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Jan followed her daughter’s gaze. “I don’t know how those seagulls dare to wander so far from the ocean.”
“Maybe they’re the adventurous ones.”
“Or lost.” Her mother returned her focus to Beth. “You can come to the lake any time you want. I’ll always be happy for a visit.”
“Is that the only way I can have you in my life? You and Dad helped me become who I am. I want you to know me now, Mom…as an adult.”
“I do know you, sweetie,” Jan said. “Better than you think. I’m just not one to go places—I never have been. Now I’m forty-five and a widow and an empty-nester, and my life isn’t going to change drastically. It’s like the quote I love so much, remember? ‘That that is, is. That that is not, is not. Is that not it? It is.’ I painted it on the wall of my screened porch. I used brown to contrast with the white clapboard. It’s the theme for my new life here at the lake.”
Beth reflected a moment. “Mom, that’s the theme you’ve always had. Que sera sera. What will be, will be. Or Shakespeare’s ‘I scorn to change my state with kings.’”
“Sonnet Twenty-Nine,” her mother clarified. “‘For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’ It’s better when you say the whole thing. You know I taught English for twenty years, Beth. These quotes crop up in conversation now and then.”
“But they’re always the same, Mom, like memos to yourself—reminding you to shrug off any possibility of change.” Beth’s eyes widened and she sat up. “I just thought of another one. ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can—’”
“‘And the wisdom to know the difference,’” they finished together.
“What’s wrong with that?” Jan asked. “Your daddy grew up in a houseful of reformed alcoholics, and they lived by that saying.”
“They weren’t reformed alcoholics when Dad was growing up.” Beth tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Dad was the only stable one of the whole bunch. I’m surprised they didn’t all fall to pieces after he died.”
“I’m surprised none of us did.” Jan swallowed, and looked down.
Beth felt again the huge hole her father’s death had left in his family’s world. Two years had gone by, but it seemed like yesterday. And forever.
“The point I’m making, Mom,” she continued gently, “is that you took a big step—retiring from your teaching job, selling the house you and Dad lived in your whole married life, leaving good ol’ Tyler, Texas, and moving to a new house fifteen miles away. But then you painted the same old motto on your porch.”
Jan’s blue eyes narrowed. “Young lady, ‘what is, is.’ I will accept it and try to be happy.”
“So, you’re just going to roll up like a little pill bug and bury your head?”
“Of course not! I have plans. Things I’m doing. But I won’t spend my life longing for what was. Or wishing for what might have been. It’s called acceptance.”
“It’s called boring.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.”
Beth’s heart grew softer as she heard the pain in her mother’s voice. “When I heard you were moving, I was thrilled. I thought, now. Now, she’ll do something with herself. You taught school to earn a living, but inside, you had art, poetry, imagination bubbling up and seeping out. I thought I might come to the lake and find a bohemian mom with candles burning and red velvet couches and books of poetry lying around. But you have another tidy little house with the same curtains, beige furniture and throw rugs, just like in Tyler. You’re still making chicken salad sandwiches and lemonade. And you’ve painted a saying that means ‘Accept life and do nothing different.’”
“First of all, I loved teaching,” Jan told her daughter. “It was never just a job. Second…well, I am doing things differently.
My art, for example.”
“Watercolors?”
“Pastel chalks, as a matter of fact.” Jan lifted her chin as though she had just reported recently climbing Mount Everest. “So you see? It’s not the same. I took a class years ago. A woman taught us how to create portraits of Native Americans.”
“You’re painting Native Americans?”
“Of course not. What would I know about Native Americans? But one day I got out the old pastels, and I’ve been experimenting. I’m trying new things.”
“It doesn’t count if you’re still doing roses, Mom.”
“I’m painting people.”
“People!” Beth sat up straight. “Let me see!”
“Absolutely not. I’m still learning. Besides, all my people still look like Native Americans. Pastels aren’t as easy as watercolors, where you can blend until you get the exact tone before you put brush to paper. With chalk, it’s all about how you use your hands. Look at my fingertips. The prints are worn off from rubbing the paper. I could commit a crime, and they’d never catch me.”
