“mi Hita” is Spanish for “my little girl”. In NM, where I live, it’s pretty common. I forget that not everyone is from our area. I think you’re probably right about the smile comment. Thanks,
Debbie
Short Story / Molly's Progress
The brightly lit corridor smelled of antiseptic and that unmistakable nursing home odor, making Molly wrinkle her nose as she made her way past the elderly and infirm parked in wheelchairs at the thresholds of open doors. This part of the journey to visit her mother was the most difficult for Molly. The hopeful faces of lonely inmates turned toward her as she appeared, only to turn back again to blank expressions and private memories, as she continued by them. A few remembered her from past visits, and said hello. Molly would wave and smile a small tight smile at them, but always go on. Having to deal with her mother living in such a place was bad enough, without adding attachments to these other lost souls.
In her arms, Molly held a basket, her mother’s at one time, not nearly full of garden vegetables. When she arrived at her mother’s door, closed against intrusion as usual, Molly took a deep breath and prayed before knocking, “Please God, let this be a good day.” Without further delay, Molly tapped lightly on the white surface.
“Go away.” A frightened, angry voice that no longer sounded like her Mama’s responded.
“Mama, it’s me, Molly.” Molly answered back as she pushed open the big door. Mama was seated in a recliner looking out of the small window at the back of the room. She was dressed, which was a good sign, in a simple, high-necked red gown with yellow and orange flowers splashed here and there. The elbow length sleeves were the kimono style that mama had always favored. “Gives me room to move,” she used to tell the frustrated store clerks who only had gathered or snug-sleeved dresses to sell. Mama often made her own clothes, with the sleeves just how she wanted them. That was Mama; things always had to be just a certain way, her clothes, her home, her child and especially her garden.
Molly’s mother turned from the view of tall hedges and morning sky to give her daughter a long hard look. “Those roses out there need to be pruned. Doesn’t do any good for the plant if the dead ones are left to just fall off. We won’t get any more flowers that way. You take care of that, Molly, first thing.”
Molly’s heart soared. Mama recognized her. “Yes, Mama. I’ll take care of that as soon as I go.” She went to her mother and laid the basket in her lap, like an offering. She watched hopefully as her mother poked at the contents of the basket. “I brought you some vegetables, a bell pepper, a few tomatoes and a couple of cucumbers.”
“These are the saddest little things I ever saw. Where’d you get such a mess?”
“Your garden, Mama.” Molly scuffed her shoe against the tile like a small child. “I’ve been keeping the garden like you said to.”
“Like I said to?” Molly’s mother shook her head vehemently. “I never said keep a garden like this.” She waived at the vegetables in her lap. “This is disgusting. These aren’t fit food for a pig.” With that, Molly’s mother threw the basket to the floor and returned her gaze out the window.
Molly stood at her mother’s side quietly trying to choke back her tears and the sudden angry urge to walk out and never come back. “I’m sorry Mama,” she said quietly. “I just don’t have the knack for it, like you did…do, I mean,” Molly amended, darting a quick guilty look at her mother. “And anyway, with this horrible drought and all…”
“This in’t no drought girl,” Mama replied. “We did better with worse many a season. Stop making sorry excuses for yourself. It’s laziness, that’s all. You’re not taking care of my garden like you should. And I taught you better!”
“Yes, Mama. I’m sorry,” Molly sighed, trying to appease this stranger who looked just like her Mama but spoke to her like a bitter old hag.
Molly remembered much of what her mother had taught her, but more than that, she remembered the love and gentle patience with which Mama had always guided her, in the garden and in life. “Hita, you must be patient. Patience in the garden will teach you patience in your life.”
Molly had never been a terribly patient child or adult, come to that. “Mama I’m tired of this old garden. I want to play with my friends; and I need to go.” Molly never could really understand her mother’s attachment to that patch of ground. As soon as March rolled around, Mama went to the garden every morning. This lasted every day through spring, summer and fall until sometime in October when the plants finally gave up.
Molly cooperated and helped some, because it was time spent with her Mama, not because it was time spent in the garden. Oh, she thought it was beautiful out there, and she loved all the fresh produce. But she never was a gardener in her heart, not like her mother was.
“Mama?” Molly knelt beside the chair and reached for her mother’s hands, which were balled up in fists in her lap.
“What?” Her mother’s hands remained tightly clinched, even while Molly tried to hold them.
“I love you. I’ll fix the garden.” A tear slid down Molly’s pale face.
Her mother sighed and looked at Molly for a moment, her eyes becoming clouded with confusion and fear. “Do I know you? Should you be in here?” As she spoke she shrank away from Molly and jerked her hands free.
