Hope Springs Read online

  Hope Springs

  A Novel

  Lynne Hinton

  Originally published under the title Garden of Faith

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Lessie Alford

  and

  in honor of

  Jack and Shirley Hinton

  and

  with much gratitude to

  my friends at

  HarperSanFrancisco

  Hope Springs Community Garden Club Newsletters

  1 Looking at Your Landscape

  2 Pesky Pests

  3 A Dirty Subject

  4 Let There Be Light

  5 Bottle or Tap: Quenching the Thirst

  6 Knowing Your Parts

  7 What to Do About the Weeds

  8 The Gardener and Her Tools

  9 Knowing What to Grow

  10 A Changing Garden

  11 Keeping Your Garden Growing

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Lynne Hinton

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  IN YOUR GARDEN NOW

  Grass grows now tall and tangled

  where your cucumbers and melons

  once rolled in tight bunches

  green and gathered.

  You’d clench your fists and draw in your lips

  with worry if you caught sight of what roams

  in your garden now.

  Shaking your head in horror, you’d be up before the sun

  raking and ridding the ground

  of clover and prickly vines,

  pigweed, and dandelions.

  You’d mmmm, mm, mmm the rows

  until those weeds bowed in shame

  and pushed themselves up

  making room for your

  beans and sunripe tomatoes.

  You’d dance upon the earth until she gave you back

  your delicate pansies and long, limber sunflowers.

  And she’d forget that you left her.

  And you’d smooth down the dirt

  with sprinkles of water that lay like teardrops

  in the prints you made neatly

  between the plants.

  And together you and the earth

  would spring forth flowers and fruit

  rich and bountiful.

  And together you and the earth

  would celebrate harvest and tolerate winter

  until the air warmed and the low blanket rose.

  And you would smile and say

  I’ll go to my garden now.

  But now the earth has you buried

  deep within her bosom

  way beneath what tickles her surface

  and spreads across her skin

  in meadows and fields.

  And she cannot stop the clover and the prickly vines

  from thickening

  nor can she stop

  the pigweed and the dandelions

  that fill up her furrowed brow.

  So she reaches inside herself

  just to feel you there and covers your eyes

  so as not to worry you

  with what lies

  in your garden now.

  VOLUME 1, NUMBER 1

  Hope Springs Community Garden Club Newsletter

  BEA’S BOTANICAL BITS

  Looking at Your Landscape

  Beginning a garden is a little like starting a relationship. You got to know before you hoe. And, ladies, you know what I’m talking about. There are things you must find out about your partner before you decide to invest a lot of time and work in the friendship. It’s the same for your gardening. You don’t just decide that you like a place and start cultivating it without discovering things about the area. You need to examine the proposed spot for property borders, service-line locations, septic tanks, and leach fields. The condition of the soil, the amount of sunlight, the plants native to that area, these all need to be noted before breaking ground and sowing seed.

  You want your relationship to work and evolve into the lovely state of matrimony? Then don’t let yourself be surprised by what you didn’t take the time to find out early in the relationship. You want a productive garden? Learn the landscape before you do the work.

  1

  SAFETY IS OF THE LORD’S was printed in three-foot-tall red letters, stretched high and wide across the back of the transfer truck that pulled out in front of Charlotte as she drove Highway 85 heading toward Chapel Hill.

  “Jesus!” was all she said as she slammed on brakes and swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting it. And then, “Shit.” It wasn’t until after the word had spilled out of her mouth, loud and unmistakably clear, that she remembered a church member was sitting next to her. She turned to her right to see if Beatrice was okay.

  The older woman was pale but certainly fine, having reached out in front of her, bracing herself for the collision. White-knuckled and rigid, she softened as the car rolled forward and finally stopped. Since the near miss was over, she blew out a noisy puff of air. Seconds later she loosened her grip and released her hands from the curved black plastic, touched at the hair on her forehead, and asked, “My God, is that from the Old or the New Testament?”

  There were prints from her fingers still showing on the dashboard.

  Charlotte had pulled off to the side of the road and put the car into park. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. Her heart was pounding. She hadn’t had such a close call on the highway in a long time. It unnerved her and she knew that she needed a few minutes to get herself together. Other vehicles flew past them, almost lifting the little car back onto the road. Finally, Charlotte turned to Beatrice, remembering that she had asked a question.

  “Is what from the Old or New Testament?” She was still rattled.

  “That sentence.” Beatrice smoothed out the front of her dress and tugged at her panty hose.

  Charlotte was confused. She shrugged her shoulders as if to signal that she wasn’t following Beatrice’s line of thinking.

  “On that truck. It said ‘Safety is of the Lord’s.’ Is that from before or after Jesus?”

  Charlotte then remembered the sign on the truck. She shook her head at the question while putting the car into gear. She signaled and pulled onto the interstate slowly. “It’s from a psalm, I guess.” She looked in her rearview mirror and watched as the cars behind them moved into the left lanes, allowing her space to merge.

