Catherine Palmer - Leaves Of Hope

“I’m surprised none of us did.” Jan swallowed, and looked down.

Beth felt again the huge hole her father’s death had left in his family’s world. Two years had gone by, but it seemed like yesterday. And forever.

“The point I’m making, Mom,” she continued gently, “is that you took a big step—retiring from your teaching job, selling the house you and Dad lived in your whole married life, leaving good ol’ Tyler, Texas, and moving to a new house fifteen miles away. But then you painted the same old motto on your porch.”

Jan’s blue eyes narrowed. “Young lady, ‘what is, is.’ I will accept it and try to be happy.”

“So, you’re just going to roll up like a little pill bug and bury your head?”

“Of course not! I have plans. Things I’m doing. But I won’t spend my life longing for what was. Or wishing for what might have been. It’s called acceptance.”

“It’s called boring.”

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

Beth’s heart grew softer as she heard the pain in her mother’s voice. “When I heard you were moving, I was thrilled. I thought, now. Now, she’ll do something with herself. You taught school to earn a living, but inside, you had art, poetry, imagination bubbling up and seeping out. I thought I might come to the lake and find a bohemian mom with candles burning and red velvet couches and books of poetry lying around. But you have another tidy little house with the same curtains, beige furniture and throw rugs, just like in Tyler. You’re still making chicken salad sandwiches and lemonade. And you’ve painted a saying that means ‘Accept life and do nothing different.’”

“First of all, I loved teaching,” Jan told her daughter. “It was never just a job. Second…well, I am doing things differently.

My art, for example.”

“Watercolors?”

“Pastel chalks, as a matter of fact.” Jan lifted her chin as though she had just reported recently climbing Mount Everest. “So you see? It’s not the same. I took a class years ago. A woman taught us how to create portraits of Native Americans.”

“You’re painting Native Americans?”

“Of course not. What would I know about Native Americans? But one day I got out the old pastels, and I’ve been experimenting. I’m trying new things.”

“It doesn’t count if you’re still doing roses, Mom.”

“I’m painting people.”

“People!” Beth sat up straight. “Let me see!”

“Absolutely not. I’m still learning. Besides, all my people still look like Native Americans. Pastels aren’t as easy as watercolors, where you can blend until you get the exact tone before you put brush to paper. With chalk, it’s all about how you use your hands. Look at my fingertips. The prints are worn off from rubbing the paper. I could commit a crime, and they’d never catch me.”

Beth laughed. “You’ve never done anything wrong, Mom.” Jan gave a demure smile. “So, now you know what’s new with me…tell me more about you. Are you seeing anyone?”

Beth groaned. “You are way too predictable.”

“Well?”

“Are you?”

“Me?”

“You’re allowed to date, you know. Bob, Bill and I talked over the idea, and we’re agreed. We think you should start going out. Maybe even marry again.”

“So my children are discussing me behind my back,” Jan said. “Well, save yourselves the trouble. I’m not interested in dating—or remarrying—ever. It hasn’t been long since your father died, and that was very traumatic. Besides, look at me. I’ve spread out in all the wrong places. I’m sagging and drooping and wrinkled up like one of those Chinese dogs. But let’s talk about you. Have you met any nice men in New York?”

“Look, Mom, I know losing Dad was devastating, but he died two years ago, and was sick for three years before that, so it’s not as if you haven’t had time to work through your feelings. And why do you make yourself sound like a bag lady? You’re pretty, Mom.”

“I know what’s under this bathrobe. Believe me, there’s no chance I’m ever going to marry again, so you can put that notion right out of your head.”

“If marrying is such a bad idea, why are you always pushing me to connect with some altar-bound guy?”

“Well, for pity’s sake, Beth, you’re beautiful and smart, and you have your whole life in front of you. Don’t you want to build a family? Buy a home instead of living in that cramped apartment? And what about children? What about love?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing more wonderful than a happy marriage. It’s what I want for all my children.”

“Then why won’t you marry again?”

“Beth, stop! I’ve been there, done that, okay? Look at who’s available for me to choose from, anyway? The single men my age will have failed marriages or be old, lonely widowers with too many needs or have resentful children. Even if I did find some never-before-married man my age, what sort of person could he be?”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Everyone has baggage, Mom. None of the men I meet are pristine young innocents.”

“Have you been going to church?”

“Of course. I’ve met some decent men—but everyone has baggage.”

“You don’t have any baggage. You grew up in a two-parent home in Tyler, Texas, with a nice church and an active social life. You got a good education, and now you have an interesting job.”

“I’m practically perfect in every way, like Mary Poppins?” Beth grinned. “Yeah, you and Dad did a fine job raising me, Mom. I’m just not in a hurry to marry. I have other things to do before I settle down. And I want you to come to New York and visit me.”

Jan reached over and fiddled with the magazine. “I might,” she said finally. “I have time now, and your dad left me in good financial shape. So I suppose I could.”

“How about this summer?”

“Oh, no, I’m still settling in here in Lake Palestine. I have a lot to do.”

“I’ll help you unpack. I’m here for three days. I bet we can take care of it all before I leave.”

“No.” Her voice growing serious, Jan rose from her chair. “Don’t touch anything, Beth. Leave those boxes in the guest room exactly as they are. I’m the only one who knows where things should go. Seriously. Hands off.”

Beth studied her mom, who looked shorter and tinier now than ever. Despite her auburn hair and pert blue eyes, Jan showed her years. Did she want to shrivel up and fade away as her husband had done? Disease had robbed him of all movement, and then his breath and finally his life.

Before the tears could start, Beth stood. “Good night, Mom,” she whispered as she folded her mother in her arms. “I love you.”

In the guest room, Beth rooted through her suitcase. She had grown so accustomed to living out of it that she hardly had to search for things. Underwear on the left. Toiletries on the right. Casual clothes at the bottom. Business attire near the top. She bought knits that needed no ironing, and lingerie she could wash at night and wear by morning. Her mother had no idea of any of this.

As she tugged her T-shirt over her head, Beth focused on a plaque Jan had painted long ago. It had always hung in the spare room at their house in Tyler. “Welcome, Friend,” she had painted in delicate, curling script—black ink on a pale purple background. And then beneath it she printed words from a William Cowper poem:

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,

That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Beth wondered if this was truly what her mother desired most. Shutters fastened, curtains drawn, cups of hot tea and a quiet life in which nothing ever changed.