Where Petals Fall (3 page)

Junie pulled the sheets from Sarah’s bed, closing her eyes for a second, wishing her daughter would regain her footing, that whatever was pulling Sarah under would somehow just unhinge and float away, taking the bed-wetting and silence with it into the air like a hot air balloon gone AWOL.

“She’s still having trouble?” Ruth asked.

Junie flushed, tucking the clean sheets onto the bed. “Sometimes, not as often,” she lied, feeling both embarrassed and protective. Sun streamed in through the window, warming the morning chill, and yet everything felt wrong. The absence of her father’s heavy footsteps as he made his way downstairs, careful not to wake Sarah, and the loud
click
of the front door as he’d leave to retrieve the newspaper from the porch. Junie’s heart constricted within the walls of her chest.

“Where is she?”

Junie nodded out the window to where Sarah sat beside the sandbox that Ralph, Junie’s father, had built for her. She swallowed the plum-sized lump that was lodged in her throat, picked up the urine-soaked sheets, and went down to the laundry room, Ruth at her heels.

“Have they figured anything out?” she asked.

Junie hated talking about Sarah’s issues. Talking about them seemed to somehow inflate them. If she didn’t talk about her daughter’s regression, she could pretend it didn’t exist for a few minutes.

“No.” She let out an exasperated sigh. Junie hadn’t slept a wink. She’d vacillated between wanting to call Brian and talk about her feelings now that she was back home and her father was gone and wanting to curl up in a ball and sob with sadness for her father’s death. She’d called Brian when she arrived the evening before, and although he paid complete attention to every word she’d said, she knew he was focused on his case and working as fast as he could so he could come join them. She wouldn’t pester him again with her neediness. 

She turned on the washer, threw the sheets and detergent in, feeling her mother’s presence behind her. She drew in a breath and closed her eyes.
Don’t break down. Be strong for
her
this time.
Junie kept her eyes trained on the stairs as they headed to the kitchen, afraid she’d break down in tears if she looked at her mother.

“Are you okay, Mom? Did you…have any inkling that Daddy was sick?” She entered the kitchen and peered outside at Sarah, who was still beside the sandbox, staring up the hill at the Olsons’ house, a small stick in her right hand. Junie drew her eyebrows together. Shouldn’t she be playing, moving, doing something? Anything?

“I’m as okay as is to be expected, I suppose.” Ruth’s eyes filled with tears. “We had no idea about his health. He had a physical just a few months ago…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by tears. Ruth poured a cup of tea and sat down at the small kitchen table. She smoothed the light red tablecloth, wiped her eyes, then set her hands awkwardly in her lap. “It’s like…it’s like I’m a little lost. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Junie sat next to her. This she could relate to. She didn’t know what to do with herself around Sarah—or lately, around Brian, either. She covered her mother’s hand with her own. “I’m so sorry, Mom. You should be a little lost. You only just lost Daddy.” Saying “Daddy” brought a sob. Junie coughed, trying to cover the sound. She took a deep breath before asking what she knew she had to. “Mom, Daddy’s…funeral? Is there anything we should do?” Junie remembered Ellen’s memorial service. The finality of it came rushing back to her.

Ruth stared down at her lap and shook her head. “We did all that planning years ago.” She sighed. “Do you remember when we did it? I thought it was so stupid, so morbid. Who plans their own funerals? But Daddy insisted. He said he didn’t want to make you deal with anything more than losing one of us.”

Junie pressed her lips into a tight line in an effort to hold back her tears. “I remember.” Junie had argued with him at the time, worried that planning a funeral would somehow make their deaths come sooner. Her stomach twisted in knots. She wanted to turn around and find her father behind her, his hand on her shoulder. She wanted to hear his quiet, even voice say,
Good morning, pumpkin
.

“The funeral will be tomorrow at nine,” Ruth said. “Selma and Mary Margaret took care of whatever your father hadn’t.”

