On the Divinity of Second Chances (18 page)

Great. She’s going to be no help at all. I’m wasting precious time listening to bogus advice.

“Okay, hang in there, Dad, we’ll think this through. We could make a rubric listing her interests down the side and potential gifts across the top and then assign points to potential gifts based on how well they accommodate her interests,” she suggests. I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me.

“All she does is paint,” I say.

“Then go home, look at the brand and type of paint she uses, and go get her more of it. Maybe some canvases, too.”

“She can get that for herself. I want to get her something only I can get her.”

“Okay . . .” I keep waiting for her to continue, but she doesn’t. There is a really long pause. Finally she says, “Think back a long, long time ago, back before we were born, back when you were still in love. Wait, were you ever in love?” she asks.

What? “Yes,” I reply, somewhat insulted.

“Try to remember some detail about those good times . . . an activity, a place, even a smell, and figure out a gift that will recapture that.”

“Okay.” Surely I can do that. Problem solved.

“Good luck, Dad,” Jade says as she sees me out the door. “Just don’t get her anything practical!” she shouts as I’m halfway to the car.

Not practical and related to the era when we were still in love. That narrows it down. I drive toward the house, not knowing where else to go, and hoping something in the house will trigger my memory. On the way, though, I pass a schoolyard and . . . Bingo! I detour to the hardware store.

When I arrived home to an empty house, I was at first relieved. Coast was clear to assemble the gift. Then I saw it. The note. “Phil, I’ve gone away probably just for a few days, but I don’t know for sure when I’ll be back. Olive is at my mother’s house.” What if she doesn’t come back?

I decide to act as if she is coming back.

I take the materials from the hardware store out of the trunk and go into the backyard. I study the old cottonwood. There’s a tree house there. I wonder how long that’s been there. Did the girls build that? Where was I? Who knows. I make slip knots in some rope and throw the ends over a good branch of the old cottonwood. I slide the ends of the ropes through the loops, reinforced with pieces of old garden hose, and pull the ends so that the loops ascend to the branch. I realize I’m going to need to drill holes in the board. I go into the garage, though I know I never purchased a drill. I was hoping maybe someone else had over the years. No such luck.

I pick up the phone and dial. “Jade, do you have a drill?” I ask when she answers.

“Dad, you do realize you have no margin of error here, right? The clock is ticking.”

“Not so. I came home to an empty house and a note from your mother telling me Olive is in South Dakota and your mom left and isn’t sure when she’ll be back. I’m not sure if my marriage is over or not. If it’s not, I’m hoping this gift will save it.” I mean for this to be a joke, but the instant I hear myself say it, I realize there’s too much truth in it for it to be funny.

“You know, Dad, I think it’s really interesting to listen to you talk about your marriage like it’s a possession, like it’s bologna finally rotting in the fridge. You seem so much more concerned with not losing this possession than you are about Mom and her happiness. If I were you, I would be concerned that Mom is hurting. She’s hurting so much, she’s been sleeping on a lawn chair. She’s hurting so much, she left. She’s hurting so much she can’t even talk to you about it. Are you even aware of this? Because you don’t acknowledge it if you are. She’s hurting, Dad. If you’re concerned about her instead of your marriage, the marriage would take care of itself. A marriage is between two people, Dad. Are you married to her or are you married to your marriage? Because you sound married to your marriage.”

“Jesus, Jade, I just asked you for a damn drill.” Clearly, all women are psycho, even my daughter. Who is she to spout off unsolicited advice about marriage when she’s not even married and knows nothing about it?

“I have no drill, Dad. Sorry.”

“Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”

“No, you also needed to know that wives and marriages aren’t possessions; they’re miracles.” Then she hung up. What is it with women that they always need to have the last word?

I return to the backyard, grab my board, get back into the car, and drive around while I consider my options. I might just have to buy a drill. I go to Sears where I can get a Craftsman drill, which, like all Craftsman tools, has a lifetime guarantee.

