Grace and Dandelions

By Wendel Lucas Washington

Dandelions have dual personalities. They are delicate; their seeds easily separate and scatter by the slightest breeze. Each has its own destiny chosen for them as they pirouette through the air and land in random locations. But there are certain dandelion seeds that happened to land in the hands of a little girl named Grace. They took root and grew to become defining moments in her life. They became message conduits of love, faith, and resilience between her and her mother that will last forever and beyond. Even when the cruel realities of life tried to steal her joy, challenged her faith, and when hope seemed all but lost, Grace found victory over evil in the strangest of ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640038349

Book preview

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Grace & Dandelions

A Novel by

Wendel Lucas Washington

ISBN 978-1-64300-076-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64003-834-9 (Digital)

Copyright © 2018 Wendel Lucas Washington

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

About the Author

Introduction

This is a love story . It examines the expanses and depths, the struggles and strengths of that wonderful gift from God that He calls love . In this novel, love is on trial. To a jury of multiple and diversified entities, it has the daunting task of proving its resilience when under attack, its ability to persevere, withstand, and overcome the worst of adversities. And while tribulations proved to be a formidable foe, it found itself succumbing to the fact that love never dies . You may or may not see a little bit of yourself in some small aspect within these pages, but if the boundaries of the depths of your love and the steadfastness of your faith has never been on trial, I say to you: Keep on living. Enjoy.

The characters and events depicted in this novel are all created. Any similarities to events, locale, or individuals, living or dead, should be considered unintentional and purely coincidental

1

I used to pick dandelions for my mother. I was not quite four at the time, and unfortunately, there were plenty to choose from in our large, unkempt yard. Still, she welcomed each weed every time as if it was a long-stemmed rose. We’d blow on it together and watch the seeds dance in the air before they began their slow descent. My job was to dance around and catch as many as I could.

There’s one, Gracie! she’d clap her hands and encouraged me excitedly. Catch it! Catch it! And with each triumphant little grab, we’d shriek with delight and she’d hug me as though I’d just won a gold medal. In a way, I did. Her hugs were like gold medals to me.

I loved my mother, and she loved me. I guess that is to be expected between mother and daughter and need not merit mentioning. But the love that my mother and I shared was no ordinary love. We lived for each other. Our hearts beat and bled for the other. Every breath we took, every thought we had . . . I’ll stop there because it’s impossible to describe, and to say that we lived and would die for each other falls far short of descriptive justice.

I didn’t know my father. My mother said he went away not long after I was born. But people talk. As I grew older in this small southern town, I heard many different colorful stories about his existence—or nonexistence—depending on whose version you cared or cared not to listen to. I got sort of used to it. I was a resilient sort. But there was one version that got stuck between the ears and rested heavily on my mind. I was twelve years old and walking home from school when old Mrs. Busbee, a.k.a. Busy Body Busbee as she was affectionately known, called me over from her perch on her porch swing and decided it was her duty to enlighten me and because the child deserves to know the truth, and who better to learn the truth from than her.

Come here, child, she beckoned. Sit down on that chair over there.

I tried not to show my preconceived suspicion, but I’m sure it was obvious that my guard was up, somewhat. But I complied. I was taught to always mind my elders. No exceptions.

My, you’re certainly growin’ up to be a fine young gal! she raved. What with your momma’s eyes and nose and your gramma’s cheeks, why, you’re pretty as a blue ribbon prize heifer!

I melted, and she beamed as she slowly glided back and forth, stopping only to pick up a tin can she kept on the floor beside her and spit snuff into it. How could I have been distrusting of such a sweet old lady?

Thank you, Mrs. Busy . . . uh . . . Mrs. Busbee, I stammered.

A long pause followed, or maybe it just seemed long. Finally I said, It was nice visiting with you, Mrs. Busbee, but I must be going. My mother will be expecting me. That was a lie. My mother would not be home from work until later. But before I could finish standing, she spit into her can again.

’Course you got your daddy’s forehead. Pause. Spit. And your daddy’s smile. The same full lips. Yeah, you sure ’nuff is Joe Henry’s gal, all right. Tell me, child, when’s the last time you talked to your daddy?