“Thank goodness for the Getty Girls.” Junie looked down at the table, then fidgeted with her hands in her lap. Not for the first time, Junie felt a pang of jealousy, having spent her high school and college years longing for such close friendships. She’d tried to connect with other women, tried to fill the gap that Ellen had left behind. As young girls, their connections were about silly things like agreeing on whose house they’d sleep at on Friday night and if brownies were better than cupcakes. Ellen liked brownies. Junie liked cupcakes. Frosting mattered. Junie longed for an adult confidante that didn’t come with a familial tie, someone who would console when need be, but just as readily give her a good what for if she deserved it. She could not burden her mother with her marital troubles, but she could burden a girlfriend. Wasn’t that what they were for? Just when Junie had given up on finding a replacement for Ellen, Brian came into her life. Brian’s absence felt as blatant as a missing thumb. Junie transferred her anger to her father’s upcoming funeral. “I hate the Jewish rules of death.”

“Junie,” her mother chided her.

“It just seems so rushed. No wonder Daddy took care of it all.” She looked away, then laid her hand atop her mother’s. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I guess we should leave around eight tomorrow morning to get to the funeral home. Brian should be here later tonight.” She turned away as a tear slipped down her cheek.

Ruth’s chin quivered. She nodded. “It’s okay to cry, Junie.”

Junie was seven years old again, sitting under the oak tree in the backyard. Her mother came and sat beside her, taking her hand just as she did now and telling her it was okay to cry. Ellen had been missing for two days, and Junie had been waiting for her to reappear. She was sure she would. The adults were wrong; she just knew it. Ellen hadn’t been kidnapped by a stranger. During those first two days, Junie’s seven-year-old mind believed that Ellen was just hiding somewhere, playing a stupid game. She believed what the Getty Girls had said, that God would bring her back.

“Daddy loved you.” Her mother’s voice brought her mind back to the present.

Junie nodded. “He loved you, too.”  Their eyes met, bonded by a sadness that was bigger than them.

“Tell me something happy,” Ruth said, wiping her eyes.

“Happy?” What could possibly be happy? Junie drew her eyebrows together, desperately running through her thoughts, grasping for something happy. She came up empty, offering a shrug instead.

“How’s Sarah’s therapy going? Do you like the new therapist?” Ruth ran her finger along the rim of her cup.

“Yeah.” Junie’s voice went soft. “She’s…different. She’s not clinical, like the last one. I like her.” Junie had been in such a rush the last few weeks that until then, she hadn’t taken the time to think about Theresa, Sarah’s therapist. Yes, she liked her very much. Theresa was close to Junie’s age and had an easy style and openness about her that drew Junie in. She hadn’t pressed Junie to take care of the initial questionnaire that the previous therapist seemed to believe held all of the answers, and Junie suspected it was because Theresa thought she could gain whatever insight into Sarah’s issues through her dealing with Sarah and the other medical reports. Maybe she thought the questionnaire was as pointless as Junie did.

“You’re always so busy.”

Junie knew her mother was trying to keep her mind off of the reality of her father’s death, which pressed in on them from every angle of the room. He stared down from the photograph on the small decorative shelf behind Ruth, and even the
Science Illustrated
magazines that lay in a stack on the table were like needles that poked them with each glance.

“Why don’t I put these away?” Junie stood to gather the magazines.

“No, please. I like them there.”

Junie sat back down. “You’re sure? I can put them in the other room, so you don’t have to see them.”

“I want to see them,” she said.

Worry about Sarah and the growing issues with Brian pecked at Junie. “Mom?” She wanted to ask her advice. She looked into Ruth’s shadowed eyes, then let her eyes travel down her fragile frame, diminished in the too-large long-sleeve polo shirt she wore, as if losing her husband had meant the withering away of a piece of her strength.

The doorbell rang.

“Never mind,” Junie said. “I’ll get that.”

A young deliveryman stood holding a bouquet of red roses. “Ruth Nailon?” he said with a practiced grin, thrusting the flowers forward.

Junie took a step backward. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “No. Just leave them on that table, thank you.” She pointed to a small café table on the porch.

“Are you sure? They need to be watered.”

