Eau de Vie: chapter eight

Par terre parterre

The flower garden was always beautiful in the early fall, everything having returned to a lush green after only a couple of days of light rain, deciduous trees poetically punctuating the garden with gold and red leaves, none of which had yet fallen to the ground. Sprinkled amongst the few flowers whose blossoms endured this far into September were pots of fragrant herbs and a large raised bed of greens — colorful chard, lacinato kale, bok choy, and various heirloom lettuces, all of which seemed to relish the cooler, moist fall air and shorter days. All of the edibles planted had been the handiwork of Kate and Vie after the demise of the ornate flower beds. Plump and full of fresh new foliage, the herbs, and greens readied themselves for adding to fall soups and stews. And fortunately the plants were now protected on all sides by tall redwood fencing strong enough to keep out the bovines and deer.

Especially beautiful in the dappled sunlight under towering coast redwoods were the remains of Vie’s purple agapanthus clusters, which were still drawing dozens of hummingbirds to the garden, even in the early evening, during this — the golden hour. The birds animated the blossoms with their magical fluttering and high-pitched trills, sucking up as much nectar as possible before sunset. And there beneath the agapanthus and darting hummingbirds was Vie, lying prostrate atop a cluster of crushed rhizome blades, her body unmoving and situated at odd angles, knees to one side, one arm stretched above her head, the other at her side, partly buried under the weight of her torso. Vie’s eyes were closed and restful, her mouth slightly agape in an expression of surprise. The cool evening air had painted her lips a purplish hue, her bare arms textured in goosebumps. Next to Vie was the ornamental boulder on which she’d struck her head, rendering her unconscious. A small trickle of rust-colored blood had made its way down her neck, pooling thickly in the deep crevice above her collarbone. This was how Carl found her body when he arrived home from work at dusk.

Upon seeing Vie, Carl threw down his briefcase and rushed to her, putting his face close to hers. Though Vie was not moving — arms limp and all of her cold to the touch, as Carl leaned closer, he could feel a warm puff of breath not his own and could hear the ragged crackling of Vie’s asthma. Carl touched his cheek to hers, cradling the other with his rough, warm hand, furtively whispering in her ear, trying to ascertain whether she was conscious or no. Slowly, Vie opened her eyes, and looked straight up to the darkening sky, seemingly unaware of Carl’s presence. Her attention was then drawn to the ruby-throated hummingbird confidently sipping nectar from the blossoms immediately above her head. Vie smiled gently.

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Resting on the ledge of the redwood wall that contained Vie’s garden were two empty bottles of Sauvignon Blanc with a botanically themed silver label that glistened invitingly in the day’s last rays of sunlight, and one stemless wine glass, also empty. Vie’s bright yellow gardening clogs were tucked beneath, under the ledge, her fleece jacket neatly folded and resting on top, and next to all was an ancient butterfly sling chair and a book of Robert Frost poetry, opened to Birches, facedown in the seat.

Vie had clearly been gardening barefoot, as evidenced by the impressions surrounding the raised beds and her filthy feet, which were awkwardly splayed as she lay prostrate in the dirt. All of this was so unlike Vie, the capriciousness, the careless disregard, the inelegant posture of her unresponsive body. Losing her balance, be it figuratively or literally, and falling down was something Vie had spent her entire life trying to avoid. Yet there she had been, trying to navigate the soft, loamy soil in her inebriation, lumbering about the garden, then tumbling, the full weight of her body falling into the welcoming arms of a half foot of new soil and compost, her head grazing the large rock on the way down. The fragrant dark blanket of earth had caught and held the sun’s rays all afternoon and provided not only a protective cushion for Vie’s weak body, but it enveloped her in its warmth. In her unconscious state, Vie dreamt of being cradled in her mother’s arms, her cheek nestled against a warm breast. And such was Vie’s garden to her in this time of distress, mothering and protecting her as Vie had done for it over fifty years.

