The Lord is always near you as you seek His will simply and sincerely. He will support you and comfort you in times of trouble.
JEANNE GUYON
AFTER MY APPOINTMENT with Matthew, I want time to process, time to think and pray through our conversation and the emotions it evoked. I ask the cab driver to take me to the park and drop me off near the main gate of the botanical gardens.
I look at my watch and my stomach twists into a knot. For the first time in eleven years of living under Brigitte's roof, I told no one where I was going or when I'd return. Fear now strangles the sense of freedom I felt when I left. But I take a deep breath, exit the cab, and let the fall sun warm my shoulders as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the gardens.
All around me, swaying in the breeze, are the giants of the park—the eucalyptus, Monterey cypress, and Canary Island pine trees, among others. These, as I recall from my science studies at Cal Poly, are known as overstory trees—those that tower above the other vegetation. It's these giants in the park that buffet the understory crops from the winds of the coastal region.
I head into the Botanical Garden, show my driver's license as proof of San Francisco residency to the volunteer at the admissions booth, and enter the gardens free of charge. I wander the paths nearest the main entrance, through the Garden of Fragrance and then around one edge of the Great Meadow. The scents of fresh-cut grass, soil, fertilizer, and the perfume of fall blossoms embrace me. As I wander, I think through what I said to Matthew about the garden—about the metaphor it represents to me—thriving against all odds. There are even plants here, I know, that thrive though they are now extinct in their indigenous environments.
I think of Brigitte and how I feel on the verge of extinction when I'm with her.
Though I've found comfort in the metaphor of the park, today, as I explained it to Matthew, I felt . . . what? I think back to my desire to make him understand. My need to make him understand.
Defensive. That's what I felt.
But why?
Matthew's question comes back to me now. Did all the vegetation planted in the park thrive? And my answer . . . Only the vegetation with the strength to endure. My answer had nothing to do with the park and everything to do with me. I am determined to endure. To persevere. To thrive against all odds.
But instead, I'm weary. Exhausted. Nearing extinction.
I stop and look out across the meadow and a new thought, a gentle breeze, stirs in my mind.
You're not thriving, Jenna.
My immediate response to the thought is an apology to God. Oh Lord, I'm so sorry. I'll try harder. But even as I pray the words in the silence of my soul, I know I can't try any harder. I have nothing left to give.
The meadow before me blurs into a smear of green and I wipe the tears from my eyes.
The new thought stirs again. You're not thriving. But this time I realize the thought isn't an accusation, nor does it require an apology. It is simply truth—a truth I've avoided.
A truth I have no idea what to do with.
Stand back . . .
Stand back? The familiar thought irritates. Stand back from what? If I knew, I'd do it. Why didn't I talk that through with Matthew today? Now it will have to wait until our next appointment.
I think again of the park. What about the metaphor I've leaned on for so long? How do I differ from the park? I turn and head for the garden bookstore, which has a wide selection of horticulture-related books. But as I enter the store, the knot in my stomach tightens. I glance at my watch again—5:05 p.m.
I make my way to one of the shelves, glance at a couple of books, and then decide on one about the trees of the park and another on the history of the park. I head for the cashier, pay, and then dash out of the bookstore and then the park, and back to the waiting cab.
WHEN I SLIP IN the front door of the house, I hear voices echoing across the marble floor. They're coming from the solarium. Brigitte and Gerard. I bend and take off my shoes, as has become my habit when trying to sneak in unnoticed. I creep across the entry and up the stairs, holding the bag of books close so it doesn't rustle.
Is it possible my absence has gone unnoticed? No. I know better. But at least they won't know how long I was gone.
I tiptoe into the bedroom, set the books on my desk, sit in the desk chair, and bend to put my shoes back on. I sit back up, exhale, and lean back in the chair. I rub my jaw, attempting to alleviate the ache there.
Maybe I'm not thriving because of the infection. Maybe that's all it is.
No. It's more than that. The antibiotics have done their job. And I've floundered for much too long—much longer than the infection attacking my body.
I reach for the bag on my desk and pull the two books out. I crumple the bag and put it in the wastebasket beneath my desk. As I do, the voices in the solarium escalate. I still and listen. Even through the closed bedroom door, I hear Gerard yelling.
At Brigitte?
He would never . . .
I stand, walk to the bedroom door, and crack it open, but all is quiet. Was it my imagination? I stand there a little longer but hear nothing more.
I sit back down at my desk and pick up one of the books I purchased and begin thumbing through it. I land on a section dealing with species selection:
The selection of tree species for the replacement of the park's evergreen forest canopy and windbreak has changed over the years. The spread of the fungal disease pine pitch canker (Fusarium subglutinans) into the Bay Area and southern part of San Francisco has resulted in a suspension—
The double doors to the bedroom fling open and slam against the wall. Hannah looks . . . terrified. "Come! Hurry! It's Mr. Bouvier."
Startled by her abrupt entrance and the fear in her voice and on her face, I drop the book, jump to my feet, heart pounding, and head for the door. "What? Hannah, what is it?" As I reach the door, I hear Brigitte yelling downstairs.
"Hannah! Did you call? Did you call an ambulance?"
