The Memory Garden (15 page)

“She’s probably emotional because of her hormones,” Thalia whispers to Howard.

Thalia, who has several older aunts in various stages of menopause, has recently begun attributing everything to hormonal flux. Bay would laugh were she not so distracted by the beating of her heart. They are at the foot of the stairs when Ruthie pops out of the door like one of those Glockenspiel dancers at German Fest.

“You almost came into the kitchen. I’ve told you and told you not to come into the kitchen, and you almost did.” Thalia says something about hormones. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ruthie scolds. “I got over all that decades ago.” She frowns down at Bay. “You promised. You promised several times. Now I understand why Nan is worried about you.”

“Nana’s worried about me? That’s what I wanted to ask, about Nana.”

“What about her?”

“Did you remember to wake her?”

“Of course I remembered! What do you take me for? You sound like my husband.”

Bay isn’t sure how to proceed. She apologizes profusely to Ruthie, whose drawn lips loosen with each sorry, until at last she is smiling, telling them to hurry and get ready. “Nan is taking her bath, but you three are so young and fresh, you’ll be fine as rain with soap and a bowl of water, which I left in your room, Bay. Howard, you can use the sink in the downstairs powder room.”

They walk to the front of the house in silence, Thalia taking sideways looks at Howard, which Bay notices with sinking recognition. It would be embarrassing, because really, she knows she looked at him the same way, except that now, Bay realizes, Howard probably has no idea about any of it. He probably gets looked at like this all the time. He probably thinks the whole world is composed of beaming females.

When they step into the foyer, all three of them are struck still with the pleasure of entering a home filled with the pleasant air of a holiday feast.

“What is that?” Howard says.

“I hope it’s not meat.”

Bay can hear water running through the pipes, the reassuring sound of her Nana taking a bath. The scent that fills the house is divine. Bay hopes for a peek at the setting for the feast, but the dining room doors are closed. She and Nan rarely use them, ever since the time the old pocket doors got stuck one Christmas. (Which actually was one of the best Christmases ever, and the start of Bay’s favorite tradition!)

As Bay and Thalia ascend the stairs, the scent of vanilla bubble bath mingles with the delicious kitchen aromas. When they arrive at the landing, Stella comes down the hall, wearing a dress the color of blue morning glory, with a full skirt, much like Ruthie’s, though Stella’s dress is strapless. She spins for them, modeling how nicely it fits and how pretty the color is on her.

“I was wearing heels, but Ruthie made me take them off,” Stella says, displaying her bare feet, the toenails painted red. “Apparently no one wears shoes to a Flower Feast. Who knew?”

How can she act so sweet? How can she say such things and then act like she’s accused Ruthie of nothing more than stealing cupcakes?

“Bay, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m good.”

“’Cause you look a little odd.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re almost crying.”

“It’s her hormones,” Thalia says.

“Bay, did Howard bother you in some way…or did Ruthie—”

“No, Howard’s not like that. And Ruthie isn’t either.”

“She’s overwhelmed,” Thalia says.

“I’m fine. We have to go get dressed.”

“You’ll let me know, right, Bay? If there’s any problems I can help you with? And you, too,” she says to Thalia, though it’s clearly an afterthought.

The girls promise as they back down the hall, Stella frowning her heart-making frown, until they enter Bay’s bedroom, closing the door behind them.

“Would you stop telling everyone my hormones are bothering me?”

“Look at these. Oh, Bay, look at these.”

A dozen dresses are laid on Bay’s bed, each at least as pretty as Stella’s, the colors of summer blossoms: sundrop yellow, snapdragon white, hydrangea blue, a hollyhock pink. Bay runs her finger lightly over them, as if they are too fragile for touch.

“Where did she find these? I can’t believe they were all stuffed in her suitcase along with a chocolate cake,” Bay says.
Is
that
something
a
murderer
would
do?

Thalia squeals as she sorts through the dresses, apparently equally delighted with each, until she holds up a white one trimmed with glass beads and silver thread. “This is the best, don’t you think?”

