Leota's Garden (58 page)

She closed her eyes, imagining the scent of stalk, hyacinth, sage, mock orange, gardenias, star jasmine, honeysuckle . . .

Oh, Lord, that my life could have been a fragrant aroma, a soothing sacrifice to You. Oh, that this desert of an old woman could have bloomed and brought You a bouquet of blossoms.

“I’ve decided to put in a vegetable garden this year, Grandma,” Annie said from where she worked. “Our first crop will be this summer. Sweet corn, beans, carrots, peas, onions . . .”

Leota savored every moment, watching her granddaughter tend the garden she had loved for so many years. She knew now it wouldn’t die.

Corban was standing in the corridor, next to Professor Webster’s office door, when he saw the portly instructor approaching. The dark eyes looked straight at him, no hint of emotion.

“I need to talk with you, Professor. Would it be convenient now, or should I make an appointment?”

“Now would be fine,” Professor Webster said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He stepped inside, leaving the door wide open for Corban. As Corban stepped inside, he saw what seemed to be chaos. The shelves were packed with books, and more were stacked on the floor. Files and papers cluttered the professor’s desk, leaving only a small work space. An old electric typewriter was on a stand in the corner. But Corban knew appearances could be deceiving: Professor Webster knew his subject.

“How’s your paper coming, Mr. Solsek?”

“That’s what I’d like to talk about with you, sir.”

“Sit.” The professor set his briefcase on the floor and took his seat behind the desk. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“The paper is in the trash, sir. Since there’s not enough time to start another, I’d like to drop the course.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Corban had figured as much. Still, his stomach dropped. He had worked hard to hold his standing. This would cost him dearly, but he knew it was right and fair. Anyone with half a brain didn’t ask for pity at a university this size. The competition didn’t allow for it. “Fair enough,
sir. I’ll take the F. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to sit through the classes until the term ends.” He still had a lot to learn.

Professor Webster put his glasses back on. “What’s the trouble with the paper you started?”

Corban could feel the heat climb up his neck into his face. He let his breath out slowly. “I was on the wrong track.”

“The wrong track?”

“You start housing facilities for people no one cares about, and it’ll become too easy to do away with them. No matter how good it looks on paper, the bottom line is there’s too much government control and too much temptation to take easy solutions to long-term difficulties. With everyone griping about taxes and demanding relief, the first to be sacrificed are the ones who can least defend themselves. Right now, it’s the unborn. I don’t want to be part of making it easy to do away with the elderly, too.”

“One old woman taught you this?”

“Leota Reinhardt
tried
to teach me, sir, but I was deaf to what she was saying. It took two other women to get in my face and show me.” Ruth Coldwell and Nora Gaines. They’d never meet, but they had a lot in common.

Professor Webster leaned back in his chair. “We have a student body of brilliant young men and women here. I’ve had students come as puffed-up little peacocks, thinking top grades and high SAT scores make them something special. They’re so full of themselves, they think they know more than anyone else, including the PhDs with twenty years’ experience behind them.”

Corban’s face burned hot. Of all people, he knew he deserved a dressing-down. “You have my apologies, sir. I’ve been an idiot.” He started to rise.

“Sit down, Mr. Solsek. I’m not done yet.”

Heart sinking, Corban sat and waited for whatever else he had coming.

“In all my years of teaching, Mr. Solsek, I can count on one hand the number of students who’ve had the courage to come to me and admit they were wrong and take an F without complaining.”

An odd warmth filled Corban at the professor’s words. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome to attend class. I’ll give you an incomplete on the condition you enroll in my class again next term. Agreed?” The professor rose and extended his hand.

Corban stared at him for a moment, not quite sure what had just happened. Then he jumped up from his seat and shook the professor’s still-extended hand. “Agreed, sir! And thank you.”

The professor released his hand and smiled. “I’ll be interested in seeing what you come up with next time.”

Nora hadn’t spoken to Anne-Lynn in ten days, not since their telephone conversation two days after her mother had gone home from the hospital. “Would you like to help me, Mother?” Anne-Lynn had said. “One afternoon a week would make a big difference.”

“And if I agreed, I’d only be encouraging you to go on with this madness.”

“This is what I want to do.”

“Oh, so you wanted to quit art school and move away from your friends and give up dating? You
want
your life to narrow down to taking care of an old woman day in and day out for as long as she lives? You
want
that?”

“Mom, what better way can I spend my time than loving Grandma Leota?”

Nora had almost said, “You could love me,” but something held her back. Maybe it was her memory of the look on Anne-Lynn’s face when George had accused Leota of wasting their inheritance.

Now it had been more than a week since her telephone conversation with her daughter. Surely, Anne-Lynn had had more time to think things over and realize what she’d taken on. Nora dialed her mother’s number and waited. Within two rings, she heard Annie’s voice greeting her with a cheerful “Hello!”

