 |
| Image: Pixabay under Creative Commons License CC0 |
Green
Beans in Heaven
By,
Jennifer E. Miller
“One
of the hardest things you will ever have to do, is grieve the loss of a person
who is still alive.” ~Anonymous
The
sun delivered a sliver of color to the morning sky as I snapped green beans in
the kitchen, alone. The call came early that morning while it was still dark; I
don’t even remember who was on the other end. “She’s gone to heaven,” they
said. Truthfully, she’d died months before.
***
She went to bed, then in the
morning, recognized no one.
One
of the days following, at the hospital, I navigated the labyrinth of sterile
hallways, corridors, and ancient moldy elevators dangling by thinning cables. Life
monitors beeped everywhere.
Locating
the room, I peered in at the sleeping patient, but it wasn’t her. Spinning on
my heels, I quickly walked out, feeling embarrassed as if I’d entered the wrong
room. I called a relative to verify the room number. “Yes, that’s correct,”
they answered.
“But
it’s not her.”
They
called me crazy; I knew they were right. Her name was right on the door. But
the person inside wasn’t Grandma. It didn’t feel like Grandma. She even looked
different. To me, it was like she wasn’t there; like she had left Earth.
Not
wanting to disturb her rest, I retreated to a visitor waiting area. I don’t
care for them. What are we waiting for?
Beyond
the window was the regular function of the city. Cars meandered through the
streets, sirens approached the hospital, birds flew on sidewalks nibbling on dropped
crumbs. I saw no people; just the presence of them. Like a still life in
motion.
I
shifted my focused from outside, to the window glass, then the window sill,
then the empty chair in front of it. Becoming aware of myself, loneliness closed
around my mind, and a sensation entered my body, burning my lungs. My breath
heaved to get it out. I realized I had started sobbing.
I
waited for the dread to pass, in a waiting area with a statue of the Virgin
Mary in the corner. Grandma had always had an icon of the Holy Mother near her.
She said it gave her comfort. I never thought to ask, “Comfort from what?” I
guess it doesn’t matter now. She wouldn’t remember if I asked.
Composing
myself, I returned to the room with her name. My footsteps echoed like thunder
over the cold tile floor. I entered and walked to her bedside. In a reclined
position with her hands folded over her belly, her head bowed forward in
slumber; chest rising and falling with inhalation and exhalation.
I
don’t remember how long I stared when I got tired of standing and pulled up a
chair. An ugly chair that reminded me of the drab ones in the waiting area. Dragging
it across the floor wasn’t quiet and the noise interrupted her rest.
With
fluttering eyelids, she woke up, revealing the brown irises I knew well but
somehow her personality had faded. Delighted, she smiled at my presence. I
recognized her neat row of teeth and smiled back. Then I asked her my name and
she gave an answer.
“No,
Grandma. That’s not right.”
She
had called me Mary.
I
grabbed her warm hands the way she used to hold mine to comfort me. She rubbed my
fingers because they were always cold.
Today
her skin was thin and translucent, bumpy with veins. I held her hands and gently
rubbed them which she said felt good because they hurt. Perhaps cold fingers,
felt cool and soothing. She noticed my wedding ring and commented how pretty it
was. Then she stroked her own fingers and mumbled, “They took my fingers off.”
“No,
they’re still there. See?” I lifted up her index finger and she looked at it,
puzzled. It took me a moment to realize she was probably referring to her own
rings, most likely removed upon admittance. Although, I reassured her that her
fingers would be returned, she thoughtfully reexamined my ring.
“Do
you remember that day, Grandma? My wedding day?”
She
squinted her eyes, struggling to grasp the memory. Too much effort was required
so I continued speaking.
“It
was August, and it was hot. There was a horse carriage and everyone gasped when
it rounded the corner. You clapped your hands in surprise and excitement...”
She
had drifted off to sleep again, this time with me holding her hands.
Once
more, I stared out the hospital window where a hill blocked my view of whatever
sat between it and the sky. On the ridge were pines trees with a road that
twisted in and out of pockets of clearing with a few houses pinned here and
there. The wind made the tips of pines dance and I wished I could open the
window and drown the glum environment inside.
“What
are you looking at out there?”
Broken
from my trance, I jumped and looked at her.
“What
is so interesting?”
“Just
looking at the scenery, Grandma.”
“It’s
only trees,” she said.
No, it’s much more
than that. “There’s
birds, too, and—”
“There’s
nothing so interesting about a bunch of trees. Don’t go wasting your time.”
I
changed the subject but kept trees in our conversation. “I remember the pine
trees in your field at the fence line. The quail and pheasants nested under
them. You and I, we’d find the nests in a bed of dried grass—”
“I
told you not to go under those trees! You could get a tick!” Grandma shook her
index finger at me and wrinkled her eyebrows.
I
hung my head, but soon heard a gruff sigh. She looked out the window; I
wondered if she still only saw trees. I wanted to talk about the tall spruce in
the middle of her yard, too, the one I used for a hideout, but thought better
of it.
Did
she remember our garden? The dirt so black it looked wet, and row after row of
garden vegetables; garlic, zucchini, and potatoes. What about the fresh basil and
parsley growing outside the kitchen window? I mentioned all of them, but none
elicited a response. She continued staring out the window with a glazed mask
painted on her face.
“How
about the green beans?” I asked.
She
turned her head, and I was thankful for a motion of acknowledgement.
“What
about them?” she asked, inquisitively.
“We plucked them off the plants and
into the large yellow bowl.”
She paused a moment, as though lost
in thought.
“Yes…”
“We filled the bowl up, then brought
it back to your kitchen. You dumped them on the counter, and one by one, you
and I snapped off the ends of the beans.”
“What beans?”
“The green beans.”
“We did?”
“Yes.”
“That was you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“Oh.” She nodded her head, albeit
confused. “We talked a lot,” she added.
I swallowed a hard lump in my
throat and answered, “We did.”
“Sometimes you were sad.”
She squeezed my hand. Did she know
I was sad now?
“Sometimes. But I also talked about
happy things.”
“Yes,” she said. “You won.”
I blinked. “I won?”
“You played a game—it was tense.”
My mind raced flashbacks, trying to
pinpoint what she referred to.
“Tennis?”
“Yes.”
I smiled, and she smiled back.
“I like talking to you,” she said.
Tapping her wrist, I told her, “So
do I.”
“Where are the green beans?”
“In here.” I tapped her skull,
indicating her memory.
“Why there? They go here.” She
stuck out her tongue and pointed to her mouth.
I laughed and so did she.
The next day she didn’t remember
the green beans. Nor the day after that. The memory long plucked and snapped
from her essence. She was right. The green beans didn’t belong in her head.
***
Now here I was, snapping the ends
of the green beans in my own kitchen, which I plucked from my own garden.
The sky now turned to a pale blue
and I could see the end of a green bean vine sticking from the top of the
trellis; one bean dangled from the end. With nothing else to grab onto, the breeze
swished it gently back and forth as it reached toward heaven.
I hoped she found them, my green
beans. In case she wants to talk with me.
