by Grace Greene
Green, green, green. Everything was so green, a fresh spring green, so that the air itself seemed green.
In a nearby spot, the bank sloped down. Honey was already there, carefully positioned with her nose near the water, lapping at it.
When Honey returned to her, she sat at Sandra’s feet surveying the area. They were both relaxed. She hoped they hadn’t walked too far. She couldn’t possibly carry Honey back. But no, Honey’s eyes were alert, and while she panted a lot, she didn’t seem to have any trouble breathing, plus she was sitting up and not flat out on the ground in exhaustion.
Sandra scratched Honey’s neck. A few more minutes of rest and then they’d head back. The house, the clutter and the dust, needed her attention.
They were hardly back from their walk when a visitor arrived, and Sandra wished they’d stayed longer at the creek.
Margaret Shoemaker Lovett, more commonly known as Meg, stood in the open doorway. She was about two inches shorter than Sandra, but her posture was such that people, including her daughter, thought of Meg as taller than she really was. Sandra looked at her, then beyond her. Her mother was alone and carried a small suitcase.
Honey brushed past Sandra and went to greet the new arrival. She sniffed the woman’s pants legs and then stood, waiting to be petted.
“Well, hello there. Honey, right? Barbara told me to say hello to you for her.” Mom straightened back up and looked at her daughter. “Nice dog. She seems to have recovered well.”
“Yes, she’s a good dog.” Sandra left the obvious question unspoken. She stepped back and invited her in. She could hardly refuse her own mother entry into her sister’s house, but it did recall the memory of her own poor welcome when she’d last arrived home.
Her mother walked past and set her case on the floor by the stairs. Mom saw her looking at the suitcase but didn’t refer to it. Instead, she said, “How are you doing, Sandra? You look better than I expected. I’m relieved.”
Mom paused, waiting for a response, but Sandra thought it best to keep her reaction to herself.
She shrugged. “OK. Have it your way. I had to return to deal with some last things, some financial and other business we still have to finish up in Richmond, and I wanted to see you, to see how you were doing.”
Sandra moved toward the kitchen. “Can I offer you iced tea or lemonade?”
“No, thanks.”
She stopped, turned, and crossed her arms. “Are you here because you’re worried I’ll mess up Barbara’s house or lose her dog?”
“Actually, I was about to say it looked better in here than I remembered.” She walked past her daughter and into the kitchen. “Your aunt will say she’s guarding the family memorabilia, the history. I call it being a pack rat.” She waved her hand at the room. “She saves everything. I save almost nothing. There has to be a balance somewhere. Neither of us has been able to find it.”
Sandra followed, mystified. Her mother stood at the kitchen door and looked out through the window.
“Go on outside. Take a closer look, if you like.”
“No need. I’ve never been a fan of dirt or insects.” She continued staring out the window.
Sandra waited. Her words and feelings were immaterial. As were her efforts. She felt the condemnation growing, the criticism about to be expressed. She tensed and crossed her arms again, ready to receive it.
“Well, that’s a mess,” Mom said. “Barbara let it go, didn’t she? To be fair, this kind of upkeep has simply gotten beyond her.” She turned to face Sandra. “She was never an outdoor person. She’d rather be at her easel or in her knitting chair, anywhere doing anything that wasn’t actual cleaning or other dirty work.” She shrugged. “But that was her choice. And she never complained or asked for help.”
“Unlike me.”
“You are my daughter. Ask away. But when you ask me or anyone for help, you invite them into your life. Why are you so defensive? Is this about Trent? Still? You’re an adult, Sandra, and I’ll do you the favor of being honest with you. You wanted us to like your choice of boyfriend, then husband, and we did, for your sake. When you no longer wanted him, we disliked him for your sake, though we didn’t understand what was wrong.”
“I told you.”
