In the Garden Where Nothing Grows

*Contains sensitive content of abuse and mental health*

Standing in the dead garden, the mother pulled her thin sweater tighter against her frail body. She shivered in the chill, the seasons for growing and harvesting long past. Only the husks of pole beans with their brown tendrils still clinging to the wire trellis remained there. She often came out to her garden to clear the cobwebs in her mind, but it was of little comfort today. Overhead, slate clouds hovered low, misty. Winter was here now.

Her eldest daughter, Kathleen, would be forty-two tomorrow, and for the first time in as many years, had made no plans to spend her birthday with her mother. In the garden among the decaying leaves, she wanted to blame the daughter. For how many times had the mother and daughter argued, usually over trivial things? Yet were always able to resolve, to find a solution and compromise. Eventually, there would arise some new quarrel. And they would fall back into this … estrangement. Over time the chasm between them grew, ever deeper with each new dispute, one building upon the pain of the last. Until they carved distance and depth, like a constant surging river carrying off chunks of their hearts downstream.

“Why do we disagree so often?” The mother had once asked Kathleen.

“Because you hate Donald,” the daughter had snapped. “It’s all we ever argue about, Mother. You’ve always hated him. It was you who told me not to marry him.”

“Every mother wants the best for her child. Still, I don’t ever remember saying that.”

“You did, though. You made it very clear.”

The mother was beginning to lose bits and parts of her memory, but she couldn’t recall telling her daughter these things, at least not in those exact words. And if she had, it would have been at least twelve years ago when her daughter and Donald had been dating.

“But I don’t dislike Donald. Not altogether. He does provide for you. And the children. But surely you must see how controlling he is …”

“There. You see?” the daughter had said, triumphant.

The mother had noticed this habit in Donald, a constant need to manipulate and influence Kathleen, restricting her friends and overriding her decisions. The mother was quite familiar with it, in fact, because he was a younger copy of her daughter’s father. And wasn’t it just like a woman to marry a man much like her own father?

“I see how he treats you when you come to visit. He’s critical and hovers, watching everything you do. He gives you orders, maybe you don’t realize, and you jump every time he snaps his fingers.”

“I’m a good wife. Good wives cater to their husbands. Besides, I don’t mind that he’s a little demanding ...”

“So, you do see. ‘Get me this, get me that.’ My darling girl, after all this time you have been married, I’ve seen how it has taken a toll on you. You’ve lost weight. You’re pale, unhappy. You hardly smile anymore.”

“I hate this conversation, Mother. It’s always the same.”

Yet Kathleen had agreed Donald was demanding, that was the word the daughter had used.  She hadn’t denied it, the mother thought.

“I guess I should mind my own business,” the mother said, sorry she had brought it up again. She just couldn’t help herself. She worried about her eldest child. Missed her. Missed the witty, intellectual conversations they used to have for they were so much alike. Maybe this was the problem now. They each were stuck in a quagmire of stubbornness. They were both non-confrontational, both proud, both suffered in silence and within themselves.

Yet, their last time together had been different.

It was on Easter Sunday that the mother had noticed the bruise. They had all come over, Kathleen, Donald, and her two adorable grandchildren. She had baked a honey ham with all the trimmings. Kathleen had reached for the salt and her sleeve had ridden up exposing a purple- blue welt on her forearm. Kathleen had pulled back her arm abruptly. The mother could see the pleading in her daughter’s eyes, begging her not to mention it, that this was not the time to discuss what she had just witnessed.

It was then that the mother knew there were worse things going on in her daughter’s house than a husband who made verbal demands. 

Kathleen had risen from the Easter table, suddenly anxious to go. She mumbled excuses that they needed to leave, scooping up the toddler, apologizing for not helping with the dishes, that she had forgotten the time and that they had made other plans.  She said something about her in-laws having an evening Easter-egg hunt.

But as they hurried out the door, Kathleen had pulled her mother aside at the last moment. “Not a word of this to anyone, Mom, I beg of you!” And that was the last thing she had said to her. The mother had stood on the threshold as they drove away, her heart aching with worry.

She had waited for days afterward to get a call from Kathleen, to talk about the bruise. She phoned her daughter, but her messages went to voicemail. She tried not to think about it and busied herself with mundane chores. But her thoughts were consumed with her daughter, and there were moments when she would find herself making her bed or folding towels still warm from the dryer, unable to recall having washed a load of laundry. 

These lapses in memory grew more frequent and her doctor had put her on antidepressants. She took these reluctantly, not sure how they could help, and eventually stopped taking them altogether. They made her feel numb and dizzy, and in fact seemed to increase the losses of time. In any case, they did nothing to ease her worry over Kathleen.

