Winter Garden (11 page)

Meredith went to her, bent down. She tested the already-swelling ankle. “Help me get her into the living room, Jeff. We’ll put her on the ottoman bed.”

Jeff bent down to her mother. “Hey, Anya,” he said in a voice so gentle it made Meredith remember what a wonderful father he was, how easily he’d dried his daughters’ tears and made them laugh. He was such a good man; after all Mom had put him through over the years, all the silence she’d heaped on him, still he managed to care about her. “I’m going to carry you into the living room, okay?”

“Who are you?” Mom said, searching his gray eyes.

“I’m your prince, remember?”

Mom calmed down instantly. “What have you brought for me?”

Jeff smiled down at her. “Two roses,” he said, scooping her into his arms. He carried her into the living room and put her down on the ottoman bed.

“Here, Mom,” Meredith said. “I’ve got an ice pack. I’m going to put it on your ankle, okay? Keep your feet on this pillow.”

“Thank you, Olga.”

Meredith nodded and let Jeff lead her into the kitchen.

“She fell off the chair?” he asked, glancing into the ruined dining room.

“That would be my guess.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” She stared at him, not quite knowing what to say.

She heard Dr. Burns drive up and relief propelled her forward.

He came into the house, looking more than a little harried, holding a half-eaten sandwich. “Hello, you two,” he said as he came inside. “What happened?”

“Mom was tearing down wallpaper and fell off a chair. Her ankle is swelling up like a balloon,” Meredith said.

Dr. Burns nodded and set his sandwich down on the entryway table. “Show me.”

But when they went into the living room, her mother was sitting up, knitting, as if this were just an ordinary afternoon instead of the day she’d tried to cook wallpaper and cut her own flesh.

“Anya,” Jim said, going to her. “What happened here?”

Mom gave him one of her dazzling smiles. Her blue eyes were completely clear. “I was redecorating the dining room and I fell. Silly of me.”

“Redecorating? Why now?”

She shrugged. “We women. Who knows?”

“May I take a look at your ankle?”

“Certainly.”

He gently examined Mom’s ankle and wrapped it in an Ace bandage.

“This pain is nothing,” she said.

“And what about your hands?” he asked, examining her fingertips. “It looks like you cut yourself on purpose.”

“Nonsense. I was redecorating. I told you this.”

Dr. Burns studied her face for a few more minutes and then smiled gently. “Come on. Let Jeff and me help you to your room.”

“Of course.”

“Meredith, you stay here.”

“Gladly,” she said, watching nervously as they made their way up the stairs and disappeared.

Meredith paced impatiently, chewing on her thumbnail until it started to bleed.

When Jeff and Dr. Burns came back down the stairs, she looked at the doctor. “Well?”

“She’s sprained her ankle. It will heal if she stays off it.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Meredith said. “You saw her fingers. And I found an X-Acto knife by her bed. I think she did it on purpose. She must have Alzheimer’s. Or some kind of dementia anyway. What do we do?”

Jim nodded slowly, obviously gathering his thoughts. “There’s a place in Wenatchee that could take her for a month or six weeks. We could call it rehabilitation for her ankle. Insurance would cover that, and at her age, healing is slow. It’s not a long-term solution, but it would give her—and you—some time to deal with what’s happened. It’s possible that time away from Belye Nochi and the memories here might help.”

“You mean a nursing home?” Meredith said.

“No one likes a nursing home,” the doctor said. “But sometimes it’s the best answer. And remember, it’s only a short-term solution.”

“Will you tell her she’s going there because she needs rehab?” Jeff asked, and Meredith could have kissed him. He knew how hard this decision was for her.

“Of course.”

Meredith drew in a deep breath. She knew she would replay this moment over and over, probably hating herself more every day. She knew her father would never make this choice and wouldn’t have wanted her to make it. But she couldn’t deny how much this would help her.

She sleeps outside . . . tears down wallpaper . . . falls off chairs . . . what will be next?

“God help me,” she said softly, feeling alone even with Jeff right beside her. She’d never known before how profoundly a single decision could separate you from other people. “Okay.”

That night, Meredith couldn’t sleep. She heard the clicking of digital minutes into one another as she lay in bed.

Everything about her decision felt wrong. Selfish. And that was what it was in the end: her decision.

She stayed in bed as long as she could, trying to relax; at two o’clock, she dropped the pretense and got up.

