Summer of Thirty Years
The scritch-thunk of moving earth soothes me, consciousness a slow burn. Flesh takes hold of my bones, limbs prickling with needles of sensation, burning and aching with mortality. These sensations of relief, along with the steady sound of digging, permeate my slow return from death yet one more time. Telling me I still exist.
Muscles twitch, the warmth of blood insulating my cold, cold bones. Worn, dusty blue coffin silk warms my fingertips. Steady rise and fall of lungs and ripple of my suddenly beating heart fill my body with euphoria and a tangled rush of emotions.
I shiver and suck in a breath, the cold ground suffocating. The coffin’s darkness smells musty with death and decay, cloying in its claustrophobic assault on my face as I open my eyes again. And exhale. A long slow breath of life that I haven’t known for months. Since the first snow wilted the daffodils in the old family cemetery. The cemetery is a small square of land with a dozen headstones, most of them a hundred years old, framed by a black wrought iron fence and a creaky gate. Just past the sea grass and rocky ground that separates the cemetery from the Oregon beach house where I would have spent my honeymoon.
The rasp of shovel against sand and dirt draws closer and I blink, my heart racing at the sound. Brandon will be through the earth in moments and for a few months, I will again be free of this long, tortured sleep.
For only a little while.
I clutch at the lace and pink cotton nightshirt that once dressed me for viewing. For my funeral. I never remember it being mine and wonder who thought to bury me in it. Had it been a wedding gift? Mark and I never got to open those gifts.
Metal thunks above my head, but I close my eyes. The darkness and confinement of the coffin unnerves me now that I’m awake. I remember awaking like this so many times before, but I have no idea how many days have passed since I last returned to sleep and awakened when the daffodils bloomed again. Sometimes, they bloom early. Sometimes they bloom late.
At last, metal clangs against my coffin lid and the muffled sound of human voices warms my ears.
“Mimi! We’re almost there!”
My husband, Mark’s voice is sharp, enveloping, and I can’t help but grin at the familiar sound.
Mark is already awake and out of the grave beside me.
The stubborn lid strains upward and cool air floods over me, the velvet night sky sprinkled white with stars that I’ve missed so much. Mark’s handsome thirty-year-old face hangs over me, grinning, sandy brown hair curling in the salt air. He leans down, brushing his fingers across my face, through my sable hair. Already, the ocean spray begins to scrub away the smell of decay and cloying stink of death.
“My love,” he says in a raspy voice, his brown eyes candle-bright as he lifts me from the coffin and into his comforting embrace.
My arms slide around his body, feeling the pulsing warmth of flesh against my supple skin and I melt into his touch. I whisper his name against his ear, the brush of my lips against his earlobe like a burning ember. His skin smells like butter and I want to drown in the smell of life again.
Illustration by Gigi Hooper
Long Description
But as intoxicating as Mark’s presence is, I can’t hide my shock at seeing Brandon who stands beside the grave, leaning on the shovel. Looking twice our age. Mark’s and my best friend no longer shares our youthful looks. He’s aged, and aged hard, the weight of this burden lining his face. The weight dulls his once-bright blue eyes and makes his eyelids droop. His mouth is drawn in clay, a thick, unrelenting line of misery etched there as a permanent reminder of what happened that night.
Tears well in his eyes. No longer happy tears at our reunion. Something darker shadows his face.
“My old friend,” I say to him and reach out to warm the granite of his face.
Life sputters in his eyes a moment, but the tide of guilt washes it away like footprints on the beach.
“Mimi,” he says, his voice old and tired. “Welcome home.”
Mark sets me down on my unsteady feet, but I cling to him, not wanting to be far from his touch.
“Thanks, Brandon. For everything.”
I reach out and touch his frail arm. He looks so thin. Like a different man standing here. I barely recognize him and the pain radiates past my momentary joy.
He gives me a hollow nod, his thinning frame and white hair making him look ghostly in the cemetery’s moonlight. He leans on the shovel like it’s a cane. It’s hard to believe we were once the same age.
