Under the Peach Tree (19 page)

But even though Momma May was dying, her spirit was still fresh. She still taught me the importance of life: to love God, to love all of His children as I loved myself, and to bring others to Christ. The last part I hadn't really figured out. I couldn't even step foot inside of a church to bring others to Christ. I thought only preachers did that. I guessed I still had a lot to learn.

“What are you thinking about?” Dante asked. I'd almost forgotten he was sitting beside me.

I sighed. “Life.”

Dante came jogging up to the house that morning, the way he always did. I had been sitting on the porch, thinking about my future, when his voice sounded.

“Good morning!” he sang.

I frowned. “Why you so happy for?” I asked.

“I got a surprise for us after we go visit Momma May today.”

“Well, tell me now. I hate surprises.”

He shook his head. “Nope. You have to wait and find out,” he stated irrevocability.

I sighed and stood. “Fine . . . and it better be good.”

An hour later we walked through the hospital doors. The moment I entered, I felt something off. Something . . . unsettling. I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked over at Dante, who seemed oblivious to what I felt. Dread, was it? Sometimes our soul foresees pain that our brains have yet to recognize.

When we got on the elevator, I stood back, fiddling with my fingers. Dante noticed and frowned, but he said nothing. When the elevator doors opened, I rushed out, nearly knocking Dante over.

“Dang,” he said, righting himself.

“I'm sorry,” I breathed, barely above a whisper. “I just . . . I feel . . . Can I go see Momma May first today?”

He frowned. “Yeah, but what's wrong?”

I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said and took off toward the swinging doors that led me to Momma May. I turned down a few hallways and almost bumped into a few people who had come from Momma May's room. I guessed they were church members.

I stood in front of it, wondering if I should knock. The thought lasted only a few seconds before I went ahead and allowed myself in her room.

And she lay there, half asleep. She looked up at me with a smile. My raging heart settled as I came to her bed. I ran a hand over her gray, thinning hair.

“Every morning I wake up and thank God that you are in my life,” I told her. I took a seat next to her, studying her pale face. She looked thinner today, more sickly. There was a bedpan sitting on the other side of her, which let me know she'd been getting sick. Momma May smiled and opened her mouth to say something but couldn't.

She'd never been this bad.

I stood up and walked to the door, yelling out, “Nurse!”

A pretty lady with a bright smile came up to me just seconds later. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah, she's not talking. She was talking fine yesterday. Why can't she talk today?”

The nurse reached behind me and grabbed Momma May's chart. “Stage four cancer,” she said, skimming over the papers. “This is quite normal once a patient's health declines. She'll have trouble remembering things, difficulty concentrating, problems with speech. She's weak. Do you understand that?”

I shook my head. “A person's condition doesn't worsen overnight.”

She smiled apologetically. “Tell that to God.”

I frowned as the nurse walked away. Tell that to God? What did that even mean? Tell that to the person who was in charge so they could fix it? It wasn't like God would just change Momma May's condition. I'd prayed and prayed for Momma May to get better until I realized I was praying the wrong thing. And then I prayed to allow His will to be done, whether it meant healing Momma May or not. And then I started praying for her to go peacefully with the least amount of pain possible.

I sat back down next to Momma May and held her hand. I tried not to let the tears come out.

“I felt something funny when I came to the hospital. I thought something was wrong with you. And now you ain't talking.” I paused, trying to compose myself before I cried all over Momma May. The last thing she'd want was me crying because of her. She wanted me strong and I'd be that, even if I had to fake it. “I wish you could tell me another story, but I'm being selfish. How about I tell you a story, Momma May?

“I told you a story already but you was asleep. It was easier that way, because I didn't want you to judge me. But I know now that you won't. You ain't like my momma. You're better than her. You gave me a place to stay. You taught me about a God who really does love me. You showed me how to be a better person and to let go of my past. I'm so thankful.”

I went on to explain the things that hurt most. About how verbally abusive Momma was; however, I went into more detail with her that I'd ever done with anyone. I finished my story with, “That's it. That's about as deep as my story gets. I was scared that you would judge me.”