Downstairs, she roamed through the shadowy, quiet house, looking for something to help her sleep or to occupy her mind while she was awake: TV, a book, a cup of tea . . .

Then she saw the telephone and knew exactly what she needed: Nina’s complicity. If Nina agreed about the nursing home, Meredith would shoulder only half the guilt.

She dialed her sister’s international cell phone number and sat down on the sofa.

“Hello?” said a heavily accented voice. Irish, Meredith thought. Or Scottish.

“Hello? I’m calling Nina Whitson. Did I get the wrong number?”

“No. This is her phone. Who am I speakin’ to?”

“Meredith Cooper. I’m Nina’s sister.”

“Ah, brilliant. I’m Daniel Flynn. I suppose you’ve heard of me.”

“No.”

“That’s disappointing, isn’t it? I’m a . . . good friend of your sister’s.”

“How good a friend are you, Daniel Flynn?”

His laugh was low and rumbling. Sexy as hell. “Daniel’s me old man, and a mean son of a bitch he was. Call me Danny.”

“I notice you didn’t answer my question, Danny.”

“Four and a half years. Give or take.”

“And she never mentioned you or brought you home?”

“More’s the pity, eh? Well, it was grand talkin’ to you, Meredith, but your sis is givin’ me the evil eye, so I’d best hand her the phone.”

As Meredith said good-bye, she heard a rustling sound, as if Danny and Nina were fighting over the phone.

Nina answered, sounding a little breathless; laughing. “Hey, Mere. What’s up? How’s Mom?”

“Honestly, Neens, that’s why I’m calling. She’s not good. She’s confused lately. Calls me Olga half the time and recites that damn fairy tale as if it means something.”

“What does Doc Burns say?”

“He thinks it’s ordinary grief, but—”

“Thank God. I wouldn’t want her to end up like Aunt Dora, stuck in that pathetic nursing home, eating old Jell-O and watching game shows.”

Meredith flinched at that. “She fell and sprained her ankle. Luckily I was there to help, but I can’t always be there.”

“You’re a saint, Mere. Really.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Th at’s what Mother Teresa said to me, too.”

“I’m no Mother Teresa, Nina.”

“Yes, you are. The way you’re taking care of Mom and running the orchard. Dad would be proud.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, unable to put any power in her voice. She wished now that she hadn’t called.

“Look, Mere. I really can’t talk now. We’re just on our way out. Do you have something important?”

This was her moment: she could blurt out the truth and be judged (Saint Mere, cramming Mom in a home) or she could say nothing. And what if Nina disagreed? Meredith hadn’t thought about that possibility before, but now she saw it clearly. Nina would not support her, and that would only make matters worse. To be called selfish by Nina was more than she could bear. “No, nothing important. I can handle it.”

“Good. I’ll be home for Dad’s birthday, don’t forget.”

“Okay,” Meredith said, feeling sick. “See you then.”

Nina said, “Good-bye,” and their conversation broke.

Meredith hung up the phone. With a sigh, she turned off the lights and went back upstairs, where she crawled into bed with her husband.

. . . stuck in that pathetic nursing home . . .

Saint Mere

She lay there a long time, in the dark, trying not to remember those wretched, long-ago visits to Aunt Dora.

She was certain she had never fallen asleep, but at seven A.M., the alarm clock jolted her awake.

Jeff stood by the bed with a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

She wanted to say no, to scream it, maybe even to burst into tears, but what good would that do? The worst part of all was that Jeff knew it; he was giving her his sad look again, his I’m-waiting-for-you-to-need-me look. If she told him the truth, he’d hold her hand and kiss her and tell her she was doing the right thing. And then she’d really lose it. “I’m fine.”

“I thought you’d say that,” he said, stepping back. “We need to go in about an hour. I’ve got an appointment at nine.”

She nodded and shoved the hair out of her face. “Okay.”

For the next hour, she got ready as if this were any ordinary day, but when she climbed into the driver’s seat of her big SUV, she suddenly lost the ability to pretend. The truth of her choice swept through her, chilling her.

In front of her, Jeff started up his truck, and together they drove in their separate cars to Belye Nochi.

Inside, she found Mom in the living room, standing at her Holy Corner. Dressed in a black woolen sheath, with a white silk scarf around her throat, she managed to look both elegant and strong. Her back was straight, her shoulders firm. Her snow-white hair had been drawn back from her face, and when she turned to look at Meredith, there wasn’t a drop of confusion in those arctic-blue eyes.

