The Poison Garden

by A. J. Banner

  “I was hoping you would understand why I did what I did,” Brandon said. Were his words slurring? “I knew you would take me back.”

  “Let’s go inside,” I said. “It’s warmer in the house.” The cottage walls closed in, the air oppressive. And my keys were still in the main house. Without complaint, he followed me outside in the garden. At dusk, the wind rose again, after a period of relative calm. In the house, the lights flickered. The next minutes passed in a haze—I could not quite believe that I had spent months, no, years, lying next to Brandon, thinking he was normal. Perhaps he had been stable at one time, and slowly, incrementally, the obsessive part of him had taken over.

  In the living room, he sat back on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. His eyelids drooped. Time seemed to tick by at an interminably slow pace. The wedding photo now seared itself into my mind—perhaps Kieran’s look of love had been real, the way he’d tenderly held my hand. Maybe his slipup with Diane had been just that, a slipup. Don’t go there, I thought to myself. The betrayal was real—and whatever else he might have done. Just because Brandon is deranged doesn’t mean Kieran was a good man. And if both of these men were despicable, what did that say about me, that I had chosen them?

  After Brandon and I had divorced, I’d visited a therapist in the city a few times, and she had suggested that I’d been susceptible to Brandon’s intense romantic overtures because I’d grown up without a father. Most likely, as a child, I craved male attention, having been raised by only a mother. But my mother had done a wonderful job, I thought—I had wondered about my father, had dreamed of him. Yet I’d never felt that my mother and I were less than a family. Until someone had reminded us that we were not quite complete, in the eyes of society. I couldn’t bring my father to “family day,” couldn’t stand in front of the class and fulfill our assignment to read an essay about my father’s profession. My mother had been the one to read to me, to teach me to ride a bicycle, to play catch and Frisbee with me. Always my mother. So maybe the therapist had been right about me, that I had thirsted for male attention. I’d had no benchmark by which to gauge the character of the men I dated. But perhaps I’d merely been young and naïve, and I’d chosen, with Kieran, to trust again. To embrace life. He’d let me down.

  Brandon’s obsession with me was not my fault, either—he’d done this all by himself. As I watched him sink slowly into the couch, his hold on consciousness melting away, I thought about how he used to fall asleep with a beer in his hand, watching the football game. His job had been so physical, he’d drifted into slumber easily, while I’d been wound up after stressful days at the pharmacy, dealing with irate patients who demanded to know why their insurance didn’t cover their medications. I had settled into the rhythm of our life together, never questioning our daily routines—until I did. There is always a breaking point, I thought.

  I waited, hardly daring to move, until his breathing was regular, deep, and rhythmic. This is my breaking point now. Slowly, I got up. He shifted, began to snore. I tiptoed out into the hall, step-by-step, to the foyer. Opened the coat closet. A slight squeak. Damn. He didn’t move, his breathing loud but still regular. I shrugged on my coat. The wind sped up outside, rattling the house. I hoped the noise wouldn’t wake him.

  I grabbed my purse off the table in the foyer, slung the strap over my shoulder. Deputy John Russell’s business card was in my purse. As soon as I could get a signal, I would call him. He could arrest Brandon for stalking me, for breaking and entering. He would have to do something—and he could initiate the search for Kieran.

  I grabbed my car keys. Pulled on my sneakers. The front door—when I pulled it open, the noise of the wind rushed in on a current of cold, damp air. Holding the door with one hand, I stretched far enough back to see in through the archway to the living room. Brandon had not moved, his eyes shut. He was still sprawled out as if his body were glued to the couch. I worried I might’ve given him too much. Maybe—no, I had to leave.

  I stepped out onto the porch, pulled the door shut after me. A slight thud, but I’d been quiet enough.

  In the distance, through the trees, the angry surf rushed against the shore, throwing the gale into the forest. Tree trunks bent and swayed as I ran down the garden path. The magnolia tree leaned toward me, reaching out its arms. Stop it. It’s only a tree. Around the side of the house, the wind pushed me back, stealing my breath. I held the strap of my purse to my shoulder, leaned forward, and started toward the cars in the driveway, stark and metallic in the rising moonlight. Kieran’s Jaguar, silent and stoic, waiting for his return. My car next to Brandon’s truck.

