#Scattered_TheBox

    Bree sat silent in the passenger seat of Della’s Range Rover as they drove away from the city towards Bree’s farmhouse. Della respected her friends silence, glancing furtively towards Bree, checking for what? Della didn’t know; was there a protocol for ‘how to act when your friend is told she has a few months to live?’ Della wasn’t sure and at this moment her heart hurt as if it were being squeezed by a giant hand intent on crushing the organ in her chest. 

    Della met Bree Maxwell at the registrar’s office in 1974 at the University of Chicago. Just two long-haired hippie chicks in bell bottom denims and crop tops among thousands, struggling to look cool while simultaneously overwhelmed by the process of registering for classes. The two became fast friends and shortly thereafter they met Tish and Ann, also freshman. The foursome became inseparable and forged a bond that has endured four decades. 

 

    Bree is the consummate Earth Mother, although never married and childless. Which is probably a major factor in her ethereal demeanor and annoyingly tranquil composure. That and a heady dose of daily cannabis consumption. Bree is tall and lithe; her handsome chiseled features are framed by a luxurious mane of tousled gray hair that cascades over her shoulders.  

    Della was shocked when Bree agreed to join Ann in taking the rider’s course shortly after they both turned 55. Della considered Bree more at home beating a tambourine at a Grateful Dead concert than cruising Main Street Daytona on two wheels during Bike Week. She started concocting essential oils in her farmhouse kitchen from crushed flowers, herbs and spices she grew in her garden in the early ‘70’s. Bree was a virtuoso at creating personalized fragrances from the aromatic oils; not so much in pursuing her career in art therapy and counseling. She opened a kiosk at the local mall and parlayed a kitchen industry into a lucrative business within a few years. 

    In the ‘80’s her small kiosks morphed into Bohemian style luxury shops in upscale malls where SAHM’s in their chic Calvin Klein jeans clamored to create signature scents from the plethora of essential oils lining the mirrored shelves. Bree branched out from essential oils to organic cosmetics – although she never wore makeup herself – that shunned animal testing. Bree had the uncanny ability to be floating on the crest of each new wave to hit the ‘natural’ products market. Her most recent holistic endeavor involved CBD oils, lotions and topicals. Bree leaves the day-to-day operation of her profitable company, Scarlet Begonias, to a competent, Stanford educated business manager named Allison. 

    Della kept glancing over to the passenger seat as the city’s skyline dwindled in the distance, her friend sat erect, her elegant profile staring straight ahead, her hands folded resolutely in her lap.

Della (her voice overly bright and anxious): we can stop at Marge’s Coffee House for a caramel macchiato. You love Marge's fresh fruit vanilla bean tarts....

Bree (her voice soft): not today. I just want to go home.

    Della, the writer, was at a loss for words. Words that would comfort her friend and give her hope. Was it Bree that needed comforting or Della? She decided it was best to follow Bree’s lead and she reluctantly made the turn into Bree’s driveway.

    Bree still lives in the same rambling farmhouse she has occupied since the late ‘70’s, her prosperity affording a few lavish upgrades, growing herbs and mixing oils in her kitchen sink. The diagnosis of cancer brings her blissful existence to a halt; negating all of the benefits of her holistic herbs, organic foods, oils, tofu, and yoga.  The doctor urged Bree to put her affairs in order, as the cancer was aggressive. Her approach to dying is just as tranquil as her approach to living. 

 

    Della pulls up next to Bree’s meticulously restored ’67 VW Microbus, the red and white exterior emblazoned with her Scarlet Begonias logo. She switches off the ignition and hops out of the driver’s seat before Bree can open her door. Della runs around to the passenger side and opens the door, offering her hand to Bree.

Bree: Really Della? I’m not an invalid yet. Honestly, I feel just fine.

    Della stood mute… her extended hand dropped limply to her side as she held the door open. Bree exited the Range Rover, her flowing skirts trailing behind her, the ever-present scent of lemongrass wafting gently in her wake. Bree always smelled like sunshine dancing on a field of golden wheat.  She headed for the side entrance to her house and marched purposefully up the back steps. Della slammed the door of her vehicle out of frustration as she muttered ‘fuck,’ and followed her friend inside.

