Chapter 6 - The Promise in the Garden
The next morning Catherine demanded pie for breakfast.
Isaac thought she was joking.
She was not.
“It’s number seven,” she said, tapping the blue list.
“Pie is not breakfast.”
“Neither is bourbon, but your father managed it once in college.”
Helen nearly spit out her coffee.
Isaac stared at his mother.
“I did not need to know that.”
“Yes, you did.”
Megan opened the refrigerator.
“We have apple.”
Catherine smiled triumphantly.
Isaac pointed.
“A small piece.”
His mother glared.
“Do not portion-control a dying woman.”
“Stop saying that.”
Catherine’s expression softened.
“All right.”
It was the first time she acknowledged how much the word hurt him.
They ate pie.
Lily had hers with whipped cream.
Helen declared it “medically necessary for reconciliation.”
Megan insisted coffee counted as a vegetable because it came from a plant.
Even Ruth joined them.
For thirty minutes, nobody discussed doctors, work, medication, grief, or death.
Isaac realized ordinary happiness was almost embarrassingly simple.
Then his phone rang.
Grant.
He let it ring twice before answering.
“We need you downtown,” Grant said.
“I’ll be there at ten.”
“It’s eight.”
“I know how clocks work.”
“The acquisition story is spreading.”
“Then contain it.”
“The board is nervous.”
“The board is always nervous. That’s why they’re a board.”
Grant lowered his voice.
“Isaac, people are starting to ask whether you’re distracted.”
His eyes went to Lily, who had put whipped cream on Catherine’s nose.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“You left yesterday’s strategy session after forty minutes.”
“My mother is ill.”
“I understand.”
“No. You understand the sentence. That isn’t the same thing.”
Grant was silent.
Isaac surprised himself.
Old Isaac would have apologized.
Or lied.
Or promised to compensate with sixteen-hour days.
Instead he said, “Ten o’clock.”
Then hung up.
Megan had heard enough to understand.
“You don’t need to prove anything here either.”
He glanced at her.
“Does everyone in this house give unsolicited advice?”
“Yes.”
Helen raised her hand.
“I’m new, but I’m enthusiastic.”
Catherine smiled.
Isaac rolled his eyes.
Yet at ten o’clock, he was in the boardroom.
For three hours, he became the version of himself investors trusted.
Calm.
Precise.
Merciless with weak assumptions.
He found the source of the leak, contained the damage, reshaped the public announcement, and saved most of the deal before lunch.
Normally, the performance would have energized him.
That day, he kept checking the time.
At 1:15, Grant followed him into his office.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“We haven’t finished.”
“I have.”
“The board dinner is at seven.”
“Move it.”
Grant stared.
“You never move board dinners.”
“Now I do.”
“What’s happening?”
Isaac reached for his jacket.
“My mother wants to plant something.”
Grant waited for the punchline.
There wasn’t one.
“You’re canceling on the board to garden?”
“Yes.”
Grant leaned against the desk.
“This is because of the maid?”
Isaac stopped.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been acting differently since you got home.”
“My mother is sick.”
“Your mother has been sick for months.”
The coldness in the statement made Isaac’s expression change.
Grant noticed.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No. You meant exactly what you said.”
Grant straightened.
“I’m concerned about the company.”
“So am I.”
“Then act like it.”
For years, Grant Holloway had been one of Isaac’s closest professional allies.
He was brilliant.
Ambitious.
Loyal, as far as Isaac understood loyalty.
But suddenly Isaac heard his father in his own head.
There was always another problem.
“I’ll be available by phone,” Isaac said.
“Isaac.”
He left.
When he arrived home, Lily was wearing bright yellow gardening gloves three sizes too large.
Catherine sat wrapped in a blanket.
Megan was arguing with a bag of potting soil.
“You bought the wrong kind,” Isaac said.
She looked up.
“You’re home.”
It sounded like surprise.
He disliked that.
“I said I would be.”
“People say lots of things.”
Something in her tone carried history.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face is off duty.”
Catherine called from the patio.
“Stop flirting and bring me my flowers.”
Both froze.
“We are not flirting,” Isaac said.
“Of course not.”
Megan turned red.
Helen laughed from the doorway.
Isaac picked up the planter just to have something to do.
“What are we planting?”
“Lavender,” Catherine said.
“Why lavender?”
“Your father hated it.”
Isaac blinked.
“Then why?”
“Because I loved it.”
Her answer was so simple that he smiled.
Catherine ran her fingertips over the tiny leaves.
“For forty years I planted marigolds because Thomas liked them.”
“That sounds romantic,” Megan said.
“It was. But marriage is also forty years of pretending you don’t resent marigolds.”