Meredith’s resolve slipped; doubt surged up in its place.

“I want the Holy Corner brought to my new room,” Mom said. “The candle must be kept burning.” She reached over for the crutches Dr. Burns had brought her. Settling them in place under her arms, she limped slowly toward Meredith and Jeff.

“You need help,” Meredith said as she approached. “I can’t be here all the time.”

If Mom heard, or cared, there was no sign of it. She limped past Meredith and went to the front door. “My bag is in the kitchen.”

Meredith should have known better than to seek absolution from her mother. How well she knew that whatever she needed from Mom, she wouldn’t get it. Maybe this most of all. She walked past her mother and went into the kitchen.

It was the wrong bag. Meredith had packed the big red suitcase only last night. She bent down and opened this one.

Her mother had packed it full of butter and leather belts.

Nina woke to the sound of gunfire.

Rounds exploded just outside her window; the dingy, peeling walls of her hotel room shuddered. A shower of plaster and wattle rained down on the floor. Somewhere a window shattered and a woman screamed. Nina got out of bed and crawled over to the window.

Tanks were rolling down the rubble-strewn street. Men in uniforms—boys, really—walked alongside, shooting their machine guns, laughing as people tried to find shelter.

She turned around and leaned against the rough wall, then slid down to a sit on the powdery floor. A rat scurried along the floorboards and crept into the shadows along her so-called closet.

God, she was tired of this.

It was the end of April. Only a month ago she’d been in Sudan with Danny, but it felt like a lifetime.

Her cell phone rang.

She crawled across the dirty floor and sat against the side of the bed. Reaching up to the nightstand, she found the checkbook-sized phone and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Nina? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”

“Gunfire. Hey, Sylvie, what’s up?”

“We’re not using your photos,” Sylvie said. “There’s no way to sugarcoat it. They’re not good enough.”

She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “Shit. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m better on my worst day than most of the assholes you use.”

“These are worse than your worst day, kiddo. What’s going on?”

Nina pushed the hair out of her eyes. She hadn’t had a haircut in weeks, and her hair was so dirty that when she pushed it aside, it stayed. The water in her hotel—in the whole block—had been out for days. Ever since the fighting had escalated. “I don’t know, Sylvie,” she finally said.

“You shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly. I know how much you loved your father. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Getting the cover always makes me feel better.”

Sylvie’s silence said it all. “A war zone is no place to grieve, Nina. Maybe you’ve lost your edge because there’s somewhere else you need to be.”

“Yeah. Well . . .”

“Good luck, Nina. I mean that.”

“Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

She looked around the dark, dingy room, feeling the echo of machine-gun fire along her spine, and she was tired of all of it. Exhausted. It was hardly surprising that her latest photos were crap. She was too tired to concentrate, and when she did finally fall asleep, dreams of her father invariably wakened her.

His last words nagged at her lately, the promise he’d elicited. Maybe that was her problem. Maybe that was why she couldn’t concentrate.

She’d failed to keep that promise.

No wonder she’d lost her mojo.

It was back in Belye Nochi, in the hands of a woman she’d promised to get to know.

In the first week of May—only a few days earlier than she’d planned—at just past seven in the morning, Nina drove into the Wenatchee Valley. The jagged Cascade Mountain Range was still covered in snow but everything else was dressed for spring.

At Belye Nochi, the orchard was in full bloom. Acres of apple trees boasted bright flowers. As she drove toward the house, she imagined her father there, walking proudly between the rows with a small, black-haired girl beside him, asking questions. Are they ready yet, Daddy? I’m hungry.

They’re ready when they’re ready, Neener Beaner. Sometimes you have to be patient.

She’d matured alongside those trees, learning along the way that she wasn’t patient, and that farming didn’t interest her; that her father’s life’s work would never be hers.

In the driveway, she pulled up in front of the garage and parked.

The orchard was alive with workers who moved through the trees, checking for bugs or rot or whatever it was they looked for.

Nina slung her camera bag over her shoulder and headed for the house. The yard was a vibrant green so bright it was almost hard to look at. All along the fence line and on either side of the walkway, white flowers grew in clumps.

At the house, she didn’t bother knocking. “Mom?” she called out, flipping on the entry way light and taking off her boots.

There was no answer.

She went into the kitchen.