Damn, she’s good! She ambushed me! There I was, lost for words and completely blindsided. Well, uh . . . I uh . . . , is all I could manage. She didn’t wait for me to conjure up a plausible response because she knew there was none to be found.

I knew your daddy well, she continued. ’Member when he first came here from three counties over. ’Member the day he married your momma. A year and some months later, she brung you into the world. But afore that could happen, Joe Henry up and gone. Why he left depends on who you talk to. Some say the law was ahind him. Pause. Spit. And a coupla husbands and a few daddies too. Them was some hard days for your momma, seeing she had no kinfolks here ’bouts. But him leaving was the best thing he could’a done for her. She loved him something fierce, almost as much as he loved himself. Sharp dresser, he was. Hair all slickered down. He had a gold tooth inside his mouth. Every night was Sat’day night for Joe Henry. Lord knows he did wrong by your momma. But she still had you to build her life around. ’Twasn’t for you, they would’a come carried her away long time ago.

I sat frozen, staring at the floor. This was all so new to me. A bombshell! I knew she was treading taboo waters, bestowing revelations to me that should only be done by my mother—if and when she decides to reveal them. Still, I was mesmerized, not knowing what to say. Then, involuntarily, I stood up as though shot out of a cannon. I . . . I’ve got to go.

You be careful now, child, she said, looking at the back of her hands as if she was counting the wrinkles.

Oh, I . . . I don’t live far from here, I said, heading toward the steps.

I know where you live, young ’un. This ain’t a big town. That’s why you need to be careful.

I stopped. What do you mean?

You’re growin’ up fast, she explained. Pretty soon you’ll be having your eyes on the young fellas, and they’ll be having their eyes on you. She reached for her can. Pause. Spit. Taking her time, seemingly savoring the thought that she was keeping me in suspense, she continued, Well, hear tell, your daddy got you a coupla’ half brothers here abouts. But I’m sure your momma already told you about that.

No, that was the bombshell! I don’t remember leaping from the porch and vaguely recall dashing across backyards for the shortest cut home. No, in fact I wasn’t told! This is too much. Why wasn’t I told? My mother and I never kept secrets from each other. Or so I thought! I felt betrayed.

I was sitting against the pillows on my bed hugging my knees when my mother came in.

Grace? Honey, what’s wrong? Are you all right?

I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong, I answered dryly.

Well, I called you when I got in from work. Then I called you three times for supper. She sat on the edge of my bed and pressed her palm against my forehead, then gently stroked my hair. I instinctively looked up. Honey, you’ve been crying. What’s—"

Nothing! I snapped. Nothing’s wrong! Just . . . leave me alone. I quickly lowered my head because I knew I couldn’t stand to see the hurt look on her face as she slowly stood up. She tried once more to stroke my hair, but I defiantly shrugged away. She slowly walked toward the door, then stopped.

Gracie, I’m always here whenever you need me. Always. She left.

I felt terrible. No, I needed a stronger word than terrible. What did I just do! We were more than mother and daughter; we were best friends, each other’s whole world. I never acted that way with her before. We shared everything. At least I thought we did. I knew she was confused and hurting. Because I was. A heated debate with myself was taking place inside my head.

Serves her right! She betrayed me!

No. She has never given priority to anyone or any situation over me.

Well, she lied to me!

No, she did not. What did she lie about? She just chose not to relay certain information for whatever reason. That’s not lying. That’s exercising discretion.

But she should have told me! She should have told me the facts about my daddy and not let me hear it from someone else—Old Mrs. Busy Body!

The facts? What facts? Until you see it for yourself or hear it from your mother, everything is pure speculation.

Then why am I hurting?

Because you know that she’s hurting. But you have the advantage here. You know what’s wrong, but she doesn’t—and that makes her pain even greater than yours.

Oh, shut up! Keep your rational reasoning to yourself!