The Brandon I knew from college has long since disappeared, yet here I stand looking exactly like I did on my wedding day. I glance down at the bright daffodils poking their waxy green stalks out of the cemetery earth. Growing at the headstone of each grave. The clock is already ticking. When the last one fades, so will I until next spring. I have no idea how many summers Mark and I have left before the daffodil bulbs’ magic fades and we return to the dust. Kept alive by that magic and Brandon’s dogged dedication to digging open our graves every summer.
My teeth chatter as a breeze rolls off the ocean, carrying that clean, salty scent I’ve missed so much.
“Let’s get you two in the house—and get you settled,” says Brandon.
He offers Mark a thin smile and a pat on the arm as he lumbers toward the creaky cemetery gate. His walk is arthritic and unsteady.
Mark presses his lips to mine and my body ignites with white-hot need, all my senses on overload as he grips my hand and we follow Brandon down the footpath toward the Pacific Ocean. It has been so long since I’ve felt anything.
Ahead stands our cedar beach cottage with its billowy linen curtains, teak furniture, and maple floors, cedar shakes gray and windows and doors trimmed in white. I remember the pale aqua walls, white furniture, and blue-rag rugs—bright like sea glass against Oregon’s grayness. The smell of cedar mixes with ocean and sweet daffodils lining the walkway. This cottage has weathered a lot of storms and wind, looking much older than her 1922 construction, but she feels like home, and I can’t hold back my smile at another old friend.
“Brandon’s looking old,” Mark whispers to me and I grip his hand tighter.
What happens when Brandon dies? Who will care for us until the magic ends? I can’t stop the chill shuddering through me. What if Mark and I return every spring and there is no one to unearth us? Would we suffocate? Die all over again?
I focus on the roar of ocean waves, letting that terrible thought float away.
“He looks frail, like he’s been sick,” I say. “I hope he’s well.”
“He damned well better be,” whispers Mark, his hand sliding around my waist. “All of this is his fault.”
“I’m old, but I’m not deaf,” Brandon snaps, pausing at the little cottage’s pergola, white paint stripping away to gray cedar from the wind buffeting the shoreline.
He glares at us, wheezing a little as he leans on that shovel again.
“I’m sorry,” says Mark, bowing his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course, you did.” Brandon replies. “And I’ve devoted my entire life to—to the two of you.”
A hint of life sparks in those lifeless eyes as he pokes his thumb against his bony chest.
“Yeah, the accident was my fault,” he continues, pain in his voice. “And so were the bulbs, but … I did the best I could for you both.”
I let go of Mark’s hand and rush over to Brandon. Slide my arms around him, holding him close.
“Brandon, no—the time to beat yourself up over this is long, long past. What is done is done and Mark and I are so grateful to have these summers together. You’ve been wonderful to us, really you have.”
I smell the sweet stink of alcohol on him, and I’m taken aback.
“Brandon, why?” I ask, surprised that after everything that’s happened, he would take a drink. “Aren’t you tired of consequences?”
His eyes narrow.
“More than you’ll ever know, Mimi.”
With another wheeze, Brandon turns and heads toward the beach house. The silence above the ocean waves is deafening as I walk behind him toward the cottage’s flickering lights, Mark’s footfalls hurrying behind me.
Inside, the scents of garlic and rosemary cling to the familiar cedar and ocean smell. A big wooden bowl heaped with spring greens sits on the little round dining table set with three crisp white plates and shiny silverware. A basket of garlic bread sits beside it, a saucepan steaming with bright red marinara sauce on a green trivet nearby. Spaghetti and garlic bread on the first night after awakening has become habit. And it’s comforting.
“Please sit,” he says to us. “You must be starving.”
In the kitchen, Brandon is piling spaghetti noodles into a big yellow ceramic bowl.
He’s been through this routine so many times. For so many years.
Mark and I sit at the table. My stomach growls, ravenous now, and I fill a little bowl with salad.
Brandon sets down the noodles and a silver ladle on the table and takes a seat beside Mark.
“This looks delicious,” I tell Brandon as I drape a pile of noodles onto my plate and ladle on thick sauce.
Then I notice a chilled bottle of chardonnay, uncorked and half empty, tucked behind the salad bowls and I can’t help but shiver at its sight.
Both Mark and I glance from each other to the wine in silent dread. It has been so long since I’ve seen Brandon take a drink. I study him a moment as he spoons sauce onto his spaghetti. His hands shake, his eyes looking glazed.
