Pisgah Road Read online

  In one of those rare moments, she woke up with an unusual burst of energy and asked in a hushed tone, “Is your father here?”

  “No, Mom. He’s gone to the pharmacy.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you need something?”

  She shook her head and then as if remembering, she replied, “Help me sit up a bit.”

  She had not done that for a week, lacking the energy needed to do this simple act. “Are you sure?” She nodded and I helped her to a half recline.

  “Did you love the farm, Sweetheart?” she asked after a moment.

  “What?” I was thrown by the randomness of the question. It was part of the madness of dying: non sequiturs and ironies. But after a moment I realized she meant her grandfather’s farm.

  “Grandpa’s Farm,” she reminded me before I could speak. “Did you love it when we used to go there?”

  My mother was born after her grandfather’s death but to her family the farm always belonged to him. They called it “Grandpa’s Farm” or more often than not, the “Farm”, with the implicit understanding of the actual owner, even decades after his death. Grandpa had left it to his children, my mother’s father and his sister, Auntie G. But her father didn’t want to have anything to do with any farm, and not realizing its real worth had given his share to his sister. Despite it all, my mother had spent every summer there and when I was born the tradition continued with me. It would have continued on with my children, if I had had any, and perhaps if the farm hadn’t been sold years ago.

  “Yes, Mom,” I replied. “We had great times there, didn’t we?”

  “We did, even though Auntie G was a mean ol’ fart.”

  The memory of her aunt made her laugh but it came out as a wheezing cough that lasted for a few minutes. The exertion tired her and she became subdued and after a moment she lapsed back into a deep sleep. I sat there watching, as an opiate concoction kept her in a peaceful state.

  My mother was not very old, but she looked fragile and broken down like an ancient relic dug up from a dusty tomb. Her skin was pale and had a yellowish tint, and the scattered grey fuzz on top of her head only added to the dreariness of her profile. She was tall and once brandished an athletic body, but the only thing left of her former self was the dark bright eyes that stood out like two beacons. I only looked at her eyes when we spoke. It helped me to remember her as who she was.

  I had grabbed a book and was reading when she awoke suddenly and said, as if no time had passed, “Auntie wasn’t that mean. She was just old fashioned and overly religious.”

  I looked up and she was wide-awake, staring at me. “She was kind of tough, Mom.”

  My mother thought for a moment as if I had just posed a completely new proposition. She finally said, “I know.”

  My great aunt lived alone in a ranch house surrounded by lush green meadows and rows upon rows of apple and cherry trees. The farm was about twenty miles outside of the town of Riverside, Washington, with a population under one thousand according to the 1980 census. It fell to less than five hundred a decade later. Both my parents were born in Riverside. It was located 150 miles northwest of Spokane and a million miles away from everything else.

  Early every morning a dozen cars loaded with day laborers would arrive and there would be a flurry of activity, starting with my aunt slopping breakfast for the men, women and children who had come to pick cherries in early summer, and apples later in the season. She would get up hours before dawn to make oatmeal, hot rolls and coffee. She would lay mounds of brown sugar, raisins, and dried apples on large plates and bowls and then wait for the first car to arrive. The seasoned laborers knew what to do and where to go, and the new ones, lost at first, learned that eating breakfast and group prayers were mandatory on her farm.

  The farm hands would sit around long tables and wait for Auntie G to arrive. She was a large heavyset woman and was fond of wearing long thick flowery dresses. She had long hair that she kept tightly braided and then tucked securely behind her head. She needed glasses, but refused to be bothered with them. She would walk slowly in the room carrying a heavy pot of hot oatmeal, squinting her eyes to see better as she served each person a huge portion. She never smiled or chatted with the workers while serving, and would not allow anyone to take a single bite before everyone held hands and said grace. The tables were set across a large hall, with several smaller tables reserved for the kids — children of laborers who were part of the labor force themselves. They were of all ages, but each one was there to work. During the first week, the children looked sleepy and some would even nod off as they sat there waiting for their rations. But after several days of hard work, they simply looked exhausted.

  Auntie G would stand at the head of the table, grab the hands of whoever was sitting next to her, and then recite the Lord’s Prayer. After everyone was settled, she would sit with the workers and chat with them and encourage them to have second and third helpings. She would then serve hot coffee and rolls, followed by another group prayer. Then the hard work would start and would not end until the afternoon.

  I still remember the smooth and warm taste of the early morning oatmeal. I looked at my mother and said: “I loved the way Auntie G made oatmeal though.”

  My mother replied incredulously, “You did? It always looked like you were forcing yourself to eat.” And then more kindly, “I didn’t blame you though. The portions were so huge. How much oatmeal can one eat? And every day?”

  “It was okay — plus the place was fun,” I said. “You should rest, Mom. Dad should be home soon.”

  She misheard me and asked, her voice hurried, “He’s back already?”

  “He came back when you were asleep, but had to go out again.”

  “He forgot something?”

