Lavender

Chapter 2

Walking back to the farm, my emotions swung from extreme to extreme. Several times my stomach dropped as though I were on an elevator. I composed myself before entering the gate. My grief-stricken mother didn’t need to catch me in crisis.

Surrounded by lavender fields, the isolated farmhouse stood out against the sunburned sky. My mother, statuesque and graceful, cut a striking image amidst the swaying lavender, reminding me of a knife stuck in the earth.

With the mourners long gone, only heat and the incessant hum of insects remained.

“Mom?”

She stood in front of an old potting bench, my father’s urn in her hands. We’d set up several of these benches so guests could bundle and tie their freshly picked lavender with silk ribbon or brown twine. God, how my father loved chatting with people; he could talk incessantly about lavender, the land, where to eat in town, and what to see before they headed back to L.A. or wherever.

Suddenly angry, I hated anyone who’d ever traipsed through our fields. “Mom, what are you doing?”

She shook her head but didn’t speak.

“Let’s go inside where it’s cool,” I said, coming beside her.

“Is he really dead?”

“Yes,” I answered, fighting to control my voice from cracking.

She released the urn and fingered rolls of partially used ribbon and twine left on the potting table.

“Your father never tied ribbon correctly,” she said, forcing a pained smile. “Every time someone came to this table, he’d yell, ‘Luelle, for Christ’s sake, can you tie this damned thing?’” She looked at me. “Remember?”

“Every time.”

“His hands were so rough.” She shook her head and sniffed. “I loved him.”

I covered her hands with mine. “I know.”

“Your hands are just like his. Can you tie knots with the ribbons?”

“Nope.”

We smiled at each other.

“Let’s go inside,” I urged.

Mom removed her stylishly large sunglasses and surveyed the land. “Can you believe this came from a single French lavender bush he bought on our honeymoon? He loved Paris.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a delicate handkerchief.

I nodded, envisioning the trip we would never take. The image proved too painful. The ground shifted and my head ached. Electric tingles crept along the base of my spine. My knees buckled and I fought to stay upright. The urge to run back to the rest area and take another man, or be taken by a man, possessed me.

“Lawrence!”

“I’m fine.”

I declined her help and steadied myself on the thought of taking a c**k. Something inside my gut beside grief, fatty casseroles, and sugary desserts would be welcome. The image of the funeral banquet filled my head and I fought the urge to vomit.

Mom looked at me. “You need a change—we both do.” Her eyes flashed with life. “We can still go to Paris. We should still go to Paris!”

Since my father’s death, her need to return to France had grown from casual longing to a desperate need to escape.

“Mom, my life is here. The farm, our business, everything you both worked so hard to create. How could we leave?”

“Let’s close the farm for the season and come back—”

“I’m not going to Paris, Mom. Not now.”

“Ahh, Law, you are so much your father’s son.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

She hugged me. “Never stop being his son or mine.” When she let go, she stared at the urn. “I cannot mourn here. Memories, prying eyes, concerned neighbors…I will go crazy if I stay.”

“We have to find a way.”

“Will you hate me if I leave?”

“I hope not,” I answered, unable to sort the emotions flooding my thoughts.

“Your father wanted to go to back to France. He so wanted you to see Paris as an adult.”

“Mom, stop! Leaving is out of the question, for me anyway, but you do what you have to.”

“This pain is unbelievable.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “I can’t scatter his ashes.” She backed toward the house. “I can’t.”

I watched her leave the fields, walking then stumbling into a run, and finally heard the screen door clanging shut.

The sun setting, the lavender swaying in the cool night breeze, I imagined Dad bent in the fields picking stems, and the fear he must have felt when his heart stopped. He died alone.

Tears spilled down my cheeks and my chest ached. Maybe I would drop dead, too, and for the briefest second, wished I would.

“f**k!”

Disturbed by my screams, birds cried out and took flight from nearby jacaranda trees.