“When you start back?” Mark asks, taking a bite of spaghetti.
“Last night,” says Brandon, an edge in his tone as he picks up his wine glass. He takes a long, slow sip. His eyes close a moment and then he returns to his dinner.
“Why?” I ask, swirling noodles in marinara, my fork scritching against the plate. “Why after all this time?”
“I’ll explain after you’ve eaten and slept.”
I lay down my fork. “Brandon—talk to us. You’re our best friend in all the world. What’s wrong?”
His hands are shaking harder now. He lays one hand in his lap, trying to hide it.
“Not tonight,” he replies. “I’m too tired.”
Mark starts to object, but Brandon holds up his hand, still shaking.
“It’s late, almost midnight, and I’m nearly sixty-six years old. Tomorrow, please—when I’ve gotten some rest.”
The number assaults my senses. Sixty-six … that meant thirty years have passed since the accident.
I set down my fork, suddenly not hungry anymore.
For a few moments, Brandon looks past me, his gaze following something. He mumbles words I can’t quite hear and then returns his gaze to Mark, fear darkening his dull blue eyes. I squint at him, but that moment of fear fades. So I let it pass. I’m still disoriented and everything feels so clear and sharp that it almost hurts my head. I return to eating and the room is silent except for the muffled rush of waves on the beach below.
After supper, Mark and I clear the table and wash the dishes. I watch Brandon sitting in the next room. The television murmurs low and I can hear Brandon mumbling. He seems to be talking to someone, maybe the television, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
My stomach drops, the fear cold inside me. Something is terribly wrong with him and now, I’m frightened. What happens to Mark and me if Brandon can no longer care for us?
Just as the last of the dishes is tucked away, Brandon rises from the deep-blue couch and heads down the narrow, dark hallway.
“Good night, you two. See you in the morning.”
The creak of a door closing echoes above the television and all Mark and I can do is stare at each other, hoping tomorrow brings some joy.
After Mark and I make love, I fall into a fitful sleep. And awake shouting. Mark’s arms enfold me and I snuggle into his warmth, his buttery scent. Everything feels so different this time. So final that my chest aches and I feel like crying.
“It’s OK, baby,” he says in a soothing tone. “Just a bad dream.”
Or a premonition. I’m terrified again.
In my dream, I’m back in my coffin, the flesh melting from my bones, and I’m dying all over again. I shudder, a chill dancing over my body, like someone just walked across my grave, and Mark holds me closer.
I nod into his neck and close my eyes, falling into an exhausted sleep until the sunlight streaming through the window wakes me again. And I feel grateful that I have eyes to open, lungs to fill with air.
The bed is cold, creaky. Mark is already up. The smell of warm coffee envelopes the house and I sit up, trying to brush away my unease. I climb out of bed and fumble for a navy chenille robe (thirty years old now) that hangs in the small closet. I brush my long black hair and shuffle out to the kitchen in search of coffee.
Mark and Brandon’s voices rise sharp and I stop in the hallway, listening.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but what happens now?”
“I—I don’t know, man. I wish I had some answers.”
“For what?” I ask and step into the kitchen.
“Mimi, my love,” says Mark, his face brightening.
He holds out an arm and I slide into his embrace.
“Coffee?” Brandon asks.
“Of course, lots of cream,” I say, as he pours the steamy hot liquid into a big white mug, his hands still shaking.
He slides the mug and a tiny pitcher of cream across the white granite countertop.
With Mark’s arm still around me, I pour cream into my coffee and swish it around in the cup before drawing it to my lips and sipping. The warm, frothy taste of hazelnut rolls over my tongue and I want to lose myself in the richness.
“Now, what answers are you wanting, Brandon?”
He glances at Mark, looking uncomfortable. He looks more like Mark’s dad than his best friend.
“To the situation we have here,” he replies.
I shake my head. “And what situation is that?”
“I’m sick, Mimi,” he says, a sadness blunting his sharp features. “Very sick. In fact, I don’t think I’ll be in any shape to … to help you anymore.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask, a chill touching my heart.
“I … I have advanced Parkinson’s.”
I shake my head, not knowing what to say and take his hand in mine, squeezing. His lips press into a taut line, glassy eyes squinting as he looks away.
