see Tate!”

  I started to hobble out and stopped in front of my sister, who seemed to be cowering. “Come with me, Brooke. Please. Our son wants to see us.”

  “Mom, I saw you.”

  “I see you, too, honey.” It was Tate and me alone in his room for the moment. Mom and son. I pushed what was left of his curly red hair back. I didn’t know, exactly, what he was talking about, but I didn’t care. He was in his hospital bed. He was alive. He was awake. He was talking. That was all I needed or wanted to see.

  His voice was hoarse. “No, Boss Mom, I saw you by the fountain. You were all by yourself.”

  Oh. My. Goodness. “You . . . you saw me?”

  “I saw you when I was being operated on. It was weirdo. Neither physics nor cognitive brain function can explain this one. I was up in the corner watching Dr. Robbins. Another doctor with a blond ponytail had my chest open and it was gross and there was blood and I wasn’t moving. I looked dead, and then all of a sudden I was by you at the fountain.”

  “I . . . Tate—”

  “You told me to hang on and I told you that everything was okay.”

  I collapsed on a chair by his bed.

  “I told you that Billy and Bob were up and I was fighting.”

  I felt faint. I had felt him close to me, his warmth, his arm around my shoulders....

  “Mom, you told me you loved me, to stay with you, and your crystals came out of your hair and went into the fountain.”

  I put a hand to my head. I had not been hallucinating. Tate had had an out-of-body experience. I had talked to him during that experience.

  “You’re all pale, Mom, are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? No, Tate,” I squeaked. “I’m not.”

  “I told you I was fighting the same fight I had when I was learning advanced statistics.”

  “Statistics.” I felt faint again. “Advanced statistics.”

  “Yeah, and the chicken pancakes? Man, I can’t wait to have those. Remember that?”

  I nodded, weakly. I remembered.

  “Mom, I feel sort of sick and tired, but it’s a sick that I know’ll take off, shove off, you know? It’s the operation and the medicine, the anesthesia, but I’m going to be groovy fine, that is my new sixties word, groovy, so I think you need to chill out, you know, take a nap, have a beer or something. Hey! Can I have a beer?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “What about one of Nana Bird’s mai tais?”

  “No, young man, no.”

  “I’m kidding about the mai tais. I actually want a strawberry daiquiri.” He paused when I didn’t smile. “Or whiskey. Whiskey and tea, you know how Faith and Grace the witches drank it in their tea. I love all those stories you and Nana Bird have told me about them.”

  “They weren’t really witches,” I said, on automatic. “They thought they were.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure. I’m tryin’ to make you laugh because you look, you look, uh . . . bad. You know, uh, Mom, you’re kind of a green color, a monster green color. And you have a lot of dirt on you, I don’t know why, and your hair is all over. Plus, under your blue eye is purplish dark. Your green eye isn’t as bad, but it’s not . . . uh, normal. But no offense, ’kay? Maybe you should sleep. I think you should sleep. Haven’t you slept at all?”

  He was a kid. He didn’t get it. Parents do not sleep when their children are in critical condition. “I’ll be fine, Tate. I’ll be fine.” I shuddered from relief and sheer exhaustion and wobbled up to kiss his cheek. Yes, I would be fine. Tate was alive, that was all I wanted. “I love you, son.”

  “Me, too, Boss Mom, me, too. I love you. Hey! Did we win?”

  I told him, then watched while he slept, reveling in the miracle that he was here. Reveling in the miracle of a miracle.

  I held his hand in both of mine and rested my head on his shoulder.

  Thank you.

  Many nights later, in my greenhouse, with my white lights twinkling, and my tropical mango tea nearby, I chopped and mixed up bay leaves, cloves, and paprika for Herbal Therapy time. I appreciated the colors and varied textures.

  I had, as I told Brooke, killed my greenhouse.

  When I came home, my greenhouse was alive again. It was peace with glass.

  My mother drawled to me later, her composure securely in place to hide her most recent trauma and upheaval, her lipstick perfect, her auburn bob swinging, her stilettos on, “That was an impressive temper tantrum you threw, daughter. It would have been so entertaining to watch you heave your wicker chairs through the windows. I’m surprised you didn’t sprain your boobs.”

