Page 23 of A Lot Like Lavender

“I bet you ate that pizza before Grayson Baker even got down the driveway.”

“The point is…” I say, watching those disloyal animals of mine follow Molly and her new bff, “the girls came right to the fence line for Grayson Baker and his pee hands, and look at them now. Falling at the feet of another random guy who… probably has some pee hands of his own.”

The hussies.

“Stop saying pee hands.”

“Urine?”

She gags. “Ew. No. That’s worse.”

I shrug. “Urine hands are gross, Dinah Belle.”

“But Jordanisn’t gross at all. He isn’t random, and he looks absolutely delighted to be carrying Molly through the field.” She sighs. “You might actually be hopeless.”

I know she’s teasing, but the comment stings.

Dinah can’t know, because I haven’t told her, but this weekend I felt about as hopeless as I have in years, and it has nothing to do with the man outside. As soon as Dr. Rafferty ordered the meds, which were as costly as Jordan predicted, I called a land agent to begin the process of parceling out acreage of the farm. The first posting will be listed this afternoon. So not only am I losing my first girl… I’m officially losing another piece of James, too. Of the life we wanted to build together. And I’m so out of my depth, I’ve wordlessly accepted help from the last person on earth I want help from.

What would James do?

James would try to save the farm. He wouldn’t call his delinquent best friend beautiful or wax poetic about his forearms, but he would—no matter how much time had passed—welcome Jordan home with open arms. A prodigal brother, returning to the people who always hoped he’d come home. And he would absolutely accept whatever help was offered to him. Suspected pee hands or not. Something I clearly am not practiced in doing.

Dinah turns, always more in tune to my emotions than I give her credit for. “I didn’t mean that, Emory. That was super insensitive. I shouldn’t have implied…”

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

I give Pam a once-over, seeing little change in her demeanor since this morning. She’s lethargic. One of hereyes is partially closed, and she’s taken to laying on her side, which is entirely unusual for her. Molly put her favorite corsage collar on Pam as soon as she came home from school this afternoon, but not even accessories have seemed to brighten her spirits.

“Pam is dying,” I announce without preamble.

I want to be hopeful. To believe she’s going to be okay and that these meds and my efforts will nurse her back to a healthy life, but I can’t quite seem to put on those rose-colored glasses that I’d just love to borrow from my sister for a while.

I’ve been farming for ten years now. In those years, I’ve experienced the death of a few of our beloved animals. Goats, bunnies, a stray dog we adopted who only survived a few weeks. They all showed various signs of passing. And it’s thanks to those experiences, I know that despite my best efforts, Pamela doesn’t have much time. So I’m going to make her last hours or days, or however long we have, the best and most comfortable they can be.

“Emory,” Dinah whispers, rushing to me and wrapping me and Lola into a fierce hug without any more words.

She’s so good at this, loving people exactly as they need to be loved. It's a trait she inherited from our dad, who loved with quiet action, with baked goods, and by simply being present. Though she might stumble on her delivery sometimes, Dinah’s cut from that same cloth, never forcing vulnerability but making the recipient of her tenderness feel safe to be genuine. It makes me wish I were just a bit braver, sometimes, to share everything I’ve been dealing with lately, not just the more obvious small scraps, with one of the most important people in my life.

“I’m okay,” I pretend, though I don’t expect Dinah to believe me, and this hug is sending me dangerously close toa good cry. Something I’ll avoid at all costs. “I’m keeping her comfortable and, ya know… staying close by. In case…”

Dinah nods, holding my arm in her hand and studying me in a way that tells me she has much to say but is giving me the time and space to work through some of this before she does. “What can I do?”

“Would you and Jack take Molly when… the time comes? I know she’s seen this before, but it’s never been one of the girls, and I don’t know how it’ll go.”

“Oh, Em, of course.” Tears shimmer in her eyes. “I know this time of year is especially hard, with the anniversary of Mom and Dad’s accident and then this year…”

The tenth anniversary of James’ death. In three weeks and three days. A day I like to pretend doesn’t exist each year, filling the space with anything and everything I can to avoid the trauma of the memory of waking up while my husband stayed forever asleep.

The therapist calls itavoidant coping.Insistent that if I don’t face the overwhelming emotions of losing both my parents in the same tragic accident and, only a short time later, my husband, at twenty-two, I’ll eventually fall into one of two categories: someone who feels so encumbered with suppressed grief that they suddenly combust with emotions or someone who, despite loving deeply, creates barriers as a protective mechanism to avoid further pain.

It's plain to see which category I fall into.

I know better than anyone what toll the immense trauma of losing my parents at twenty took. I was thrust into the role of mother to a teenager while still in school myself. I pasted on my best smile for Dinah, because she needed me to do so, when all I wanted was to fall apart. But James was there to walk through that grief with me. We grieved together. Prayed together. Supported Dinah together. It wasdevastating and difficult, but I had the best partner. I survived.

Then only two years later, when I felt as if I’d just found space to breathe again, I experienced a loss greater than I could have imagined—James’ death, leaving a permanent chasm of grief in my soul.

The early days of his loss were a living hell. A torment I never dreamed I’d live through. Every day—every breath—felt entirely unimaginable to walk through without him. How could I when the person who’d borne the burden of loss with me before was no longer there?