The Vigil Read online

  I reached for my grandmother’s hand. “It’s OK. I won’t go through the trunks if you don’t want me to. No harm done.”

  She pulled away from my touch and glared with vacant eyes—a stranger’s eyes. “Yes, there is harm done. It’s not right for people to assume they can invade other people’s privacy.”

  Anthony stepped closer. If anyone could calm her, he could. “C’mon, Mawmaw, you can ride home with me and Angelle.”

  “Nope, I think I’ll walk. My house is jus’ around the curve.”

  Concern flashed in Anthony’s eyes. “Your house is five miles from here. You can’t walk. Besides the mosquitoes will eat you up.” He swatted at a bug hovering around his face.

  “I’m about tired of being told what I can and can’t do.” Mawmaw crossed her arms and sat on the bench. “Now you all go about your business and leave me alone.”

  Aunt Melanie whispered into Mama’s ear and then sat next to Mawmaw. “Mama, we can walk to my house if you want.”

  “Nope. Honey, I’ll be jus’ fine.” She patted Aunt Melanie’s leg, and then crossed her arms and leaned back on the wooden bench.

  Mama sat on the other side of Mawmaw. “Mama, I’ll sit here with you. My legs are a bit tired.”

  “OK, baby girl. You rest right here next to me. I think these fine people were leaving, anyway.”

  “Yes, I think they are.”

  Anthony guided me and Angelle off the porch and out of hearing distance. “Have you noticed anything like this before?”

  I shook my head. “Never.”

  “Do you think she’s having another stroke?”

  My heart raced. Please, Lord, no.

  We stood at the edge of the parking lot, glancing back to see Mama and Aunt Melanie with heads bowed sitting next to Mawmaw. Were they praying?

  Lord, keep her safe and healthy. The prayer flowed through my heart

  Anthony touched my arm. “I’ll go check on her. Maybe we should bring her to the hospital.” He closed the distance to the porch in a few long strides. After a few minutes, Mama, Aunt Melanie, and Mawmaw, with the help of Anthony, walked toward the parking lot.

  “Cheryl, are you giving me a ride home?” Mawmaw asked.

  I shot a quick glance toward Mama, and then to Anthony. “If you’re feeling OK?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be feeling OK? We had a great meal and good company. Nothin’ finer. But it is getting late, and it’s past my bedtime.”

  “It’s only eight thirty,” Anthony chimed in.

  “Yep, thirty minutes past. You young people forget. I go to bed at the same time as the chickens.”

  “Cheryl, once you get Mama settled in your car, could you come see me?” Mama said.

  I raced to my car, started the engine, turned on the air conditioner, and then helped Mawmaw get settled into the front seat. “Mawmaw, I have to talk to Mama for a second. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure, honey. I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”

  Mama, Aunt Melanie, Anthony, and Angelle stood a few yards away next to Anthony’s car. When I approached, they turned toward me.

  “Is she OK to spend the night alone?” I asked.

  Mama’s face held an unusual shade, much paler than her normal color. “I can’t convince her to go to the hospital. She doesn’t remember saying those things. Mel will take me home to get my car and clothes. I’ll come up with some reason to spend tonight at her house.”

  “It might be easier for me to do that. I’ll stay with her tonight. Don’t worry. Mama, Aunt Mel, I’ll call you if anything happens.”

  Anthony reached for my arm. “Me, too. OK?”

  I nodded. “That was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen with her.”

  “Me, too,” Mama said.

  Anthony chuckled. “Guess we should not be poking around in those trunks, eh, Sis?”

  “I guess not.”

  We hugged good night and as I walked to my car a small part of me wondered if my very astute grandmother had just put on a show for her family. Had she changed her mind about me going through the trunks and didn’t want to admit it? Surely, she wouldn’t have gone through such an elaborate display just to keep me from opening those trunks.

  Vingt Et Un

  Once she’d gone to bed, I’d slipped back to her house and made myself as comfortable as possible on her sofa—an antique torture device I’d renamed the Duncan Phyfe Rack. A few times during the night I sneaked into her bedroom to check on her. Her snoring remained steady. Sunday morning, the incessant beep, beep of my phone alarm roused me from my fitful sleep.