"Yes, Madame!" Hannah yells back down the stairs. She grabs my arm and pulls me behind her as she heads to the stairs.
"Hannah? What's . . . happened?" Breathless, suffocated by fear, the words come out in a hoarse whisper and I'm not sure Hannah's even heard me.
Again from downstairs, I hear Brigitte. This time she wails. "Non! . . . Gerard! Non! S'il te plait! Gerard, please!"
We take the stairs two at a time. At the landing, I push past Hannah and fly down the remaining stairs and through the hallway to the solarium, where I see Gerard slumped over on one of the settees. A wine glass lies broken at his feet and a splash of red wine stains his white shirt. Brigitte stands bent over him, her hands on either side of his face.
"Gerard! Gerard!"
"What happened?"
She doesn't respond.
"Brigitte? What happened?" I sit on the settee next to Gerard and reach for his wrist. I lift his arm and try to feel for his pulse. Brigitte has quieted, stepped back, and I feel her eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.
"Well?"
"I . . . I don't"—I move my fingers on his wrist. Searching. Hoping—"I can't . . . feel—"
I press my ear to his chest, hoping, praying. Nothing. Nor does he seem to be breathing. Oh, Lord . . . "What happened?"
"This! This is your fault!" Brigitte spits the words at me. "It's all your fault! If you hadn't planted thoughts in his mind, pushed him, told him he could do more. If you—"
"Stop! Help me!" I stand and move the coffee table out of the way. "We need to lay him down on the floor." I reach for Gerard's legs and lift them. Brigitte doesn't move. "Help me! Hannah, help us! Hannah!"
She is standing at the front door watching for the ambulance, but I hear her coming back down the hallway. The hollow echo of her steps brings a sense of foreboding.
When she gets there, she takes Gerard's shoulders, but he is too heavy for us.
She looks to Brigitte. "Madame, you must help!"
Brigitte, dazed, steps to Gerard's side and helps us lower him from the settee to the floor. Once he's on the floor, I kneel next to him, remove his tie, and begin to loosen the collar of his shirt. My fingers shake as I undo the buttons down the front of his shirt. I hear Brigitte tell Hannah to direct the ambulance to the back entrance, where they won't have to deal with the front steps. Then she kneels at Gerard's head.
"Hannah, get someone else to watch for the ambulance. I need you!" I shout. I look at Brigitte, but she doesn't argue.
I pull Gerard's shirt back, though the weight of him makes it difficult. "CPR. We need to begin CPR." I place my hand on his chest, hoping, praying, that this time I'll feel his heart beating. But again, nothing. Oh God, oh Lord, help . . . help him! Help me! I think of Gerard's father. Oh Lord . . .
"Do something!" Brigitte sounds both demanding and desperate.
I try to remember the steps of CPR—the training I've had, along with the rest of the household staff, at Brigitte's insistence, each year since our marriage. But stress robs me of clarity. I lean back on my heels and take a deep breath. Think! Then I lean down, open Gerard's mouth, and make sure the airway is clear. I pinch his nose and cover his mouth with my own. His lips are gray and cool and a flash of memory catches me—the warmth of his lips as he kissed me in the valley just days ago.
No, wait! This isn't right! The CPR guidelines changed. Compressions first. Oh Lord, help us! I move to Gerard's chest, my hands still trembling, and place the heel of my palm on the pressure point about an inch and a half above his sternum. I begin the quick pumping—100 compressions a minute. "One, two, three, four . . ."
Oh, God. What is happening. This can't be happening. Help us!
I glance at Brigitte, who still kneels at Gerard's head. She stares straight ahead, no longer seeming connected to what's taking place. Perhaps she, too, is remembering Gerard's father.
I reach for Gerard's nose again, pinch it shut, give two quick breaths, and begin the process all over again. I shout for Hannah again and this time, she comes back into the solarium and kneels next to Gerard's side. "I need you to check his femoral pulse as I do the compressions."
I begin pumping his chest again. "Can you feel it? Am I doing it right?"
Hannah nods. "Keep going."
I pump and breathe and pump and breathe.
Over and over again.
"Ma'am." I feel someone next to me. "Ma'am, please, we'll take over."
"Jenna, move!" Brigitte is now standing back from Gerard.
I lean back on my heels again, and push myself up off the floor. I step back from Gerard. From this vantage point, I can really see him. And what I see seems . . . surreal. He is ashen and still.
Lifeless.
How can this be happening?
I stand near Brigitte, though not too near. I feel her rage seething.
"If you weren't so selfish, this never would have happened." She hisses, "C'est ta faute!"
I look at her, guilt slicing my conscience. Is she right? Am I in some way responsible? But how? Tears choke me.
Please save him. Please. But with each minute that passes, hope wanes.
I feel the change in Brigitte before I see it. I turn to look at her, but her expression is unreadable. She wears a mask of control. "He is gone." And then she turns and walks away.
Gone? How can he . . . I continue to watch the paramedics work, but it's as though I'm someone else. Somewhere else. Nothing makes sense.
Gone?
And then I see the knowing look that passes between the paramedics, though they continue to work on him as they load him into the ambulance.
Gerard is gone.
Forever.