Instead of returning to the kitchen, where she knew she’d only exchange more snipes with Margot, she headed for Grandma’s garden. It wasn’t long until she found peace there. Systematically weeding, hoeing the beds, emptying pots, getting everything all nice and neat and ready for planting. Even though it was physical labor, it didn’t feel like real work. Not like the stressful job she’d been doing since college. And the clean, cool morning air was like a tonic.
She continued puttering about the garden. Taking a sort of inventory. Some of the hardy herbs, including lots of mint, were growing. The well-established berry vines looked healthy, the strawberry plants had blossoms, and the fruit trees looked strong and healthy. Despite the neglect, Dillon thought Grandma would be pleased. And perhaps it wasn’t too late to plant a few things. Unless her memory was wrong, Grandma used to plant lettuce and several salad veggies into the summer.
Dillon returned to the house for seeds. She was relieved that Margot wasn’t around and snuck into the kitchen to refill her water bottle. Dismayed to see messy countertops and the sink full of dirty dishes, Dillon suspected this was Margot’s way of showing her dietary disapproval. But the kitchen would have to wait.
With her bag of seeds in hand, Dillon spotted Margot just standing in the south field. Her irrigation equipment was spread all about, but nothing was happening. Not wanting to know more, Dillon hurried back to the comfort of the garden.
Nestled into Grandma’s favorite lawn swing, situated in a shady corner, Dillon studied the planting schedule in the garden diary and tried to decide which seeds to plant. It was too late for most, and since no seedlings had been started in the greenhouse, Dillon knew the vegetable part of the garden might be on the sparse side this year. But at least it wouldn’t be full of weeds.
“Dilly-Dilly,” Margot called out in a sugary tone. “Where are you, girlfriend?”
Dillon tried to disappear into the shadows, pretending not to hear.
“Dilly-Dilly. I need your help.”
Dillon considered ducking behind the row of raspberries but knew that was childish. “Over here,” she called without enthusiasm.
“Well, well . . . just look at how nice Mom’s garden looks now.” Margot nodded approval. “I came out here last week, thinking I could grow lavender here, but it looked like too much work to clean it up. But you’ve made progress. And in such a short time too. Nice work, Dilly.”
“Just rolled up my sleeves.” She held up her dirty hands.
“Ugh. You should get yourself some good gloves.” She pulled a brand-new pair from her back pocket.
“Grandma never used gloves to garden.” Dillon closed the diary. “She said she needed to feel the plants with her fingers.”
“I suppose that’s okay if you don’t mind having farmer’s hands. But you’re going to need a manicure now.”
“Is that what you came here for? To lecture me about hand care?”
“No, of course not.” Margot’s smile looked desperate. “I really need your help, Dilly.”
Everything in Dillon wanted to scream in protest, but instead she set aside the diary and slowly stood. “I assume it’s with your irrigation project.”
“Yes. It’s more complicated than I realized.”
“Uh-huh.” Dillon followed her out, latching the gate securely behind her.
“I get the landscaping cloth spread out, and then a breeze comes and messes it up. But what I really need is help with those confounded tubes. It’s a two-person job.” As they walked to the field, Margot explained her basic layout plan. “I drew it all out—I want six rows with twenty plants in each. I need room for paths in between, you know, to walk through. It’s all pretty straightforward and simple.”
“But you still need my help?”
“It will make it go faster.” Margot’s irritation started to show. “And don’t forget, the plants are coming tomorrow.”
“I suppose you’ll need more help with that?”
“Well . . . there are a lot of holes to dig, Dillon.”
“Right . . .” Dillon knew by Margot’s tone that it wouldn’t help to poke at her. Still, it irked her to think how half-hatched this plan really was. But why was that surprising? Dillon went right to work, knowing that the best way to get through this was to simply get it done. Of course, the more she worked with Margot, the more convinced she became that her mother would never be able to finish this. Before long, Dillon was making suggestions . . . and then she began to call the shots, and finally she created a plan that would save both time and energy.
After one o’clock, the sun was hot and Dillon was hungry, but when she suggested they break for lunch, Margot balked. “We’re not even half done.”
“Obviously.” Dillon dropped the hammer she’d been using to drive the U-shaped stakes over the tubing. “But it’s not worth killing ourselves.” She marched back into the house, splashed herself with cool water, and quickly devoured a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and two glasses of milk. Then, refilling her water bottle and putting on Grandma’s old straw hat, she returned to the south field.
Surprised that Margot was still doggedly securing the tubes, Dillon went straight to work installing emitters into the tubes. Before long, she’d figured a quicker way to accomplish this and felt hopeful they’d actually finish the system before dark. She had just finished her second row when she heard Margot groaning.
“What’s wrong?” She turned to see that Margot’s face was flushed—and she was staggering.
“Margot!” Dillon ran to check her. “You’ve probably got heatstroke. Let’s get you inside fast.” Putting an arm around her mother’s waist, she escorted her into the house and sat her down in the recliner. Then she hurried to dampen a hand towel, laying it over Margot’s head. Trying to remember her high school first-aid training, Dillon pulled out her phone and googled “heatstroke.” “It says call 911,” she said with alarm.
“No, no, don’t do that,” Margot muttered. “I—I’ll be okay.”
“But it says it’s dangerous to people over fifty and—”
“I’m young . . . for my age.” Margot sat up straighter. “I just got tired.”
“And overheated.” Dillon stared down at her. “Your face is beet red.”
“I used sunscreen.”
“Not that kind of red.” Dillon read the first-aid treatment. “Okay, if I can’t call 911, let’s get you into a cool shower.” She helped Margot to her feet and into the downstairs bathroom, and with her clothes still on, she put her mother in the shower and turned the tap on to cool. Ignoring Margot’s shrieks, Dillon kept her there in the cool water, getting herself soaked in the process.
Finally, with Margot sitting on the side of the tub in a soggy heap, Dillon dashed to the kitchen, returning with a can of Grandpa’s favorite root beer and a glass of water. “Drink this first.” She held out the soda.
Margot scowled. “That’s loaded with sugar!”
“You probably have low blood sugar. Drink some and then you can have water.” Dillon watched with amusement as Margot polished off the whole can. Then Dillon handed her the water.