Maybe I did: the laid-back approach to life, the chirpily happy voice, but no drugs, thank goodness, other than the occasional beer.
Memories surface, vague images of my daddy singing me and MacKenzie to sleep, “Puff the Magic Dragon,” “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” or “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo.”
I remember my father reading my favorite Dr. Seuss book aloud, Hop on Pop. Soon MacKenzie and I knew all the words and read it aloud to him instead. We giggled like maniacs when we got to the page where two little critters hop on Pop’s tummy. We tackled Daddy on the bed, rolled around on him, his arms strong and sure, sometimes hauling us in tight for a tickle, sometimes pushing us off if we bounced too vigorously, and then he would drop his voice an octave and call out, Enough, you little banshees, enough! at which we giggled and bounced more insistently.
Other words from the story flash back to me, words shadowed with new meaning, my father’s demons lurking beneath them: Dad is sad. Very, very sad. He had a bad day. What a day Dad had!
Now those arguments over weeds on the porch make sense. Grandmother Adams was upset because she realized someone was smoking pot on the porch. Suddenly I feel sorry for my grandmother—not too sorry, but a little. It must have been hard to admit her only son had addiction problems, impossible to admit he had caused the accident, caused his own death.
How had I not known this years ago? The needless guilt.
I am stunned when my mother starts crying. I don’t know what else to do, so I hand her a tissue.
“You and MacKenzie had another sister, Jo Beth.”
“What?”
“In the seventh month of my pregnancy, the doctor told me my little girl had died. He induced labor and we buried her next to my grandmother. Your father’s addictions became much worse after Jo Beth died. I wanted to curl up in a ball and die myself, but I couldn’t. I had to be there for you and your sister. That trip to the beach was supposed to help us both get past our grief, to bring your father and me back together. His mother was supposed to watch you two while we had some alone time.”
Instead the accident gave us all new grief.
“Your father’s death—maybe it was for the best. I don’t think he could have ever healed everything broken inside, couldn’t have gotten sober.”
Finally I hear what she’s telling me: they wouldn’t have stayed together. I squeeze her hand and we sit in silent reflection for a few moments.
Her revelation is shocking.
It’s good. Sort of.
I am innocent. Mostly.
I call out for Dewey. It’s past time to go home.
Mom nudges me with her elbow. “I’m glad to see you and Dewey still have a little fun together.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
I assume my best mystified look and shrug.
“Oh, come on. The pinches.”
My insides are blushing purple. “What—?” I can’t bring myself to say pinches.
“Harmless fun. Every marriage needs a little of that.”
I wonder who else has seen us.
“Don’t worry. No one else knows, but I’m your mother. I see everything.”
Oh dear. That is not comforting.
I drive home since Dewey has downed a few too many beers. I hate driving his truck, the big beast he just had to have. His dream machine, he calls it. A raised 4x4 with huge tires, dual exhausts, and custom paint job of a man fishing in a mountain creek on the tailgate. His dream, my nightmare. It’s so big I feel as if I’m always crossing the center line or alternatively, riding off the road’s shoulder. Besides that, it’s a gas hog and we are still making payments on the darn thing.
As if the day hasn’t been strange enough, Dewey detonates another bomb. “Did you notice the way Dakota was making goo-goo eyes at that Belinda Talkington? Something’s going on there.”
I am so surprised I can’t speak. Sure, Dakota and Trish aren’t married, but I thought they loved each other. They have lived together for over a year and are going to be the parents of my grandchild. I swear I’ll beat the living tar out of Dakota if he does anything to hurt Trish—or the baby bump I already adore beyond all reason.
When I get home and Dewey is brushing his teeth, I open the scrapbook to the Birth Family Tree. I slide my finger down to the bottom branches to the name of the woman who gave me away. Deborah Wellington Springer. I say her name aloud twice. A lump in my throat prevents me from continuing. There’s no father on the space beside her name. I guess Mom’s research didn’t turn one up. Anyway, my birth mother’s name is all I can handle right now.