Besides, she needed to have a clear mind when at last her daughter would call, she reasoned, as weeks turned into months with still no communication. 

She is purposely avoiding me. She knows if we talk, I will tell her to get away from him, to leave him, perhaps eventually to seek a divorce, for she saw how I lived … how we all lived under the roof of an abusive man.  She is afraid of what she must ultimately do, as I had been afraid, to gather the courage to leave.

For nine months now, they had not spoken.  Even at Christmas there had been no call or even a thank-you note to acknowledge the children’s gifts or the stylish scarf she had sent, chosen carefully in a color to accentuate her daughter’s skin tones.

So, the falling-out was complete. It had been decided. Her daughter had chosen the husband, and the mother had been dismissed. There would never be a heart-to-heart mother-daughter talk about the dangerous man she had married, her vulnerability, the perilous life she chose to live.

A rumble of thunder interrupted her thoughts.  The mother squinted up at the sky, watching the granite-grey clouds churn darker. A bitter gust tossed the dun maple leaves across the dormant grass, and she left the remnants of her garden and went back into the house.

The mother put the teapot on the stove and turned on the flame, taking a random cup from the cupboard.  Her favorite, or so it used to be. Odd that she should by happenstance seize this one and not any of the others. She smiled, for it was the cup Kathleen had given her in their better years. The rim was chipped and a tiny, hairline crack ran ironically through the word Mother, now seeming to mock their relationship, crossing her off her daughter’s list of loved ones.

On an impulse she tossed the cup into the trash bin, a symbol of their lives now.

It shattered when it hit the bottom, the sound of the breaking ceramic bittersweet with regret and finality. But the mother reasoned it was just a cup, after all. Better it lay broken now at the bottom of the trash than breaking in her hand while she washed it, the sharp fragments most likely to cut her deeply.

But the tea tasted bitter in the plain white cup she used in its place. And in a moment of remorse, she considered gathering the broken shards and gluing them back together. But staring down at the jagged pieces, this task seemed as hopeless as putting the wreckage of their ruptured lives back together. She had this thought just as the rain started to fall, pattering against the windowpane then quickly accelerating to a torrential downpour.

She sat wearily on the window seat cushion, pulling back the curtain to watch the sudden shower drench the yard, the abandoned garden. More thunder rumbled as she sipped her tea and for a moment forgot the heartache for her daughter.

When the telephone rang, she jumped, startled, nearly spilling hot tea on herself. She leaned over and picked up the receiver.

“Mom?” a female voice said on the other line.

“Kathleen?” she answered, her spirit rising, lifting the sorrow and anguish from her heart. There was a long pause. But the mother was patient. After all, she had waited for nine long months for her daughter to finally make this call. Perhaps Kathleen wanted to make plans with her tomorrow after all.

“No, Mom. It’s Erin.”

The mother leaned back heavily against the window seat. She mustered all her strength to sound cheerful. “I’m sorry, Erin. You and your sister always did sound so much alike, especially as you got older.”

“I wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m fine, I suppose,” the mother answered, though she felt so very old.

“It’s Kathleen’s birthday tomorrow, and …”

“Yes, I know, I know. Of course, I know,” she interrupted, laughing a little. “I’m her mother, after all.”

More silence on the other end of the line. “Richard and I were going to … well, we just wondered if you want to come with us. We are worried about you.”

There were certainly no problems with her younger daughter, the mother thought. Erin was always so caring, so thoughtful, always there for her if she needed anything, anything at all. And Richard, what a wonderful son-in-law. One couldn’t ask for better, so attentive, so kind.

“Oh, is there some sort of party planned? You know Kathleen hasn’t talked to me in months. Are you sure it wouldn't be awkward for me to just show up?"

“Mom, please. There’s no party.” Erin sighed and paused again, uncertain of what to say.  “Richard and I are taking a bouquet of flowers to Kathleen’s grave at the cemetery. We thought you’d like to go with us. If you don’t have other plans.”

“Cemetery? I'm afraid I don't understand."

“Oh, Mom, please, not again. I know it’s hard for you to realize, but you’ve got to face reality. None of us knew what Donald was capable of, and Kathleen kept his abuse to herself. Mom, are you listening to me?”

The mother slowly hung up the phone and sipped her tea, pulling back the curtains again to watch the rain.

“It will probably rain tomorrow, by the looks of these dismal clouds,” the mother said to no one. She sighed. “And on Kathleen’s birthday." She paused. "There was something she and I needed to talk about,” the mother said, sipping her tea. “If only she would call.”