Cameron Gaut

6/8/05

No Moment But Now

Sylvain rolled his window down, letting the cool country breeze flow into the tiny rental car. He was supposed to have arrived at Margot’s gravel driveway three hours ago. She had called him on the phone to tell him that he needed to come back to France immediately. He didn’t know why he had agreed to come; she hadn’t even told him the reason for the urgency. As Sylvain sped down the narrow country road, he soaked in the amber fields of his childhood. They hadn’t changed in twenty years. Looking out into the fields, he saw an old-fashioned passenger plane skimming the tops of the wheat stalks. ‘Déjà vu,’ he thought to himself. He had been there before; he couldn’t help but remember that unforgettable day as a child when he witnessed a plane hurl out of the sky and smash into the ground.

He distinctly remembered that earth-shattering sound of crushing steel, that morbid sparkle of crushing glass. He had been playing in these tall wheat fields near his home when a plane’s propeller gave out. At first he stared wide-eyed into the sky, but soon realized the plane was heading right towards him and ran away as fast as he ever had. After the deaths of the pilot and whatever passengers were onboard, his mother told him God works in mysterious ways. Sylvain realized that inevitably death happens to everybody, and that he could’ve died that day. Mature for a twelve year old, he promised himself he would appreciate each day knowing that it could be his last. But that memory was fading, and he had since forgotten about his promise.

The fields rolled by for hours, until he passed the familiar mossy green farmhouse. He knew this meant he was minutes away from Margot’s home. He arrived and pulled into the gravel driveway, just past an aging hand-painted wooden sign that read, Bienvenue à notre foyer. ‘She should really take that thing down,’ he thought. ‘It must be depressing to be welcomed to “our home” when she lives all alone.’ As the car slowed to a standstill, he hesitated. ‘Why did I even come out here?’ he asked himself as he got out of the car.

Walking past the old floral trellis, he saw Margot watching her garden; she didn’t notice him. For a few minutes, he observed her from a distance. She quietly gazed past her tulips into the horizon, and he could hear the faint sound of recited poetry mingling with the chirping of summer birds.

“… J’ai marché entre les ports de mon esprit, et là, mon dos tremblant, j’ai trouvé mon dieu. Puis, il m’a parlé…”

Sylvain approached her then took a deep breath and spoke: “Margot… It’s me.”

She turned her head with a slight gasp. “Sylvain! I didn’t think you were coming!”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but you sounded so urgent on the phone. I don’t know, something compelled me to come.”

“I’m so glad I haven’t completely lost you. Welcome home, son. Come, sit.” Margot motioned to him. “You came all the way here from the States to see me; you could at least put down your things for a minute and make yourself at home.”

Sylvain realized he was still clutching his suitcase. He looked down to his white knuckles, and then relaxed his grip. He set the suitcase down and eased into the chair next to his mother. “Margot, it’s good to see you again, but please, tell me why it was so urgent for me to come out here. You know my work keeps me busy. I had to take sick leave because of this little emergency.”

“You’re too busy for your own mother?” Margot said. She drew a pack of cigarettes from her handbag, taking the last one from the carton.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. He hated it when his mother tried to make him feel guilty for moving to the United States. “You know there are better job opportunities for me in California. I’m a programmer, not a farmer.” He noticed how Margot fixed her gaze at something beyond the garden. He turned his head to look out at the same spot on the horizon. “You know, you should really quit smoking, it’s a nasty habit and it will kill you.”

“It’s too late for that. If you were in my place, you’d probably be smoking too.”

Sylvain’s lower lip pulled into a frown, his eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t want to ask what she meant by that. “Margot, it’s never too late to quit smoking.”

“Please, don’t be a stranger. Call me Mama, will you?” She sparked her lighter and ignited the cigarette. “You know, I’ve been thinking these past few days. I’ve been thinking about how important it is to appreciate what little time we have on this Earth.”

‘The promise…’ Sylvain thought to himself

She inhaled from the cigarette and flicked the ash off of the end. “The other day, for example, I made a list of the things that I appreciate. Well, I got to writing, and the list of the things I cherish ended up being a list of the things I will miss most.”

“What do you mean?” Sylvain’s expression intensified.

“Sylvain, I couldn’t bear to tell you this over the telephone. That’s part of why I asked you to come home. I really wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but this may be the last time you see me.”

The words struck Sylvain so suddenly, he didn’t know how to respond. For several minutes, they sat in the garden, looking through the tulips.

“My physician diagnosed me with a rare terminal cancer,” Margot crushed the cigarette into a nearby ashtray, extinguishing the ember with force. “Mesothelioma to be exact. I have about 6 months to live.” When Sylvain said nothing, she continued. “At first, I cried at the thought of my own death. And then I began to think.” Margot extended her arm and gave him a folded piece of paper. “Here, take this letter I wrote.”

He took it from her and set it near his briefcase.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

Sylvain hesitated, grasping the back of his neck.

“It would mean so much to me,” Margot insisted.

He decided to unfold the note. It was written in neat cursive on floral stationary.

Things I am grateful for: I cherish the silky texture of my grandmother’s shawl, the sunny glitter of splashing lake water, and the way long blades of grass bend into the cool breeze. J’adore les champs dorés. I especially love the feeling that you get when everything works out just right. But most of all, I cherish what’s left of my family. Ma famille. And now I realize how much I wish I could go back in time and be a better mother. How do you tell someone after 26 years that you really do love them, but you never knew how to put it into words? I write this because I don’t know, and because I want to apologize to my son. I feel so guilty for the pain I must have caused in him as a child. Words can’t express my regret, they can’t fix the damage. But this is the best I have. Sylvain, please, come home. Je t'aime.