Bay thinks it might be, but she tells Thalia she should wear it.

“Are you sure?”

Bay nods, though she wishes she’d seen it first, until she finds a pale green dress embroidered with tiny butterflies and pearl buttons up the back that she thinks might, in fact, be the prettiest dress she’s ever seen.

Nan can’t believe she slept all day. She’d be worried if she didn’t feel so good. She feels wonderful. Why, when Ruthie told her it was time to get ready for dinner, Nan didn’t believe it. Dinner? How was that possible? She had the strangest dream, though right now she can only remember the odd feeling and no details, which is fine, actually, because the odd feeling makes her feel, well, odd, and there’s no reason to linger with that sensation when she can enjoy feeling good instead. This bubble bath, for instance, feels very good indeed. She hasn’t taken a bubble bath in years. Why is that? There seems no reason for denying herself such a simple pleasure for so long, though she’s sure she did have a good reason once.

The bubbles feel like kisses, though of course that’s just silly. The bubbles are soft and warm against her skin; they pop, nothing like lips at all, though a definite pleasant sensation. Nan closes her eyes and leans back against the tub, remembering how she was once possessed of a body that was kissed; she once knew what lips felt like and made no uncertain comparison of lips to bubbles. Nonetheless, it is very pleasant indeed to be caressed by bubbles, so pleasant in fact that she responds to the knock on the door with something close to a growl.

“Nan, are you in there?”

“I’ll be right out, Mavis.” Nan tries to sound cheerful. After all, she has a houseful of guests; she slept right through the day and did nothing to help with dinner. The least she can do is be accommodating and not hog the bathroom.

Mavis, however, cannot wait. She sidles in, closing the door behind her, waving her hand as Nan tries to cover herself. “Don’t make a big production. There’s nothing there I don’t already know about. We need to talk.” She sits on the toilet, crossing her legs beneath the caftan she wears, leaning forward to fix Nan with an inquisitive look.

“Are you enjoying your visit?”

“Don’t be coy, Nan. We haven’t time for it. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”

“Do?”

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Nan shakes her head, which she immediately regrets, because the lovely vanilla aroma is ruined by the scent of salt. She sighs. “Don’t look at me like that, Mavis, my memory isn’t what it used to be. Just catch me up so we can get on with it.”

Mavis does, first reminding Nan about Karl (the “interloper” Mavis calls him) tearing apart the garden, which, Nan thinks, is as understandable as it is devastating. Young ghosts are said to be quite dramatic and erratic in their behavior. Who can blame him? A dead adult is sure to be greeted on the other side by a welcoming crowd of loved ones, whereas a young ghost might not recognize anybody. Young ghosts can be so confused that they experience the act of being sent to the light as violent. Even if they understand they are dead, they recognize all they lost in the process, and are determined not to lose again. Rather than welcoming the light, they consider entering it to be another death of sorts, an unknown destination that entails leaving the existence they do not necessarily like or understand, but at least have come to know. Young ghosts can be very difficult, stubborn and clingy in general, though Nan knows that Karl has a particular bone to pick with her. In spite of the heat of the bathroom, she shudders.

“Are you cold?” Mavis asks.

“You let in a draft.”

Mavis frowns at Nan, who takes the opportunity to comment on the matter of Eve and Grace Winter hanging about. Mavis looks like she doesn’t know what Nan’s talking about. Well, there’s no time to linger over how Mavis has lost her mental acuity. They’ve all lost something, after all.

Mavis waves her hand, her Bakelite bracelets clanking against each other; she has a way of sounding like she’s always breaking something. She says Karl isn’t a ghost, but a hoodlum. Stella, she says, is the dangerous one, in spite of her innocent appearance. “Be reasonable,” Mavis says (she dares to say this while perched on the toilet after having invaded Nan’s bath). “Think of how damaging she could be to us.”

Nan is annoyed by Mavis’s continued demonizing of Stella.
What
does
the
girl
know?
What
does
she
suspect?
On
the
other
hand, what
does
it
matter? Do they really have to die with this secret?
What Nan wants from this whole mess is that she be the one to reveal her criminal past to Bay before someone else does.

