The Roots of the Olive Tree (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Coming and Going

E
xcept for Callie, they’d been made to wait outside Erin’s room once the baby had been delivered. They looked at the doors. The clock ticked, and again Deborah became aware of time. She wanted to step outside and breathe in air that wasn’t institutionalized. It was May, and that meant all of Kidron would smell faintly of olive blossoms, and the pollen from the bunchgrass would tickle the back of her throat. She wanted to be on better terms with her mother so she could ask her to go home and make mashed potatoes and roasted beets. The potatoes in prison had been instant and the beets canned. She felt time speeding up again, and she tried to contain these thoughts and those about her daughter before the clock ticked again.

It was not like the soaps that Deborah had watched in prison. No doctor, no nurse, no attractive person in fitted scrubs burst through the door to rip off a surgical mask and exclaim that the baby was alive. Instead nearly an hour later, Callie stepped through the large double doors and told them the baby was fine, that Erin was fine, and that everyone needed sleep.

“Thank God,” Deborah said. “Can I see her? Can I see my grandson?”

“You realize,” Callie said, taking a step toward Deborah, “that this is all your fault?”

“No,” Deborah said. “I was just doing what a mother—”

“But you’re not her mother. She has Anna, who held her hand on the first day of school, and Bets, who taught her to ride a bike, and me. Do you know what I did for your daughter?”

“It isn’t my fault,” Deborah said, looking behind her for support. Bets slumped awkwardly in the plastic waiting chair and Anna turned her bright eyes on them both.

“Have it out and get it over,” Anna said. “Set it on fire and see what’s left after it burns. This back and forth is going to destroy us all and we’ll be right back where we were.”

Her mother hardly waited for Anna to finish speaking. “It is your fault. You shot her daddy. Do you understand that? All of this is because of you. She had no chance of getting married and living happily ever after. You did this to her. And then you couldn’t leave well enough alone and let the doctor do what was needed. You decided to take her side now? Why now?”

Deborah was at a loss for words. She looked desperately for help, for kind eyes. The other people in the waiting room, including Bets, had their heads down. She looked at her mother. She was damp and her clothing wrinkled. Her roots needed to be touched up and her hair lay flat against one side of her head, from leaning in close to Erin to coach her through childbirth. For once, her eyes seemed to be clear and focused, but her hands were shaking.

Deborah closed the remaining distance between them. She spoke forcefully, nearly spit the words out at her mother. “It turned out okay. What’s wrong with you? That you had to come out and find a way to make it all my fault? I spent my whole childhood trying to make you see me, see that all that was wrong with you, I wasn’t one of those things. You’re the one who’s broken. You’re crippled and not just because of your leg.”

“Take responsibility. Just admit that you are at fault for some damn thing in your life. Do you see me limping around, begging for sympathy? Playing people because I was dealt a shitty hand?” Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and started shaking her. “Why are you so selfish? Where did I go wrong with you?”

Deborah shoved her mother with enough force that Callie fell backward onto the linoleum floor, scattering several of the plastic chairs. A man who’d been in the waiting area since they’d come in with Erin yelled at them to knock it off. Deborah advanced on her mother, who had trouble standing back up because of her leg. She could have helped her mother up, but Callie scuttled away when she offered her hand. Deborah kicked at her mother, who screamed, and the man who’d yelled at them stepped between them. Deborah screamed and grabbed blindly for something to throw. Picking up one of the waiting chairs, she flung it across the room into the portable stand with a coffee urn sitting on it.

The crash seemed to awaken the rest of the hospital.

A security guard stepped off the elevator and lumbered toward them. Bets wrapped both her arms tightly around Deborah and whispered “shhhh, shhhh, shhhh” into the crown of her head. The man helped Callie up, settled her into a chair, and immediately a nurse knelt next to her, asking if she had any pain.

Deborah struggled against Bets. The old woman was not as strong as she’d been and she easily broke free and moved toward her mother. “I’m hurting. What about me?”