He looked up from the note into her expectant eyes. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Margot sighed with a choked sob. “Don’t just say nothing!”

Sylvain tightened his lips and bolted to his feet. Looking down at her sorry, withered face, he raised his voice. “You can’t just expect me to forgive you in one instant for all those years of negligence. You should consider yourself lucky enough that I even came.”

She began to weep, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s been two years since your father passed away. And now I’m next. I can’t bear the thought of leaving this earth as lonely as I have been… If I don’t make amends with you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“All these years of indifference, and now you’re suddenly the mother I never had? I can’t believe your selfishness.”

“Sylvain, please, I beg you, forgive me for that. I was young, naive, and I wasn’t ready for motherhood.”

“You can’t expect me to forgive you just so you won’t die lonely and guilty!” He remembered the nights of abandonment in his room, when the only way he could get her to notice him was to cry for attention. And that was when she was home, which wasn’t often; most nights she drove into the city to drink at the bars. ‘What an alcoholic,’ he thought. His father had never been much better than her, tending to him only when it was absolutely necessary. When he turned 18, he moved out of the house and lost contact with Margot for years. He waited for her to make the first call. Six years later, she did, only to inform Sylvain of his father’s death. How could he forgive her? He needed some time and some space to think, but most of all, he needed sleep.

The sun was beginning to set now, filling the sky with a tangerine radiance.

“Can we please talk about this tomorrow? I’m exhausted from the flight.”

Margot silently held her tears, her gaze fixed onto the horizon.

“I’m going to a hotel to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sylvain seized his suitcase and walked away, leaving his mother in her garden.

Sylvain stood in the tall wheat field while the plane barreled towards him with full force. Only this time, he couldn’t move. The roar of the sputtering engine was the last thing he remembered, and then the pain, and how it evaporated. His existence condensed into an infinitely expansive orb of white light. All he felt was warmth and all he heard was comforting voices that whispered meaningless words. This place was familiar, but empty. There was so much he had yet to do, so much joy yet to experience, so much of the world he had never fully embraced. A familiar voice emerged from the sea of whispers. “Let go,” his mother’s youthful voice sang. “There is no moment but now. I promise.”

The morning light streamed into his hotel window as Sylvain’s dream world faded away. He yawned and stared at the hotel ceiling before throwing his blanket to the side and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The whirlwind of anger from the day before had calmed; he couldn’t explain why, but that was the best sleep he had had in years. Certainly it wasn’t the news of Margot’s illness that had caused it. ‘It must have been the jet lag, it really knocked me out,’ he thought to himself. Looking into the mirror, he watched the toothbrush circulate in his foamy mouth. Spit, rinse, repeat. After collecting his bags, he prepared himself to see his mother.

On the drive back to the farmhouse, Sylvain thought about Margot’s impending death. ‘Six more months,’ Sylvain thought to himself. The reality of the situation set in for the first time, yet he was content. ‘Maybe I’ve been too harsh on her,’ Sylvain thought. ‘Sure, she wasn’t the greatest parent, but that was in the past.’ His car pulled up to the gravel driveway and halted. He opened the car door and breathed the crisp morning air. As he walked through the old wooden trellis, he noted how the vines coiled and sprouted with life. The entryway to the house was a path through a striking array of flowers and ferns, evidence of Margot’s passion. This place wasn’t as gloomy as he had remembered it. He noticed the glimmering light of morning dew on the foliage. This trip was beginning to do him some good. The solid oak door was already open, beckoning him inside. Margot was waiting for him in the sunlit den with two cups of coffee.

“Still like it black?”

“Good memory!”

Sylvain sat down with her and noticed that her aging face still had that wry smile. He took the coffee, and the roasted aroma filled his senses. Sipping from his white ceramic mug, he felt the hot brew wash away his concerns, and for the first time in twenty years, he felt at home. “Ma, listen,” Sylvain began. “I’m… I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“If anybody should be sorry, it’s me,” Margot said, her eyes fixated into the creamy foam swirls in her mug. “I understand how sudden this whole thing may seem to you. You have a right to feel the way you do, after all, it was awfully selfish of me to expect you to instantly forgive me.”

“I’m glad you can acknowledge that. I’m not quite there yet, but give it time, and you can redeem yourself.” Sylvain said. He took a slow sip and enjoyed the silence. “Besides, that was in the past. I just need to forget about everything but this moment, because there is no moment but now.”

“That sounds really familiar. I think I said that to you in a dream last night.”

“Really?” Sylvain tilted his head to an angle and cocked his left eyebrow. “C’est bizarre. I think you told me that same thing a long time ago. Or maybe it was Dad. I can’t remember.”

Margot laughed and said “It’s good to have my son back.”

“We’ve still got a long way to go, you know. You’ve got a lot of mothering to make up for,” Sylvain said half seriously.

“Of course, but I’m just glad to be on that path with you. You know, six months doesn’t seem so bad. I’ve got a list of things to do and see before I go.”

“Let’s start by finishing this pot of coffee,” Sylvain said. “Want to go outside to the garden?”

“You read my mind.”

So they sat amidst the roses, marigolds, and ferns that were brimming with the excitement that each day would bring. The next day, Sylvain returned to his job in California, making sure to call her at least once a week thereafter. He would tell her stories about the crazy people at his work and she would teach him about gardening. He came to visit her when he could, and they would travel through the French countryside. When the inevitable day came, Sylvain returned home to France that winter. He sat in her garden looking through the dying rose bushes into the horizon. He removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket, it was written in cursive on floral stationary. Sylvain reread the letter, then focused on the moment of now and silently held his tears.