“You told us some things, but we didn’t understand why those things were a problem. But for you they were, and we wanted you to be happy, so we supported you regardless. When you decided he was worth marrying again . . . But I don’t get it. I never have. I know you feel like we’ve let you down, but you can’t expect us to keep changing our feelings on a whim.”
“Not a whim.”
“Bad choice of words, then, but that’s how it felt.”
How could words hurt so much? “I tried to share. You didn’t want to hear.” She sighed. “Mom, how did Cliff die?”
Her mother’s face went blank. “What?”
“Uncle Cliff. He died while I was living in Arizona.”
“I know, but why are you asking? You haven’t asked about him since he passed.”
“Being here has brought back memories. I always felt a kinship with him that I never felt with the rest of the family. But, no worries, if you don’t want to discuss it. I’ll call Aunt Barbara and ask her.”
“Please don’t discuss Cliff with Barbara. If she wants to talk about him, she will. Otherwise, leave her in peace.”
“Uncle Cliff was kind to me.”
“What does that mean, Sandra?” She was angry suddenly. “As if we weren’t loving parents? As if your father and I somehow . . .” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “What does that mean? He was civil? He gave you a candy bar a few times? Save your sentimentality, your . . . your affinity, for those who actually cared for you, fed you, and taught you.”
“Uncle Cliff taught me an important lesson about him and me and the rest of the family, and about not fitting in or belonging.”
Mom pressed her lips together. She looked down at the floor and saw the suitcase. She pointed at it. “There are some things in there that belong to you. I don’t know whether you want them, but I was flying up here anyway, so I figured I’d deliver them in person.”
“That’s not . . . I thought maybe you were staying over.”
She looked at Sandra, her eyes wide with incredulity. “Well, then, I’m sure you’re pleased to discover that’s not true. As for Uncle Cliff, if you feel he treated you better than we did, keep in mind that my sister and I were busy seeing our mother out of this world, doing what we could to care for her while she was suffering.” She waved her hands. “Uncle Cliff was never more than marginally productive or helpful. The least he could do was to spare you a few minutes of chatter while we did the heavy lifting—literally.” She paused halfway down the front steps and turned back, her finger pointing. “And if you felt ignored or excluded, then I repeat: I’m sorry. I did my best. Whatever you see as my failures, then learn from them and do better. But don’t waste your time holding a grudge against me or anyone else. It’s really all on you, Sandra. In the end, that’s what you’ll have and what you must live with—the results of your own decisions.”
Her mother’s voice dropped so low it was difficult to hear her. Sandra moved closer despite herself.
“Cliff wanted to farm. It was all he ever wanted to do. He did it as long as he could scrape together the cash or get loans to fund the next season, but people who don’t farm don’t understand. They don’t get the increasing debt, the disaster of one or two bad harvests on a small farm in an already marginal industry. Maybe smarter or luckier operations could make a go of it, but not Cliff.” Her dark eyes, the Shoemaker eyes, looked haunted. “When he gave up his dream, he gave up on pretty much everything except his alcohol.”
“You did your best to hide his failures from the rest of the world, didn’t you?” Sandra smiled unpleasantly. “Didn’t want to embarrass the family with a real funeral? Or maybe he wasn’t worth the expense of a big send-off? Is that why you didn’t want me to come home
for it? You and Trent agreed on that, didn’t you? I wasn’t needed.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t concerned about the family reputation.” She spread her arms wide. “Who was here to be embarrassed anyway?” She looked across the old cornfield. “It was to protect him. To let everyone remember him as he used to be.” She looked at her daughter. “If you care so much, then go pay your respects at his grave.” She pointed at the fallow field. “He’s right over there.”
“Is that legal? Cheap, I guess, but legal?”
Her eyes looked like those of a stranger. “Your concern would be more appreciated, genuine, if you weren’t trying to use it like a club against me. Yes, it’s legal, since it’s already in use as a family cemetery.” She waved her hand. “Know this. Regardless of his failings, I loved my brother. And I want the best for you. Happiness, or the closest you can get to it. Because whatever hurts the child also hurts the parent. And no one can hurt a parent like his or her child.”
