Sisterchicks Down Under (9 page)

T
wo days after Jill
and I made our on-line travel plans for Christchurch, it rained buckets. For the first time since we had arrived in New Zealand, I reached for a small devotional book one of my friends had given me as a going-away gift. The reading for that day was from Ephesians 5.

One verse stood out to me, and I underlined it. “Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that.”

For a long time I sat listening to the rain hitting the garage’s metal roof, sounding like rubber pellets. I didn’t know if I had ever loved anyone extravagantly, the way God loved me. Finding Jill certainly had been an extravagant gift to me from God. I thought of all the people I had loved cautiously over the years.
What would my life look like if I started to love extravagantly?

The next morning the sun was back, Tony was out the door early, and I was ready to trot down to the Chocolate Fish for a morning wake-up mocha.

I found Mr. Barry already out in his garden. He greeted me with a wave of his gloved hand from where he kneeled beside the mums. He was trying to tie up the drooping stems. I waved back and thought how he seemed the sort of man who, by virtue of his build, was better suited for shouldering a plow and driving a team of oxen than bending low to fiddle with tying delicate knots in gardening twine.

“How are you this morning, Mr. Barry?”

“No complaints.”

I noticed that Mr. Frodo was looking his cheerful self. I also noticed that the blooms on the mums had become so heavy in the rain that they bent in such a way that their golden faces appeared to kiss the earth.

Deciding that I better come clean as well, I bent my head and said, “Mr. Barry, I didn’t tell you this yet, but a few days ago I was driving a truck, and I bumped into your lawn hobbit. He fell over, but we put him back up. I broke off a few flowers, but that was all. I don’t think anything in your garden was hurt, but I thought I should tell you.”

“I saw the whole thing,” he said.

“You did?”

“The three of you were a box of budgies.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I guessed it was something positive by the way he said it. “So you’re not upset?”

“How could I be? Best entertainment I’ve had in a year.”

Relieved and yet still feeling a bit penitent, I asked, “Do you need some help?”

He hesitated before nodding and moved back so I could get in there and bolster up the drooping blossoms.

“My wife planted these six years ago. Every year her chrysanthemums keep coming back.”

I assumed Mr. Barry’s wife had passed away. After going through all the emotions with Jill when she told me about Ray, I wasn’t sure I wanted to open up any repressed feelings in this gentle giant. Instead, I nodded to the gunnysack marked Narcissus Bulbs. “Do you plan to put those in the garden today?”

“Thought I would. Might be nice to have some flowers here in October.”

“I’d be glad to help, if you like.” I knew my gesture wasn’t exactly extravagant, but it was a first step toward loving someone without being cautious or thinking about what I could ask for in return.

“I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” Mr. Barry said.

I picked up a trowel and asked where he wanted the first bulb to go. The rain during the past two days had made the earth nice and soft. Getting my hands into fresh, moist soil met some sort of basic need inside me. I felt happy the moment my fingers curled around the rich earth.

Mr. Barry asked if I wanted gloves, but I was enjoying the feel of the soil and told him I didn’t have fancy fingernails that were in danger of breaking off.

“My wife used to paint her fingernails red. Bright red. She painted them every week. I liked her red fingernails. You could always see her hands moving about. Even from across the room.”

“Did she paint her toenails, too?”

“No, she’s always hated her feet. Hates her ears, too. Never wanted to wear her hair back like yours is now. Said she was afraid people would stare at her ears. Why are women like that? Dorothea has beautiful ears.”

I noticed he was talking about his wife as if she were alive. I risked broaching a volatile topic and said, “I’d like to hear more about your wife.”

“She doesn’t say much, but she gets by.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant.

“She’d like to meet you.”

“Okay. Would this morning be a good time?”

“Good as any.”

Sliding the last few bulbs into the cool earth, I rose, dusted off my knees, and followed Mr. Barry into the celery-colored cottage to meet Dorothea. She was seated by the window in a wheelchair with a crooked expression on her face. When she saw me, her eyes brightened.

I went to her, slipped my hand in her quavering left hand, and introduced myself.

