My Very Best Friend (52 page)

We turned the lights down, lit candles, and strung white lights.

Gitanjali said, palms together, “It perfect is. Oh, yes, India, here in Scotland, for the Indian Feed.”

It was a Scottish fund-raiser with East Indian flavors. People loved it and the turnout was high. After the tandoori and chicken and tikka masala was served, the evening began with Indian music and Gitanjali herself, resplendent in a sparkling orange sari. She mesmerized all of us with a traditional Indian dance. She received a standing ovation, loudest from Chief Constable Ben Harris.

Toran, Ben Harris, the mayor, and other men played their bagpipes, which brought the tears to the fore for me. It reminded me of my father. Toran stood in his clan’s red and black kilt, fur sporran, Prince Charlie jacket and plaid, his blue eyes full of concentration, brown curls ready for my fingers to run through them. People stood and clapped when they were done, too.

Several groups of girls, in traditional Highland dress—tartan kilts, matching hose, and red velvet waistcoats with gold braid—performed Scottish dances.

Toran and I thanked everyone together in front of a microphone. We individually thanked the Garden Gobbling Ladies for all their work, in particular Gitanjali, who received another standing ovation. I could tell she was pleased, palms together, slight bow.

We also thanked the mayor, the Stanleys, Pherson, and Chief Constable Ben Harris. We explained Bridget’s vision. We had made numerous copies of her design and passed them out. People loved it. Using an overhead projector, we put that colorful work of garden art on a screen and talked about each part of the garden.

When we were done, Mrs. Jamilyn Hoover stood up, leaned heavily on her cane, pointed at us and said, “You tell your Bridget that we’re proud of her. We love her, and we thank her for the park.”

“It’s a delight,” Mr. Galing announced, also standing. “Forever, St. Ambrose will have this park because of Bridget. Bridget, one of our own.”

They clapped, they cheered. Toran and I tried not to embarrass ourselves by blubbering about. It took all our control. We again thanked everyone for coming, said we appreciated their donations.

Olive stood then, as planned, and showed them where they could donate more money. She had made an elephant out of cardboard, Rowena had painted it, and money and checks could be placed into the elephant’s mouth.

“You’ve named the park, right, Toran?” Ben Harris stood and asked.

“No, we haven’t named it yet.”

“Well, then, it’s easy. How about this? Bridget’s Park. A Place for Everyone.”

It was perfect.

Toran nodded. “It’s perfect, my friend.”

So we had it. Bridget’s Park. A Place for Everyone.

“And now, for dessert.” I was nervous about this part. I trusted Sandra at the bakery, but it was still a fiery undertaking.

I nodded at Mayor MacBay. The lights went off. Gitanjali, Rowena, Kenna, Olive, Malvina, Chief Constable Ben Harris, Stanley I, and Stanley II each came out with a Baked Alaska, made of ice cream, sponge cake, and whipped meringue. They set them on the tables in front, still in the dark. As one, they each struck a match and set the brandy on each cake on fire.

Everyone went crazy. They loved it. Burning cakes, flames leaping!

Baked Alaska is not Indian. It’s not a Scottish dessert. But I knew it would be a huge hit, and it was.

In the dark, and quiet, people relaxing into the mood of cake burning, the camaraderie and friendship of the night, I said to Toran, “I’m going to set you on fire tonight, Toran.”

He said, “Ah, luv, there’s going to be a bonfire in our bedroom, then?”

“Yes, there is. I’ll be wearing the black negligee with the garters.”

“It won’t stay on you very long.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

We did not know the microphone was still on.

We couldn’t figure out why everyone started laughing.

Stanley I shouted, “Think you can properly keep up with your woman, lad?”

Stanley II shouted, “We’ll understand if you’re limpin’ tomorrow.”

Together they said, “Good luck, Toran.”

We ended the evening with a popular rock band banging the tunes out. The leader of the rock band was Ben’s nephew. His rocker name was Pulsing Brother. His real name was Tye Harris.