  I folded the blankets and returned them to her closet. After waking Mawmaw, as I’d done most mornings for the past few weeks, with a fresh cup of her rich coffee, I sat at her kitchen table with a large cup of the aromatic brew. Once she’d finished her cup in bed and joined me in the kitchen, I examined her face. Deeper wrinkles circled her eyes and forehead while the corners of her eyes drooped.

  “Mawmaw, are you feeling OK this morning?”

  She nodded. “Just a bit tired.”

  “Do you remember anything unusual last night at the restaurant?”

  She shrugged. “No. I don’t. Did something happen?”

  “Yes, you got pretty upset when I asked Anthony to remove your trunks from Mama’s attic. Do you remember anything about that?”

  “No. Why do you have to remove them?”

  “It’s too hot to go through them in the attic.”

  “Oh, I see.” She stared out the kitchen window. I followed her gaze and enjoyed the sunrise breaking over the pasture behind her house. “Don’t know why I’d be upset about that. Just a bunch of old dresses and stuff in there.”

  “Well, you were pretty upset about me going through those trunks.”

  “Cheryl, I don’t remember that.” Her eyes widened. “Do you think I may have had another stroke?”

  “I don’t know Mawmaw, but I think it might be best to let Mama take you in for a checkup.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “OK.” Her gaze met mine head-on while tears formed along the corners of her eyes. “Cheryl, it’s OK for you to go through those trunks.” She patted the top of my hand, but fear continued to steal the softness of her warm blue eyes.

  I swallowed hard and paused.

  “Mawmaw, I’ll come by after church to pick you up, and we’ll go through the trunks together. OK?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  I fixed breakfast and lingered a while longer. After our second cup of coffee, I rose to leave.

  Mawmaw was back to her old self again. She looped her arm through mine and walked me to the door. “I’m glad to see you’re going to church. I’ve failed in my Christian walk and therefore failed your mother, also.”

  I patted her hand. “It’s never too late, you know. You’re welcome to come to church with me today. And I wouldn’t worry too much about Mama. I believe answered prayer has guided Mama where she needs to be.”

  “Really? Whose?”

  “Aunt Melanie’s.”

  She smiled for the first time since last night and it warmed my heart to see her eyes sparkle again. “I’m glad to hear that. Glad to hear it. That girl always took after her father more than her mother.” She winked at me. “I think I’ll pass on church today, but maybe another time. Maybe another time.”

  “OK, but anytime, you’re welcome to come with me.”

  ****

  I slipped into the back row of Grace Community Church just as the praise band began the morning worship. The lyrics to the popular song stirred my spirit as I followed the rhythm. The time in church flew by, and I became immersed in Chuck’s message. He spoke on knowing God so I could know His will for my life. It made sense. What didn’t make sense was why I couldn’t do it. I wanted to know God more. I wanted to know His will for me.

  As I walked out of church after the service, Beau fell in step next to me.

  “Cheryl, it’s good to see you in church.” His v
oice lacked his usual enthusiastic tone.

  “You, too, Beau. I’m glad to be here. Any change with Annie?” We walked toward my car.

  He shook his head. “Gerald and his wife are there with Steven. I had to come to church. I needed something to recharge me. I’m heading to be with her now.”

  His sad eyes pierced a hole through me. What could I possibly say to relieve his pain? Nothing. I knew that. But I could do something. I stopped. He stopped. I placed my hand on his arm and bowed my head. “Heavenly Father, I lift Beau up to You. Place Your hand on his heart, and give him Your peace. Ease his pain Lord with the bounty of Your love. Amen.” Warmth spread through my face, not contributed to the high midday temperatures. I had never prayed out loud or in public for anyone before. I didn’t understand what had prompted me to do so, but it felt right.

  Before he turned to leave, our eyes met.

  In them, I saw gratitude. “Cheryl, thanks so much for the prayer. It means a lot. Keep praying will you?”

