Harvesting the Heart Read online

  When I came back down to the kitchen, my father was sitting at the table. "This is all I have, Paige," he said, holding up the wedding photo I knew so well. It had sat on the night table beside my father's bed my whole life. In it, my father was looking at my mother, holding her hand tightly. My mother was smiling, but her eyes betrayed her. I had spent years looking at that photo, trying to figure out what my

  mother's eyes reminded me of. When I was fifteen, it had come to me. A raccoon trapped by headlights, the minute before the car strikes.

  "Dad," I said, running my finger over his younger image, "what about her other stuff? Her birth certificate and her wedding ring, old photos, things like that?"

  "She took them. It isn't as if she died, you know. She planned leavin', right on down to the last detail."

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and offered some to him. He shook his head. My father moved uncomfortably in his chair; he did not like the topic of my mother. He hadn't wanted me to look for her-- that much was clear--but when he saw how stubborn I was about it, he said he'd do what he could for me. Still, when I asked him questions, he wouldn't look up at me. It was almost as if after all these years he blamed himself.

  "Were you happy?" I said quietly. Twenty years was a long time, and I had been only five. Maybe there had been arguments I hadn't heard behind sealed bedroom doors, or a physical blow that had been regretted even as it found its mark.

  "I was very happy," my father said. "I never would have guessed May was goin' to leave us."

  The coffee I'd been drinking seemed suddenly too bitter to finish. I poured it down the sink. "Dad," I said, "how come you never tried to find her?"

  My father stood up and walked to the window. "When I was very little and we were livin' in Ireland, my own father used to cut the fields three times each summer for haying. He had an old tractor, and he'd start on the edge of one field, circlin' tighter and tighter in a spiral until he got almost dead center. Then my sisters and I would run into the grass that still stood and we'd chase out the cottontails that had been pushed to the middle by the tractor. They'd come out in a flurry, the lot of them, jumpin' faster than we could run. Once --I think it was the summer before we came over here--I caught one by the tail. I told my da I was going to keep it like a pet, and he got very serious and told me that wouldn't be fair to the rabbit, since God hadn't made it for that purpose. But I built a hutch and gave it hay and water and carrots. The next day it was dead, lyin' on its side. My father came up beside me and said that some things were just meant to stay free." He turned around and faced me, his eyes brilliant and dark. "That," he said, "is why I never went lookin' for your mother."

  I swallowed. I imagined what it would be like to hold a butterfly in your hands, something bejeweled and treasured, and to know that despite your devotion it was dying by degrees. "Twenty years," I whispered. "You must hate her so much."

  "Aye." My father stood and grasped my hands. "At least as much as I love her."

  My father told me that my mother was born Maisie Marie Renault, in Biloxi, Mississippi. Her father had tried to be a farmer, but most of his land was swamp, so he never made much money. He died in a combine accident that was heavily questioned by the insurance company, and when she was widowed, Maisie's mother sold the farm and put the money in the bank. She went to Wisconsin and worked for a dairy. Maisie began calling herself May when she was fifteen. She finished high school and got a job in a department store called Hersey's, right on Main Street in Sheboygan. She had stolen her mother's emergency money from the crock pot, bought herself a linen dress and alligator pumps, then told the personnel director at Hersey's that she was twenty-one and had just graduated from the University of Wisconsin. Impressed by her cool demeanor and her smart outfit, they put her in charge of the makeup department. She learned how to apply blusher and foundation, how to make eyebrows where there were none, how to make moles disappear. She became an expert in the art of deception.

  May wanted her mother to move to California. Years of leading the cows to the milking machines had chapped her mother's hands and permanently bent her back. May brought home pictures of Los Angeles, where lemons could grow in your backyard and where there wasn't any snow. Her mother refused to go. And so at least three times a year, May would start to run away.

  She would take all her money out of the bank and pack her bag with only the most important things and put on what she called her traveling outfit: a halter top and tight white shorts. She bought bus tickets and railroad tickets and went to Madison, Springfield, even Chicago. At the end of the day she always turned around and went back home. She'd redeposit her money in the bank and unpack her suitcase and wait for her mother to return from work. As if it had all been just a lark, she'd tell her mother where she'd gone. And her mother would say, Chicago. Now, that's farther than you went the last time.

  It was on one of these excursions to Chicago that she met my father in a diner. Maybe she'd never finished her journey because she just needed an extra push. Well, that's what my father gave her. She used to tell the neighbors that the day she laid eyes on Patrick O'Toole, she knew she was looking at her destiny. Of course she never mentioned if that was good or bad.

  She married my father three months after she met him at the diner, and they moved into the little row house I would grow up in. That was 1966. She took up smoking and became addicted to the color TV they had bought with the money they got at their wedding. She watched The Beverly Hillbillies and That Girl and told my father repeatedly that her calling was to be a script writer. She practiced, writing comic routines on the backs of the brown paper grocery bags when she'd unpacked the week's food. She told my father that one day she was going to hit it big.

  Because she thought she had to start somewhere, she took a job at the Tribune, writing the obituaries. When she found out that year that she was pregnant, she insisted on keeping the job, saying she'd go back after she had her maternity leave, because they needed the money.

  She took me to the office with her three times a week, and the other two days I was watched by our next-door neighbor, an old woman who smelled of camphor. My father said May was good as a mother, but she never talked to me like I was a baby or did baby things like play patty-cake or hide-and-seek. When I was only nine months old, my father had come home to find me sitting at the threshold of the front door, wearing a diaper and a string of pearls, my eyes and lips colored with violet eye shadow and rouge. My mother had come running out of the living room, laughing. "Doesn't she look perfect, Patrick?" she'd said, and when my father shook his head, all the life had gone out of her eyes. Things like that happened often when I was a baby. My father said she was trying to make me grow up faster so she'd have a good, close friend.

  May left us without saying goodbye on May 24, 1972. My father said that what bothered him most about my mother's disappearance was that he hadn't seen it coming. He'd been married to her for six years, and he'd known so many details: the order in which she removed her makeup at night, the salad dressings she hated, the shifting color of her eyes when she needed to be held. But she had completely surprised him. For a while he bought the Los Angeles papers at an international newsstand, thinking she would certainly show up in Hollywood writing sitcoms and he'd get wind of it. But as the years went on, he began to suspect this: Surely anyone who could vanish without a trace could have been lying all those years. My father believed that the whole time they were married, she'd been getting together a plan. He resolved that if she ever did come back he wouldn't let her in, because he had been wounded beyond repair. Unfortunately, he still found himself wondering from time to time if she was alive, if she was all right. It was not that he expected to find word of her anymore; he had lost his faith in love. After all, it had been twenty years. If she appeared on his doorstep, she'd have been no more than a stranger.

  My father came into my bedroom that night when the stars were starting to lose themselves in the yawn of the morning. "You're awake, aren't you,