Vintage (31 page)

“Of course I’ll do it,” Violet said. “Did she have a particular prayer or something in mind?”

“No. Mrs. Barrett wants people to use their creativity to share whatever they feel moved to share. She
did
say she doesn’t want anything too religious or preachy. She doesn’t want anyone to feel left out if they don’t adhere to a particular faith.”

“That sounds like Betsy. So when is the ceremony going to be?”

“Tomorrow evening, at our chapel starting at six o’clock. I apologize for the short notice, but here we take things one day at a time, and to be honest I don’t know how much longer Mrs. Barrett will be with us. I think she knows it, too, which is why she wants to do this.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

Violet hung up the phone and sat down on the drop cloth she’d been using for painting. She didn’t cry; she was too shocked.

Amithi came downstairs from where she’d been working on alterations in the sunroom. Violet had been letting her try out the space, to see if she’d like to rent it for her tailoring business when she returned from her travels with Jayana.

Amithi touched Violet’s shoulder. “I heard you talking down here and you sounded upset. Is anything wrong?”

“I just found out that Betsy’s been admitted to hospice.”

“That’s terrible.” Amithi frowned. “I have only met her a couple of times, but she seems to be a lovely woman. She has done so much for the community.”

“Come to think of it, it’s been a while since she’s come into the store. I should have known something was wrong and checked in on her. She doesn’t have anyone—no kids or anything.” Violet’s stomach churned with guilt. “I need to call April and let her know about the service.”

“Wouldn’t Betsy have reached out to you if she wanted help?”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’s too proud. And now it’s too late.”

“It is not too late. You can still see her, can you not?” Amithi asked.

“She wants me to be a part of a spiritual service they’re doing tomorrow. I’m supposed to come up with something to read. I have no idea what to do.”

“Does she have a favorite poem? A scripture?”

“She loves music and art and dance,” Violet said. “But I’m no ballerina. That requires balance, and I’m barely staying on my feet.”

A
s Violet drove to the hospice facility the next evening, past the new, monochromatic subdivisions on the far southwest side of town, she couldn’t help thinking what she could have done differently. She wondered if she should have asked more questions about Betsy’s cancer when she’d gone over to her house earlier in the summer. Violet had wanted so badly to believe Betsy when she insisted that she was in remission; maybe she’d missed some important signals that everything was not, after all, fine.

When she arrived, Violet asked the hospice receptionist if she could see Betsy before the service, but the receptionist said no. All guests were to be directed to the chapel.

Violet walked into the dim, candlelit space. The smell of musky incense, sandalwood maybe, permeated the room. What struck her most of all, though, were all the flowers. They weren’t the type of fan-shaped, muted arrangements she typically associated with church services. There were armloads of orange, purple, and yellow dahlias the size of dinner plates, towering stems of bright pink gladiolas, bunches of sunflowers that looked like they’d been gathered from someone’s garden.

The small space was crowded with guests, even though the ceremony wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes. All the seats looked full except for two rows roped off in the front. Several people stood around the perimeter of the room with nowhere to sit.

A woman in a skirt suit came up to Violet. “I’m Ellen,” she said. “Are you part of the program tonight?”

“Yes. I think we spoke on the phone. I’m Violet Turner.”

“I’ve reserved some spots for Betsy’s honored guests.”

“Honored guests?”

“Yes. Follow me.”

Ellen moved aside one of the ropes and let Violet into the front row. “The ceremony tonight will be pretty laid-back, so there’s no need to be nervous. I’ll be directing things up front, and I’ll call your name when it’s time for you to come up and share. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of a few last-minute things.”

Violet didn’t recognize any of the other guests. She wondered if April would be coming. She’d left her a message with information about the service.

A young woman sitting next to Violet turned to her. “How do you know Betsy?” she asked. Violet guessed the girl was about April’s age.

“I own a vintage boutique and Betsy has been coming in there for years,” Violet replied. “How do you know her?”

