Free Betty's (Little Basement) Garden by Laurel Dewey Page B

carry you so far. Letting go and allowing is the only way to traverse the distance and the loss of someone whom you once held. But how in the hell do you let go when you can’t forget?
    Her body felt the ache of Frankie’s death long before her mind was willing to accept his permanent absence. He’d been in and out of touch for six years, going as long as three months without contact. He had an uncanny ability to know exactly when his father was away from the house, because Betty would hear a tap-tap on the back door and see him standing there with that innocent smile and beguiling hazel eyes. He could charm mostly anyone, but Betty was like clay in his hands. She’d fix him something hearty to eat and make a pot of tea, and then they’d sit beneath the old canopy elm in the backyard with its heavy branches and fluttering leaves. He was her joy, and she never gave up hope that he would get help and be made new again. But his visits were always rushed and anxiety framed, because Betty never knew when Frank Sr. would return. He’d made it patently clear that his son was never allowed back into their home and that Betty was to have no contact with their son until he was clean and sober. So, their visits usually lasted less than an hour. She’d give Frankie food to take with him and a few hundred dollars, kiss him on the cheek and then hug him tightly, imprinting that moment into her heart so she could hold onto it when he was absent.
    He was the best thing she ever created. In her eyes, he was almost perfect. Lost but nearing perfection. He was the reason she got up in the morning when he was a boy. She fixed him wonderful breakfasts, buoyed his spirits when he felt depressed and cheered with him when he accomplished his goals. Her love was unending and unconditional. She understood his pain because she felt that same pain for so long herself. But she was a master at cover-up, whereas her son was unable to mask his angst except through the temporary stony solace of drugs. She hated his lifestyle and would never have welcomed any of his fair-weather drug friends into her backyard, let alone her home. But with Frankie, she threw all her judgments to the wind, because she knew what he could have been if he’d had a different father. And even when Frank Sr. ordered him out of the house at eighteen, Betty always felt that connection with him. Her son might be a thousand miles away, but she still knew he was part of her world, even when his addictions removed him from her home.
    But when Frankie overdosed on that final pill that cut the cord with this earth and all the weight that came with it, Betty was unable to fully comprehend the loss. Sure, she’d seen his body at the morgue to identify it. That helped seal the reality. But for whatever reason, his death was like a dream. And like a dream, she lost connections she’d taken for granted. The sense of taste was the first to go, followed quickly by the sense of touch. Hearing went next. Music lost its timbre; voices spoke with no sound. There were days that held only staggering silence. There were hours that passed without notice. Gaps of time lost forever, numbed by grief and shots of bourbon. Her friends recalled events that took place during those days of lead but it was as if they were sharing memories that didn’t belong to her. There weren’t even glimpses or remembrances of what they talked about. But she never let on. She pretended so well and they never knew better. She called that time her “misplaced” period, when part of her soul departed and would never be recovered.
    But when Betty’s mind caught up with the heartache her body had embedded, it was like a center punch to her chest. The pain was unbearable and there seemed to be no escape from it. Relentless, it shared her bed, sat across from her at the table and rode next to her in the car. The only time the pain stepped aside was when Betty immersed herself