Momma May opened her mouth to speak but struggled. I could tell by how much she strained that she needed to tell me something. “I . . . al . . . ready . . . kn . . . knew.”

I frowned. “How?”

“I . . . was . . . wasn't . . . 'sl . . . 'sleep.”

I almost cried. This whole time I had been keeping that one secret from Momma May, afraid she'd kick me out or judge me. She knew and it didn't change a thing. She still loved me, unconditionally. The pain of knowing she'd soon be gone engulfed me. I choked on a sob.

I grabbed on to Momma May's hand, watching the machine that monitored her heart rate. I hadn't noticed how much it had slowed down in the last few minutes. I didn't know if it was normal.
Maybe I should alert the nurses.
But I locked eyes with Momma May as she tried to lift her hand from mine to wipe my tears away. How did she know I was crying?

“D . . . don't.”

“No. I should be telling you that! Don't.” I paused. I was on the verge of a breakdown. I didn't want her to hear my voice wavering. I needed her to believe I was strong enough. I inhaled, stabilizing myself. “Don't die. Please stay. I still need you.”

She tried to shake her head. “Strong,” she muttered.

“I'm not strong. Not without you.”

“G . . .” She started coughing. Once it settled, she tried to speak again. “God.”

I didn't understand what she meant, but I nodded anyway. I could tell how much it hurt her not to be able to speak to me the way she wanted to. Momma May used to be a lively older woman. One who would walk into a room and command attention with her presence alone. One would know, just by being in the same room with her, that God stood near her. His spirit was all over her. And it still was, but it no longer kept her strong. Instead, it allowed her to weaken. God was calling Momma May home. I could feel it. I knew the moment I walked into the hospital that something was off. Yeah, God was in this place, claiming His prize, claiming Momma May. I should have been okay with that, knowing Momma May was going to heaven, but I couldn't let her go. I wasn't okay. She was mine! She needed to fight for her life!

I remembered a poem by Dylan Thomas that I read in high school. The teacher told us to write a one-page essay about the meaning behind the poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” I remember writing “I don't know” until I filled up the whole paper. I never really cared for poems and their misguided meanings. I was never smart enough to figure them out. But, I realized, some poems were so deep we couldn't begin to understand the meaning without actually experiencing it for ourselves. Well, now I understood the poem clearly as Momma May lay there, dying. She probably didn't have a week left, let alone a few days. And yet, she seemed gentle, almost willing to go.

The poem was about a man sitting at his father's deathbed, trying to convince him why he shouldn't die quietly. Fight! Rage! Do anything, but don't go gentle into that good night. Even the old, the good, the grave, and the wild men fought. No matter what lives they lived, they fought against death. Nobody wants to die. So I understood what the author meant.

He wanted his father to fight because he didn't want to lose him to the dying of light, which was death. And I didn't want to lose Momma May. But I'd understand why she'd go peacefully. She knew she was going to heaven. For her, it was a joyous thing and she would go gently.

I felt her slipping away.

“Don't go gentle, Momma May,” I cried. “I love you, okay? Just hang in for a while longer.”

Her hands squeezed around mine. “Love . . . you.”

Moments later the heart monitor began beeping as Momma May closed her eyes. I didn't have time to process what was going on as the nurses and doctors rushed in the room, trying to pry me from Momma May. I would've fought them, but they were the only ones who could help her. Before I knew it, I was pushed into the hallway with the door slammed in my face. I stood in shock for a few moments before I turned around to face Dante.

“I saw the nurses rushing in,” he said, wide-eyed and worried. “What's going on?”

“Her . . . her . . .”

“Come on, Hope!”

I sighed. “The heart monitor started beeping. I don't know what's wrong. They all rushed in and kicked me out,” I told him.

He nodded once and pulled me away from the room, passed the nurse's desk and out of the swinging doors into the lobby. He stopped and spun around to face me, cupping my face in his hands. His serious eyes held mine as he studied me.