When the Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang band walked in, the young people went absolutely crazy, screaming, yelling, waving their hands. Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang played for an hour and a half, and I must admit, they were awesome. We pushed the tables back after the Indian Feed, no Indians eaten, and danced. Toran and I swung each other around, dipped, wriggled, shimmied, hands swaying above our heads, my short red skirt flying, my hair swinging.

The Indian Feed evening, as Gitanjali called it, was a massive success. People donated extra money into the mouth of an elephant.

The best thing? The donations told Bridget that the people of St. Ambrose were behind her and Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone.

Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,

Thank you, one and all. Last night was better than we could ever have dreamed, was it not?

And we didn’t have to sell one marijuana joint, either. Gitanjali, the food was scrumptious. Was I not right about Portsmouth, Monty Jr., Salamander, Mint Ice Cream, and Tornado? So flavorful and plump.

(Sign this note and give it to the next lady.)

Olive

Ladys,

Thank you for helping me cooking with my spices. I think everyone have pleasing night eating Indians and their food on Bridget.

Serenity to you.

Gitanjali

Gabbing ladies,

I couldn’t believe The Arse brought The Slut. She seemed sad. She was sitting alone. I almost, not quite, felt sorry for her, the fake-boobed pariah. Wasn’t my fault that The Arse ended up wearing his wine on his head.

Rowena

Everyone,

What did you think of my date?

I like him. I have lost ten pounds. Louisa is cutting my hair on Tuesday.

Malvina

Gardening Gang,

What a night! Malvina, I liked your date. I pulled my back doing the twist on stage with Pulsing Brother and the Scissor Gang. I’m glad we didn’t sell marijuana. I wouldn’t do well in jail. I’m positive they wouldn’t let me cut people up in there. The flaming cakes were a hit. Loved them, Charlotte!

Kenna

Friends,

Thank you. More than we can say, thank you.

Love,

Charlotte and Bridget

I could not believe how many people turned out to help us clear the lot where Zimmerman’s Factory used to be. The rubble and trash, including two dead cars and a sink, were hauled away by volunteers, including Toran, Pherson, me, the Garden Ladies, and everyone else we knew. As the fall leaves floated by, Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone, began.

Bridget declined further. She got a red rash. Her cough was hard to control, no matter what medicine we gave her. Her fever was up and down, spiking. Silver Cat never left her side.

The land was flattened straight across, ready for planting, ready for Bridget’s garden design.

Bridget had trouble eating, her throat hurt, her glands swelled, her neck stiffened.

The grass sod was laid, the cement paths were poured, the rose garden planted.

Bridget had problems with coordination, with walking and balance.

The white, oversized gazebo was halfway built, the play structure was being installed, the bark dust was laid and waiting for the swings, the fountain construction began.

Bridget was nauseated. She kept vomiting. Toran or I held her hair back when she was bent over the toilet.

Maple and oak trees were planted down the middle of the park and along the pathways. Pink cherry trees lined the edges to offer shade and blooms of color in coming years.

Bridget’s headaches and fevers increased in intensity and duration. She had trouble breathing.

Steel arcs were constructed at both entrances to welcome people to the park. The flower beds were filled with chrysanthemums and pansies.

Bridget had a seizure. When she stopped convulsing, when she could breathe again, she said, “I think I’m almost ready to go.” Her vision started to blur.

A wind swept through, bringing the last of the fall leaves to the ground. The trees were bare. The volunteers and the professionals, tons of them, kept working on Bridget’s Park, A Place for Everyone.

“I want to see it,” Bridget whispered, petting Silver Cat, asleep on her lap.

“You do know it’s ten o’clock at night,” I said.

“Yes, silly lady, but I took a six-hour nap. Let’s give it a go. Help me up, my friend, and let’s sneak out of this house like cat burglars.”

“Okay, cat burglar, here we go.” I wrapped an arm around her. She didn’t bother to get out of her robe and nightgown. She slipped her feet into rain boots. I grabbed a jacket and stuck her arms through. I was in sweats, my hair on top of my head, in a ponytail. My contacts were out, and my new glasses, without tape on the frames, were on.