Molly stood up. “I’m Molly Ellis, ma’am. I was just checking to see if you’re alright.” Molly knew it would be no use trying to convince her of their relationship. “I’ll just be going now.” Molly turned slowly and sadly to leave. She felt so drained. Why did it have to be like this every time? Every time?
“Wait?”
Something familiar in the tone made Molly turn with a start. “Yes, Mama?”
“Did you make this mess on the floor?” Her mother gestured angrily at the spilled basket of vegetables on the floor at her feet. “Because I didn’t. Now I have to clean up other people’s messes all the time?
Molly’s shoulders slumped. “No ma’am. I’ll clean it up now before I go.”
“And tell someone to prune those rose bushes out there. They’re in a sad state and I haven’t seen one person out there taking care of them.”
“I will.” Molly paused at the door holding the basket of vegetables. “Bye, Mama.”
Her mother was already staring out the small window again; probably unaware that Molly was even there.
The next morning small eruptions of dust marked Molly’s progress to her mother’s garden shed. The morning sun was already warm on her shoulders, and the cloudless sky promised another dry, hot day. “Another scorcher,” Molly said loudly to the shed as she opened the old gray door that, in her mother’s time, had been a cheery, well-cared-for, white
In the dark interior, as Molly gathered the same gardening tools she had used since she was a small child at her mother’s side, she said a quick, angry prayer for rain. “God, if you could spare it, a few drops would be appreciated, but more would be better appreciated.”
Molly paused thoughtfully, last week the priest had asked the church to give thanks for the spare, patchy fog they’d had early Sunday morning. “Wasn’t even enough to leave the grass a bit damp. Was more of a practical joke than a blessing,” she grumbled.
Back outside the worn shed, Molly trudged to the spigot to fetch the water hose, then turned to study her meager garden. Tomatoes clung weakly onto rusty wire frames as if exhausted. Small cucumbers struggled to find shade under their own tattered, yellowed leaves. The other vegetable plants taking space in the plot looked dejected as they wilted in the sun.
Molly sighed as she knelt in front of the cucumbers. The smell of dirt filled her nostrils, and she remembered kneeling just like this, at her mother’s side, as they tenderly and lovingly tended the garden, which in Molly’s memory was a beautiful and bountiful place, filled with life. Mama would lay the hose in the furrow between cucumber and tomato mounds, murmuring prayers and loving encouragement to her plants. The water would trickle between the leaves, sparkling in the morning light like liquid diamonds. It was so beautiful then, and Mama had made it seem so simple, so right. Left on her own, no matter how hard she tried, Molly never experienced the spiritual uplifting the garden had always seemed to bring her mother.
This morning, Molly gripped the hose tightly in her right hand, hovering it over the pathetic plants, but she did not press the trigger. Instead, she bowed her head over them, not to pray as her mother had done, but to weep.
It was a waste of time to be out here, really. Every morning, at 6:00 a.m., she would dutifully tend this garden, watering and weeding. And every day, for the rest of the day, the sun would burn out every drop of moisture, every drop of hope. Molly raised her eyes to study this patch of earth that her mother had once loved so well. The beauty and productivity had left this garden, just as the beauty and productivity had left her mother, and as her mother had then left her. All that was left was the wasted memory of what had once been.
Molly could go to the large air-conditioned grocery store just like everyone else. She could roll her oversized shopping cart with one squeaky wheel to the elegantly designed produce department, where marketers had arranged the fruits and vegetables to convince shoppers they were in some exotic, sophisticated locale, not just the local Albertsons. Where pears and cumquats shared space, and no less than 5 different kinds of lettuce received sporadic gentle misty showers, keeping them cool and fresh. There, she could select from a hundred large, waxed and shiny cucumbers in climate and moisture controlled bins. Tomatoes would be prepackaged four neatly in a square, cellophaned together for easy selection. Everything would be so much easier, and her mother would never know the difference, as long as she peeled the stickers off and washed away the wax. In fact, her mother might even be pleased with her offerings for once. Why was she out here in the heat and misery every day for such squalid, pathetic returns? Why did she waste her time?
Molly closed her eyes and held her face up to the rising sun. She knew the answer to why she was out here, struggling to survive with these sad little plants even though she didn’t have to. Her mother had taught her how to care for these plants so they would bear the vegetables that would feed them through the next winter. Molly’s mother never complained about this task, in good seasons or bad. She told Molly, “Always keep a garden, mi Hita. It is a gift you must nurture and cherish. This is God’s way of allowing you to help a little with his creation. It’s a blessing.”