The house smelled musty, vacant. Upstairs it was as quiet and empty as below.

Nina refused to feel disappointed. She knew when she’d decided to surprise Mom and Meredith that it might be a little dicey.

She went back out to the rental car and drove up the road toward her sister’s house. At the vee in the road, a truck came toward her.

She pulled over, waiting.

The truck slowed down and stopped beside her, and Jeff rolled down his window. “Hey, Neens. This is a surprise.”

“You know me, Jeff. I move like the wind. Where’s Mom?”

Jeff glanced in his rearview mirror as if someone were coming up on his tail.

“Jeff? What’s wrong?”

“Meredith didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

He finally looked at her. “She had no choice.”

“Jeff,” Nina said sharply. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Where is my mom?”

“Parkview.”

“The nursing home? Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t rush to conclusions, Nina. Meredith thought—”

Nina gunned the engine and spun the car around in the dirt and drove off. In less than twenty minutes she pulled into the nursing home’s gravel driveway and parked. She grabbed her heavy canvas camera bag off the passenger seat and marched across the parking lot and into the building.

Inside, the lobby was defiantly cheery and obscenely bright. Fluorescent bulbs stretched like glowworms along the beige ceiling. To the left was a waiting room—with primary-colored chairs and an old RCA television. Directly in front of her was a big wooden desk. Behind it, a woman with tightly permed hair talked animatedly on the phone, clacking her polka-dot fingernails on the fake wood surface of the desk.

“I mean it, Margene, she has really packed on the pounds—”

“Excuse me,” Nina said tightly. “I’m looking for Anya Whitson’s room. I’m her daughter.”

The receptionist paused long enough to say, “Room 146. To your left,” and then went back to her conversation.

Nina walked down the wide hallway. On either side of her were closed doors; the few that were open revealed small hospital-like rooms inhabited by elderly people in twin beds. She remembered when Aunt Dora had been here. They’d visited her every weekend, and Dad had hated every second. Death on the layaway plan, he used to say.

How could Meredith have done this? And how dare she not tell Nina about it?

By the time she reached room 146, Nina was in a rage. It felt good; it was the first real fire she’d felt since Dad’s death. She knocked sharply.

A voice said, “Come in,” and she opened the door.

Her mother sat in an unattractive plaid recliner, knitting. Her white hair was unkempt and her clothes didn’t match, but her blue eyes were bright. At Nina’s entrance, she looked up.

“Why the hell are you here?” Nina said.

“Language, Nina,” her mother said.

“You should be at home.”

“You think so? Without your father?”

The reminder was delivered softly, like a drop of acid. Nina moved forward woodenly, feeling her mother’s gaze on her. She saw the recreated Holy Corner set up on an old oak dresser.

Behind her, the door opened again and her sister walked into the small room, carrying a tote bag bulging over with Tupperware containers.

“Nina,” she said, coming up short. Meredith looked flawless, as usual, her chestnut hair styled in a classic bob. She was wearing crisp black pants and a pink shirt that was tucked in at the waist. Her pale face was expertly made up, but even so, she looked tired. And she’d lost too much weight.

Nina turned on her. “How could you do this? Was it easier to just dump her here?”

“Her ankle—”

“Who gives a shit about her ankle? You know Dad would hate this,” Nina said sharply.

“How dare you?” Meredith said, her cheeks flushing with anger. “I’m the one who—”

“Stop it,” Mom hissed. “What is wrong with you two?”

“She’s an idiot,” Meredith responded. Ignoring Nina completely, she moved toward the table, where she set down a big grocery bag. “I brought you some cabbage pierogies and okroshka, Mom. And Tabitha sent you some new yarn. It’s in the bottom of the bag, along with a pattern she thought you’d like. I’ll be back again after work. As usual.”

Mom nodded, but said nothing.

Meredith left without another word, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Nina hesitated a moment and then followed. Out in the hallway, she saw Meredith hurrying away; her heels clattered on the linoleum floor. “Meredith!”

Her sister flipped her off and kept going.

Nina went back into the pathetic little room with its twin bed and its ugly recliner and its battered wood dresser. Only the Russian icons and candle gave a hint about the woman who lived here. The woman whom Dad had thought was so broken . . . and whom he’d loved.

“Come on, Mom. You’re getting the hell out of here. I’m taking you home.”

“You?”

“Yeah,” Nina said firmly. “Me.”