“Mimi, I … I see things. And I don’t know … if they’re real or not. I don’t know anymore.” He sighs. “Thought I could … stay ahead of it. But I can’t outrun it anymore.”
The three of us are silent for a long time.
“What happens to us?” I ask finally.
His eyes well with tears. “I wish I knew. Since I got sick, I’ve been trying to find a way … to stop the magic.”
A chill washes over me and I set down my coffee mug. Stop the magic? I can’t even turn that thought over in my head. That means that Mark and I will cease to exist. Our lives cut short by that horrible accident thirty years ago. Mark and I always knew this day would come, but not so soon. I thought that the final time we go to our graves, everything would just end. Is this the end? Or do we have more time?
“You can’t, Brandon!” Mark shouts. “What if it doesn’t end this summer? It’s magic—unpredictable, you always said. What if we have more time?”
The magic—I’ve never known how Brandon stumbled on the little bursts of immortality that Mark and I share. All I remember from the emergency room that night is the taste of dirt and raw root, almost like a turnip, in my mouth, tiny minced bits washed down with water. And then the long sleep until the sound of digging first woke me from death.
“What choice do we have?” Brandon insists.
“We’ll dig up the coffins. Put them in the cottage’s root cellar. Lock it from the inside.”
Brandon seems to grow calmer at Mark’s suggestion. “That could work.”
“Why can’t you use the same magic, Brandon? On yourself?” I ask.
He smiles. “Because every time I woke with the daffodils, I’d still have advanced Parkinson’s. It’s too late for me, Mimi.”
“Then how does the magic work? I’m confused.”
Brandon’s body shakes as he points out the window, his hair so white, his face so lined and thin. “This line of daffodils, the ones around the yard … they were split—from bulbs grown by the ancient Greeks and Romans.”
He is struggling for words, lips pursed, and I stop myself from saying them for him.
“Those bulbs were centuries old. They were rumored to carry—the gift of immortality. Roman soldiers carried them into battle. When eaten … they lessened the pain of death. But the Romans—believed they had healing properties.”
“How is that possible?” Mark asks. “And how could you get them?”
“They’re heirloom bulbs, cultivated at a little farm near here—by an old Italian woman. I paid thousands for them.”
I remember that old farm. Every summer, before the accident, I bought Roma tomatoes and garlic. I’d even bought two bottles of some sort of flower wine from there. I’d asked for something special, something for my wedding.
“Why would you do that?” Mark asks Brandon.
“You and Mimi were dying. I had to do something. I had to fix it.”
The car accident.
Brandon had been driving that night, Mark and I drunk on that flower wine and celebrating our marriage. Brandon had been best man and designated driver, but that hadn’t stopped him from drinking. Early and often. He’d kept drinking after our toasts of that fragrant wine. Before we knew it, Brandon was careening down Highway 18 toward the Oregon coast. The foggy, twisting mountain roads didn’t stop him from taking the curves at seventy until for a moment, all I heard was silence.
No whisper of tires against pavement, just the pure rush of air as the car left the road.
Sometime later, I had moments of consciousness in intensive care, the pain overwhelming, Brandon sobbing beside my bed. And that pungent taste of roots and dirt led me into a strange sleep, then nothing until I awoke the next summer in my coffin.
I’m told that Mark and I hung on for a week before being pronounced dead and buried in the little family cemetery near our beach house. Where we’d planned to live as newlyweds. And forever after that.
“So the magic is forever?” I ask Brandon.
He shakes his head. “I wish it was. No, the older the bulb—the longer your life. These were thirty-year bulbs.”
“Thirty year?” Mark frowns.
Brandon nods. “They’d bloomed thirty years before I bought them. When the bulb’s eaten … you come back to life every summer.”
“Until the bulb dies,” I say.
Brandon’s eyes fill with tears as he stares at me a long while. Finally, he nods.
“This is the thirtieth summer, Mimi. But the magic isn’t exact. You come back a few months each year. Does that equal a year every time? I don’t know. And I don’t know if you’ll both return again next spring. But for me, it’s the last one.”
I bury my face against Mark’s chest, the sobs shuddering through me.