Her mother moved to get into the car but stopped and added, “Don’t look to others for approval. Finding your worth in the eyes of others is the quickest path to failure, or madness.”
Sandra clutched the fence rail. With her parting shot, Mom got into the car. There’d been no hug or kind words exchanged between them. It hadn’t been that kind of visit, had it? Though, in her mother’s own backhanded way, she’d said she loved her, right? Worthy or not, because they were parent and child.
She was hurt and angry. And cruel, according to her mother. Sandra thought she might be right. She didn’t want to be that person. She wanted to be kind. To be able to forgive and forget and turn the other cheek, and all that good stuff. But what had that turn-the-other-cheek approach ever solved? Trent took it as permission to do worse. Her mother was different, in that she seemed to read passivity as approval or agreement—as permission to move on with her life despite her daughter’s needs. To leave her behind and go with her husband and sister to Florida as if . . .
She hugged her arms closely around her. Mom and Trent had a lot in common when it came to advice about not seeking approval, or one’s worth, from others. A breeze wafted by and touched her hair and her cheek. Sandra pressed her hand to her cheek and saw the fallow field again. Not dead. Fallow. But Uncle Cliff? He rested in the cemetery beyond, past enjoying what he had loved, past altering or adding to his legacy on this earth. She and her mother had differences, in personalities mostly. Her mother wasn’t evil. Her intentions were very different from Trent’s. Did she, Sandra, have to get mean so quickly? She hadn’t done that with Trent despite multiple, significant provocations.
Trent battered her psyche. He was smart enough to refrain from obvious cruelty or outright manipulation when others were around. He avoided being with family and friends, and when they were, he managed his behavior and their interaction with deft orchestration guaranteed to make her the envy of every wife and sweetheart who wanted to be as cherished by their spouse as she appeared to be.
She knew her mother loved her. But was her mother so different from Trent? She knew how to hurt Sandra with words, too.
Even so, the flaw in her thinking was unmistakable. Did Sandra need people to ask if there was a problem before she could speak? Did she need to know others would believe her before she could tell the truth of her life? Did she need their approval to approve of herself?
Wasn’t that how she’d been brought up? If her mother hadn’t wanted her to learn that lesson, then she shouldn’t have taught it so well.
Dad would’ve counseled patience. He would’ve recited Poe.
She spread her hands. They felt empty. Her father’s book, their shared bonds, were an important part of her history. He would tell her to be careful of time . . . that time can’t be held back. There were no do-overs in life. He would caution her against stubborn pride and anger. He would advise her to look around, listen, and consider whether she was really all that unhappy with being where she was. He would say not to squander the moments.
The breeze stirred again, and Sandra laughed. She could appreciate irony. Despite the hard words she and her mother had thrown at each other, regardless of the emotional words about love and hurt, Mom had left without answering the question about Cliff’s death. Sandra realized she still didn’t know how her uncle had died.
Sandra sat on the porch with Honey. Colton had left a voice mail. They wouldn’t be coming over today. Work-related, he said.
She put her arm around Honey and scratched her neck. “What do you say, Honey? Let’s not squander the day. Let’s see if we can open up some windows and disturb some more dust?”
Honey whined and put her chin on Sandra’s thigh.
“None of that, Honey. We’re a team, and Barbara and the house need our help.”
She stood. Honey didn’t. She wasn’t leashed.
Sandra didn’t want to leave Honey outside alone, so she added, “Didn’t I see a box of treats in the pantry?”
At the word treat, Honey rose and went directly to the door. Sandra opened it wide and said, “I guess I’m not above a little manipulation myself.”
Honey barked from the kitchen. Sandra laughed and closed the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Colton and Aaron arrived with John. While the men unloaded the stone blocks, Aaron set up his work space in the shade of the oak.