I don’t think I will sleep a wink all night, but I climb into bed beside Dewey anyway, my mind jumbled with scenes from the party, Rebecca and Mom teaming up to make me say yes—no, no, no—the swollen curve of Trish’s ankles, the baby bump, the pinches, my mother knowing about the pinches. The present fades into the night, swallowed by the past. A guitar strums “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” a voice whispers Deborah Wellington Springer, Deborah Wellington Springer, and my mother is saying, How could I explain, you were just a child, just a child, just a child, just before I lose consciousness.
Late September 2017
Dakota calls us to meet him at United Hospital Center for the birth of Bella Fisher-Jones. Like every other family, we believe little Bella is the most beautiful baby ever born, perfect in every way. Like every other baby, her skin is wrinkly and red, her face a tad mashed from its journey into life, a full head of walnut-hued fuzz that springs out comically no matter how much gel Trish smoothes onto it. She is beyond adorable, beyond precious, scarily tiny and vulnerable. Each of us knows we will do anything, no matter how difficult, however impossible, to protect this child from all harm.
At the moment of Bella’s birth, the ground shifts under me. My role is upended. My daughter is a mother; I am a grandmother. One of those people who seemed so old when I was young.
The world has changed in other ways when I wasn’t looking, seismic shifts that haven’t touched me personally. Until now. Dewey and I are allowed in the hospital room with Trish and the baby. When I had Trish, babies were sequestered in a nursery, brought out only at feeding time. Only mothers and nurses were allowed contact for fear of exposing newborns to germs carried by fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Now the baby interacts with family from its first moments. I see the change and it is good.
While Trish rests in the adjustable bed, I cradle Bella gently against my chest, close my eyes, stifle an urge to crush her against me. Instead I stroke the unutterably soft skin of her tiny arm and almost weep when she grasps my finger, her nails no more than tiny sharp flakes, her lashes long and black against her cheeks. Oh, the exquisite button nose! The smells of baby lotion and milk are almost painful, too intense to bear. I understand Lennie in Of Mice and Men, how he crushed the puppy against him, not because he wanted to harm it but because he so dearly loved the soft new life. That’s me. I am Lennie.
We float on a cloud of happiness.
Until an audiologist visits Trish’s hospital room. A slender woman with short blonde hair, she is possibly in her mid-forties, neatly dressed in black slacks and a loose fl oral blouse. She introduces herself but the name doesn’t stick. I sense immediately she bears bad news.
“We conduct screenings of all infants. Unfortunately, we discovered Bella has congenital hearing loss, and we want to run more definitive tests.” she says. My heart drops to the floor. “She is not alone,” the audiologist continues. “One in five hundred develops some form of hearing loss in childhood.”
Small consolation, fellow sufferers. It is this child we cherish, this child it is our duty to protect.
Tears slide down Trish’s cheeks. How can I possibly comfort her?
After another set of tests, the specialist informs us Bella is not completely deaf. “With hearing aids and speech therapy in the early years, Bella will grow into a happy, healthy girl. She may benefit fro
m cochlear implants eventually, but it’s too early to tell if that will be necessary.”
Despite the assurance Bella will be able to learn, I can’t quiet my doubt until my pal Rebecca arrives at the hospital with balloons. “A perfect name for a beautiful baby. She’ll be fine, Trish. They’ve made so many advances in hearing aid technology today. We start speech therapy right away, and it makes all the difference.”
We are relieved she will be able to learn language skills, but oh, the anguish that we can’t just kiss her and make it better. I am more thankful than ever for Rebecca’s friendship—and thankful for all the special needs teachers out there helping all children reach their potential. The shortage of these teachers scares me. If we don’t increase their pay, we will never be able to attract more young people to the field.
Trish pales when she learns hearing aids will cost around six thousand dollars, not covered by health insurance. They will need replacement every three years. The thought of that ongoing expense makes me dizzy.
Dewey clasps her shoulder. “Don’t give it another thought,” he tells Trish. “We’ll take care of it.”