After I make my major purchase, I return home and use my new tool. Sure enough, it’s everything Craftsman said it would be. What a good purchase! I slip the ends of the ropes through the holes I’ve made in the small plank, then knot them securely. Next, I tie a piece of twine to the rope, disassemble a bouquet of carnations, and wrap the string around and around and around each rope, holding the carnations in place. Carnations last a long time, you know. They’re the best flower value for your dollar.

Before Anna and I part ways, I want to tell her something—something for which there are no words—something that can only be said with a swing. After attaching a birthday card, which contains a gift certificate for unlimited pushing, I pull back the empty swing and let it go.

Pearl on Dean’s Cows and Big Announcements
(July 2)

There they are again, trampling my young sunflowers—Dean’s cows. That ignorant, no-good tapeworm. I know he’s trying to push my buttons. Well, push this, Dean.

Beatrice, Olive, and I solemnly march to the field like special agents. Rule number one: When your neighbor’s cattle keep appearing in your field, do not, under any circumstances, correct the mistake for him. Correct it only for you.

I open the other gate, the one to the neighboring Hildebrand pasture, and then Olive, Beatrice, and I herd the cows through and shut the gate. We quietly give each other high fives. Dean can deal with Rod now. Rod’s a good man and all, but I wouldn’t want to cross him. Mark my words—just the first or second time Dean’s cattle get into Rod’s pasture, Dean will fix his fences and make sure it doesn’t happen again. I know this is wrong, but I do secretly hope Dean gets an ass-kicking for this, or at the very least some kind of emasculating public humiliation.

The girls and I walk back, then sit on the back porch to enjoy some turkey sandwiches and lemonade. We are quiet and pleased with ourselves.

We hear the crackle of tires on gravel. “It must be Anna,” I say. We all get up to go greet her.

Olive takes a deep breath.

Beatrice takes Olive’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “No matter what happens, you’re going to be okay,” Beatrice whispers to her. I love Beatrice for that.

“Hey, everybody!” Anna half heartedly exclaims as she gets out of her car. Maybe she’s tired from the drive or maybe she’s trying to convince herself she’s happy to be here. It needs to be said, she always was a difficult one to read.

“Come here and give your mother a hug,” I say to her.

“Hey, Mom,” Olive greets her. They hug.

“Olive, it’s been such a long time!” Anna jokes dryly.

“Anna, we were just having some lemonade on the back porch. Are you hungry? Can we make you something to eat? We have some leftover meat loaf we could heat up,” Beatrice offers.

“Thanks . . . no . . . I already ate, but some lemonade sounds great.” Anna pops her trunk and I grab her suitcase. “Mom, no, really, I can handle it.” She snatches it from me.

“Suit yourself,” I tell her. “Make yourself at home.”

Anna goes inside to drop her bag, then comes back out to the porch. I get up and pour her a drink, then sit back down next to Beatrice. We look at Olive, waiting for her to tell Anna. She doesn’t. Anna eyes Beatrice and me, clearly wondering what’s going on. I raise my eyebrows at Olive, directing Anna to look over there.

Finally, Olive breaks the awkward silence. “Happy birthday, Mom—you’re going to be a grandmother.” Her forced smile goes unreturned.

We all wait for Anna to respond. We wait and wait and wait. Finally Anna says, “So let me get this straight. At a time when you’ve never needed security more, you leave the father of this child, quit your steady job with good benefits, and come here, where you are uninsured, single, and about to embark on a risky new career. Do you know how many farmers go under each year? Jesus, Olive, you’ve always been my smart one. I don’t understand.”

Olive is stunned and speechless, but finally utters, “I expected that from Dad, but I didn’t expect that from you.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.

“Why? Why does that surprise you? I didn’t raise you by myself. I didn’t stick you in day care. I made sure you had a mother at home with you and how did I do that? By making sure you had a caring father. He may not always have been there for you in some ways, but he was always there for you in others. You always had food, shelter, medical care, and me. You always knew you had a father who loved you. Will your child have that?”

“No.”

Anna stands up and begins pacing. “I bet you can still get your job back at the bank.”

“I don’t want my job back,” Olive says quietly, successfully avoiding eye contact.

“Damn it, Olive. You can’t afford to leave that job now. And what about Matt? Have you told him?”