Later that night, I heard the wooden floorboards creaking. My mother was coming to say good night just as she did every night for as long as I could remember. I hurriedly pulled the covers over my fully clothed body and pretended to be asleep. Somehow, I knew she was on to me, but she never let on. Even with eyes closed, I could feel her warm smile as she leaned down and kissed my forehead, then quietly left the room.

The next day was Saturday, and I was grateful. No school, and I didn’t have to pass by Mrs. Busbee’s house. My mother had already left for work before I woke up. Strange. Whenever she worked on Saturdays, she always woke me up with a big rousing hug. Wake up, Lazy Bones! Tell me ’bout your dreams! I’d respond with, Umph, and pull the covers over my head. Sometimes she’d grab a pillow and initiate the The Great Weekend Pillow Fight, with both claiming victory and eventually conceding to a tie. Then, "Gotta go, sweetie. Breakfast is ready. Eat. Do your chores and your homework." The words were so routine, I’d occasionally mouth them along with her. But not this morning. No rousing wake up hug. No pillow fight. Nothing. The aroma of breakfast did waft from the kitchen, but as I walked from room to room, knowing that she had already left, the house seemed cold and lonely. I’m supposed to be punishing her, right? Then why do I feel so, so defeated? You guessed it. That inner voice of rational reasoning chimed in:

Maybe it’s because this is not a pillow fight. Maybe it’s a struggle to come to grips with real-life situations in which both sides win—or both sides lose. But why should there be sides? Rational thinking and communication is not necessarily concession, rather, embracing all possible aspects of a given situation.

It’s called the onset and development of maturity.

However, due to my lack of said maturity, I responded in a typical cover-all response:

Oh, shut up! Who invented rational thinking anyway!

Gracie!

It was my mother calling from the back door. She was home from work. I was at the far side of the large backyard near the woods line.

Coming, I said, trying to mask my enthusiasm.

"Gracie, where are you?"

I’m coming! I found myself running; I no longer had a say in the matter. I’m coming, Mother! I didn’t stop running until I reached the kitchen. I stood, obviously out of breath, looking at her. She looked back with absolutely no expression on her face. She was so good at that. Finally, she broke the uneasy silence.

Where were you? Are you okay, honey?

My eyes welled up. My lips quivered. She rushed over, sat at the table, grabbed both my hands, and pulled me closer, her eyes searching mine.

"Gracie, what is it?"

All choked up, I tried to get the words out through a now flood of tears.

I . . . I searched the whole yard . . . but I couldn’t find any dandelions for you.

Oh, boy, I thought. How silly that must have sounded! Go ahead, Mother, tell me how silly I am. But when I looked at her, my mother’s eyes were teary as well.

Oh, baby! Come here, baby! She pulled me even closer and wrapped her arms around me. It’s okay, honey. It’s okay. Then we both knelt upon the kitchen floor, hugged, and cried on each other. This was our world. Nothing else existed.

I love you, Mother. I love you.

And I love you, Gracie. You’re my baby. You’re my life.

I never felt so loved. I could have stayed in that world forever.

But—sniff, sniff—something was burning.

Oh, my gosh! My muffins! We both jumped up. I grabbed a towel and tried to fan smoke out the back door while she ushered the pan from the oven to the sink. I walked over, and we both stared at the pan of charred remains. Then my mother, in the most serious demeanor she could muster, said: Ma’am, I do hope you like your muffins well done. We laughed and laughed. And we laughed.

Sunday morning. Either my mother and I would attend church services together or I would go to Sunday school alone. But I didn’t want to go at all this Sunday. Not that Mrs. Busbee would be there, mind you. Okay, that was the reason. The main reason anyway. Still, it was worth a try. Well, here goes.

Mother.

Yes, dear.

You think we could like . . . maybe not go to church today?

Miss church? What in the world for? She was already laying out her blue dress and blue pill box hat. Don’t you feel well?

Yes, ma’am, I feel fine. I just thought maybe we could stay home and just . . . and just talk.

Tell you what, she said, walking over and fussing over my hair. I’ve got an auxiliary meeting with the ladies at the church this afternoon. We go to church this morning, and I’ll skip the meeting, and we can spend the whole rest of the day together, complete with ice cream sodas. Okay?