She leaned heavily on me as I slid her into the truck. She was on a painkiller, but she still hurt, her bones brittle.

I hurried back into the house and grabbed blankets, covered her, then ran around to the other side of the truck.

We drove through the empty streets of the country, over the stream, around the shadowy hills, past the rumbling ocean, and into the village. She insisted we leave the windows down so she could smell the salt in the air.

“Stop here.”

We stopped in front of the ruins of the cathedral, built nine hundred years ago, gravestones wobbling crookedly over the land.

“It’s morbid to stop at the graveyard,” I drawled.

“True. Rather gruesome, given the inevitable. Tell me a bone chilling ghost story.”

“I don’t have one at the moment, except for the one about the headless woman with the hook for an arm we used to tell each other.”

“She was scary, but not as scary as the ghost story we told about Hatchet Hunter and Chain Link Man.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Correct. Hatchet Hunter and Chain Link Man. They scared me so much, I had nightmares.”

We stared out at the darkness, the cathedral looming, the tilted gravestones reminders of those who were here . . . then gone.

“Don’t come to my grave, Charlotte.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to be there.”

Damn. She makes me cry. “You make me cry, then my nose runs.”

She held my hand. “You are a true friend, Charlotte, and I love you even when your nose is running like a sieve.”

“Thank you. What a special image you’ve given me of my nose.”

We drove three blocks, in silence, then stopped at the castle, the ocean splashing up on the cliff behind it, the drawbridge opening a gaping hole. It was a place where prisoners were dropped into holes in the ground, tunnels were dug to attack and defend, battles were fought and lost, and Bridget and I played.

“Remember that game we invented near the tunnel? The one about being chased by French knights?” I asked.

“Yes. We defended ourselves each and every time. They were afraid of our sword-fighting prowess.”

“Powerful girls, we were.”

“Other girls pretended they were princesses in distress.”

“Dull. Anti-feminist. Too dreary for us.”

“Your mother would have lost her pretty head.”

I drove past Sandra’s Scones and Treats Bakery, Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub, the golf course, Estelle’s Chocolate Room, university buildings, two ancient churches with stained glass windows, the fountain in the center of the village, and the bookstore where my mother used to buy us one book each.

I drove on the wrong side of the street and rolled down the windows so Bridget would be closest to her park.

“Look, Bridget.” I pointed to the ten-foot-tall steel arc at an entrance to the park.

She inhaled, quick. “My goodness.” She put her hands to her face.

The arc was engraved. It said, “Bridget’s Park. A Place for Everyone.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she said again, as I drove to the other end to see the same arc, the same engraving.

“The arcs were Toran’s idea.”

She sniffled. “I love that brother of mine.”

“Me too.”

“When Legend comes, she’ll see this. She’ll know the truth about my life.” She struggled not to cry. “I want you to be honest with her, Charlotte, but she’ll know that in the end, I gave everyone a gift. My name was on a gift. Her mum’s name was on a gift.”

I wondered if my heart would burst from the pain of losing Bridget. “Legend will love it. She’ll know you’re her mother. She’ll know from Toran and me that you never wanted to give her up. She’ll know you loved her your whole life. I’ll tell her. We’ll tell her.”

“I lost myself that day when they ripped her out of my arms. I lost it. My baby. I screamed so loud, Charlotte. I fought. I hit, I kicked, and I remember they took her out of the room, and she was crying, too. My baby was crying for me, I know it, and I could hear her screaming down the hall and it got fainter and fainter and pretty soon I couldn’t hear Legend at all. Silence. Silence except for me yelling for her, trying to get her, and everyone holding me down, telling me to calm down. Calm down. My daughter, my baby, was stolen from me, and they want me to calm down.” She had started to shake, and I held her hand. “Calm down.” She took a deep, jagged breath. “Calm down.” She wiped her brow.