Bree’s kitchen reminded Della of a sorceress’s lair; multiple sized bottles in vivid hues of glass lined shelves that ran the length of the kitchen on three sides. An enormous, industrial type stove and oven combination dominated one wall with every conceivable type of cookware suspended from the ceiling by sturdy iron pot racks. The three-tub farmhouse sink was deep enough to dive into and the dining nook, enclosed on three sides with floor to ceiling windows was Bree’s indoor greenhouse. Bree still grew small batches of flowers, herbs and spices to experiment with new fragrances. The bulk of the work for her company Scarlet Begonias was performed in the modern lab, greenhouse and office building she owned in a nearby suburb. The aroma in Bree’s kitchen was thick but not cloying, like an invisible raft that invited the visitor to float along on a sea of scents.

Bree walked to the stove, grabbed a copper tea kettle, filled it with water and set the flame ablaze. Then she reached for the vaping device on the counter and inhaled deeply, exhaling the sweet smell of marijuana very slowly, her eyes closed, her shoulders visibly relaxing.

Della: Bree…I mean, do you really think that’s wise right now?

Bree (talking through the exhalation of the remainder of the smoke in her lungs): Wise? You mean smoking pot? What’s it gonna do…kill me? And she snort-laughed as the last of the smoke left her lungs. 

Della: Point taken. And your gallows humor right now is a little un-nerving. I love you Bree and I don’t want to think about my life without you.

Bree (moving across the kitchen to hug her friend): I know, I don’t particularly want to think of my life without me either (as she rolled her eyes at Della, more gallows humor). Let’s navigate this road the same as all the others…with humor and laughter. I need my friends to lean in with me…lean the fuck in and help me travel down this final road. Here, have a toke and chill out.

Della: You know I can’t smoke that shit like you do. Unlike you, I have a difficult time functioning when I’m stoned.

Bree: Then we’ll have tea. I want to give you something.

Della: Bree, I wish you would listen to reason.

Bree: Whose reason? Yours? The doctor?

Della: A second opinion Bree. There is always hope, there is always an answer. Even as she said it, Della wasn’t sure she believed her own words. She heard the doctor. Bree’s prognosis wasn’t good.

The kettle let loose a shrill whistle, Bree removed it from the flame and dropped a handful of tea leaves into the boiling water.

Bree: I have the answer. Follow me.

    A little bewildered Della followed Bree down a short hallway into the sunroom. Like the rest of Bree’s house, the sunroom was a cacophony of funky furniture, a jumble of knick-knacks, tapestries, sculptures and art.  Antique stained-glass pieces hung in virtually every window, the sunlight danced off the glass, projecting sparks of color across the room.  The eclectic collection was acquired from Bree’s extensive travels around the globe to discover new scents and find enlightenment. Della traveled with Bree on a couple of trips; to an island off the coast of Africa she could never pronounce correctly and to the Himalayas in Tibet. Della often wondered if Bree ever truly found spiritual enlightenment or if the process of chasing it was what gave her joy. Della could never understand how Bree’s financial success and her collection of ‘stuff’ could coexist with her search for spiritual enlightenment, which is the polar opposite of how Bree lived. And perhaps that is why Bree continually sought to solve the paradox or at least live peacefully.

    Bree crossed the room and stopped in front of a low, glass topped table with an assortment of boxes arranged artfully across the surface. She stooped to pick up an elaborately carved wooden box a little big larger and deeper than a cigar box.

Bree: I bought this in Kashmir in India. The wood is walnut. Look at the intricate carvings of flowers (as she lovingly ran her hands across the top of the box).

Della: Yes, Bree it’s lovely…but….

Bree (interrupting Della): My body will be cremated and then I want you to scoop me up and put me in this (as she thrust the box into Della’s hands).

Of course, when she bought it, Bree had no idea she would end up occupying the box as 5 pounds of calcinated bone, she simply loved the flowers and the craftsmanship of the artist.

Della (stunned): Bree, I really would feel better talking about….

Bree (interrupting Della again): Then I want you, Tish, and Ann to take the box to Sedona via Route 66 – on your bikes like we planned to do so many times – and scatter my ashes among the Red Rocks.

Bree stepped back as Della clutched the box tight to her chest and looked imploringly at her friend.

Bree: Say you will do this for me Della and not fight me. I'm choosing quality of life with what little time I have left.  I want to finally find peace at the end of this road.

Della: Ok Bree. Ok. 

Bree: Thank you, now let’s have tea (as she took Della’s arm – still clutching the box – and led her back down the hallway to the kitchen). 

Della took a seat at the long plank table while Bree poured tea and bustled about the kitchen.

Bree: Alice will be here shortly, there is obviously many decisions to be made with the business. And I’ve asked Shaman Don to visit this evening….then there is …..

Della resolutely sipped her tea as she listened to her friend rattle off a final 'To Do' list.

~End~

Debi Tolbert Duggar, Author

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