“I know it’s a shock.” Brandon struggles a bit to find his words. “I always avoided telling you. But now that you know … let’s make this spring and summer your best ever.” He laughs for the first time, but the sound is bitter. “Besides, I’ll be joining you both soon.”
I dry my tears, at last realizing the gift I’ve been given. Mark and I have had thirty summers together. More than many people’s lifetimes. We haven’t cheated death, but because of Brandon, we haven’t let it cheat us either.
I lift my head from Mark’s shirt and turn to Brandon.
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice and slide my arms around his frail body.
This time, Brandon cries with me.
Mark and I spend every moment together and with Brandon. Knowing it will all end by the first snow makes it all feel so fragile.
Every surge of ocean wave and call of seagull has meaning to me. The daffodils and lavender smell sweet and clean, the soft sand, cold ocean, and rough stones comforting against my bare feet. I know that this may be my last time to experience them, so I press them with all my might into memory, hoping to dream of them when I go to sleep for the final time. In that long sleep, I want to remember it all and the extra gift of time I’ve been given.
Tonight, the three of us sit on the rocks and watch the sun sink over the Pacific, fingers of orange and fuchsia reaching through the swirls of clouds to illuminate the water. It reminds me of the night before our wedding, when we drank toasts to our long life ahead. Not knowing what was to come. I squint at the frothy waves, trying to remember the wine. It had been an unusual one.
Then it hits me.
“My god,” I shout, snapping up from the rocks. “It was daffodil wine!”
Mark cups a hand above his eyes and stares at me a moment.
“What was daffodil wine?”
“The wine we drank before our wedding.”
Brandon shakes his head, his face scrunching into a confused look, hands shaking in his lap.
“Remember? We drank toasts with that almost perfumy wine.” I rush toward Mark and grab his arm. “Don’t you remember? You said it tasted like a shot of Halston.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah, I guess I remember that.”
Brandon’s face fills with excitement. He understands why I’m bringing it up.
“Daffodil wine. Don’t you get it, Mark?”
He shakes his head, still confused.
“I bought it from the same little farm, the same place Brandon bought the bulbs. I don’t know if it’s even still there.”
Mark stares at me and then Brandon, waiting for one of us to keep talking.
“Mark!” I clap my hands together, grinning. “The wine may have the same properties as the bulbs.”
At last, he understands that the wine might have given us more time and a smile spills across his face.
“We’ll go see if the farm is still there tomorrow and find out.”
I nod. I have to know how much time we have left. Even if we only have this last summer, I need to know.
The next morning, we all wake up early and pile into Brandon’s white Ford Focus. Mark drives and we head inland, Brandon and I giving directions onto gravel and dirt roads until the faded wooden sign appears, Ricci Farms.
The farmhouse is painted brick red, the fields taking life with rich green foliage, the scent of perfume in the air. Rows of pale lavender and vivid yellow daffodils alternate in one field, bright green lettuce shoots, and lacy tomato plants fill another. A rickety old lean-to with a faded white sign reading Fresh Flowers and Produce is on the side of the dirt road. On a chalkboard with shaky handwriting, the words read, Ask about our special wines and heirloom bulbs for sale!
“This is it,” I say, feeling hopeful as Mark parks the car.
We step out, Brandon unsteady and hands shaking as he shuffles beside us toward the lean-to.
A white-haired woman, in her eighties or older, sits in a folding chair beside bundles of fresh lavender and daffodils as she crochets a small, mint green blanket.
“Hello there,” she calls to us, waving a wrinkled hand.
“Good morning,” I say, stepping over to her.
“Looking for fresh flowers?” she asks, her fingers looping the yarn from memory. She never even looks down as she works her hook across the blanket.
“Wine,” I say. “Some special wine.”
She smiles, her gaze unwavering. “What sort of special wine?”
“Daffodil,” I reply. “Made from bulbs.”
She keeps up her looping and pulling of yarn, the skein flopping over and over at her bare feet.
“Don’t have much call for that sort of thing these days,” she answers. “Gotta have a strong constitution for that one. We do have some wonderful marionberry and a lovely herb wine with hints of lavender and clover.”
“Why do you need a strong constitution?” Mark asks.
She glances up at him through wrinkled, hooded lids.