  “I will.” I reached for the handle of my car door. “Good-bye, Beau.”

  “Good-bye, Cheryl.” He walked away with slumped shoulders and looked very much like an adult version of how his son had looked yesterday.

  I slid into the driver’s seat and took a deep breath, pushing back a flood of tears. His grief drilled through me. And when I thought of his Steven, my heart twisted. Lord, be with them. Be with the whole family. Give them peace.

  ****

  “Mawmaw.” I opened the screened door on my grandmother’s porch and walked into her kitchen. A teakettle was on the stove with the burner at full flame. “Mawmaw.”

  As I passed her bedroom, I noticed the bed was unmade. Not at all like my grandmother. She usually made the bed the minute she bounced out of it. I increased my pace as I continued through the house looking for her. While in the living room, the teakettle’s high-pitched whistle broke through the uncanny silence. Surely, if she was anywhere in the house, that would bring her out.

  In the kitchen, I turned off the flame. Where was she? I dashed out the door and took two steps at a time off the porch. No sign of her in the backyard. Her flowerbed sported many weeds among the brilliant hydrangeas, geraniums, and Shasta daisies. A pang of regret gripped my heart. I should have come here and helped maintain her weed-free garden.

  I scanned the side of the house. No sign of her. Where could she have gone? If she went for her walk without me, we’d have to have a long discussion.

  A moan and a muffled yell from the other side of the tool shed captured my attention. I ran through the thick grass. “Oh, please, no. Oh, please, no,” I repeated. As I turned the corner, my breath caught.

  Mawmaw struggled on the ground. A shovel sat on the ground next to her. Her legs were tangled through the netting she’d used to protect her garden from the birds that enjoyed her bounty.

  “Mawmaw! Are you hurt?” I knelt next to her. The acrid aroma of the freshly tilled soil filled the air. In a different time, I would have inhaled deeply and enjoyed the scent.

  When she turned her head, I saw dirt around her lips. “I’m OK,” she blurted out with a puff of dirt.

  “Hang in there. I’m getting you out.” I tugged gently on the webbing in slow methodical movements. My instincts were to rip the webbing off and get her on her feet, but her paper-thin skin slid under the sharp monofilament.

  From her attempts to free herself, she’d created a snarled mess. Untying the knots would take forever. “Stay put. I’m going back for a pair of scissors.”

  I ran back into the house, through the kitchen to her sewing cabinet, and rifled through her drawer until I found her red-handled scissors. I dashed out the door, down the porch, and through the backyard.

  Mawmaw would be appalled to see me running with scissors.

  I wasn’t sure if the flip-flopping of my heartbeats were due to the unabashed sprint through the backyard or seeing her on the ground struggling. I knelt at her feet and took several deep, calming breaths. The scissors sliced through the netting. As soon as the netting fell off, freeing her, she tried to stand.

  “Hold on.” I ran my hands over her legs and arms looking for fractures or abrasions. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

  She blew out a breath causing her disheveled hair to rise and then fall back into her face. Dirt smeared her cheeks and covered the tip of her nose. Her eyeglasses lay askew with patches of mud covering the lenses. “Only my pride, dear girl. Only my pride.” She attempted to rise, but fell back onto her bottom.

  I reached under her arm. “OK, on the count of three, I’ll help you stand. One, two, three.”

  That didn’t work. Trying to help her stand from the front in the soft dirt proved too difficult. She didn’t budge, and I almost fell on top her.

  “Wait. I have a better idea.” I bent her knees so both feet were planted in the soil and then got behind her. I slipped my hands beneath her arms. “OK, on three.”

  At three, she stood with just a little help from me.

  “What in the world were you doing? And why aren’t you wearing your alert button?” I asked as we ambled back to the house.

  “Oh, the wind had blown the netting off my tomatoes, and the ground needed to be turned. So I got busy.” She reached into her blouse. “It’s right here. Didn’t want to bother the paramedics.”