If Molly gave up on her mother’s garden, it would be like giving up on her mother. But hadn’t her mother already left her, however unwillingly? Didn’t she owe it to them both to make things a little more acceptable, more endurable?
Molly opened her eyes, looking critically at the garden. This was not her mother’s garden, and God probably didn’t need Molly’s begrudging help with His creation. A small smile played on Molly’s face as she rose from the ground, brushed the dirt of the garden from her denim trousers, and turned away from the plants. “I wonder how crowded the grocery store will be at this time of the morning,” she said to herself as she went to hang up the water hose.
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Owl_Light reviewed Version 3 -
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galadriel reviewed Version 3 -
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The story was interesting, good beginning. What I did not like though was that you used God in cursing and in my eyes its not right. You should take God off that story if its not a Christian story then you have to take it off. If it is a Christian story you have a lot of potential you can make a great Christian story of that idea.
You have a few run-ons here and there and misspelling errors but it’s understandable and it’s very good.
Keep working on it.
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Apatheticwriter13 reviewed Version 3 -
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A good short story. The descriptive details are well-done and the events in the story itself are emotionally heart-wrenching and easily relatable. I like the contrast between the mother’s failing health and Molly’s own deteoriating emotional turmoil. Towards the end, though, you come right out and state what’s going on between Molly and her mother. Show, don’t tell. Perhaps flesh out this story more and elaborate on what exactly happened to the mom and their past a bit more.
Supernatural1 reviewed Version 3 -
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i love the phrase you used about “liquid diamonds.” that was an amazing word picture!!! great job!!!
i was a little confused abt the name Hita, though. if her name’s Molly, why’s her mom calling her Hita? is it a nickname? is there any way for you to tell ur reader this?
on page 1, where you wrote, “and smile a small tight smile at them,” maybe use a different word in place of the first “smile.” like, for example, “and flash a small, tight smile at them.” This way you’re not using the word “smile” in the same sentence twice, so close to each other, if that makes sense.
otherwise, i thought it was great!! good job!!
FrakKevin reviewed Version 3 -
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Lol, even though this starts off sad,,,I laughed at her last statement good ending. When you said she felt drain after leaving the nursing home that was the perfect word. My mother says that a lot after she goes to visit my grandmother who wants every thing done her way. Over all good story and I like that at the very end you changed the tone into a little humor.
trav8434 reviewed Version 3 -
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““Mama, it’s me, Molly.” Molly answered back as she pushed open the big door.” Should be a comma before the endquotes.
““Your garden, Mama.” Molly scuffed her shoe against the tile like a small child. “I’ve been keeping the garden like you said to.”” At this point, you’ve described the main character through her interaction with her mother, which is fantastic. Hard to get the character’s main issue across the page in a tangible fashion so soon, but you did it.
“Molly had never been a terribly patient child or adult, come to that.” I think i get what you’re saying here with the last three words but it could be said better.
“Now I have to clean up other people’s messes all the time?” Missed enquotes.
“Molly paused thoughtfully, last week the priest had asked the church…” This is a fragment.
“It was a waste of time to be out here, really.” This sentence could use some italics or quotes to indicate inner monologue.
In the same paragaph, you have two excellent sentences explaining the sorrowful downhill progression of both Mama and the garden. Works very well.
”...lettuce received sporadic gentle misty showers…” Too many adjectives describing the irrigation at grocery stores. Most of us have seen this sort of thing so you can cut a few adj’s out.
I liked the story because you capture the sadness of derelict relationship in more than one way and, for that reason, i was expecting a better ending.
All in all, it was good. Don’t let the above discourage you – the mistakes don’t take away from the story.
Travis
kbautreyjr reviewed Version 3 -
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Good story. Around the third page I had to finish it, but the ending was a little disappointing. The charactr seems to be taking the easy, and selfish way out. Maybe I’m missing the point, but that garden is special, and it seems such a waste to let it go. But hey, life is unexpected and random, take the peice the way you want to take it. Overall, pretty good.
jenbabe4198 reviewed Version 3 -
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When Molly was with her mother in the nursing home she seemed to be a submissive child and I started to question her age. I understand what she’s going through is though, but throughout the whole piece I wanted to yell at her to grow some balls and get through it! That’s a good thing though, when you think about it as a writer; means I had a emotional connection to the story. Anywho…as for the format of the story, I think that some of the dialogue should be set apart from the paragraphs that they’re in, such as when Molly is grumbling about the fog and when she’s complaining as child to her mother that she would rather play than work in the graden. For one the words would pop out and hit the reader stronger, and also it slows down the paragraph that they’re in and takes away from the words that surround it.
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