“For the consequences,” she answers, the skein of yarn flipping end over end as she pokes her crochet needle at Brandon. “Ask your friend here.”
She recognizes Brandon who looks away with a nod, his face grim, hands still shaking.
I feel sick inside, seeing him so old and ill, knowing how he’s given up his own life to care for us each summer. Keeping such a horrible secret to himself. Only now do I realize how Brandon’s decision and guilt have weighed on him.
“It’s been a horrible burden,” I say, but Brandon’s gaze doesn’t return to me. He’s still staring out across the fields of flowers.
The yarn continues to flow through the woman’s crochet needle, still turning like a top at her feet.
“Not to mention a great sacrifice.” Her gaze fixes me as she nods at Brandon. “Did he not tell you that?”
I squint at Brandon who won’t look at me now and the chill of dread slides down my spine. “What sacrifice?”
“He bought thirty-year bulbs,” she says.
I nod. “I know. My husband and I have had thirty summers together.”
The woman shakes her head, the crochet needle slipping in and out of the yarn at an unwavering pace.
“That’s not what a thirty-year bulb is.”
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“The magic requires a sacrifice to activate,” says the woman. “Your friend gave thirty years of his own life to the magic. To give the two of you thirty summers together.”
My stomach drops, a knot twisting in my chest as the guilt burns through me. Brandon’s head is bowed, his gaze on his feet now.
“Brandon … is this true?” I ask, tears stinging my eyes.
He doesn’t answer me. He just looks out across the farm fields.
“Answer me,” I demand. “Is this true?”
Finally, he nods and his gaze meets mine.
“It was the only way I could undo what I did,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “It was the only way I could fix it.”
Mark’s hand slides to Brandon’s shoulder and he squeezes, his eyes watery. When Brandon’s gaze meets his, Mark pulls him into a hug.
“But what about the wine?” I ask the woman. “I bought a bottle of daffodil wine here and the three of us drank toasts with it at the wedding.”
At last, the woman’s crochet needle halts. She stares up at me a moment and then sets aside her mint green blanket. Her face is pinched, a mix of worry and anger now.
“Who sold you that wine?”
I shrug. “That was thirty years ago. I don’t remember a name—just that she was a teenage girl.”
The anger fades, sadness flooding over her parched face. “Ashley,” says the woman. “Poor child didn’t understand the magic. Didn’t pay attention to the rules.” Tears thread down her wrinkled face and she wipes at them with crooked fingers. “Didn’t understand the consequences of selling the magic.”
“She said something about it making my wedding extra special.”
“It did,” says the woman, staring at me. “It traded your destiny for hers. She was killed in a car accident the next day. And didn’t get to come back each summer. She was my daughter.”
I slump down on an empty wooden bin, feeling sick inside, remembering when Ashley and I had shared a tiny sip of the wine. My eyes well with tears. She’d always wanted to try it. Just a little sip. What could it hurt, I’d thought. At this moment, I feel selfish and useless, guilt tearing at me over the losses. If only I’d realized. If only I’d had a say in any of this.
“My god … I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. “Your teenage daughter? I’m so sorry.”
“We’re very careful with that wine,” says the woman, clutching the crochet needle in her fist as she drapes the yarn around its tip and loops another stitch into the blanket. “We only make a few bottles a year and only sell it in the right circumstances.”
Her fingers flash across the blanket, locking in a few more stitches.
“Ashley didn’t know about the magic.” She winces as if the needle has stabbed her hand. “I never explained that part of the wine to her, or the bulbs. I only told her they were very expensive and should be sold only by me or her dad.” A long sigh escapes her pursed lips. “It was my fault. I should have told her the consequences. Should have hidden it better.”
All these summers, these beautiful summers shared with Mark had come at the expense of two lives.
“Forgive me … if I’d have known,” I say, my voice tight, tears threatening with every syllable, “I’d have never bought the wine. I couldn’t have. She was probably, what—seventeen?”
The old woman nods.
“About to turn eighteen,” she answers, and tears flood my eyes, streaming down my face.
“We toasted to a long life with it that night,” I say. “And with every sip, I drank away moments of a life in full bloom. And I didn’t even know it.”