“She set up a music scholarship at the university a few years ago, and I got it. The scholarship pays half my tuition for all four years. Without it, I would have had to take out a bunch of loans that would have taken me forever to pay back.” The girl tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Most musicians don’t make a ton of money, so it’s nice to know I’ll have a little more financial freedom when I graduate.”

“What do you play?” Violet asked.

“Oh, lots of things, but mostly I love violin and anything with strings.” The girl’s eyes lit up as she talked about her favorite composers and performers, most of whom Violet had never heard.

Ellen wheeled Betsy into the chapel and positioned her wheelchair next to the front row. Violet was shocked at how frail her friend looked. She’d put on a thick, ethnic-looking wrap sweater for the occasion, but underneath the brightly colored wool, her elbows and waist were all straight lines and sharp angles. One sleeve of the sweater was rolled up to make room for the IV needles taped into her pale flesh. A drip bag hung from a pole on her chair.

Violet waved at Betsy and she smiled back, looking tired. Several people came up to Betsy to say hello, and Ellen allowed them to chat for a moment before shooing them away.

Ellen took the stage and welcomed everyone, explaining that the idea for the night’s program had stemmed from a conversation she’d had with Betsy.

“Mrs. Barrett and I were planning her funeral and burial services, and I think she was getting quite frustrated,” Ellen said. “After over an hour of discussing flowers and music, she said ‘What’s the point of personalizing all of this stuff if I’m not even going to be there? The hell with it. Why not have a ceremony while I’m still alive and can see all my friends?’ So that is why each of you was invited tonight: because Mrs. Barrett wanted to celebrate her life with you now, while she’s here. She wants you to remember her for who she is, and not ‘as some body in a casket, pumped full of chemicals.’” Ellen smiled. “Those are her words, not mine.”

The audience laughed with some hesitation.

The program that followed was a testament to things that Betsy loved and the lives she’d touched. A jazz trio performed a medley of swing tunes that got everyone, including Betsy, tapping their feet. A young man and woman performed a modern dance routine with gravity-defying lifts and leaps. Several people took to the microphone to share stories, literary excerpts, or songs.

And then it was Violet’s turn. Violet didn’t usually think of herself as ordinary. She prided herself on being a little bit different, in her clothing and tastes and mannerisms. But amidst this crowd of performers and artists, she felt self-conscious and bland. The outfit she’d chosen the night before, a 1940s short-sleeved suit with a nipped waist and shiny brass buttons, had seemed perfect when she put it on—a nod to Betsy’s younger days. Now it seemed boring, conservative even.

Violet stepped up to the podium, where she had a view of all the guests gathered. She spotted April in the back row and met her gaze for a moment, then looked down at the piece of paper in her hands. Violet had spent hours writing the reflection she was about to read, and now she worried that it would sound pedestrian. There was nothing she could do about it now, though, so she cleared her throat and began to read.

“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ The poet John Keats wrote that, and Betsy Barrett, more than anyone else I know, understands it. Betsy loves beauty, and has an eye for it. She displays it in her home and channels it in the way she dresses, but most importantly, she fosters beauty in the world around her.” Violet looked up and caught Betsy smiling, her eyes wet and shining. This gave Violet the confidence to stray a bit from her script. “You’ve seen dancers, singers, and musicians tonight. All of them are here because of Betsy’s unfaltering support of the arts and local businesses. My vintage shop would not exist without her help. Fortunately, her legacy will live on with the many garments that came from her closet. Each one has a story from Betsy’s incredible life to go with it. The white wool coat? She told me she wore it when she met Jackie Kennedy at the White House—a kindred spirit and fellow patron of the arts. The silver evening dress? She’d bought it in Paris in the 1950s, when she finally convinced her husband to take her to Europe, where he’d been stationed during World War II. When I asked Betsy why she was getting rid of these beautiful items, she said, ‘I’ve had my time with them. It’s someone else’s turn to enjoy them.’ Betsy doesn’t keep beautiful things to herself. I’ve learned from her that a pretty thing isn’t worth much if you can’t share it with anyone. It’s just a thing. Only when you let others enjoy it, too, does it become truly beautiful.”