  He always did. “Yes. He didn’t get some of the drugs.”

  “Good,” she said and closed her eyes for a moment.

  I tried to avert my eyes but was not quick enough and saw her as she really was, broken and dispirited. She opened her eyes and she was human again. She looked at me, and then, as if wanting to remember something, closed them in concentration. It was getting too painful. I didn’t want to remember her with her eyes closed, looking pale and stiff like a worn down figurine. She still had her eyes closed when she asked, “Do you remember Jane?”

  I had to think for a moment. I sat down and played with the jacket cover of the book I had in my hand, knowing the name but not wanting to remember. It had been more than fifteen years since we were at Grandpa’s Farm, but I couldn’t help but remember Jane. Jane was indubitably linked to the farm. We, in all these times, had not spoken about the farm, not even when we went to Auntie G’s funeral, and thus never mentioned Jane either. By the time of her death, Auntie G had already sold the farm, not sharing any of the proceeds with my mother, and was living in town. We were there for two days, but no one ever mentioned the farm that was barely twenty miles away. Jane did not come to the funeral. I had thought my mother had forgotten about that life as I had, but I was wrong.

  “Of course, Mom,” I replied, trying very hard to conjure back the image of the farm and my mother’s best friend.

  Jane was about six years younger than my mother, but they were close. Jane lived in town but would spend her summers with us. Jane’s mother worked for Auntie G and was considered a close friend to her, at least as much as Auntie G allowed attachments. My mother lived for the summers. I was born on that farm, delivered by Auntie G herself.

  “You remember?” she insisted, seeking certainty.

  “Just vaguely, I guess…Not much, really…You should rest, Mom.”

  “Is your father back?”

  “No, Mom. Why do you keep asking? Do you need anything?”

  “No. Just tell me when you hear his car, okay?”

  “Sure. But if you need anything I can take care of it too.”

  She ignored me and said, “I haven’t spoken to Jane for…” She paused trying to remember the years. “What y
ear is it?”

  “1998.”

  “Is it? God…How long has it been?”

  “Almost fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years,” she whispered to herself. “It’s a lifetime.” The revelation seemed to have sapped the energy from her and she became smaller and sunk deep in the bed. “How old are you then?” And then realizing, said, “I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”

  I laughed. “It’s easy to forget, Mom. I’m going to be thirty-one in a few months.”

  “Thirty-one,” she repeated, ignoring my attempt at levity.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  I was scared. It’s true, you never feel like a grownup with your parents. You want them to be there and be strong for you. You don’t want your mother to forget your age.

  “Nothing. I’m just tired,” she replied.

  “Rest then.”

  “Okay.”

  It was that simple. She had become more obedient, like a child who tries hard to please an adult. She was only fifty-six years old. She closed her eyes and I was about to leave when she opened them and said, “Come back in an hour, okay?” And then, in an instant, she was back in her dreams.

  I checked on her an hour later, but she was fast asleep and my father and I took turns checking on her every hour. She woke up in the afternoon with my father by her side. She sent him away on an errand and asked me to sit with her again.

  “Is your father gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember Jane?” She asked and then she added before I could reply, “I already asked that, right?” I nodded. “It’s hard to keep reality and dream separate. Too many drugs.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t do drugs, Son,” she said and then laughed feebly at the tired cliché. Then she stopped and looked pensively at her little book of poems. “She was my best friend.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “I’m so glad the book came out before I died.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Mom.”

  “I should have written this years ago. I waited too long. What about you?”

  “What about me? You’re the writer in the family. I’m just a glorified technician.”

  “You’re more than that. You do good things for people.”

  She was being generous. A few months earlier, I had told her about my job, my real job, in a moment of weakness — when her condition had worsened and we’d feared the worst. I don’t know why I made my confession; it was certainly not for her sake. I suppose I’d wanted to come clean at least to one person in my own family. I thought she was dying that very day and I was, perhaps, even more sure that she couldn’t fully understand my words. I spoke for an hour and she had listened without saying anything. If she was surprised, she didn’t let it show. Of course, I didn’t tell her everything — just enough to make me feel good. I don’t think she would have liked me if I had told her the whole truth about what I did every day at work.

  I hadn’t responded so she continued, “We all have something to say, Sweetheart, and we must say it when it’s appropriate.” She fell silent for a moment, lost in in her own thoughts. “I waited too long,” she murmured.

  “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “Your Dad said you reconnected with Gabrielle again.”

  My mother was a master of diversion. Gabrielle Desidéria was from a different time and from a different place.

  “Just emailing.”

  “It’s wonderful. She was so good for you.”

  “We’ve moved on…”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have, darling. It’s never too late. Don’t wait too long to say what needs to be said.”

  “You were going to talk about Jane.”

  “We’re good at this, aren’t we?”

  “At what?”

  “At keeping our emotions in check. We’re good at not saying things that must be said — all of us, your dad, me and even you.”