Not knowing how else to be helpful, she offered refreshments. “Can I get anyone something to drink?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll be taking off as soon as we’re done unloading.”
“John came along to help with the stone, but he can’t stay. He has another job this afternoon.” Colton set the last stone onto the ground. “We can’t thank you enough for your help, John.”
John slapped his cap back on his head. “Happy to help. Good luck with your dog, ma’am.”
Colton walked with John to his vehicle.
Sandra stood at the stack of stone and tried to lift one. “Heavy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Aaron said.
“Well, what about you? Cookies or lemonade? Both were made fresh this morning.”
“What kind?” Aaron asked.
“Oatmeal raisin.”
He smacked his lips and rubbed his stomach in exaggerated motions. “Perfect.”
Soon after, Sandra was in the kitchen getting the cookies and pouring tea and lemonade. The screen door slammed and Aaron was suddenly there, standing at her elbow.
“May I help?” he asked.
Honey barked, and Sandra heard men’s voices. “John’s back?”
Aaron looked out the back door. “No. There’s a man out there talking to Dad.”
“Another helper, maybe?” This whole thing was going so well. She could hardly believe her good fortune. “Can you get the door for me?” She held up the tray.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sandra watched her footing as she crossed the construction zone and looked up only when she reached the grass.
“Trent,” she whispered, going cold.
When he saw her, he smiled. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to look at Colton. She didn’t want to see the two men together in the same frame.
Trent asked, “Mind if I join you all?”
An abyss opened. Her world cracked wide and ugly. Vaguely, she was aware of Sammy and Honey moving. No one else did.
“You aren’t welcome here,” she said.
Whose voice was that? A woman’s. Hers. Her lips had moved. It was like she was watching herself speak in a much stronger voice than she was capable of. “You aren’t welcome here.”
“I was telling your friend”—he nodded toward Colton—“that I missed you and wanted to make sure you were safe living alone in the woods.” He grinned. “Hey, young man. What’s your name?” He held out his hand.
Aaron accepted his hand, and they shook. “Aaron.”
Trent nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Go into the house, Aaron. Please,” she said.
�
�No need to send him away on my account, Sandy. I want to hear about all this work going on. I have to admit I’m impressed.” He smiled, nodding toward Colton. “Of course, you have help. Everyone needs help, and you’re lucky. Clearly you found the right person.”
Aaron looked from her to Trent, then at Colton, and back to her. She held the tray out to him. “Would you take this inside for me? And call the dogs? Take them inside and give them a treat.”
“But—”
“Please.” She could count on Aaron’s courtesy and cooperation. She looked at Colton and nodded but spared him only a quick glance. She waited to hear the door shut. When she did, she felt freer to deal with Trent, but before she could speak, he did.
“Seems like I’ve interrupted a party here. Or a break, I guess. I’d love a glass of that iced tea, Sandy.” Trent kept grinning.
Colton gave up trying to figure it out. He stood. “What’s this about, Sandra? Should Aaron and I leave?”
“Hey, not on my account,” Trent said. “I want to meet Sandra’s friends. Get to know them. And I can see you’ve been real helpful to her. I appreciate that.”
“Sandra?” Colton prompted her.
“I know you don’t understand, Colton. Frankly, I don’t understand what he’s doing here, either.”
Trent turned away from her and faced Colton. Trent was taller and broader, but Colton’s stance looked like he was telegraphing that he could take care of himself regardless. This was wrong. All wrong.
“As I was explaining before Sandra joined us, I’m Trent Hurst.”
“Sandra mentioned she’d been married. That would be you?” Colton didn’t sound friendly.
She stepped between them. “Leave, Trent. You don’t belong here.”
He turned toward her. “Maybe you don’t want me here, but you’re lucky I was, weren’t you? What would have happened to you and Honey if I hadn’t been there with you?”
Colton frowned. “What’s he talking about, Sandra?”