I cover my face in my hands, feeling like a vampire. For thirty years, I’d siphoned away two lives so I could live. How did it ever come to this?
I don’t realize my sobs are audible until I feel Brandon’s shaking hands on my shoulders.
“Mimi,” he says, sliding my hands away from my face. “I accepted the consequences. But what you don’t realize is that I got something out of this, too.”
I shake my head.
“What could you have possibly gotten out of this? What did Ashley get out of this?”
Brandon’s face isn’t pinched with anger and he doesn’t have that dazed, stumbling look on his face from being drunk all the time. He looks calm. Peaceful.
“I can’t speak for Ashley, but the magic freed me from the alcohol destroying my life. That night in the ER when I gave you both the bulbs … my need to drink fled. Even after the … the funerals, knowing the accident—had been my fault.” He struggles with the words a moment. “I had no taste for the stuff. Until last night.”
So the magic is fading. Even I see that now. Hear it in Brandon’s deteriorating speech.
“So what happens now?” I ask, looking up at Brandon.
“When the daffodils fade in the fall,” says the old woman, “that will end the bulbs’ magic. The wine’s magic, too.”
I reach over to Mark and pull him close to me. Now, we know. His hands are trembling as he takes hold of my hand.
We thank the woman and head back to the car in silence.
March slips into May and before I know it, July fourth has passed. With every passing day, I feel the dread of fall looming. I don’t know if the first frost will come early or late, but I know that Mark and I don’t have much time left. And Brandon’s illness is rushing ahead at a frightening pace. His body stiffens by the day, shuffling walk giving way to frequent falls and nighttime bringing things only he can see in the growing shadows.
It’s mid-August when I take a drive back to Ricci Farms, leaving Mark to look after Brandon while I’m out. Mark knows where I’m going and doesn’t tell Brandon. Brandon spends most of his time in a wheelchair now and Mark makes sure his best friend is safe.
It’s still light out, nearly nine o’clock when I return to the beach house with salad greens, Roma tomatoes, and fresh salmon. While Mark grills the salmon, I make the salad with fresh-picked Ricci greens and tomatoes.
Brandon’s wheelchair sits beside the family room window that faces the ocean. He stares out with blank eyes, barely able to speak now. His muscles are failing at an alarming rate and I’m frightened for him. He has no one to care for him.
I toss the salad with fragrant balsamic vinaigrette and set it on the table as Mark carries in the salmon.
As Mark lays a fillet on each of our plates, I wheel Brandon to the table.
“Hungry, Brandon?” I ask.
He nods and mumbles something I can’t understand. I lock his wheelchair wheels and spoon salad onto his plate. Mark helps him eat. It takes a while to get through dinner, but Brandon manages to eat a small portion of fish and salad.
After we’ve cleared the dishes, we help Brandon dress for bed. I get him settled and tucked in and then slide the covers up to his shoulders.
“Things will be better in the morning, I promise.” I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for everything, my dear friend.”
He smiles and mutters thank you.
Mark squeezes his hand, and we walk out to the kitchen. I grab an uncorked bottle of cold chardonnay and Mark picks up two glasses. We sit on the rocks outside, sipping chardonnay in each other’s arms and watch the sun set.
Only when the wine is gone does Mark rise from the rocks. After he sets the glasses and empty bottle on the deck, he slides his arm around my waist, helping me to my feet.
With a blanket and pillow in our arms, we walk through the tall sea grass on the little dirt path toward the cemetery.
I’ve left Brandon a note that reads,
Forgive us, Brandon, but we couldn’t wait for the first frost. The vinaigrette was made from Mrs. Ricci’s heirloom daffodil bulbs. In exchange for our final months, Mark and I have given you back a whole year. Free of illness. Free of guilt. There’s a bottle of sparkling pear cider—nonalcoholic and magic-free—in the refrigerator. Celebrate your freedom. Celebrate your life. We will see you again someday soon.
Love always, Mimi and Mark
Mark places the pillow and then helps me step down into my coffin. I lay on my side as he slides in beside me. We drape the blanket over our bodies. With Mark’s arms around me, I close my eyes as night washes indigo above the Douglas firs, the magic fading away at last. Only the afterimage of stars remains behind my eyes as the world softens and sleep claims me and Mark.
For the very last time.