The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(29)

I’m not sure how to describe my mother. One might well assume she’s as fragile as she looks, but that’s not the case. She’s strong in ways I can only admire. She was a fierce advocate for me in dealing with the doctors and the insurance company during my bouts with cancer. She’s loving and generous and constantly tries to meet the needs of others. Her one drawback is in coping with sickness. She couldn’t bear to see me—or anyone else—suffer and tended to simply withdraw. Fortunately, Dad was always there for me.

“Are Julia and Hailey coming with Margaret?” I asked. My two nieces are a source of wonder to me. The likelihood of my ever bearing children was slim to none, so my sister’s daughters hold an important place in my heart. Margaret seemed to sense this and, for whatever reason, jealously guarded her daughters, keeping them away from me as much as possible.

Julia and Hailey, however, recognized my genuine affection and much to Margaret’s consternation, loved me unabashedly. Their undiluted joy at every chance encounter rankled Margaret so much that she did whatever she could to block my access to my nieces.

“Grandma!” Nine-year-old Hailey loped into the backyard, her arms extended. When she saw me, she squealed with delight and after hugging my mother, vaulted into my arms, nearly strangling me in her enthusiasm.

Fourteen-year-old Julia was a bit more restrained, but her eyes revealed her pleasure at seeing me. I stretched out my free arm to her and when she stepped toward me, we clasped hands and I squeezed her fingers. How tall Julia had grown, more woman than child now, and such a beauty. My heart swelled with pride at the sight of her.

“Aunt Lydia, will you teach me how to knit?” Hailey begged, still clinging to me.

I looked over my shoulder just in time to see my sister and brother-in-law come out the back door and onto the patio where I sat with my mother and the girls. From the frown Margaret wore, I could see she’d heard the question. “I’d love to teach you, but it’s up to your mother.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Margaret said sharply. Hailey placed her arm around my shoulders, unwilling to release me.

“Hello, Matt,” I said.

My brother-in-law grinned and winked at me. I remember when Matt and Margaret first started dating. Because she’s five years older than me, I viewed seventeen-year-old Matt as mature and sophisticated, a man of the world. They’d married young and my father disapproved, believing Margaret should wait until she’d graduated from college. She did finish her schooling but hasn’t used her education in the way Dad wanted. My sister has worked at a number of jobs through the years but she’s never found any position that’s really suited her. Margaret is currently employed part-time at a travel agency, but she’s never discussed her job with me. I do applaud her decision to be home as much as possible for the girls, but I’ve avoided sharing my thoughts, uncertain of their reception.

After a brief exchange of chitchat and news, we drove out to the cemetery in two cars. Mom had brought a large bouquet of lilacs from her garden, and Julia and Hailey set them in the receptacle at my father’s gravesite. A large number of American flags flapped in the wind across the cemetery, reminding us of the men and women who sacrificed their lives for our country.

I’ve always found cemeteries curious places. As a child, I had an almost ghoulish fascination with tombstones. I especially enjoyed reading the epitaphs on those from the 1800s and early 1900s. While Margaret and my parents paid their respects to my grandparents, I’d invariably wander off. I broke my leg when I was five when a statue of the Virgin Mary fell over on me. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I’d been climbing on her at the time, hoping to look at her face.

I never really knew my grandparents. One set lived on the East Coast and visited only on rare occasions. My mother’s family had come to Seattle at the time of the Great Depression, but her parents had died shortly after I was born. Each Memorial Day we visited their graves and placed flowers by their headstones. I felt little emotion for my long-dead relatives, perhaps a twinge now and then, wishing I remembered them, but that was about it.

Now as I stared down at my father’s marker, so fresh and new, a surge of harsh grief came over me. The marble tablet said so little. His name, JAMES HOWARD HOFFMAN, and the dates of his birth and death: May 20, 1940—December 29, 2003.

Birth to death, and all that appeared between those two events was a dash. That silent dash said nothing about his two tours of duty in Vietnam, or his unwavering love for his wife and daughters. That dash couldn’t possibly reveal the countless hours he’d spent at my bedside, comforting me, reading to me, doing whatever he could to help me. There are no words to describe the depth of my father’s love.

The familiar blinding pain struck me then. One consequence of the tumor that continues to linger is migraine headaches. With the new medicines now available, I can almost always catch them early. The telltale signs are unmistakable. This one, however, had caught me by surprise.

I fumbled in my purse for the pills I carried with me constantly. My mother, aware of my situation, came toward me when she saw me stumble. “Lydia, what is it?”

I breathed in slowly and deeply. “I need to get home,” I whispered, closing my eyes to the blinding sunlight.

“Margaret, Matt,” Mom called urgently. She slid her arm around my waist. Within minutes she’d bundled me into the car but instead of having Matt drive me to my own small apartment above the yarn shop, my mother insisted on bringing me to her house.