Dorothea made a soft sound in the back of her throat and kept looking at me. The fingers on her right hand were curled in, and her wrist was bent. I recognized all the symptoms. My grandfather had a stroke when I was young and lived with us a full ten years. The stroke incapacitated him on the right side and severely affected his speech, but his mind was all there. Was that the case with Dorothea?

I told her about my husband and what he did at Jackamond Studios. She took in every word, using her expressive eyes to respond.

Mr. Barry offered me a chair. I sat beside Dorothea, still holding her hand. Then I treated her to the delicacy my grandfather
always wanted: I gave her news about what was going on in the outside.

First I told her about the bulbs we’d planted and how large the mums were growing. Then I told her about the views Jill and I enjoyed from the top of Mount Victoria. Dorothea’s eyes didn’t turn away from me even for a moment. She was a medium-framed woman with short white hair that poofed up on her head like a squiggly shower cap. I thought she had very dainty ears, but I didn’t mention them. I didn’t want her to think her hubby had been telling me secrets about her in the garden.

Clearly, Mr. Barry could help Dorothea in and out of her wheelchair and take care of all her basic needs. But no man can minister to a woman the way another woman can. I wondered if Dorothea had a regular stream of visitors. Even if she did, after spending an hour with her that morning, I decided that for the rest of our stay in Wellington, I’d be one of her regular visitors.

“I’m going to go,” I said when her eyes began to droop. I guessed she probably napped a lot. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome, but I’ll come back and visit you in a few days. Okay?”

She made a gurgling sound in response.

“Good. I’ll see you in a few days then.”

Mr. Barry walked me out the front door. He cleared his throat awkwardly once we were where Dorothea couldn’t hear us. “I’m in your debt,” he said in a deep, yet faint voice.

“No, you’re not. Tony and I are in your debt. As a matter of fact, Tony wanted me to be sure and pay our rent before next Tuesday. I’m going to be gone for a few days, and we didn’t want to be late with the payment.”

“All right.” He raised his hand to wave as I took off down the street.

The sun was nearly halfway through its paces, but I was still a woman on a mission for a morning mocha. Some things, like a Chocolate Fish mocha latte, I didn’t forget about regardless of how many pleasant interruptions blocked my way.

In the week that followed, Jill and I shopped for a new bedspread for me, comfortable travel shoes for her, and something extra special for Dorothea.

Jill came over the morning before we left for Christchurch and helped me give Dorothea my little going-away-for-a-few-days gift. I’d been over to the house to see her nearly every day. My topics of conversation had dwindled by the third visit, so I brought a novel with me the next time. She seemed to love being read to. Especially because the novel I was reading didn’t seem the sort of book Mr. Barry might read to her.

When Jill and I entered, Dorothea was waiting for us. “Good morning!” I said. “I brought my friend Jill with me. Jill, this is Dorothea.”

Their connection moment was tender but a little awkward. Jill didn’t seem to quite know how or where to touch Dorothea. I’d seen visitors act that way with stroke victims before. My grandfather’s friends would look at him as if part of him was broken, and they were afraid to touch any other part of him in case that area might break as well.

I slipped my hand in Dorothea’s strong left hand and leaned close to press my cheek against hers. “Jill and I have a little surprise for you today.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows went up as I held out a small gift bag. I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Barry couldn’t be seen, but I
guessed he was in the kitchen, his usual place of retreat whenever I came to visit. He seemed to want to hear everything but not let me know he was interested in the novel or what I had to chat about.

“Are you ready for this?” I leaned closer and whispered, “Your husband let me know what color you liked. Or at least what color he liked on you.”

I pulled a bottle of bright red nail polish from the bag along with a file, a top coat, and some cotton balls.

“What do you think, Dorothea? Would it be okay if Jill and I put a little color on your fingernails?”

The dear woman began to cry.

“Oops!” I said. “I forgot the tissues.”

“I have some.” Jill reached into her purse.

We pulled up chairs and positioned ourselves. Jill took Dorothea’s flexible left hand. I knew how to handle the right one even though it was locked in a curled-up position.