Beth laughed. “You’ve never done anything wrong, Mom.” Jan gave a demure smile. “So, now you know what’s new with me…tell me more about you. Are you seeing anyone?”
Beth groaned. “You are way too predictable.”
“Well?”
“Are you?”
“Me?”
“You’re allowed to date, you know. Bob, Bill and I talked over the idea, and we’re agreed. We think you should start going out. Maybe even marry again.”
“So my children are discussing me behind my back,” Jan said. “Well, save yourselves the trouble. I’m not interested in dating—or remarrying—ever. It hasn’t been long since your father died, and that was very traumatic. Besides, look at me. I’ve spread out in all the wrong places. I’m sagging and drooping and wrinkled up like one of those Chinese dogs. But let’s talk about you. Have you met any nice men in New York?”
“Look, Mom, I know losing Dad was devastating, but he died two years ago, and was sick for three years before that, so it’s not as if you haven’t had time to work through your feelings. And why do you make yourself sound like a bag lady? You’re pretty, Mom.”
“I know what’s under this bathrobe. Believe me, there’s no chance I’m ever going to marry again, so you can put that notion right out of your head.”
“If marrying is such a bad idea, why are you always pushing me to connect with some altar-bound guy?”
“Well, for pity’s sake, Beth, you’re beautiful and smart, and you have your whole life in front of you. Don’t you want to build a family? Buy a home instead of living in that cramped apartment? And what about children? What about love?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing more wonderful than a happy marriage. It’s what I want for all my children.”
“Then why won’t you marry again?”
“Beth, stop! I’ve been there, done that, okay? Look at who’s available for me to choose from, anyway? The single men my age will have failed marriages or be old, lonely widowers with too many needs or have resentful children. Even if I did find some never-before-married man my age, what sort of person could he be?”
Beth rolled her eyes. “Everyone has baggage, Mom. None of the men I meet are pristine young innocents.”
“Have you been going to church?”
“Of course. I’ve met some decent men—but everyone has baggage.”
“You don’t have any baggage. You grew up in a two-parent home in Tyler, Texas, with a nice church and an active social life. You got a good education, and now you have an interesting job.”
“I’m practically perfect in every way, like Mary Poppins?” Beth grinned. “Yeah, you and Dad did a fine job raising me, Mom. I’m just not in a hurry to marry. I have other things to do before I settle down. And I want you to come to New York and visit me.”
Jan reached over and fiddled with the magazine. “I might,” she said finally. “I have time now, and your dad left me in good financial shape. So I suppose I could.”
“How about this summer?”
“Oh, no, I’m still settling in here in Lake Palestine. I have a lot to do.”
“I’ll help you unpack. I’m here for three days. I bet we can take care of it all before I leave.”
“No.” Her voice growing serious, Jan rose from her chair. “Don’t touch anything, Beth. Leave those boxes in the guest room exactly as they are. I’m the only one who knows where things should go. Seriously. Hands off.”
Beth studied her mom, who looked shorter and tinier now than ever. Despite her auburn hair and pert blue eyes, Jan showed her years. Did she want to shrivel up and fade away as her husband had done? Disease had robbed him of all movement, and then his breath and finally his life.
Before the tears could start, Beth stood. “Good night, Mom,” she whispered as she folded her mother in her arms. “I love you.”
In the guest room, Beth rooted through her suitcase. She had grown so accustomed to living out of it that she hardly had to search for things. Underwear on the left. Toiletries on the right. Casual clothes at the bottom. Business attire near the top. She bought knits that needed no ironing, and lingerie she could wash at night and wear by morning. Her mother had no idea of any of this.
As she tugged her T-shirt over her head, Beth focused on a plaque Jan had painted long ago. It had always hung in the spare room at their house in Tyler. “Welcome, Friend,” she had painted in delicate, curling script—black ink on a pale purple background. And then beneath it she printed words from a William Cowper poem:
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Beth wondered if this was truly what her mother desired most. Shutters fastened, curtains drawn, cups of hot tea and a quiet life in which nothing ever changed.
She mused on their evening together. While talking of New York and her job, Beth had felt her mother’s scrutiny. It was as if Jan were trying to read her offspring, define her, decipher this odd creature in her living room. If only she could label her daughter in the same way she tagged other things, the child would make sense at last.
