Irises (33 page)

Mary shook her head. “The God I know is a god of love a
nd kindness and
He loves Mother as much as He loves y
ou or me
.”

Kate and Mary were silent. Mary listened to Kate's breathing and noticed that the rhythm of each inhalation and exhalation matched her own.

Then, after a while, Kate spoke, her voice trembling. “Remember when Father died or was dying and you didn't call 9-1-1? You said you wanted his soul to leave quietly. You said that's what Father would have wanted. I don't understand. You were willing to let Father's soul go without interference, but you aren't willing to do the same for Mother.”

Mary pondered Kate's words. The two situations seemed different, but she couldn't express exactly how. Maybe they weren't different. She needed time to figure it out.

“When Father died you said you saw a light disappear. You said it was his soul. Remember?

Mary nodded.

“What about Mother? Have you seen a light in her since the accident?”

Mary was silent. A small branch fell from the willow tree. She picked it up and caressed its baby green leaves. She felt drained. She wanted to lie down someplace and sleep for a few days. She got up slowly.

“Mary
.
.
.” Kate started to say.

“I need to be alone,” Mary said.

“Will you think about this, Mary? Just promise me you'll think about it.”

Mary walked away without answering.

 

K
ate watched Mary quietly open the gate and walk in the direction of the church. Knowing Mary, she was probably looking for a place to pray, to be alone, in the quiet of the sanctuary.

Kate was about to go inside when she saw that the door to the toolshed stood open slightly. As she went to close it, she noticed Mary's paintings inside. She stepped in, leaving the door open.

The first painting she saw was the unfinished painting of the two irises. She remembered Van Gogh's painting from art history class. It was amazing how close Mary had come to capturing the violet hues, the incandescent light of the Van Gogh. She put the painting to one side and looked at the rest. She was so startled by the last one in the stack that she almost dropped it. It was her portrait, the one that Mary painted before Mama's accident. Her long, dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders; her eyes sparkled with intelligence and kindness. She was glad the eyes in the portrait reflected
kindness
, for it meant that Mary had seen that in her once. Mary always spoke about the light she saw in others.
There
, Kate thought.
Now I can see the light in me as well.

She put her portrait back in its place, closed up the shed, and went back inside the house. She wished Father was around. The only decision she or Mary needed to make when he was alive was whether to obey willingly or unwillingly. Now the world seemed to be made of one choice after another, and each choice involved the suffering of someone, somewhere. She remembered Father's words that last morning.
Love makes everything that is heavy light.
Was he wrong? So far, love seemed to be making everything that was heavy heavier. Either that or there was no love in what she was doing.

She entered Mother's room and saw her sleeping peacefully, her eyes closed. Kate lifted the sheet that covered her and lay down next to her. Tears came to her eyes with the realization that what she felt was love, what she was doing was for love and because of love. There was so much love in her and it was uncontainable. She held Mother's hand and let her love flow through.

 

S
he was about a block from the church when she heard the car honk.

“Hey, Mary!” It was Marcos. “You need a ride?”

“No, thank you.” She rubbed her eyes, trying to hide the fact that she was crying. Marcos pulled into the church lot and ran back to her.

“What's the matter? Why are you crying?”

“I'm not crying,” she said, turning away from him.

“Yes, you are. Look at you.”

She turned back toward him, and the sight of his cut and bruised face only made her feel worse. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. He reached out for her gently and put his arm around her shoulders. “What's going on? Did someone do something to you? Tell me. I'll beat them up.” He was trying to be funny.

“Leave me alone,” she said. She shook his arm off.

“I can't leave you alone. I'm going to stay with you. I can stay without talking, but that's the best I can do.” She sniffed. He offered her his red bandanna. “It's clean, honest.”

She wiped her eyes and unconsciously blew her nose. She giggled despite herself when she realized what she had done. “I'll wash it for you.”

“Yeah, you better. When do you think you'll have it clean? I'll come pick it up.”

She wadded the bandanna in her hand. “What are you doing around here anyway?”

“I came looking for you. But first you have to tell me why you were crying.”

“I can't.” They started walking.

“Well, at least tell me where we're going?”

“I was going to church. I don't know where you're going.”

“Okay, I'll go with you.”

“Have you ever even stepped in a church?”

“Not actually stepped in. Not lately, anyway. But I take my
jefita
and my sisters to church every Sunday. I wait for them by the park and then pick them up.” They stopped in front of the church. “It's closed,” he said.