“Let me know if this is uncomfortable in any way.” I massaged the palm of her hand.

“Did Kathy tell you that she and I are leaving in the morning for Christchurch?” Jill asked, warming up to the situation once she started to file Dorothea’s neglected thumbnail.

“Have you ever been to Christchurch?” I asked.

Dorothea made a response, but it was hard to tell if it was a yes or a no. I half expected Mr. Barry to answer for her from the kitchen, but when he didn’t, Jill and I went on as if her contribution to the conversation had been clear.

“We’re flying down and taking the train back,” Jill said.

“And staying at a bed-and-breakfast. Jill found this place, and it sounds charming. Actually, all of Christchurch sounds lovely. We’ve heard that the leaves should be gorgeous.”

Dorothea made a sound in her throat, and I said, “Do you want me to bring back some big autumn leaves?”

“Aaah.”

I let her know I’d bring back a big bouquet of leaves and lots of stories from our trip.

Cheerfully working together, Jill and I lit up Dorothea’s smooth fingernails. The red looked even brighter on her nails than it had in the bottle.

“Mr. Barry is going to love this,” I whispered. “He’ll notice these little holly berries from across the room and think it’s already Christmas.”

Dorothea’s visceral laugh startled Jill, but I’d come to love it. It sounded like a thinner version of Mad Dog’s guffaw. I enjoyed those rare puffs from her sunken chest as much as I enjoyed getting a little chocolate fish. It was like receiving a tiny reward for making Dorothea happy.

The manicure was a grand success. When Jill and I left, Dorothea couldn’t stop waving at us with her left hand, as if she were the Queen Mum and we were her adoring subjects, which we definitely were.

“Poor Mr. Barry,” I said with a giggle, as we crossed the yard back to the garage.

“Why do you say that?” Jill looked at me as if I were being mean.

“There’ll be no living with the woman now that she has red nails! Did you see the way she was waving at us? That red-tipped hand will be ordering him all over the place. All she has to do is point, and the man will be powerless to deny her request. Yes, I’d say our work is done here for the day.”

Jill smiled. “Wellington was running a little short on super-heroes before you arrived.”

“The dynamic duo, that’s us. And the dynamic duo has struck again! Armed with only a bottle of nail polish, Lucy and Ethel go where no man wants to go! With a few vibrant strokes we keep up the never-ending battle of finding ways to empower women everywhere!”

We enjoyed a good giggle in front of the hobbit. I thought the fellow should be happy. This was one of the few times the laughs weren’t about him.

“What time should I be ready in the morning?” I asked, as Jill and I wound down and were about to go our separate ways to pack.

“Is seven okay? Our flight is at nine, but I like to be early.”

“Me, too. And Tony wanted me to thank you again for letting him borrow your car while we’re gone.”

“No problem. Anytime. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gave me a hug. “You did a good thing today, Kathy. With Mrs. Barry. That was a good thing.”

I basked in the glow of Jill’s praise for a little while after she left. What Jill didn’t know was that I hadn’t really gone out of my way or done anything extraordinary with Mrs. Barry. I did what came naturally and comfortably to me, because I worked with elderly people every day. Jill never had asked about my job, and I hadn’t told her. The topic had never come up.

I pulled out my suitcase from under the bed and wondered what conversational topics would come up on our trip to Christchurch. Jill hadn’t told me exactly how Ray had passed away, and I didn’t feel as if that story was one I wanted to ask for. If she wanted to give it to me one day, I would receive it, but I wouldn’t ask.

When we were on the plane together the next morning, I thought Jill was about to give me the story of Ray’s death. She
mentioned that the studio had an office in Christchurch and how one of the other location managers had been on site in Christchurch the day of the accident.

But that was all she said. So Ray’s death had been an accident. She seemed to be fighting against a wave of sadness after giving me that snippet of information, and I didn’t want to start down a conversational trail that would set a somber tone for our getaway.

The Christchurch airport was a small building with a single conveyor belt for the luggage. It took us no time to retrieve our suitcases and head outside into the sunny day.