In fact, now that Beth thought of it, her mother had branded her. Near the window in her cotton-candy pink bedroom, Jan had hung this verse:
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and everything nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.
Sugar and spice? Hardly. Now, as she opened the closet door to toss in her travel bag, Beth wondered where the framed sayings and poems had ended up. Were they in one of the boxes stacked around the guest room? Or had her mother thrown them into the trash on moving day?
Of course, the inscription painted in bright pink letters over the bed in Beth’s room would have been left behind. She recalled gazing at it for hours, wondering if it were true. “Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,” read the words by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Queen rose. Beth had pondered the elaborate calligraphy as she lay in her pink bedroom with its reproduction white French Provincial furniture, its flowered spread and curtains and its pale pink carpet. She had imagined the Tyler Municipal Rose Garden, a fourteen-acre park with five hundred varieties of roses among its forty thousand bushes. She had pictured a girl’s face inside each rose…her friends, models in the Sears catalog, actresses on television. In the center of the park grew one large bush with a single deep red blossom…the queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. And whose face did Beth see when she peered among the petals of that marvelous flower?
Her mother’s.
Janice Amelia Calhoun Lowell.
In her heart, Beth knew she herself was no rose. She inhabited the pink room, but it had never belonged to her. She didn’t match the soft hues, fragile blossoms and sweet poetry. An olive-skinned tomboy, she ran around the neighborhood with scuffed sneakers, scabby knees, tattered shorts and skinny arms. Twigs of hair stuck out in every direction from her long brown braids. She climbed trees and built forts. She was a pirate king, a mermaid ruling an undersea city, a soldier slogging through the jungle, a spy on a secret mission. She hated pink.
“I don’t know how you became this person,” her mother had mused aloud. But had Beth changed so much?
As she set out her toiletries and Bible, she tucked a length of hair behind her ear. Scripture taught that change was not only possible but essential. In his second letter to the Corinthians, Saint Paul had written that a Christian must become a new person in Christ. A different creature.
This was troublesome for a girl who had given her life to Jesus at a church revival when she was eight years old. How much sin could a child that age have committed? How much change could one expect? Yet, Beth sensed that because of Christ, she was changing all the time—renewing, working out her salvation, striving toward righteousness.
The more she dug into Scripture, the odder and less normal she became. These days, she felt transparent and single-minded and deep and narrow and open and loving and intolerant and all kinds of contradictory things. In the same way that she had failed to blend into her pink bedroom as a child, she now failed to identify with most of her coworkers and friends. She was metamorphosing into an alien, someone not even her own mother recognized.
With a sigh, Beth pressed a dab of toothpaste onto her toothbrush, picked up her cleanser and comb, and cast a last look at the Bible on the bed. Tired and a little cranky from trying to communicate with her mom, she considered skipping her daily Scripture reading. But she knew she wouldn’t. The ritual had come to mean too much.
As she brushed her teeth in the guest bathroom, Beth could hear her mother in the kitchen—putting away dishes, opening and closing the refrigerator, tucking place mats back in their drawer. Touching everything and setting little bits of herself here and there, shaping and molding her small, well-ordered world.
Did her mother feel she had failed? Skinny, dark-haired Beth, Jan’s only daughter, hadn’t grown up to become the queen rose. She certainly wasn’t sugar and spice and everything nice. Beth had traveled away from her family and had kept on going, until she was someone else entirely.
As she headed back into the bedroom, Beth recalled her mother’s insistence that she was doing different things now—using pastels to create portraits. As though that were a radical change from her watercolor bouquets.
Perhaps such an alteration was more fundamental than Beth supposed. Curious about her mother’s art, she peeked behind the coats and sweaters in the closet. What sort of people could Jan Lowell be sketching? Rose-cheeked children? Ladies in pink flowered gowns? The high school students she had taught so many years? All of them looking vaguely like Native Americans…
Smiling at the thought, Beth knelt and pushed aside a cardboard box in search of an artist’s pad or a hidden portfolio. The new sketches were probably in her mom’s bedroom, stashed away until she deemed them ready for presentation. In the past, Jan always held a little ceremony, complete with chocolate cake and punch at which she debuted her latest rose paintings. Her children chose their favorite, and their mother framed it—hanging the selected piece in a special place beside the front door.