“Don't break down, Hope,” he whispered. “No matter what happens, promise me you'll be strong. Even for me.” He choked on his words. “Hope, I know how you feel. She's all I have too. I don't have family to lean on. I only had my mom and she's gone. If Pastor May dies, I only have you. And we have to be strong together.”

I nodded, but I knew it wasn't a promise I could keep. If Momma May died, so would the good in my life.
I might as well go back home to that sad, poor house with a crazy momma and beg for her to take me back.
I'd have put up with all of her craziness if it meant not being alone.

But deep down, I knew I wasn't alone.

I had Dante.

Momma May said we'd one day get married. The thought once brought me joy, but nothing could wipe out the sense of dread that began at the bottom of my heart. It was filling up, almost pouring over. I couldn't take it!

“Don't, Hope,” he said, turning my face back to meet his eyes. “I see you wavering, giving up, and losing hope. But you can't lose hope, do you know why?” I shook my head. “Because you
are
hope. You give me hope. You've given Pastor May hope.”

“How?”

Dante smiled. “Pastor May told me she prayed to God daily to be able to help someone like you. Help them find God. She said it's one of the most important things to do on earth. We have to bring as many people back to God as possible. And she had an ache to change someone's life. She knew she was old, didn't have much time. She wanted to give someone every good thing God had given to her. Which was the spirit of grace, knowledge, and wisdom, so that you may pass it on to others and so that they will pass it on to more. It is the gift that keeps on giving. So Pastor May prayed for a girl to pass everything on to, and she handed the torch to you. Do you know what that means, now?”

I shook my head.

“It means it will soon be your turn to spread the gospel, to tell others about your testimony, to show little girls who know no love God's love. That's the point. God loves all of us, even when we are a mess. Even when we sin. Even when we don't even acknowledge Him in all of our ways. And He's there for people when they decide to turn to Him. But He needs people like you to tell others about Him, so that they may have eternal life. There will be a little girl much like yourself who needs to know that she can make it too. You're meant to give the world hope in a God who loves all.”

And all this time, I wondered why I couldn't be Faith, the good twin. All this time I thought she had the better name. I thought Faith trumped Hope, and maybe in ways it did, but the word “hope” was used in the Bible as well. Jeremiah 29:11:

Maybe God was speaking directly to me when He said that. So I nodded, pushing all of my dread back into a place where I kept it safely locked away. “I understand,” I told Dante.

“Good,” he said, letting go of me. His face turned sad. “Because I have a feeling she's not going to make it.”

The doctors were able to stabilize Momma May, which made me think everything was going to be okay. But we got a knock on the door late that night. Dante had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs and I had just finished throwing on my pajamas. I heard Dante get up and answer the door. I left my room and jogged down the steps. I paused when I saw Norma standing outside. Norma didn't usually knock since it was her momma's house and she had a key. I hadn't seen her since the last incident with Momma May's safe.

Her eyes were red and her cheeks were puffy from crying. She looked up at me with apologetic eyes and cleared her throat. “Can I come in?” Dante stood aside and let her walk in. She passed us and took a seat in the living room. We followed suit and sat down.

“So.” Norma avoided looking either of us in our eyes. She fiddled with her fingers and shook in places I'd never seen someone shake. Either she was coming off of a high or she was in pain. I hoped it was the high. “I got a call from the doctor about an hour ago. They told me Momma had another stroke. They said her body completely shut off.” She choked on her words. “The cancer had run its course. Momma passed away at nine-oh-two tonight. There was nothing they could do.”

My world tore at its core and every good thing leaked out, like liquid from a broken glass. I couldn't salvage it even if I wanted to. Everything. Gone. Right when I believed God granted us more time.

God.

I felt furious toward Him. I wanted to yell at Him for taking her away from me. I only had her for nine months. He would have her for an eternity.
Why, God? Huh? Why would you do this to me? Why would you give me joy only to take it away? What about me and my feelings? How do you expect me to get through this? I hate this world and everything in it. Just take me too! Take me too!