  We stepped up onto the back porch. “Sit here.” I pointed to her worn oak rocker. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

  Didn’t want to bother the paramedics. I shook my head. I’d never known anyone so independent, or was it just plain stubbornness? She worked hard and didn’t complain. Many times I’d wished I could be more like her. Even now, at almost eighty, she still had the stamina and motivation of a younger woman. But I had to wonder, could this independent streak of hers be a liability more than an asset at this point in her life?

  I ran the water in the sink to warm the temperature and then drenched two washcloths. When I returned to the porch, she swayed gently in the rocker, trying to wipe the mud from her lenses with the edge of her apron. She looked up and smiled. “This is good dirt. Thick and rich. I should have some real nice ‘maters this year.”

  Even though my heart broke for her circumstances, the sight of my mud-drenched grandmother with her gray hair hanging around her face tickled my heart. What a trooper.

  I handed her the washcloths. She pointed to the dark splotches on the knees of my white Capri pants and giggled. So I turned around and showed her my backside. At that, she released a full-bellied laugh that touched me to the core of my being.

  I sat on the top step and laughed along with her. “I’m so glad you’re OK. You don’t know how scared I was when I saw you on the ground. Please don’t do anything like that again. Use the button. That’s what it’s for.”

  Her laughter died and her eyes sharpened. “What? Don’t tend to my garden? That’s not gonna happen, girl. The day I can’t do my own garden and tend to my own house is the day I’m ready to meet my maker. Don’t want to go to no ol’ folks’ home or be a burden to anybody. Especially Melanie, or your mama.” She pouted her lower lip. “I’ll use the button next time.”

  “Mawmaw, I meant don’t scare me like that again. No more falls. No next time, OK?”

  She smiled again. “OK.”

  “Also, the teakettle was on when I walked into the house.”

  “Really? I don’t remember putting that on.”

  My gut wrenched for a moment. Was this the after effects of her stroke? Was she getting Alzheimer’s? Was there something she wasn’t telling us? The questions rambled through my brain intensifying the fear brewing in my heart.

  But then again, I forgot things all the time. And, after all, she was seventy-nine. She was entitled to forget things, wasn’t she? “Shall we get cleaned up?”

  She wiped her face and had to make several passes to get all the dirt off. I helped her wash her elbows and knees.

  “Do you still want to look through the trunks this afternoon?” s
he asked.

  I thought she would have forgotten the reason for my return visit, but the fact that she did remember soothed the burn in my gut. “Yes, that would be nice. I’ll run home and get cleaned up and pick you up in about thirty minutes. Is that enough time?”

  She nodded. “Plenty enough for me.”

  I sat on the step for a moment after she’d gone into the house. The episode had rankled me. She seemed unfazed. Her inner strength amazed me. The nasty thought of something robbing her of that strength turned my stomach.

  ****

  Mama stood at the stove stirring in her favorite bright red, iron pot. “Anthony came by last night after we left the restaurant. The trunks are in the extra bedroom.” She dipped a smaller spoon into the pot and sipped the creamy liquid from it. “Mmm. Just right. I’m making crawfish bisque. You two are staying for suppa.”

  Typical Mama, More command than invitation. But we didn’t argue with her. I loved crawfish bisque. So did Mawmaw.

  I don’t know how Mama cooked the foods she did and kept her amazing figure. I wished I’d inherited her metabolism.

  Mawmaw sat at the kitchen table and chatted with Mama. I headed toward the guestroom—the one that resembled the cover of the Easter edition of one of those home magazines. The lilac and pale green of the flowered curtains and bedspread beckoned me in. Although I didn’t like the dainty colors or style, I couldn’t help but smile. That was Mama, too. She liked frilly and girly. Another thing I had not inherited—her taste in decorating.

  The antique trunks lay on the floor next to the bed. Thick leather straps circled the tooled leather covering of the first trunk. It reminded me of a Victorian steamer I saw in a recent movie. The other trunk had leather straps too, but with a plain brown leather covering. No etching. Both were old and had been well cared for. I fumbled with the buckles of the first trunk to loosen the bindings, and then attempted to free the lock. It wouldn’t budge. I performed the same procedure for the other trunk, same result.