  “It’s nice, I think.” Beatrice lowered the visor and began studying herself in the mirror.

  Charlotte started to mention the irony of such a quotation on a vehicle that had almost crushed them; but as she turned to say something to Beatrice, the older woman already seemed to have forgotten what she’d said. She was reaching down on the floor-board to open her purse. She took out her lipstick and painted her lips bright pink, as if the near wreck had reminded her to do what she usually never forgot, “be ready.” She flipped up the visor, smacking her lips together, and offered the lipstick to Charlotte, who raised her hand and politely refused.

  “No, of course not, pink is not your color.” Beatrice put the cover on the lipstick and stowed it in her purse. She took a breath.

  “Have you seen the Mary Kay samples for fall? There’s some lovely corals and mauves that I think would match your fair skin and dark hair nicely. And I believe we can find some eye pencils that will draw out that gold in your eyes.”

  Charlotte did not reply.

  For some time now, Beatrice had been trying to help her pastor “find her colors” and “perk up her wardrobe.” She seemed satisfied that Charlotte no longer needed a hobby or craft to occupy her time, but she continued to struggle with the idea that the young woman acted as if she did not care about her appearance.

>   Louise told Charlotte that Beatrice had found an article in some magazine she picked up on her honeymoon that said that failure to show interest in basic grooming skills was a sign of depression. Louise had told her that if that were the case, then depression might come in handy for Charlotte, who she knew was trying to save money, since blush and eye shadow could be quite expensive; and that Louise, in her entire life, had never worn makeup and she did not consider herself depressed. But Beatrice wasn’t worried about Louise. She was worried about Charlotte.

  In the last few months, the young preacher seemed to have folded within herself in a way that was subtle but still noticeable. She continued to do her work, preach, visit, all the things that were expected; but there was a distance in her conversations, a lack of focus that even Margaret had observed. She, of course, had said to let it alone, that Charlotte would discover her own way through this, but Beatrice was convinced that she could find something in her cosmetic bag that might help, even if just a little.

  Charlotte picked up speed. The late morning sun poured into the car and she began to get warm, so she increased the volume of the air conditioner and turned the vents toward her, hoping the noise might also limit any further conversation.

  Unlike Beatrice, she did not think of herself as depressed. She did not think she had changed. She knew that she felt more tired than usual, a little uninterested in things at hand. But she only thought she was overworked, called her lack of energy and her sleeplessness the result of too many appointments and a crazy schedule that recently had included late-night emergency calls to the hospital, three summer weddings, and now this, another suicide attempt by Nadine Klenner.

  Since the accident and Brittany’s death, Nadine had become broken and unhinged in a way that seemed completely hopeless. Nothing nor anyone was able to help. Her spiral down into despair started with the use of Valium and other prescribed drugs, just to get through the night, she had told the doctor. Then she went to cheaper means of escape, alcohol, over-the-counter medications, and even a little pot she was able to get from some guy who had moved in down the street from where she lived.

  Her first attempt, at Christmas, had been a bad mix of wine and drugs; but she claimed she had just made a mistake in taking too many sleeping pills. After she promised to get into counseling, the doctor released her without a follow-up.

  The second time, a Monday morning in April, Nadine got up in the middle of the night. She called Charlotte, just to talk, she had said; but Charlotte knew something was wrong. By the time the preacher was able to call 911 and get over to the house, Nadine had passed out in the bathtub, the cuts on the insides of her wrists deep but fresh; and they were able to stop the bleeding before that attempt had become successful. She went to a rehab for three months.

  This time she was visiting a friend, her mother said. They had gone out for dinner; it was Brittany’s birthday. The friend told the police that things had been fine, that Nadine had been sad and wanted to get back home early to put flowers on the grave, but that she seemed okay. And then, just as they were leaving the restaurant, she said something like “Maybe the best way is the same way” and stepped off the curb right into oncoming traffic. She was hit by a taxi and thrown across the street.

  She was in a regular room at the University Hospital since the medical doctor did not know that this was Nadine’s idea of a fair and easy way to die. He merely thought she had been distracted or nonattentive when she had tried to cross a busy street.

  Hopefully, Charlotte thought, somebody has realized that this was no accident and when Nadine is stronger, they’ll move her to the psychiatric unit. Of course she knew that didn’t mean it could be fixed. Charlotte understood that if a person is set on dying, no pill or therapy or suicide watch on a hospital floor where all the doors are locked can stop it. If Nadine meant to kill herself, Charlotte didn’t really think there was anything that could be done to prevent it.

  “I hope these balloon flowers aren’t too much for Nadine’s room. I wanted to bring some of my lavender border phlox but they had the spider mites, so I just picked a few of these.” Beatrice had the vase of flowers in a box near her feet. Luckily they had not turned over in the sudden stop.

  Beatrice kept talking about the pests in her garden, but Charlotte heard none of it. She was thinking about her recent decision to plant geraniums and late marigolds around the front door of the parsonage. She had gone to a store and bought some flowers, even though the clerk said it was too late for them to grow and that she would not be able to get a refund if they died and that maybe she should wait for the pansies.