But I didn't dare say that out loud, not after I promised Dante I'd be strong. And he sat beside me, squeezing my leg, holding on to me because he had nothing left to hold on to. Not even his own sanity. He started to cry first, wrapping his arms around me, rocking back and forth, praying and cursing all the same. And I sat there with dry eyes and a blank stare. I wouldn't cry, for fear of never-ending tears. My eyes would run like deep waters and it wouldn't stop until the whole world was drowning in my sorrow. I decided to direct my emotions at someone else. Norma.

“You're crying like you care. The only thing you care about is that coke!” I said.

“Hope!” Dante warned.

“No, it's okay,” Norma said to him. “I understand. You're mad, angry at the world because a woman who you only knew for a few months has died.”

“It was nine months,” I corrected.

“I knew her for forty years!”

“And half those years you dedicated to stealing from her!” I yelled back.

“Stop!” Dante shouted, standing between us. “Do you think this is what Pastor May would've wanted? We all have our flaws, Hope. Don't judge her. Pastor May didn't.”

I laughed. “Oh, look at Dante coming to the rescue. Pure-hearted, perfect, Ivy League Dante.”

“Do you think I want her here? No! I don't! But it's not about me, or you. Pastor May just died. Hope, just go to your room or something. I'll handle this.”

“But—”

“Go!” he said with so much authority, I thought I was staring at a different person. But he was right. I was just trying to take the pain I felt and redirect it to Norma.

“I'm sorry,” I told her. “I'll pray that God takes care of you and heals your addiction.” I went up to my room and collapsed on my bed and tried to cry for Momma May. But I couldn't.

I was too numb.

 

 

The next few days blew by like a dream. I watched as people came to Momma May's house, offering food and condolences. People who I'd never met. But they knew me by name and they hugged and prayed over me like I was one of their own. It made me feel good knowing Momma May surrounded herself with people who loved just as she did.

I ran into Joyce again. She was the woman I'd met at the hospital, Momma May's friend from her church. She was beautiful and dark, with long, graying hair and a warm smile. She took me out back, away from everyone who crowded the house, and sat me down in a lawn chair.

It was a beautiful day, which was ironic, due to the fact that Momma May had just died. It's funny how the world carries on unfazed by our pain. The sun shined brightly above us as if Momma May hadn't passed away. The birds chirped away in nearby trees, creating music I once cherished. I spotted a couple of daisies in the yard that seemed to bloom overnight. But none of it mattered without Momma May. I wished I could've given her my eyesight just so she'd see the beauty of the world one last time before she died.

Joyce sat adjacent to me and reached into her purse, pulling out an envelope. “Here,” she said, handing me the envelope. “May asked me to hold on to this and give it to you after she passed away. I used to come up to the hospital and write letters for her, helped her redo her will, get all of her debts straightened out. Momma May left behind a fortune. Did you know that? Well, I don't think her kids even knew.

“When her husband died, May didn't know how she was going to pay off her bills and afford to bury him. But many people paid their respects, literally. She got all kinds of donations to the church and to her specifically. She got letters in the mail and when she opened them, hundred dollar bills would drop out. One day she came home and found a check written out to her for ten thousand dollars. Ain't God good?”

“The money she got for the church, she used for the church, and the money she got for personal reasons, she used to pay off the debt and save. She told me she kept a safe in her room with all of that money. She said some of it started to go missing whenever Norma came over.”

“It's because she stole some of it. She's a cokehead.”

“And May knew that. That's why she put the money in a safer place. She left me in charge of her will,” she said, handing me the letter.

I turned it over, smiling at Momma May's handwriting. It said, “Hope.” I should have been happy but my head wouldn't stop pounding. Momma May was gone, and in my hand I held all that she'd left me. I didn't want it. I wanted her, not some stupid note giving me some money or something.

“Thanks, but—”

“No,” she said, cutting me off. “May said you'd try to reject it.”

“I don't want it.”

“Read the letter. I'm sure it will change your mind.” Joyce smiled sympathetically and stood. “Please read everything, Hope. It's what May would've wanted. Do this for her.”

I nodded and watched her walk away. I fiddled with the note in my hand, wondering if I should open it now or wait. If I opened it, I'd probably spend the rest of the day outside, crying and rereading it over. The people inside would start to wonder about me. They'd come looking for me and find me out here being dramatic. I'd keep this for a more private, intimate moment.