“Yes, thank you,” Junie snipped. Her heartbeat sped up.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Junie.” Ruth pushed Junie aside and took the flowers from the baffled young man’s hands. “Thank you.” She closed the door and followed Junie into the kitchen. “What is it with you and roses?”

Goose bumps climbed up Junie’s arms. She tried to rub them away—or maybe she was hiding them from her mother; she couldn’t be sure. Ever since Ellen’s disappearance Junie’d had an aversion to roses, all colors and types. The very sight of roses made her heart race and sweat form on her brow.  Junie’s theory was that the rose-induced panic was caused by stolen moments of hiding in the gardens with Ellen. That was their thing, and maybe when Ellen went away, their thing was just too painful for Junie to enjoy. That was the best explanation Junie could come up with, anyway.

Ruth efficiently filled a vase, clipped the ends of the stems, and arranged the red roses in a wide and beautiful fashion. She set them on the kitchen table. “There. That ought to brighten things up a bit.”

Junie shot her a stern look and wondered who had sent them. Selma and Mary Margaret knew about the effect roses had on her.

“Really?” Ruth lifted her eyes. “What do you suggest? That I throw them out?”

“That might be a start.” Junie opened the side door and walked outside, her mother’s voice trailing behind her.

“The rabbi sent them. They’re flowers, not demons.”

Junie crouched by the sandbox, a green plastic ball in her hands. “Hey, sweetie. Whatcha doin’?”

Sarah dropped her eyes to the damp sand where she’d used the end of the stick to draw a square with a triangle on top—a four-year-old’s rendition of a house.  

Junie looked up the hill. “Is that Papa Peter’s house?”

Sarah didn’t respond.

“Grandma’s house?”

Sarah pressed her lips together.

Junie smiled. “Oh! Is that our house?”

Sarah’s eyes bloomed. She nodded, pushing herself to her feet and walking toward the front yard.

“Whoa, honey.” Junie raced after her. “We’re not going home.” Junie reached for her arm.

Sarah dashed through the side yard, her little body like a dart in the sun, heading toward the van. Curls bounced against her shoulders and her hands splayed out to her sides as she ran, as if she might grab anything she passed.

Junie ran after her. “Sarah, wait!” She scooped her up into her arms from behind. Sarah’s face was a pinched mess of anger. She cried, wriggling her way out of Junie’s arms, then banged on the side of the van with her little fist.

What the hell?
When Junie had told Sarah about her grandfather’s death, she had reacted with little more than silent tears. Had she finally understood what had happened? Junie knelt beside her.

“Honey, I know you’re sad about Grandpa.” She touched Sarah’s slim back. “He’s with God now, but he’s still here.” She laid her hand on Sarah’s chest, feeling Sarah’s heartbeat pounding against her thin cotton shirt. “Come here.” Junie pulled Sarah close, holding her struggling body until she relented, sobbing into her mother’s shoulder.

When she finally calmed down, extracting herself from her mother’s grasp, Sarah clung to the door handle of the van, refusing to move.

“Come on, Sarah. Let’s play ball.” Junie tried to entice her toward the backyard. “Wanna get a cookie?”
Just get out of your own head, maybe?
Junie never knew how to get through to the new, troubled Sarah. She had become so introverted that even enticing her with the usual games or goodies sometimes weren’t enough to reach her, but Junie didn’t know what else to do, so she did the best she could. She reminded herself not to get angry and chastise Sarah. Whatever had caused her to regress was obviously beyond her control, despite what Brian might think.

Sarah hung on the door handle, staring at Junie with a blank expression.

 “Okay, you hang there. I’m going to play ball.” Junie turned and walked toward the backyard.

It was a standoff, one that had become all too familiar. The will of a four-year-old was enough to break even the strongest of motherly intentions. Junie thought of Brian’s comment—
She’s doing this for attention
—and remembered her pledge to take a stronger stance with regard to Sarah
.
It went against every parental vein in her body, but she did not turn back and coddle Sarah and didn’t beg Sarah to join her. Junie sat on the back porch and waited. Time crawled by. Every few minutes Junie peered around the side of the house, only to see Sarah standing next to the van, the fingers of her left hand wrapped like a vice around the door handle.