  “I don’t do that, Mom.”

  She clearly heard the tension in my voice and offered, “Maybe, you’re right. Who am I to judge?”

  “I didn’t mean it like…”

  She raised her hands, palms facing me and stared for a moment, her eyes struggling as if under a heavy weight. “Hear it from an old woman: it’s okay to be vulnerable. But you have to trust someone for that. You must have someone for it, you know?”

  I didn’t, but I didn’t want to have a debate either. “Sure.”

  “What happened to Gabrielle and you?” She asked again.

  “You know what happened, Mom. Why do you like to rehash old stories?”

  “You were so good in London. The city made you a man. You should have never come back.”

  My parents and I lived in London from 1983 to the summer of ‘88. I spent the last two years of my high school there and studied computer science at Imperial College. In the first week in London, I met Daniel Wright who quickly became a friend. He introduced me to Gabrielle and I fell in love with her. We were all close friends, and we thought we would be friends forever. It didn’t work out that way. It started well but it didn’t end well, not for me, not for Gabrielle, and not for Daniel. Perhaps my mother was right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have left London, but it was too late. It was too late to redeem that life despite its invisible tether that would not let me move on.

  “Too late now, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Sweetheart. You’re the only one who can tell. Love endures.”

  “That’s a load of…”

  “Don’t get angry, son. You loved her. I know you did.”

  I loved her and she loved me, but Daniel didn’t allow it. I think I could love her again if the circumstances were different. How could I not love a woman who was everything to me? Daniel brought her to me and then he took her away, leaving me with nothing but a trip back home and ten years of bitterness.

  “We all moved on. It’s been a decade.”

  “You had good friends in London. All of them so sweet, especially Daniel.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about London now, Mom. Please.”

  “Okay, but it feels so unfinished.”

  “What?”

  “You. Gabrielle. Daniel. Everything.”

  “It is finished. And even if it wasn’t, it’s too late now.”

  “It’s never too late…”

  “It’s been a lifetime, Mom. Why now? Why such an interest in our past after all this time?”

  She looked at me as if I was dumb and added, “Because I’m dying.”

  That was the trump card — it was her carte blanche to bring up any taboo subject. But I wasn’t going to give in. “Let’s talk about Jane, Mom.”

  Jane’s image had been rushing back to me all afternoon and she finally became whole. I remember her working in the farm, her muscular body tanned under the sun. She had short dark hair and always wore an old John Deere black baseball cap. She had strong hands with short working man’s fingers. She was not a pretty woman, with her drawn face and small eyes, but she had a presence and a sense of self that transcended surface beauty. She was not very tall, but she stood erect and was quite strong, which made her appear as tall as my mother. She worked harder than anyone and she was my mother’s best friend. Jane was present the night I was born and loved retelling the story with all its gruesome details. My own father missed my birth.

  “She was very fond of you, Sweetheart,” my mother said and I could tell she was very eager to make me remember her.

  “She was very nice, Mom.”

  “She loved you like a son.”

  IV

  It’s interesting how when we are young, life moves around us and we are just unwitting passengers. We don’t think about the past or the future. We simply live for the moment and the people around us are merely the supporting cast, whose sole job is to provide the right environment for us. They do what they do and we expect nothing more or less from them. My mother did her job, and Auntie G did hers and so did Jane. Jane may
have loved me like a son, but at the time I never thought about it. It was not part of my consciousness. She was my mother’s friend and she was very kind. I certainly liked her, but she was not part of my awareness. My focus, at the time, was on the other kids who would arrive with their parents to work on the farm.

  I saw the summers as a simple routine. We would arrive late in the evening, timed well by my father to avoid spending too much time at the farm, and being greeted by Auntie G and Jane. My father would spend the night, but would leave early in the morning — most often without saying goodbye to anyone. In the first week or so, I’d wake up early enough to join the workers in their morning ritual. I’d help Auntie G set up the tables and would eagerly join the kids’ table for breakfast. It was easy to pretend the whole thing was a game and before my teenage years, it was a game. The little kids would help out collecting the apples from the ground and sorting them in different buckets. There was no real expectation and after an hour or two, all of us would run around the farm playing Cowboys and Indians, or bathe in the Okanogan River. But as I entered my teen years, so did my cohorts and there was no real time left for play. Working on the farm was a serious job, and although I’d start out eagerly working as hard as they did, I always had the option of opting out. And after a few days of hard work, I did. It’s not easy to do backbreaking work all day and then get up before dawn to repeat it again and again. After a week or so, I’d get up late and show up to work only to find an excuse to leave after couple of hours. I would inevitably take a few of my friends with me on the pretense that Auntie G needed them. We had to be clever about our excuses and limit the number of people we would rescue every day. Those were my summers, just a boy unaware of any worldly implications of a life as a laborer on a working farm. My world was focused on the planning and scheming, and the rewards of success. Freeing several of the boys and girls from hard work meant that I had friends on that lonely, vast farm.