“What?” Mavis squawks, interrupting Nan’s reverie. “Don’t just stare, say something!”

“As I’ve already said, we have to act normal. We have to pretend we’ve got nothing to hide. But also, we must have this ceremony,” Nan says, not admitting she has no idea how to proceed in this direction. Though Mavis tries to talk her out of it, Nan won’t make that mistake again. After all, she won’t be bullied by Mavis as she has been in the past, which she finally says, not thinking before she does. Mavis leaves the bathroom in a huff.

It’s all rather complicated
, Nan thinks later, dressing alone in her bedroom. She might be discouraged were it not for the enticing aromas and the pleasant sound of voices in the rooms below, the chatter of a house on holiday.

Ruthie is apparently under the impression that they all know what a Flower Feast is, though none of them do. They are to dress for dinner, but not wear shoes, which Nan finds distressing. She has gotten over vanity for the most part, but her feet are particularly unpleasant, odd little misshapen things with bunions and crooked nails that she would rather not reveal. What has made Ruthie so bossy? Nan shakes her head as she looks through her closet, lingering over the old velvet dress several times before deciding no harm can come of trying it on. Velvet in summer doesn’t usually work, but it is her favorite frock.

Nan is relieved to discover that the dress holds a lovely scent of lavender, not the dusty odor she thought it might. Oh, how she loves velvet! She steels herself against getting her hopes up.
It
probably
won’t fit
, she thinks as she drapes it over her head. For a moment in the dark, she thrills at the feel, the scent, the swish sound of the lining. Nan thinks she can almost forgive Ruthie the silly rule about bare feet, if that is the exchange she must make for wearing this dress again. It’s the dress she plans to be buried in, so isn’t it a pleasant surprise to be wearing it tonight?
Why
, Nan thinks,
my
white
hair
looks
quite
nice
with
the
midnight
blue, and my cheeks, not pink of course, but there is something there, something vaguely lifelike.

Nan turns in a slow circle, enjoying the feel of the skirt brushing her legs, her bare feet strange on the hardwood floor but also nice, which Nan would clarify had not that single turn left her a little dizzy. She sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for the spinning to stop.

Ruthie is another issue they have to work around. Earlier, Mavis pointed out all that Ruthie’s done, from helping in the garden to making breakfast, as well as preparing tonight’s entire feast. From the sound of it, poor Ruthie hasn’t taken a break since her arrival; she must be exhausted. Even so, Nan has to consider the possibility of a fatigued Ruthie lingering around for the ceremony which she would not approve of. This is an uncomfortable issue for Nan, who has worked hard to maintain her lifestyle without endangering herself, her home, or Bay (though Nan suspects Bay has been persecuted on her behalf), but what can be done about it? When Mavis mentioned locking Ruthie in the basement, Nan wasn’t sure it was a serious suggestion, but pointed out that such a drastic measure would probably cause more trouble than it would be worth. Besides, Ruthie is a guest.

The room returned to focus; Nan stands to brush what there is of her hair. She has kept it long all these years, even when it began falling out during menopause. It’s quite thin now, a matter she usually covers by bullying it into an untidy bun, which she likes to think creates the illusion of volume. She turns her head, trying to determine if the pink of scalp shows through. It does a little, but when will she ever do this again? When will she ever wear this dress, if not in her casket? When will she ever wear her hair down, if not in her grave?

Nan shakes her head as she sets the brush firmly on her dresser. Just like that, she remembers. The night garden dotted with points of light. Candles brightening at her approach until she was surrounded by an aura, like a moon glow brightening a dark corner of the yard, a neglected plot, hidden behind the trees, where a blue poppy bloomed, and then she disappeared? No, that’s not right; it was more like a melting, but without a burn. She just faded into everything. It sounds frightening, but it wasn’t. It was a lovely dream.

Nan faces herself in the mirror. Her hazel eyes blink back at her. “What are you still doing here?” she says softly to her reflection, and watches herself not answer before she turns away to join the party.