The security guard caught one of her flailing arms and twisted it behind her back. In a moment he’d secured her with plastic cinch cuffs. “I’m taking her outside,” he said to nobody and everybody. Then he whispered into her ear, “Calm the fuck down. What are you trying to do causing a big scene like this? What are you thinking, messing up my hospital like that?”

She relaxed against his grip and nearly fell. She felt the energy drain out of her body and into the linoleum of the hospital, which smelled of the same industrial supply wax they’d used in Chowchilla.

Deborah and the security officer watched the sunrise on the bench in front of the hospital’s circular driveway. Because the sun came up behind the northern Sierra Nevadas, the arrival of the sun always happened first in shadow. It was a cloudless day, and the sky didn’t give them much of a show, transitioning from murky blue to orangey yellow with little gradation.

“Should be here any minute,” the guard said.

They were waiting on the Kidron Police Department to send an officer out to take down a report of what had happened. The hospital wanted a record of the events so that it could file an insurance claim on the damage to the waiting room. “I don’t think my mom will press charges,” Deborah said, as much to herself as anyone.

The squad car’s tires rubbed against the concrete curb with a squeaky wail as the officer pulled up. A small peach of a man in a brown uniform stepped out of the car. He was round and blond, closer to fifty than thirty, but still solidly middle-aged. His hair had a tinge of pink to it, which made Deborah think he could catch fire at any moment. His eyes were a muddy brown, and he had small Kewpie doll lips. He didn’t look at her, but glad-handed the security guard.

They greeted each other with familiarity, and the guard explained the fight that had taken place a few hours earlier. When he questioned her, the officer stood a distance from Deborah. She was taller than him by half a foot, and she felt he was trying to maintain a sense of superiority over her. She tried to explain to him that they’d all been tired and overwhelmed by the emotional experience of the delivery. “I’m sure my mom will tell you it wasn’t a big deal. Not big enough for these,” Deborah said, lifting her hands as best she could. They’d remained tightly cuffed behind her back.

The small officer rocked back and forth on his heels. “You say you’re on parole?”

Deborah felt her stomach heave. She nodded, trying to make herself appear smaller by dipping her knees and sagging her shoulders.

“Hmmm.” He frowned and made note in a skinny notebook he pulled from his back pocket. “Lemme go see how much damage you’ve done.” The officer hitched up his pants and entered the hospital.

“What were you in jail for?” the security guard asked.

“I killed my husband.”

The guard slid away from her on the bench.

“Shot him with a gun I stole from my grandfather.”

“You don’t sound sorry about it,” the guard said.

“I thought I was, but I think now what I am is sorry for all the other stuff that happened afterward.”

“You’re not helping yourself, you know that?”

She rose from the bench and paced the sidewalk. “You think I’m going back?”

The guard pried a piece of gum from the arm of the bench. “I’m not sure why you got out in the first place.”

The doors to the hospital opened with a mechanical
whoosh
. Bets stepped out, shading her eyes against the early morning light. She addressed the guard briskly in the tone that many older women were able to use to successfully guilt younger people into action. “She’s not fighting you anymore. Go on and let her out of those plastic restraints.”

Using a utility knife from his pocket, the guard slit the plastic from her wrists. Deborah felt the cold of the blade against the back of her hand. Her arms were numb and felt useless dangling at her sides. Bets put her hand on the guard’s shoulder and leaned down, speaking quietly. Although Deborah couldn’t hear them, she heard the urging in Bets’s voice and was unsurprised when the guard rose from the bench and announced his intentions to find some coffee and check on the policeman’s progress upstairs.

“Being a mother is as full of tragedy as it is triumph,” Bets said. “If I had to do it all over again, I’d put more distance between us. Having us here, always together, hasn’t allowed for any fondness to grow between us. Callie and I’ve always had a difficult time. She was never the child I expected her to be and she’s never forgiven me for letting her know that. I, I—”

“Grandma, this isn’t your fault,” Deborah said, her numb arms sharp with the pinpricks of pain as the circulation returned to normal.

“It is. She’s the way she is because of me, and you two are just the wrong sort of fit. I don’t understand how God could put two people together who consistently bring out the worst in each other.”

