Lemonade and Carnations

Mrs Brownstein’s funeral was attended by a handful of people Alice had never met before. The entire ceremony was wrapped up quickly and efficiently, without any fuss. She found herself watching the small party linger in the carpark and then break up and drive away, probably never to meet again, and that made her wonder. She glanced quickly at the brown package in the passenger seat. She had held herself together while she had been surrounded by the stone-faced mourners, but now, thinking about the lonely old woman in her garden, she broke down. It took her half an hour to work up the courage to drive away.

‘They’re dying,’ Mrs Brownstein said, surveying the red blooms from her front porch. They were the first words Alice had heard Mrs Brownstein utter, and they were as surprising as the sprightly old woman in the old boots and tweed coat was. She had already stocked the small shed at the side of the house with her tools. Alice watched her as she inspected them closely.

‘It’s good of you to want to help, dear, but I don’t have much to do. I have so little. I hate clutter, you know.’ The garden had been neglected and the old growth had been left to take over, climbing over the wrought-iron fence and the white porch rail. Mrs Brownstein was taking it in her stride. She applied a trowel industriously to a patch of carnations and held the roots and examined the leaves closely.

‘Yes, I suspected as much,’ she said. Suddenly, she stood up and, rubbing her soiled hands together and passing them over her stained tweeds, said: ‘Well, how about some refreshing lemonade?’

It was rare for Alice to get a glimpse of Mrs Brownstein’s early life and when she did, it came in the most surprising ways. It was late Spring, and Mrs Brownstein had finally managed to get the garden back into shape. You would see her every morning with watering can or trowel, fondly dolling out mulch or fertiliser and impressing passers-by with the transformation. She became somewhat of a celebrity. They laughed about it and Alice suggested she write an article about it in the local paper.

‘It’s exactly the sort of thing my boss looks for. Local talent. Human focus. Relatable. What do you think?’ Mrs Brownstein thought about it.

‘Would it really be something people would be interested in? I am just an old lady keeping myself busy. Hardly worthy of this kind of attention.’

Alice was adamant and Mrs Brownstein grudgingly agreed. It was three weeks after the feature was published that Crystal appeared. She had recognised Mrs Brownstein from the photo in the paper and had made the trip by road, turning up in a beaten Hilux and walking in uninvited. Alice and Mrs Brownstein had looked up from the late news update. Mrs Brownstein almost spilled her lemonade. She was shaking.

‘Crystal,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

There was a kind of wild fury in the young woman’s eyes and Mrs Brownstein, sensing Alice’s uncertainty, said: ‘Alice, this is my daughter Crystal. Crystal, this is my neighbour Alice.’

Alice had no idea that Mrs Brownstein had had any children; it was much later, at the end of her life, that Mrs Brownstein would talk about her children. Her husband had left them a substantial inheritance; a few bad investments and hasty decisions had left them in the red and soon enough they were coming for the tidy sum Mrs Brownstein had put away for her retirement.

‘It’s sad when one is estranged from one’s own children. It’s not about the money. It’s the audacity. Throwing away their own opportunities and then begrudging me my own. I didn’t know what to do.’

Not long after that, her condition worsened. There were a few moments of lucidity and many days of Alice holding her hand as she slept, silently praying she would rest soon, that she wouldn’t suffer.

Alice would stop by after work and chat with the friendly nurses. They all seemed to think that she was slipping away peacefully, so they were surprised when she woke up one day out of the blue and began to order them around. By the time Alice was due for her visit she had calmed down, having been coaxed into an early supper and a hot bath.

Mrs Brownstein’s eyes lit up at the sight of her.

‘My darling. I have so much love for you. I am so proud. So happy to have met you. I want you to have this,’ she caressed the package on the bedside table. ‘Open it.’

Mrs Brownstein was smiling weakly.

The brown paper came away easily and then Alice lifted the lid. Something tightened in her chest. She sobbed despite herself, and as she sobbed, she held Mrs Brownstein, who was laughing, shaking like a leaf in the wind. ‘Put them on. Put them on.’

Alice unfolded the tweed coat and tried on the boots, while Mrs Brownstein laughed and coughed, tears streaming down her face. ‘How about some refreshing lemonade?’