As Beth began to uncurl from the floor, she spotted a black-marker notation on the cardboard box she had pushed aside in the closet. “For Beth,” it read. The carton wasn’t large, and she wondered what could be inside it. Old school papers or childhood treasures? Perhaps a collection of mementos from Beth’s grandparents or sweet old Nanny, the children’s favorite babysitter?
Beth ran her hand over the tape that sealed the carton. Odd that this box had been so well packed while the others in the room were simply folded in on themselves. She shouldn’t open it. Her mother had told her not to touch anything in the room. Hands off. But this carton was clearly meant to be Beth’s. “For Beth,” it announced in bold black ink.
Glancing at the door, she noted that the house had fallen silent. Her mom might be upset with her for opening a box so carefully sealed, but maybe their talking about the items would draw them closer together. It would be interesting to see what bits and pieces had been saved from the big house, the old life in Tyler, where school and friends and family had been all Beth knew of the world.
As she popped the tape and the carton’s flaps sprang up, Beth saw she had guessed correctly. Relics of the past. Her baby blanket—a soft knit in shades of white and pink—lay on top. A tag fluttering from one corner read, “Crocheted for Beth Lowell by her mother, Jan.” Next she lifted her red velvet Christmas dress with its row of tiny holly leaves across the hem. Her mother had printed on the tag, “Beth’s church dress when she was three years old.” Farther down, she unearthed small white shoes, worn and battered, her first pair. A sealed envelope under the shoes had been printed in her mother’s handwriting, “A curl from Beth’s first haircut.”
Continuing to sift through the box, Beth found more carefully packed mementos. Jan Lowell’s handwritten tags provided each item’s history. How sweet that her mother had saved these things…cherished and gently tended, like the daughter who once had worn them. Misty-eyed, Beth ran her fingers over a lumpy mass of bubble wrap taped around some bulky object. As she lifted the keepsake from the bottom of the box, she saw it had no label.
Sniffling, Beth began to peel away the plastic wrap. She had the best mother in the world. Chocolate-chip cookies and cold milk after school, freshly ironed dresses for church, a new lunch box every year and paintings of roses beside the front door. Unlike many of her friends, Beth had been held in her daddy’s arms and fed with her mother’s warm love and nourished by all the security, peace and hope her parents had been able to provide. How truly blessed she was.
As the bubble wrap crackled and fell open, Beth smiled at the sight of still more roses. A small sugar bowl, pale ivory with tiny pink, blue and yellow blossoms scattered across it, lay nestled in the plastic. How beautiful and delicate it was. She set aside the sugar bowl and discovered the plastic wrap held two more items. She lifted a creamer rimmed in gold, and then a teapot, plump with a curved spout that surely would never spill a drop.
Who had these belonged to? Beth couldn’t recall ever seeing them. Brushing her damp cheek, she turned over the sugar bowl and read the name of the manufacturer. Grimwade, Royal Winton. How fragile and perfect it was. At last, she cradled the teapot in her lap and peeked under its lid. A thrill ran up her spine as she spied a folded piece of paper lying at the bottom. She opened the note and read her mother’s inscription.
“Beth, this tea set was given to me by your birth father, Thomas Wood. He was a good man.”
The words sat on the page, unmoving, clearly legible, yet indecipherable. “Your birth father.” What did that mean? Beth read the note again. “Your birth father, Thomas Wood.” That wasn’t right. Her father was John Lowell, history professor at Tyler Junior College, barbecue king, TV football addict, Halloween treat dispenser, Easter egg hider and picture of health until he was stricken at fifty by Lou Gehrig’s disease and died at fifty-three.
Beth picked up the teapot and studied it. Whose was this thing? Not hers. She didn’t have a birth father. She had a father. This “Beth” on the label must be another girl. A different person entirely.
Confusion filled her as she glanced at the items scattered on the floor. These had been hers. The Christmas dress. The lock of hair. But not this tea set. Not this birth father. Not this Thomas Wood.
But the china had been packed and put away in Beth’s box. The note inside began with her name. “Beth…this tea set…your birth father…Thomas Wood…a good man…”
