Chapter 10 - The Garden in May
Six months later, the cold mud and gray ice of the Fox River valley had vanished, replaced by the brilliant, violent green of an Illinois spring.
The apple tree David had planted in the south corner of the yard was heavy with pale pink blossoms, dropping fragrant petals across the newly tilled vegetable garden. The perennial beds along the stone walkway were exploding with purple salvia, white peonies, and the deep blue Siberian irises that had survived thirty winters under the snow.
I knelt on a foam garden pad between the raised beds, wearing my old canvas work pants, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and heavy leather gloves, pressing small starter tomato plants into the dark, rich compost.
My face was bare to the warm morning sun.
The scar along my left jawline was still there—a pale, thin silver ridge that ran two inches below the bone—but the redness had faded completely. When I touched it with the back of my gloved wrist, it didn't hurt anymore. It was just skin. Tough, healed skin that had weathered its season and held together.
A blue jay called from the top of the detached garage, its sharp, metallic chirp cutting through the quiet morning air.
Down the driveway, the crunch of bicycle tires on limestone gravel broke the silence.
I sat back on my heels, wiping a smudge of dirt from my forehead with the back of my hand.
It was little Toby Peterson from across the street—eleven years old, with freckles across his nose and a baseball cap turned backward. He skidded to a halt by the garden gate, holding a small plastic container wrapped in tin foil.
“Morning, Mrs. Miller!” he shouted, leaning his bike against the fence post. “My mom made rhubarb bread from the stalks you gave her last week! She said to bring you the end piece because you like the crust!”
“Set it on the porch table, Toby!” I called back with a laugh, waving a trowel in the air. “And tell your mother that if she wants more mint for her iced tea, she’d better bring her shears before it takes over the back walk!”
“Will do!” he yelled, dropping the bread on the wicker table and tearing back down the driveway toward his friends at the end of the block, his sneakers pumping furiously against the pedals.
I stood up slowly, stretching my lower back against the morning warmth.
The kitchen door was open behind me, the screen latch swinging gently in the south breeze. Inside, the kettle was humming on the electric range, ready for my morning cup.
On the dining room table inside sat a single, unopened envelope that had arrived in yesterday’s mail.
It had a return address stamped in black state ink: Illinois Department of Corrections — Robinson Correctional Center — Inmate #B-88421.
I had looked at the handwriting yesterday afternoon—Brandon’s sharp, hurried cursive, the letters slightly smaller than they used to be, the paper thin and cheap.
I hadn't opened it.
I hadn't burned it either.
I had simply laid it flat on the corner of the sideboard, next to David’s old brass compass and my nursing school pin, where it could sit until I decided whether I ever needed to read what a boy in an orange jumpsuit had to say to the mother who had refused to drown with him.
Maybe next winter. Maybe never.
A woman who has spent forty years pulling people back from the edge doesn't have to carry the weight of the people who jumped on purpose.
I took off my leather gloves, dropped them into the garden basket beside my trowel, and walked up the three brick steps into my sunlit kitchen.
I reached into the cupboard, pulled down my green ceramic mug, and poured the boiling water over the fresh tea leaves.
May you like
The steam rose in clean, fragrant plumes toward the white ceiling, smelling of lemon and fresh bergamot, hot and clear and entirely free of fear.
I took the cup in both hands, walked out onto the covered porch, and sat down in the wicker rocker to watch the morning sun turn the blossoms into light.