“That bitch. How could she say those things to me? And especially in front of Mom?” Meredith was in the small, cramped office from which her husband oversaw the newspaper’s city beat. Not that there was much city, or much beat, either. A stack of paper by his computer reminded her that he’d been working hard on his novel. The one she hadn’t yet found time to read.

She continued pacing, chewing her thumbnail until it hurt.

“You should have told her the truth. I told you that.”

“This is not the time for I-told-you-so’s.”

“But you talked to her, what? Two or three times since you put your mom in Parkview? Of course Nina’s pissed. You would be, too.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let Nina spend time with her. By tomorrow night, she’ll understand why you made the choice you did. Your mom will dish up a big pile of crazy and Nina will fall all over herself to apologize.”

Meredith stopped pacing. “You think?”

“I know. You didn’t stick your mom there because it was hard on you to care for her, although it was. You put her there to keep her safe. Remember?”

“Yeah,” she said, wishing she felt stronger about it. “But she’s been better in the nursing home. Even Jim said that. No walking in the snow barefooted or peeling off wallpaper or cutting her fingers. She saved the good stuff for me.”

“Maybe she’s ready to come home, then,” he said, but she could tell that he wasn’t really engaged in the conversation anymore. Either he had something on his mind, or he’d heard it too many times. Probably the latter; she’d spent a lot of time in the last month worrying about her mother, and Jeff had heard it all. Actually, it was the only thing she could remember talking to him about lately.

“I’ve got to run,” he said. “Interview in twenty minutes.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She let him walk her out of the newspaper’s grungy, crowded office and to her car. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

It wasn’t until she was at her desk, looking over the orchardists’ pruning report, that she realized Jeff hadn’t kissed her good-bye.

As she drove toward Belye Nochi, Nina glanced sideways at her mother, who sat in the passenger seat of the rental car, knitting.

They were in foreign terrain now, she and her mother. Their togetherness implied a kind of partnership, but such a connection had never before existed and Nina didn’t really believe that mere proximity could give rise to a new kind of relationship. “I should have stayed,” she said. “Made sure you were okay.”

“I hardly expected that from you,” her mother said.

Nina didn’t know if it was a put-down, with the emphasis on you, or a simple statement of fact. “Still . . .” She didn’t know what to say next. Once again, she was a kid, hovering in her mother’s orbit, waiting for something—a look, a nod, some gratitude or grief. Anything but the click click click of those needles.

At the house, she watched her mother gather up her knitting, grab the bag of icons from her Holy Corner, and open the car door. With the bearing of a queen, she walked across the grassy lawn, up the stone path, and into her home, closing the door behind her.

“Thanks for springing me, Nina,” Nina muttered, shaking her head.

By the time she made it into the house with the luggage, the Holy Corner was set up again, the candle was burning, and her mother was nowhere to be found.

Nina went upstairs, dragging the suitcase behind her. Pausing at her mother’s open bedroom door, she listened, hearing the clatter of knitting needles and a soft, singsongy voice: Mom was either talking to herself or she was on the phone.

Either way, apparently it was better than talking to her daughter. She dropped her mom’s suitcase on the floor and then put her own backpack and camera gear in her old bedroom and went downstairs again. On her dad’s favorite ottoman bed, she spread out, fluffed up the pile of pillows behind her to make a headrest, and turned on the TV.

In seconds, she was asleep. It was the best, most dreamless sleep she’d had in months, and when she awoke, she felt refreshed and ready to take on the world.

She went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. “Mom?”

“Come in.”

Nina opened the door and found her mother in the wooden rocking chair by the window, knitting. “Hey, Mom. Are you hungry?”

“I was last night and again this morning, but I made sandwiches. Meredith has asked me not to use the stove.”

“I slept for a whole day? Shit. Promise me you won’t tell Meredith.”

Mom looked at her sharply. “I do not make promises to children.” At that, she went back to her knitting.

Nina left the bedroom and took a long, hot, only-in-America shower. Afterward, even though she was dressed in her crumpled, ancient khakis, she felt human.

Downstairs, she meandered around the kitchen, trying to figure out what to make for lunch.

In the freezer, she found dozens of containers of food, each one marked and dated in black ink. Her mother had always cooked for a platoon instead of a family, and nothing from the Whitson table was ever thrown away. Everything was packed up, dated, and frozen for later use. If Armageddon ever came, no one at Belye Nochi would go hungry.