Violet swallowed the swelling in her throat and stepped down from the podium. Only when she was back at her seat did she allow herself to shed a few quiet tears. She looked over at Betsy, who nodded at her and mouthed “thank you.”

After the ceremony, everyone seemed to want to have a few minutes with Betsy. Violet hovered near the edge of the room, waiting, and April joined her.

“That was beautiful,” April said.

“Thanks,” Violet said. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Of course. Betsy has done so much for me. I didn’t even know she was sick, though, did you?”

“No. Well, sort of. It’s complicated.”

Betsy waved at them and motioned for them to come over.

“You go,” April said. “I’ll talk to her in a little bit. You should have her to yourself for a few minutes. You’ve known her longer.”

“Okay.” Violet managed a small smile. “Thanks.”

Violet hugged Betsy, being careful not to disrupt the IV needles. Her friend’s body felt just as frail and angular as it looked. Violet settled into the seat next to the wheelchair.

“Thank you for coming,” Betsy said. “I know it must have been a surprise.”

“Why didn’t you let me know you were sick again?” Violet asked.

“It happened quickly. By the time I realized it wasn’t just a virus, but that the cancer was back, I was laid up with pneumonia with nurses around me day and night. I knew you had a lot going on at the store. I didn’t want to worry you if it didn’t end up being serious.”

“But it
was
serious. And now I feel terrible that I didn’t know what was going on. How long has the cancer been back?”

“I know what you’re thinking. When you came to my house that day, I told you the truth. I really was in remission. Everything was going fine for a while there. And I’m grateful for it.” Betsy coughed—a labored, wheezing sound that made Violet shudder.

“Is there anything I can do for you to make things more comfortable here?” Violet asked.

“Oh, the staff’s been great. And I’ll let you in on a little hospice secret.” She leaned forward and put her blue-veined hand on Violet’s arm. “They give really good drugs here.”

Violet laughed. “There are probably easier ways to get drugs, Betsy.”

“Sure, you tell me that now. It’s a relief, though. I’m not in any pain.”

Violet stopped smiling and said in a serious voice, “If there’s anything you need, just let me know. If you want anything from your house, or are craving a certain kind of food, I’d be happy to pick it up for you.”

“The food I crave these days is whatever will stay down.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Betsy said. “There’s nothing worse than having a bunch of people feel sorry for you, and really, there’s no reason to pity me. I’ve been luckier than most people in life. And just look around this room—all these people are friends, not family. Some people probably think it’s sad that I don’t have any children, or any family left. But what they don’t realize is that family
has
to come to something like this. Friends don’t. They choose to come. So I’m lucky in that way. These people want to be here.”

“Well, we wish we were here for another reason.”

“Oh, pooh. I’ll take whatever reason I can get. Promise me that when you leave here you won’t feel sorry for me.”

“I promise. You are many things, Betsy, but someone to pity is not one of them.”

“Will you promise me something else, too?”

Violet nodded.

“Don’t make the same mistake I did and wait for the perfect time to do the things you want to do in life. For so long, I sat on my hands because I was afraid of what people would think of me—my husband, his colleagues, our friends. I was afraid to put my heart into the things I really cared about because I didn’t want to be controversial, or for people to disagree with me. Don’t do that.”

The line of people waiting to talk to Betsy had doubled in size since Violet had been chatting with her, and April was up next.

“Okay.” Violet stood up. “I better let some of the other guests say hi. You’re quite popular.” She bent down and kissed Betsy’s cheek. “Can I come visit you?”

Betsy nodded. “My schedule’s pretty full for the next few days, but next week would be good.”

Violet had visited very few people in hospital settings—her grandmother just before she died, lying on the propped-up pillows in her silk kimono; Karen after her labor with Edith, clutching the wrinkled little baby to her breast; and Jed when he had alcohol poisoning, his face pink and bloated. In none of those instances did she have to compete with other visitors for time slots.

As the crowd began to thin out, Violet walked to her car, feeling like she should be mournful. But then she remembered what Betsy had said about not feeling sorry for her and tried her best to honor her promise. She thought, too, about Betsy’s other advice—about not waiting to go after what her heart desired.