“At least God gave me you,” Deborah said, reaching her still tingling arms out.

They embraced. An ambulance with only its lights on pulled into the driveway and two paramedics unloaded an elderly man, who turned his head and gave them a watery smile as he rolled past them. Deborah became aware of the sounds of Kidron waking up—more cars hummed along the surface streets around the parking lot. A few of the nightshift nurses had gathered in the smoking cupola at the edge of the parking lot.

“Are you leaving?” Bets whispered into her ear.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad. The hospital administrator wants you arrested, but Anna talked Callie out of pressing any charges, and she told them she just fell over. If I weren’t so old, they probably wouldn’t have trusted leaving the two of us alone. But you know how easy it is to underestimate Anna or even myself.”

Bets pressed her keys into Deborah’s hand. “There’s money in Anna’s sock drawer and in the coffee can on top of the refrigerator. Callie never locks the safe in her office if you can get—”

“I’ll be fine. Tell me about Erin’s baby.”

They stood together for several more minutes, and she listened to her grandmother describe the two perfect dimples on her grandson’s cheeks and the way he crossed his fingers while he slept.

SELECTED E-MAILS EXCHANGED BETWEEN CALLIOPE AND AMRIT

From:
Amrit Hashmi [email protected]

Subject:
Congratulations and Condolences

Date:
May 21, 2007 8:48:12 AM PST

To:
Callie [email protected]

Cham-Cham,

I would tell you that a fruit slips and falls into milk, but how can I explain this to you. It is to say that you must not think of your daughter’s leaving as all bad. There is so much joy in your house now and we cannot always see the good that will come of actions that appear to be harmful.

How is the baby? I will have to admit that I, too, was hoping for a girl, but perhaps this little boy (Keller is it?) will prove me wrong, or right. Again I’m back to the fruit slipping into milk.

It is difficult for me to understand the relationship you have with your daughter. My wife and her mother were like sisters and I think even more so as we came to admit we were never going to have our own children. I once asked her if she’d gotten along with her mother when she was a teenager (you know we married when she was just nineteen, so she never knew much outside her parents’ house) and she told me that all daughters fight with their mothers. So maybe you and Deborah are just reliving the fights you couldn’t have because she’s been away so long. I’m sure wherever she is that she’s safe.

The research is going well, I think if we continue on the pace that we’ve set that I should be back for a follow-up visit in early July. I know we’ve talked about this before, but you, your family, is turning out to be exactly what I needed for so long.

I am writing to you from work, or I’d be more bold in my declarations. The laboratory is too sterile and our visit in March feels so long ago. I will look forward to our conversation this evening, when I can be the other man. The Amrit who you bare your soul to.

xxA

From:
Callie [email protected]

Subject:
RE: Congratulations and Condolences

Date:
May 22, 2007 7:21:45 PM EST

To:
Amrit Hashmi [email protected]

Darling,

If you were here I wouldn’t have so much trouble getting out of bed every day. (Or maybe I would, but at least it would be for a good reason.) Nobody here knows what to say to anyone—especially Erin. She had such hopes that having her mother here would solve all of her problems. I guess it is better for her to realize she needs to work out the situation with Keller’s father head-on and stop dodging his phone calls.

The baby is perfect. I wish you’d had children, then you’d understand what I mean when I tell you how much peace holding a newborn can give you. Erin thinks he cries so loud and nearly panics each time he opens his mouth, but his cry is so small and unselfish, that listening to it makes me feel better. Like I understand that he’s just crying out for food or because he wants to be warm or held and that’s sort of why we’re all crying. Or at least why I’m crying.

I haven’t been able to face the Pit. I tried yesterday to go in. You’ll laugh at me if I tell you that it’s just too cold, but for us Californians it is. There’s so much that Nancy won’t take care of if I’m not there. The place will get dirty, and she has no idea how much the money that Deb stole is going to hurt the store. I should try to put it back myself, but I don’t have it and I can’t ask Anna for it. I know I should be able to, but I don’t want her or Bets to know what my daughter did. It was bad enough that I couldn’t just let her be, that I had to pick a fight with her.