’Kay, I said dejectedly. Hey, wait. Mrs. Busbee’s on that ladies’ auxiliary! That’d be great! I exuded. As I dashed off to get ready, my mind was in overdrive. The odds of coming in contact with Mrs. Busbee at church was much less than that of meeting with maybe six or eight in attendance.

At church, I avoided eye and physical contact with Mrs. Busbee. I skillfully maneuvered my mother away from our usual seats, which were two or three pews behind hers. After services, my mother found it difficult to participate in the small talk fest of norm, especially with me tugging at her arm. She finally relented.

Okay! Okay! What’s the big hurry? she asked.

No hurry. C’mon, let’s go.

You’re nutty, you know that? Hey, it’s nice out here. What say we get our sodas and stop at the park on the way home?

Yes! I agreed. She always seemed to come up with the super good ideas.

It was not our typical park visit. None of the usual laughter and goofy chatter such as, Who does that squirrel remind you of? or Who do you know that walks like that duck? It was more solemn, almost eerie. We toyed with our ice cream sodas, eventually pushing them aside on the picnic table where we sat. Looking across the table at each other, our eyes were talking but our lips were silent. Something was about to happen. I felt it. She felt it. I was hoping that she would be the one to break the stalemate. No such luck. So I conceded.

Mother?

Her expression didn’t change. She just continued to look not only at me but through me and into the very depths of my soul—the way nobody else ever could.

Yes, dear, she answered.

Could you . . . I mean . . . well . . . would you . . . tell me about Daddy?

Her eyes lowered, and her face turned slightly away. My mother had always stood at the ready, fully confident that she could fix anything or at least make any necessary adjustments that arose in our lives. But I could tell she wasn’t ready for this. I started to feel a sense of regret.

I’m sorry . . . I mean, only if you want to. But you don’t have to. Really.

No, no, baby, she stammered. It’s okay. Umm . . . I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your daddy and me. I guess I just kept putting it off.

Why? I asked.

I guess I just wanted to shield you . . . protect you.

Protect me? From what?

"From the harsh realities that life sometimes throws at us. But hey, I’m not making excuses. You’re old enough to know, and you have a right to know about some things that I’m sure you’ve been wondering about. You don’t need to have a veil of uncertainty and speculation stunting your emotional growth. Life is full of memories. Unfortunately, not all of them very nice. She reached across the table and took both of my hands in hers. Do you understand, honey?"

I guess so. Daddy wasn’t very nice, was he?

Why do you ask that?

Because he left us all alone and poor, and he had girlfriends and other kids and didn’t—

She suddenly withdrew her hands from mine, her mouth slightly open as though in mild shock. Who said that? she demanded. Gracie, who have you been talking to?

Old Lady—I mean, Old Mrs. Busy . . . I mean, Mrs. Busbee. But it wasn’t like that. You see, she—

I should have known, she said, shaking her head slowly and trying not to let her despair show. I should have known.

Mother . . . I would never go to someone else other than you to talk about Daddy. Honest.

I know, honey. I know. She reached back across the table and reclaimed my hands. Gracie, this is very important. I want you to try and remember as much as you can about your conversation with her. Can you do that for me?

Oh, sure. But it wasn’t really a conversation. She did all the talking except when she was spitting into that awful can. Ugh! I was walking home from school on Friday . . . .

I relayed the entire encounter to her. When I was done, my eyes moistened.

Please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean—

No, no, baby. You did nothing wrong. That’s when I noticed that her eyes were moist as well. "You know, when children grow up without fathers in their lives, there are many different tales to be told. Some good, some not so good. Joe Henry—he was not a good husband and not a very good daddy. I knew that he had a lot of faults before we married, but I figured I could change him or he’d change. He did, but not for the better. He quit work almost immediately and instead waited on my paycheck. He’d be dressed and waiting for me on Friday evenings. If I had to work overtime and was a little late, the verbal and physical abuse would be terrible. Then he’d take my check, and I might not see him until I came home from work on Monday. If I complained, more abuse. I used to ask myself why I wasn’t good enough for him. What do I have to do to measure up to his