I’m grateful he stepped forward so quickly, but I avoid making eye contact. He has to be as worried as I am about another unexpected expense.
On the last morning of Bella’s hospital stay, the obstetrician stops by. A trim woman of Asian heritage, Dr. Chen leans over the crib for a last look at the baby. “Very alert for a newborn,” the doctor says. “She already seems to follow movements with her eyes. Such a beautiful baby, too.”
Poppy, grinning foolishly, moves so close he brushes against the fabric of her white doctor’s coat. “You’re quite the looker yourself.”
Mom takes his arm and pulls him away. “Sorry.”
Since Mom is too embarrassed to explain, I walk with the doctor to the hallway. “His social filters don’t always work anymore.”
“Dementia?” the doctor asks.
“Yes, Alzheimer’s.”
Dr. Chen tells me about an experimental program getting underway at West Virginia University’s Neuroscience Institute. They plan to use focused ultrasound treatment to disrupt the blood-brain barrier in regions of the brain affected by Alzheimer’s. “They hope the ultrasound will reduce cognitive decline. You might want to find out if your father is a good candidate for the trials.”
I promise to look into it and thank her for her kindness. Ultrasound is so completely different from the other avenues of research into brain disease, I allow my hopes to rise. This could reverse Poppy’s decline, could restore the personality we know and love. A phone call later, my hopes are dashed. Poppy’s case is not likely to be accepted because of other complicating health issues. That’s so oft en the way with these trials. Every factor needs to be controlled. So far, every avenue we’ve explored has been discouraging. He was in one trial that was halted when doctors discovered the drug had serious side effects. We continue to hope, but it’s difficult to be optimistic.
The evening news covers one disaster after another—and these, on top of the polarized politics dividing our country, make me dread tuning in to stay informed. Three hurricanes cause tremendous devastation: Harvey, Irma, Maria. Fires burn all over the American West destroying acres of forest and threatening wildlife and towns. In class we talk about the impact of climate change. The news isn’t good at home either. For all Dakota’s good looks, muscular definition, and educational attainment, he proves Trish’s reservations well conceived. He is not up to the demands of a child facing extra challenges. He moves out of Trish’s apartment and into Belinda Talkington’s a month after the baby’s birth. Maybe he was planning to all along.
Screw him. He isn’t good enough for my girls anyway.
October 2017
I spend my Sunday morning deadheading the pots of chrysanthemums on our porch and picking the last tiny green tomatoes for bread and butter pickles. Dewey pulls up the spent plants and wheelbarrows them to the compost bin in the back yard. Sunlight glints and dances across the orange, red, and golden leaves of our maple, creating the illusion of a lively campfire.
After our customary Sunday brunch at the farm, Trish nurses little Bella in the family room, burps her, diaper draped on her shoulder to catch dribbles and sour spit-up, the inevitable reality of life with a baby. Not every smell is sweet as baby lotion.
“I’ve decided to find a smaller apartment,” Trish says. Her nose twitches, a giveaway that she isn’t being entirely truthful. “I don’t need as much space with Dakota gone.”
“The baby will take up just as much space if not more.” My mother motions from a sofa that’s nearly as old as I am. “Give Great Nana the baby.”
That sofa has been recovered at least three times, always in plaid. I sink down onto the opposite end, moving a throw pillow Mom has placed over a thin piece of metal sticking through the couch fabric. My finger can’t resist touching the defect. “These springs are shot, Mom. You really need a new sofa.”
“You, Missy, should appreciate my environmental responsibility. I’m reducing and reusing. Besides, this old thing will last as long as me and then you can haul it off to Goodwill.”
I chuckle. “Don’t think they’ll want it.”
Mom continues waving her hands. “Come on, gimme the baby. Let me hold her a while.”
Trish takes Bella over, swaddled in the yellow blanket Mom has knitted, and gently lays her in her great grandmother’s arms. Mom dandles the little bundle until I’m sure the baby will spit up all the breast milk so recently swallowed.
