We wait through the long morning. From here we can look in three directions but are unable to see along the lane to the south, afraid to move around much on our rickety perch. Uncle has ventured halfway down the stairs to the second floor, but the house shakes so badly, he has given it up.
“If we had rope,” Wheezer says, “you could lower me over the side.”
Auntie says, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
Wheezer grins. “If frogs had wings, they wouldn’t bump their asses.”
What we do see is dark water, risen around us, on out past the poplar line to the east. To the north, it’s covered the ground floor of the big house at Hell’s Farm and has washed away most of the outbuildings there. It looks like a lot of people are crowded onto the prison roof. I wonder whether I’m looking at the warden and his staff and maybe the guards up there, or if they’ve tried to save offenders too. I think of the weight of waist and ankle chains, and wonder how many have drowned.
Harry’s rabbit has ridden out the night hanging from Thomas’s pants pocket. So Harry has that, and his spoon, and his woolly, and his parents and Auntie and Uncle, who love him. He has Shookie, who has spoiled him but who is now curled on the floor, pillows under her head, mourning a very private loss.
“Mom,” Luz says. “Last night, you missed Call.”
“I did.” I’ve missed several.
“Tell me what it’s like,” she says.
I reach for a box of Raisin Bran and offer her some, put a pair of raisins on Harry’s tongue. The storm has taken everything from the attic. We have only wet quilts and what things we hauled up from the kitchen.
“Call is about forgetting who you are, Luzie.”
“Jeez. Why would you do that?”
“Well, when a person has had a traumatic life, when he’s gotten lost in all the bad things that happened to him, it’s critical for that person—for every person—to know that he’s still important.”
“That he matters?”
“Yes. He has worth. That’s what I want you and Harry to know. How important you are to me, to your dad, to this world. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Then, after a while—and this usually doesn’t happen till you’re grown up—”
“You think I’m different from most kids, huh?”
“I know you are. You’re wonderful and brilliant and loving and beautiful.”
“Cut the beautiful, Mom.”
“You will be. That’s a whole other thing.…”
“So after a while …” she says.
“Yes. Some folks discover an even deeper truth. A very precious truth.”
“I’ll be twelve in two weeks,” Luz says, of whatever I’m about to say. “I’m ready.”
I can’t help but smile at this amazing daughter. “I’m so blessed to have you.”
Harry opens his mouth for more raisins.
“Mom. Okay. You said a ‘precious truth.’ ”
“We learn that we are more than our bodies, and our minds and our thoughts. If we subtract the body and the thinking, then being is what we have left.”
I’m a fine one to talk about subtracting.
“Wow,” Luz says. “Without thinking, I bet it gets kind of quiet, huh?”
“Very quiet. Nothing is left but awareness.”
“But—my heart will keep beating. My lungs will work. And my kidneys and liver and gallbladder—”
“Exactly. Without your help. You don’t have to do anything to just be. That’s why people stay aware of their breathing when they meditate. Because breathing has no form.”
“That’s what you guys—the sisters—do at Call? You breathe, and you just are?”
“We say a prayer. Then we try.”
I might add, We are very kind to ourselves, but that’s something I keep forgetting. Poor Clea Ryder, child and adult. Been a long, long time since I put my arms around her.
Luz says, “But what if—you know—something’s burning on the stove? Or your kid starts crying, or you have to sneeze?”
“That’s the thing. You can’t push life away. It won’t let you.”
“Then how do you get quiet so you can just be?”
“Well—first you turn off the stove, you make sure the baby’s napping or taken care of, then you put your arms around all that you have, all that’s around you—embrace all the sounds and the smells—”
“Embrace. Snuggle, enfold, wrap up.”
“Right. You embrace the circumstances of your life. You sit down in the middle of all that, disconnect from it for a minute, or two minutes, and just be.”
“What happens to the things around you—like atomic particles and your husband’s birthday and stuff?”
“It’ll still be there when you’re through being. But for a few seconds, or a few minutes, you don’t think about anything. And if you have to sneeze, you just sneeze, and then come back to that quiet place.”
“Can we practice?”
“We can. Tonight, when I go to Call, you do it with me.”
“Why is it called going to Call, when you don’t really go anywhere?”
“Because when life is hectic, we feel called to a saving stillness.”
“Mom. I used to think, when you went to Call—you were going somewhere. Away from me.”
“Oh, Luzie, no. I take all the wonderful things you are, all the love I feel for you and Harry, and I breathe it in and out at my center, and it makes me a better mom.”
I wish it had made me a better wife. Such a lot yet to learn.
“And—I never stop hearing your voice, no matter what I’m doing.”
“But you didn’t hear the storm that day. At our house.”
“No. To tell you the truth, Luzie, I wasn’t being quiet inside. I was doing lesson plans and daydreaming.”
“You were mad at Dad.”
Yes. For some time, I had been “mad at Dad.”
“That’s all there is to it?” she says. “It’s like—meditating?”
“There’s more, of course. But that’s basically it. And that’s enough for one night.”
“Give me a hint about the rest,” she says. “Like—coming attractions.”
“Well, the best things are coming right now, and you don’t even have to worry about how they’ll get here.”
“I kinda like this, Mom.”
“I’m glad, baby girl. I wish I were better at it. But I’ll keep working on it.”
“I love you, Mom. I’m sure glad you came by me that day.”
“Luz! You remember the place where we found you, where Dad and I fell in love with you?”
“It was getting dark in my chicken coop,” she says.
“You were so little.”
“You wouldn’t have seen me if you hadn’t struck a match.”