  She recalled finding roots and vines around the porch and discovering that there was too much shade from the big sweet gum near the driveway so that she had to change the location of her little flower bed. She remembered walking around searching for a place to plant the flowers and noticing a spot near the clothesline that seemed to have sandy soil and could have been a site once before for someone’s garden, although now it was primarily ignored and weedy. She thought of how, after she bought the plants and the wrong fertilizer, she had roamed about the yard seeing the places where things used to grow and areas that could never support vegetables and flowers, rocky patches and deep rich soil, sites she’d never noticed until she really paid attention.

  As Beatrice babbled on about daylilies, potato bugs, and her monthly articles in the Hope Springs Garden Club newsletter, Charlotte reflected upon the landscape of somebody’s life. She thought about Nadine and her struggle to stay alive. She thought about Louise and Roxie and the things people never tell. She thought about how complicated one person can be, a single life in a world of lives hidden with plots and stretches that will not nurture a seed, beds that cover poison and electric lines and should never be cultivated. Slopes that drain and collect water. Spots that never see the sun. And the young minister wondered how people can ever really heal and grow if they do not recognize and honor their limitations, deal with the secrets and the trouble areas, walk the land on which they live.

  She thought about her own heart and the condition of her spirit. The long dry months that had passed, and how it seemed that nothing good had taken hold inside her and begun to grow. The lifelessness that characterized the climate of her own soul.

  Charlotte drove on but did not comment while Beatrice continued to talk about first one thing and then another. She and Dick were remodeling her house to include a Florida room where the deck had been, and she was sure the contractor was stealing their money. Her daughter had left her job and was thinking about starting some computer company. And Beatrice had planned to talk to the committee because she was considering printing a little update for the church cookbook. It seemed that Laura Purvey, from the Baptist Church, had pointed out that some of the recipes weren’t clear and that Beatrice thought a little handout or instruction booklet might be helpful.

  Charlotte was only halfway listening to the older woman talking on at great length about how Mrs. Purvey had called Beatrice to ask if the milk in the prune cake recipe was supposed to be evaporated milk or condensed milk and that Beatrice had tried both kinds three different times each because she wasn’t sure herself. But that she had finally decided that the condensed milk had been right in the first place even if it did make the sauce a little sweet for some folks’ taste. And that maybe when the committee met they could consider whether it might be helpful to have a little cookbook guide to go along with the cookbook and what did the pastor think?

  Charlotte, not really knowing what the question was, merely nodded a response and mentioned that the hospital parking lot was difficult to find and asked if Beatrice would keep an eye out for the entrance sign. It did halt the conversation as Charlotte had hoped, so that by the time they finally spotted the parking complex, Beatrice had forgotten her idea and was now rambling on about how doctors design hospitals to disorient their patients so they won’t notice their bills.

  Charlotte agreed that this was actually an intelligent obse
rvation and had found that most medical facilities were hard to figure out and that the University Hospital was one of the most difficult. It is long and scrambled, she noted, a series of walkways and buildings that seem to go on for miles. An assortment of old and new treatment areas, it is scattered and loosely connected with signs and arrows but no systematic way of finding rooms. It took Charlotte and Beatrice twenty minutes, outside and in—including two trips back to the information desk and directions from four volunteers, one nurse, and two men in lab coats—before they finally found Nadine’s room.

  Beatrice asked more people than that, but at least three others she tried to talk to couldn’t speak English and another, a doctor in a hurry, only pointed them back to the first entrance near the parking deck. Beatrice was about ready to pick up the emergency phone in the elevator when the two men in lab coats gave them proper directions.

  Nadine was on a medical-surgical floor, the fourth, at the end of a short hall near the fire escape. When they walked in, she was propped up, leaning against her pillow, facing the window. Her breakfast tray, untouched and intact, was still sitting on the table in front of her.

  “Nadine Klenner, you haven’t even taken your morning meal.” Beatrice barreled into the room and set her arrangement of flowers on the small side table next to the bed. “You’ll have to eat if you want to get your strength back.” And she began pulling the lids and plastic off the cups and plates.

  Nadine turned toward her visitors. Her face was pale, her eyes dim. She watched as Beatrice rearranged things, trying to make the meal more appetizing.

  “Hey Nadine.” Charlotte walked around Beatrice to the other side of the bed, in front of the window.

  “Hey,” she replied softly.

  “You know, this stuff is no good,” Beatrice said. “Would you like me to get you a hot breakfast?” She peered at Nadine, then at Charlotte as if she could tell her where the cafeteria was.

  “I’m not very hungry, Mrs. Newgarden.” Nadine pulled herself up a bit in the bed.

  “It’s Mrs. Witherspoon now, remember?” Charlotte lifted her voice in such a way to try and lighten the mood of Nadine’s room, which felt sad and heavy.