“You always been so rough handling younguns?” I ask.
Mom finally lays the baby down in her lap, and Poppy blows a raspberry on Bella’s belly. She opens her eyes and smiles. “You sure is a pretty baby, Trishie Wishie,” Poppy says.
“She sure is,” Mom agrees. It’s easier than explaining. Lost in a time warp, Poppy is never going to understand who the baby is, and what difference does it make? Fooling around with the baby’s tiny feet and hands makes him happy.
After all the time Trish spent transforming the spare bedroom into a nursery, I can’t believe she would give her place up on a whim. “What’s really going on, Trish?”
Trish’s shoulders wag from side to side, an admission of sorts. “I’m reducing my hours to have more time with Bella.”
Her job is secretarial and administrative work for the county school board. “The board is okay with that?”
“Family hardship leave. It’s only for a few months until I see how everything works out with Bella. I’ll have to take her to speech therapy and practice with her at home too. Another worker has agreed to cover for me. I already found a cheaper place to live. It will be fine.”
“Nonsense. You can move in with us.” I glance at Dewey to make sure this is okay with him.
“Damn right,” he says.
“We can take her to therapy sometimes. Practice speech with her, too. It would be our privilege.”
“Absolutely.” Dewey whips off his ball cap and slaps it back on. “Besides, if you move back home, your mom will have a reason to finally clean out all the junk she’s shoved into your old bedroom.”
Always a joker, my husband.
“Are you sure?” Trish asks.
“Of course.” I am pleased my very independent daughter has agreed so quickly. Ahhh—sometimes I am slow on the uptake. Trish was hoping for the invitation. With Bella’s extra needs, Trish will need our help but is too proud to ask.
Both thrilled and a little unnerved, I am just beginning to consider how much our lives are about to change. Waking up to cries in the middle of the night. Dirty diapers. Toys scattered everywhere—it’s inevitable. Oh, it’ll be fun, a delight, another unexpected blessing.
“We’ll redecorate,” I say. “When do you have to give up your apartment? A baby shouldn’t be exposed to paint fumes.”
“I’ll help, Mom,” Trish says. “Relax, we don’t have to be out until the end of the year.”
In a playf
ul turnabout, I suggest Dewey could clean out all the junk in the garage so Trish could park her car inside.
Trish giggles. “Good one, Mom.”
Dewey shrugs good-naturedly. “It’s not junk. I need that stuff .”
“Sure, hon, everyone needs cans of paint that dried up twenty years ago. Very valuable, very useful.”
“Or boxes of Rolling Stone magazines from the ’80s,” Trish adds.
“Hey, those are collectible,” Dewey protests.
We are all laughing, so Dewey feels compelled to defend himself. “Well, they might be some day.”
“I’ll be sure to save them for Bella, so she can sell them and get rich,” Trish says.
Mom’s laugh tinkles out. “You can have all those Avon bottles I collected. They were so prized back in the day, but aren’t worth the shelf space in antique shops anymore. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any Rolling Stones on the shelves either.”
The baby lets out an obscenely loud belch. Mom lifts the baby from her lap and rubs her back.
“Not you too, Bella,” Dewey protests. “No fair—all you women ganging up on me.”
Mom also offers to take Bella to speech therapy. “You might carry a recessive gene for hearing loss, Angie,” she says. “I wonder if that DNA testing company looks at defects in that particular gene. Have you gotten the results back?”
Caught—I am forced to confess I haven’t spit in the test tube the company mailed to me yet.
Mom shakes her head. “I bet you haven’t read about your ancestor, Rosella Krause, how she not only was a talented potter, but also an activist for women’s rights. I recollect she had some health issues with her children, too.”
She knows me too well. “I read all the ‘Forever Family’ stuff , the family I care about. The family that cares about me.” I haven’t read past the name, Deborah Wellington Springer, the woman who gave me away. But if knowing about my birth family will help Bella in any way, I will spit in a test tube and read every word in the scrapbook.
Buried Seeds Page 5