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Carl was well aware of his wife’s drinking and its connection to, and exacerbation of her health issues, but it took his seeing this portrait of vulnerability, Vie lying unconscious and unmoving in the dirt, for him to grasp the severity of her addiction and her denial of the situation. His heart ached for his wife as nothing else he had ever felt, for the beautiful and vital woman she had been, for her endlessly creative mind and her brilliant native intellect. In that moment, when he arrived to find her in the garden, Carl knew her to be dead — her body surrounded by oblivious hummingbirds. There was no other conclusion to be drawn, until Carl put his head next to hers, in his distress longing to smell her smells, and to feel her soft cheeks one last time, but in doing so, he also experienced her gentle breathing. Vie was alive. And this meant Carl had his chance — to write Vie a love letter, the one he might have written years ago had he realized the extent of her most pressing illness: her alcoholism. No longer could he put this off; the need to tell her how he felt was vitally important, toward saving her life or, at a minimum, improving the quality of the short life she had left in front of her. Carl needed her to stop drinking. He wanted these final days to be with the wonderful woman he had married, not with the angry and unhearing person Vie became when she was intoxicated. He needed to say the words, to express how he felt, and for Vie to understand the impact her illness had on him and the whole family.

Vie was still alive. She still had the potential to hear what Carl had to say, to know that he shared in the knowledge of her terminal illness and that he loved her dearly and wanted to be at her side through all of this.

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How to get Vie into the house became the challenge. She was injured and sore, bleeding and stiff from the cold. Carl was infused with adrenaline, and strong from all of his farm work, and he was motivated. Carl squatted next to Vie and encouraged her to wrap her arms around his neck to first get in an upright sitting position. He then stood up, firmly took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. Vie could barely stand, nor did she seem to want to. It was almost as if she were paralyzed, as there had been little blood flow to her limbs and extremities as she lay immobile for several hours. Carl stooped and asked Vie to swing her right arm over his shoulders. He firmly grabbed her cold hand that hung over his chest, then slowly raised the two of them to standing as he assumed the brunt of Vie’s weight. They then cautiously negotiated their way through the uneven ground of the garden, stopping briefly to slip on gardening clogs before Vie’s having to cross the stony cement patio to the sliding glass doors of their bedroom.

Once in the house, Carl gently delivered Vie to the edge of the bed, where he tenderly took off her shoes and soiled clothing, one piece at a time, being careful not to exacerbate her pain. He then wrapped her frail figure in a down quilt before making his way to the kitchen to collect up warm, wet towels so he could clean her and tend to her injuries. He came back to find her tipped over on the bed and curled into a fetal position, asleep, her soiled feet sticking out at the end of the quilt. And so it was there, at her feet, that he started the long process of cleaning her, carefully washing her cuts, then treating them with triple antibiotic ointment. Once he completed his cleanup on the lower half of her body, he warmed her favorite sage CBD cream in his hands and massaged it well into her sore muscles, warming her up as he went. He then slipped her into a pair of wool socks and his softest sweatpants, then pulled back the quilt to perform similar tasks on her torso, neck, and head, her head and face having suffered the most damage.

Somewhere midway, Carl returned to the kitchen to rinse the towels stained with dirt and blood and to warm all in the microwave. He also thought to bring her a mug of a favorite herbal tea, as she was no doubt dehydrated. When Carl finished with Vie’s top half, he lifted her into an upright position, then attired her in one of his soft tank tops and his well-loved workshirt, the one she secretly (or so she thought) slept with when he was away. Finally, Carl brushed out Vie’s hair, then covered her head in a favorite cream-colored wool hat, one knitted by her sister in Germany. Regaining warmth, Vie sat at the edge of the bed, sipping her now lukewarm chamomile tea.

As she mindfully drank her beverage, Carl pulled the dirt-covered duvet off her bed, carefully folding it inward to prevent its polluting the room, then put it in the closet out of view. After situating Vie’s favorite pillows at the head of the bed, he helped in scooting her weak body toward the waiting nest, then took the clean quilt off his side of the bed and tucked her in, right up to her chin, finishing what would now become his nightly ritual by adding a second layer — an impossibly soft, hand-woven blanket from a friend. Vie’s eyes met Carl’s, and in them was relief and resignation. She asked Carl to please read the poem she had intended to enjoy in the garden before her fall. And it was to this that she fell into a deep slumber.

Birches
by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Early the next morning, as Vie woke to an orchestra of creatures warming up outside her windows, she thanked the hummingbirds for encouraging her to get out of bed each day. Though sore and a tad woozy, she swung her legs out to the side of the bed, where her bandaged feet met the cold hardwood floor. She gingerly made her way to the closet to find clogs and a down vest, and there, taped to the mirror above her armoire, was a letter from Carl.