“It stays open until ten
 
p.m
.
At least it used to when my father was alive. He kept it open in case people wanted to go in and pray.”

“Something happened to you that's serious. Tell me.”

“It's private.”

“Okay. I'll leave you alone,” he said reluctantly. “But I wanted to tell you something.”

“What?”

“They let me out of the gang. Well, almost. I have to go through a couple more things. Nothing major.”

“More beatings?”

“It's just stuff. Nothing I can't handle. And I painted the wall white yesterday. It took only four hours. Do you want to come with me tomorrow and take a look at it? We can start putting up those dots you talked about. You know, the ones we need to connect to make the drawing.”

“I don't know if I can help you anymore,” she said.

“Let me go inside with you,” he said. “I promise I won't say a word. You need to be with someone right now even though you don't realize it. Honest. I can tell.”

She wanted to go inside the church to think, to consider all that Kate had said about Mama. Yet there was something about having him next to her that was good, that was needed. He was keeping her from thoughts she couldn't face.

She shrugged and said, “The church is open to all.”

The sanctuary was dark and cool except for the evening sunlight coming in through the windows. They sat next to each other in the same place where she and Kate always sat. At first she was conscious that he was sitting next to her, their shoulders almost touching, but then she noticed that she could forget about him if she wanted to.

He seemed to be absorbed in something other than her. Then she saw him take a pencil from his pocket and begin to doodle on the back of the weekly pledge envelope. She watched him for a while and then she spoke.

“What are you making?”

“Oh, nothing really. I like to draw when I'm quiet. It helps me think.”

“I do that too.” She smiled.

There was silence.

“Was it your mother? Were you crying about your mother?”

“Yes,” she said, looking away from him.

“Tell me.”

She hesitated. Then she spoke, her eyes fixed on the altar. “My sister thinks we should let her go.”

“Let her go?”

“Disconnect her from her feeding tube.”

“And you disagree?”

“I don't know what to think.” She looked at the cross in the altar.

A ray of sunlight entered through one of the windows. The only sound was the sound of their breathing.

He cleared his throat. “My father was an alcoholic. He died a couple of years ago. His liver was in bad shape. He was also a heavy smoker, so he had emphysema as well. There toward the end, he was home with an oxygen tank. There was really nothing they could do for him at the hospital. You know what he used to ask me whenever he saw me?” She shook her head. “H
e wanted
me to give him some tequila. He used to tell me where he had a bottle hidden in the house. He would beg m
e for
a drink. ‘I'm dying,' he'd tell me. ‘What difference does it make?'
”

“And what did you do?”

“I gave him the tequila. I'd wait until my mother wasn't around and I'd give him a sip. That's all he wanted, a sip now and then. It made him peaceful, just tasting it.” Marcos began to doodle on the envelope again. Mary watched. Then he spoke softly. “After about a month of being at home, he died. He and I never got along too well before that. He was mean when he was drunk. He was mean to all of us. I thought I hated him for the way he was with my mother and my sisters. But we got close that last month. Those little sips of tequila that I gave him brought us together. He apologized to me for all his meanness.

“I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except that you telling me about your mother reminded me of him, of that last month of his life.
There toward the end, he was ready to go. It was like he lived
long enough for us to grow close, and once we were, he felt he could die in peace. I watched him die. He was at peace.”

Mary reached over and took the pencil and the envelo
pe
from his hand and for a second their eyes met. Underneath where he had drawn wh
at looked like
a rose, she began to draw an iris. It felt good to draw again.

She had been wrong about him. Yes, he had been in a gang, but his heart was good. He liked her, she knew, and she was proud o
f that
. She looked inside herself and saw that she liked hi
m too
.

Was there light in Mama now?
Have you seen a light in her?
Kate had asked. She hadn't seen it. Even when Mama was in the hospital right after the accident, there had been no light i
n her.
Was Kate then right about Mama? Perhaps she couldn't see Mama's light because it was already gone. A deep sadness came over her at the thought.

Kate was right about her inability to enjoy painting since Mama's illness. But the sadness she was feeling now felt different from what Kate had called her grieving
— this was more like what she had felt at Papa's death. She had let Papa's soul depart in peace. Maybe Mama wanted to make sure she and Kate loved each other. Kate seemed different now, more like a sister. That's what Mama would want.