Later that night, after everyone finally went home and all who were left were Dante and me, I snuck off to my room. I shut my door quietly behind me and sat down on my bed. I had placed the note under my pillow earlier, and now retrieved it. I stared again at the handwriting. It was amazing how something so insignificant like someone's handwriting could stir up so much emotion inside of me. But every little thing that reminded me of Momma May did.

Dante said I was taking it well, whatever that meant. Who takes death well? So because I wasn't screaming and causing a scene I was handling it well? Little did he know the pain I was feeling. The emptiness. The saying “two steps forward, three steps back” fit my situation perfectly. I moved ahead two steps when I found Momma May that day while she was going to her car. And when she offered me a place to live. But just I fell back three steps.

Where was I going to live? What was I going to do without her? I had only a few hundred dollars left from the money Momma May had given me. That would buy me a week in a motel, but after that? Yes, Dante had a house, but I don't think God would approve of me staying with a man. And then there was always home, back in the country, with Momma and Faith.

I missed Faith. I missed our long conversations. I missed her telling me about the Bible. I hadn't even realized how much I learned about God through her. I missed our walks to the church on Sunday mornings when I'd drop her off and go sit under my peach tree. Everything about my sister, I missed. But it wasn't enough to make me go home to Momma. She wouldn't let me if I tried.

I sighed and began opening the letter. I would have rather not thought about the future at the moment. I'd busy myself with whatever Momma May felt she needed to tell me. A note fell onto my lap, along with a key. I frowned, picking up the key, wondering where it went to. I set it beside me and unfolded the note and began reading:

I read the note at least five more times before I was satisfied. It almost made me feel like each time that I read it she was sitting next to me, saying it out loud. I would read this letter every night if it meant that I'd have her close again.

I eventually got up and went into her room. I walked over to the picture that hid the safe and removed it. I hadn't noticed that little keyhole at the bottom of the safe when Norma had been trying to open it. I placed the key inside of the lock and turned. The safe clicked open. Another letter sat neatly folded inside. I retrieved the note and took a seat on Momma May's bed. I tried to block her smell, which would've caused tears. I didn't want to cry. I opened the note, wanting to read it, but I couldn't bring myself to it.

“What are you doing?” Dante asked from the door. He looked from me to the open safe and then back to me with suspicion.

I held up the key. “Joyce, she gave me a note Momma May left me and this key was in here.” I held up the new letter. “This is her will.”

Dante rushed into the room and took a seat next to me. “Did you read it?”

I shook my head. I couldn't bring myself to read it. “Can you?” I asked, handing it over to him.

Dante grabbed the letter, skimming over it. “Um, she left some money to her kids and grandkids. It says, ‘To Dante, I leave my house and all the things in it. May you build a beautiful family and raise them there, as I've raised mine. It is a blessed house. And to Hope, I leave my church. I have changed the name to Rising Hope Ministries. You may not understand why I've given you the church, but one day you will.'”

I almost fainted. “She left me the church? Why would she do that? Why would I want her church?” I asked angrily.

Dante's face reddened. “That's so selfish. She just died and left you her church and you're mad? I told her you weren't going to understand but she was so bent on it. Just like how she thought you'd go to church on your birthday. You want to know why I was so mad that day? Momma May asked me to do it because she didn't want her death to be the reason why you finally stepped foot into a church. But what scared her most was wondering if you'd bail on her funeral because of your fear. You're so selfish.”

I felt horrible. Of course, it all made sense now. Dante had been so angry that day because he was only trying to honor Momma May's wish, and he couldn't. But I didn't know. She didn't tell me.

“She should've told me, Dante! How was I supposed to know that?” I cried. I was so frustrated at messing everything up. “I'm sorry. If I would've known, I would've gone. I'm so stupid.”

“Hey,” Dante sighed, pulling me close. “Stop crying, it's okay. Just accept her gift. She has a reason for it and I'll explain all of it when we go to her funeral. She wouldn't want you to beat yourself up.”