“It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn. I—”

“We’re sorry, but we’re unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Thank you!”

An answering machine. That was a new addition. Nora listened, debating whether to leave a message or not. “It’s your mother, Anne-Lynn.
I was just calling to check on you.” She gripped the telephone receiver a little tighter. “How are you two doing together?” She couldn’t truthfully add, “Well, I hope.” Unable to think of anything more to say, she held the phone away and pressed the button to disconnect. With a heavy sigh, she put the receiver against her aching heart for a moment and then placed it carefully back in its cradle. She had errands to run before she attended the University Women’s Literary Society luncheon. And there was Christmas shopping.

Christmas. How she hated Christmas.

Would Michael even call this year?

Did you call Leota last year?

She couldn’t get away from the past all the rest of the day. Every memory that came to mind brought misery with it. When Nora finally returned home late that afternoon, her answering machine was blinking a red 5. Her dentist’s receptionist had called to remind her of her appointment the next morning; Fred called to say he would be late getting home; someone from her old church had called to invite her to a women’s ministry night—a cookie exchange. The next was silence and then a click. Probably another sales call.

The last message was from Annie.

“Hello, Mother. Thanks for calling.” Her voice softened and became husky. “We both listened to your message. Grandma cried. We’re both doing fine. We’d love for you to come by for a visit. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime, Mom. If I don’t answer the doorbell, just look for us in the garden.”

Nora’s throat closed as she listened to her daughter’s voice.
“You’re welcome anytime, Mom . . . just look for us in the garden.”

In the garden this time of year? The leaves were falling.

Nora remembered seeing her mother outside during the cold season, sometimes even in the rain. Raking leaves. Pruning. Putting plastic over the plants that couldn’t take the cold.

The ache within Nora grew.

Walk with Me. Talk with Me. You are My own.

She pressed the button and listened to the message again. And again. And again.

What should I do?

She kept hearing what George had said about their inheritance. The
money mattered to him because he wanted to get out from under debt. Who could blame him? Nora didn’t care about her mother’s possessions, and her mother certainly had no money. How had she managed to live on Social Security all these years? Fred was wealthy, so Nora had all she’d ever need. What did she care about the house? Maybe she could help a little . . .

George had called several times, asking if she had managed to talk some sense into Annie. Nora had found herself defending her daughter, not for her actions but for her heart. “She’s not the kind of girl who’s out to steal your inheritance, George. I resent you even thinking such a thing!”

She felt so torn.

“Don’t you think I know that?” George had almost shouted into the telephone. “But Annie’s naive. Your daughter takes her religion a little too far! This is my inheritance she’s talking about, Nora—and yours. She’s going to do something stupid, like a reverse mortgage. Whatever she gets might provide a little money for the short term, but it’s going to strip us of everything in the long run!”

Nora had prevailed upon Fred to talk with Annie.

“Annie assured me she’s not going to do anything until the situation arises that makes it necessary,” he told her after he had stopped by for a visit. “By the way, your mother looks much better. She said to give you her love.” He hadn’t said it to be sarcastic—she knew that—but she had felt the pinch of guilt for not having asked about her mother’s condition before asking what Annie had said about money matters. She just wanted to get George off her back.

What a mess this situation had made of her life. It would’ve been easier on everyone if her mother had died of the stroke instead of ending up an invalid.
Invalid.
What a terrible word. What kind of life was Annie going to have confined to a little house in a ghetto neighborhood with an old woman as her only company?

Maybe a few more weeks of handling twenty-four-hour-a-day care all by herself with no help from anyone would bring Annie to her senses quicker than words could do. Nora could only hope so. She pressed another button and listened to her daughter’s voice one last time before deleting the message.

“We’ve had a steady stream of visitors.” Annie grinned at Corban. “Arba is here every day after work to collect the children.” She held up another hook for him to screw into the eaves.

“You’re taking care of them?” He looked at her in surprise. Once the hook was secure, he draped the string of lights. They’d look like shining icicles hanging from the eaves. Annie had already woven strings of tiny white lights through the front rhododendron bushes and the trimmed flowering plum. Devoid of foliage, it looked dramatic with the tiny lights wrapped around and around the trunk up through the center of the tree. Then she’d wrapped the two thickest lower branches outward, making a cross.

“Actually, the children are helping,” Annie said as she took another string of icicle lights from a box. “Grandma is usually resting in the afternoon. Did you see the new hospital bed? It makes it much easier for her to get up, and for me, too. Anyway, Nile does the reading now. He sits in the chair by the window, and the girls sit on Grandma’s bed. They’re almost finished with
The Secret Garden
.”