  And, “Did you have to attack the hoppy frogs? How do you think they felt, flying through the windows?”

  And, “Why so vengeful against the Chinese lanterns? We’ll have to go to San Francisco as a family to buy new ones in Chinatown. I’ll make the reservations.”

  Finally, “It’s the red hair and the blue eye from Faith and the green eye from Grace that blew your mind away.”

  I asked my mother, “What do my eyes have to do with my wrecking my greenhouse?”

  “It’s in the family line, this temperamental witchly streak.” She hugged me and I hugged her back. While I stayed in the hospital with Tate, my mother, Caden, Caden’s kids, Brooke, Ethan, Coach Boynton and Letty, Milt and Anthony’s parents, and other friends had completely cleaned up and repaired my greenhouse.

  The floors were swept, plants, flowers, and herbs that had died were thrown out, others nurtured back to life and new ones bought. My mother had a painted, wooden sign made for the door by a local artist. It said JADEN’S HERBS AND SPICES. There was a witch with red hair, one blue eye, and one green eye on a broomstick. She thinks she’s so clever. She also bought me two new spice racks.

  Caden bought me two new wicker chairs with red and white cushions. “Let’s try not to destroy these, Jaden. They’re not footballs,” he told me, then winked. He also created for me a two foot teapot with wire, ivy, and white and yellow mums.

  My sister replanted my bulbs in colorful pots and labeled each one. She also took three glass vases and filled them with the rocks and shells that she and I had collected as kids, which she’d found in the blue cardboard box. She filled the vases with water and placed them on a shelf where the sun hit just right.

  She relabeled all the herbs I had. She drew a picture of the herb, then used a calligraphy pen to write its name. She also repaired the frogs with superglue and put them back up on the post. “A frog has to have a place to hop,” she told me.

  Brooke could make beauty where none existed. It was tragic and sad that she hadn’t been able to make beauty in herself for many years.

  Ethan ordered new windows, which, I must admit, were fantastic, the light flowed in cleanly in a way that made me feel I was outside. He had two of the busted windows replaced with stained glass, which cast out a myriad of colors. One of the windows had a design of an iris, the other of rosemary, because I had told him the story of Faith and Grace, who used to be, before a torch-wielding mob wanted to flog them for being witches, Iris and Rosemary.

  I had a glowing rainbow of color in my greenhouse now. “Colorful windows for a colorful woman,” he’d told me, then kissed me silly.

  My greenhouse wasn’t my greenhouse anymore. It was our greenhouse.

  I bent my head over Grandma Violet’s crystal plate, over Faith’s silver spoon.

  I smelled life.

  The night before Tate was to finally com
e home from the hospital, Brooke and I sat on his hospital bed together. She still seemed pale and fragile, but my mother and brother had concentrated on feeding her and she was rosier, not completely healthy, but better, her auburn hair thicker, shinier.

  She, Tate, and I played Monopoly. She won, her green eyes twinkling.

  We had ice cream together. Before she left to go back to my house, she leaned down for an extra-long hug with Tate and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Tate.”

  “I love you, too, Brooke.”

  She held him far longer than usual. She hugged me tight, too.

  “I love you, Brooke.” I had apologized multiple times to her for my fit in the greenhouse, my earth-scorching meanness. She had been gracious and kind, told me that she had deserved all that I’d said. Our conversation had been long and difficult, a minefield, but there was love in it, too.

  “Thank you, Tate, for letting me back in your life. You’re talented, brilliant, funny, an excellent writer, too. Your blog is amazing.”

  “Thanks for coming back into my life, Brooke,” he said, but his voice wavered. “You’re even getting better at catching Skittles in your mouth and balancing an apple on your head.”

  She kissed his forehead, hugged him again, her tears on his cheek. She hugged me again, then left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Tate and I did not break our gaze from each other for long seconds.

  “She’s leaving again, isn’t she, Boss Mom?”

  I stood up and watched the street outside the hospital. We were high enough up so I could see for miles. The trees were beginning to bud again, their bare branches softening. Soon they would be covered in green leaves for spring.

  Within a couple of minutes, I saw Brooke’s auburn hair whipping back in the wind. She paused in the middle of the street and looked up. I knew she could not see in the windows, and she knew I knew that, but she waved anyhow. I did not bother to wave back.