“Why would I tell him? Matt is not this child’s father.” Now Olive looks directly at Anna.

“Is that why you broke up? You were out whoring around?”

“I was never unfaithful to Matt.”

“Well, then, who is this child’s father?”

“This child has no father.” Olive’s voice is surprisingly steady.

“Oh, really. Second coming of Christ?” Anna gets sarcastic and mean as her anger grows, but you have to admit, to some degree Olive asked for it.

“No, this child has a sperm donor,” Olive explains.

“What? You were artificially inseminated? You got pregnant on purpose?” Anna is really baffled now.

“No, I got pregnant the old-fashioned way and no, I didn’t plan this,” Olive answers.

“How does anyone get pregnant accidentally anymore? Contraception has been invented!” Anna is almost yelling.

“It failed.” Olive demystifies this for her.

“So you haven’t told Matt.”

“Matt isn’t the father.”

“I’m not stupid, Olive. I can put two and two together. I know Matt must be the father!” Oh, Anna is getting mad now.

“What is a father?” Olive asks her.

“What do you mean ‘what is a father?’ You know what a father is! You had one! Every child has a father and a mother! It takes two to make a baby!” No, I can’t remember the last time I saw Anna this mad.

“Really? So that’s all you have to do to be a father? Ejaculate? Pardon me, but that sounds more like a sperm donor, and I do not think the identity of a child’s sperm donor is important,” Olive argues. Oh, this is going to get ugly.

“Really? Is that what you’re going to tell your child when he starts asking about his father? ‘Sorry honey, you don’t have a father; you have a sperm donor whose identity is unimportant’? Beautiful, Olive! That ought to sentence a kid to a lifetime of therapy.”

“Well, a lifetime of therapy would be what she would need to begin to recover from being ripped from her mother when she’s still on the breast so that her sperm donor could claim his visitation rights. Sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll never speak this baby’s sperm donor’s name again because I’m never letting anyone take her from me. She’s mine.”

“She’s not just yours!” Anna yells.

“She is.”

“No, she’s not! Matt has a right to know!”

“He doesn’t.” Olive apparently has had enough. She gets up and walks away, out the dirt road that leads to the fields and to the place where she plans to build her house.

Anna turns to me now, staring hard. “How could you? How could you support such a stupid choice of hers?”

“Maybe you should have asked some more questions before you decided this was stupid,” I suggest.

“Maybe you should have considered that just because you don’t need a man doesn’t mean she doesn’t,” Anna spits back.

I give her the look, the one that used to stop her in her tracks. Tonight it has no effect.

“What happens when her crops fail and she drags you down with her?” Anna asks, still angry.

“She’s done her research. I have full confidence and faith in her,” I say.

“I don’t need to tell you that farmers with a lot more experience than her are going under,” Anna reminds me.

“She’s a smart woman. She’ll be fine.”

“I fail to see that, Mom,” Anna snaps and walks off to the shed, where she digs out her old bike and rides off in the opposite direction of Olive, toward the road.

Beatrice turns to me, putting her arm over my shoulders, and says, “I think that went really well.”

“Yeah, me, too. I’m so glad we got that out in the open. The air is so much clearer now. And I think Anna is going to have her happiest birthday ever.” We chuckle at our sarcasm.

“Think I should go after Olive?” she asks. Beatrice is so sweet.

“Nah, let’s just give them time and space to cool off,” I answer. “Let’s go make a birthday cake.”

Anna on Swings
(July 2)

Was my marriage to Phil so bad that Olive wants no part of marriage? Is that it? When I thought I was holding it together so well, and I thought that was such an accomplishment, was it really a failure? I must have failed as a mother or Olive would have better sense. I must have failed as a wife or Olive would want what I had, right? Of course I failed. I’ve been sleeping on a damn lawn chair.

It’s my birthday. I think of other birthday mornings I’ve had in this house. On my ninth, I woke up to a bicycle in my room. That one was magical. I’ll never forget the freedom of my first bike ride. I decide to indulge in the feeling of that memory as I pedal off in search of a place I hope will hold some answers for me.