Helen laughed.
Together, they planted six pots.
Catherine could only work for short stretches.
She rested.
Then tried again.
Isaac fought the urge to intervene every time her hand shook.
Megan noticed.
“Sit on your hands if you have to.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look physically ill.”
“She might fall.”
“And Ruth is two feet away.”
“I know.”
“Then let her choose.”
He hated how difficult that was.
But he did it.
Catherine filled one small hole with soil.
Then another.
When she finished, she looked absurdly proud.
Isaac understood why.
She had done it.
Not because someone allowed her.
Because her body still could.
Lily planted a plastic dinosaur beside the lavender.
“For protection.”
“From what?” Isaac asked.
“Bad guys.”
“Obviously,” Megan said.
Catherine nodded solemnly.
“A strong security plan.”
The afternoon passed in quiet sunlight.
For the first time in months, Catherine remained downstairs until dinner.
That night, Isaac found Megan washing the garden dirt from her hands.
“You were right.”
She looked over.
“About?”
“My mother.”
“Be specific. I want to enjoy this.”
He almost smiled.
“About letting her choose.”
Megan dried her hands.
“I wasn’t completely right.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“She could still fall. You’re allowed to be scared.”
“Generous of you.”
“I have layers.”
He leaned against the counter.
“So why did you start doing all this?”
“With Catherine?”
“Yes.”
Megan’s humor faded.
“She reminded me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Isaac waited.
Megan rarely discussed herself.
“She got sick when I was nineteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She recovered.”
He relaxed slightly.
“But for almost a year, everyone treated her like glass.”
“What happened?”
“She hated us.”
Isaac laughed softly.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Megan smiled.
“She told me later the illness was frightening, but becoming a patient was worse. She stopped being Mom. She became medication times, appointments, test results.”
Isaac looked toward the stairs.
“That sounds familiar.”
“I figured Catherine might feel the same.”
“And your mother?”
“She owns a bakery in Vermont and routinely lifts things her doctor would disapprove of.”
“So recklessness is hereditary.”
“Apparently.”
A comfortable silence settled.
Then Megan asked, “Why are you always working?”
He gave the answer he had used for years.
“People depend on me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He stared at her.
She waited.
Finally he said, “Because if I stop, things fall apart.”
“Do they?”
“They can.”
“Your company?”
“My company. My family. Everything.”
Megan leaned against the opposite counter.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Maybe you should stop making yourself the load-bearing wall.”
The sentence stayed with him.
Before he could answer, a crash sounded upstairs.
Isaac was moving before thought.
He took the stairs two at a time.
“Mom!”
Megan ran behind him.
They found Catherine on the bedroom floor.
Ruth was beside her.
Helen stood frozen near the bed.
A shattered glass lay across the rug.
Isaac dropped to his knees.
“Call an ambulance.”
Ruth was already checking Catherine.
“She’s conscious.”
“Mom, look at me.”
Catherine’s eyes opened weakly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“I noticed.”
“What happened?”
Ruth looked at Isaac.
“She got dizzy.”
His gaze snapped toward Megan.
For one terrible second, every fear returned.
The walking.
The garden.
The kitchen.
The list.
“Was this because she overdid it?”
Megan’s face changed.
Catherine whispered, “Isaac, don’t.”
But fear had already become anger.
He stood.
“I knew this was too much.”
Megan stared at him.
“Don’t do this.”
“She was standing in a garden for half an hour today.”
“With breaks.”
“She is on the floor!”
“And you need someone to blame!”
“Enough!” Ruth shouted.
Everyone stopped.
Ruth looked at Isaac.
“This may have nothing to do with activity.”
“May?”
“I’m calling her physician.”
Isaac paced while Ruth spoke.
Twenty minutes later, Catherine was in bed, alert but exhausted.
Her doctor instructed them to monitor her closely and bring her in if certain symptoms returned.
Isaac stood in the hallway.
Megan came out of Catherine’s room.
He folded his arms.
“No more list.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“No more exercises. No gardening. No dancing. Nothing unless Ruth approves every second.”
“Isaac—”
“I’m serious.”
“Your mother won’t agree.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
Megan stared at him.
That was the wrong sentence.
They both knew it.
“Then you learned nothing,” she said.
She walked away.
Isaac remained in the hall.
Behind him, Catherine’s voice came weakly through the open door.
“Megan?”
Megan returned immediately.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What?”
“The sunrise.”
Isaac turned.
Catherine smiled faintly from her bed.
“Number eight.”
And even after falling, even after frightening everyone in the house, Catherine Mercer was not asking for less life.
May you like
She was asking for morning.
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