  Brandon. Had I killed him? Was he dying right now? But I had to reach the Coast Guard. Maybe it was still possible to save Kieran. And then I could call Deputy Russell, tell him about Brandon. Get an aid car to him or take him into custody.

  I was almost to my car, key in hand. I’d have a head start, a little time to get away. A gust of wind shoved me backward again, and my purse strap slid down the sleeve of my coat to my wrist. My keys dropped onto the gravel. I bent to pick them up, shoved my purse strap up over my shoulder again. As I straightened, a shadow loomed in front of me.

  No, no, how could it be?

  I hadn’t heard him coming up behind me, hadn’t heard the front door open. But he hadn’t come out that way. Something must’ve woken him—maybe the creaking, shuddering house—and he must’ve dashed back through the hall, through the kitchen, and run out of the house through the back door.

  However he’d gotten here, Brandon stood between me and my car, a frightening giant, and there was no way I could possibly get past him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I gripped my car keys, the metal edges digging into the palms of my hands.

  How had he managed to wake up? Maybe, as I’d feared, the beer had dampened the effects of the Juliet. Or he’d only feigned being in a deep sleep. Or I’d misjudged the mixture. My mother had been the expert at mixing the powders. She knew the dosages. I had no idea what I was doing. Or maybe I’d simply made too much noise when I’d left. If I’d slipped out of the house more quietly or quickly, I could’ve made it to the car. But now . . . Brandon swayed in front of me, blinking in the moonlight. His plaid flannel shirt had come untucked from his pants. “Where are you going?” he said sleepily. “You left without me.”

  An echo of our marriage knocked around in my head. Don’t leave without me. Don’t go anywhere. I’d forgotten how much he’d tried to keep tabs on me, circumscribe my life, watch my every move as our relationship had slowly fallen apart.

  “I’m taking a walk, that’s all,” I said.

  “To your car.”

  “I’m walking by the car. You’re tired. Go inside and rest.” I squeezed the keys tighter, probably drawing blood. My heart pounded in my throat.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, his words bumping into each other. “It’s dangerous out there.”

  You’re what’s dangerous! I wanted to yell, but instead I said, “I’ll be fine. I know my way around.” I stepped to the left, but he moved to block my way. I moved to the right, and he moved, too, my shadow.

  “You need me to go with you.” His voice rose a little on the last word, you, almost a whine. As the moon pushed aside a cloud, his face appeared shadowed, and his deep-set eyes looked like recessed, hollow sockets. My heart thudded in my ears. He looked frighteningly zombielike, swaying a little, his expression slack, his eyes half-closed. Almost the way Kieran had looked when I’d seen him lying on the ground.

  “How about you go with me later?” I said, trying to sound cheery, but my voice came out shrill. “You look so tired. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

  He reached for my purse and pulled, the strap sliding down my arm, yanking me forward. “You don’t need your purse on a walk.”

  “No, I don’t. You’re right.” I let the purse slide right off my arm. Let him take it.

  “But you took it,” he spat.

  “I pick it u
p out of habit, every time I go out.”

  Still looking at me through those shadowed eyes, he held his arm out sideways and hurled the purse. It somersaulted into the air, arcing swiftly, and disappeared into the brambles.

  I don’t need it, I told myself. Be calm. You’re okay. “You didn’t have to throw it,” I said. “My wallet is in there.”

  “You don’t need your wallet,” he said. “It’s dark—you shouldn’t be out alone.”

  “I can see by moonlight,” I said.

  “Come back inside.” He grabbed my wrist in such a swift movement I had no time to react. The keys dropped from my hand, clanking to the ground. I twisted my arm out of his grip, crouched to pick up the keys, but he pushed my shoulder, and I stumbled backward. He moved at uncanny speed, snatching up the keys and dropping them into his pocket.

  No, no! “Give them to me,” I said, regaining my balance. “Give me the damn keys.”

  “You don’t need them,” he said flatly. “You need me. Don’t run from me.” His words were filled with cotton, as if his tongue moved sluggishly.

  “I’m not running from you,” I said, but I was. I needed to run now, fast. Through the trees, the lights of Chantal’s house winked at me. I could head that way, if I could keep my eye on the lights, stick to the trail through the woods. If I could get to the trail at all.

  Brandon’s gaze narrowed, his voice a tight accusation. “You’re not going for a walk. You’re lying to me.” In another sudden, unexpected movement, he grabbed my shoulders, his fingernails digging in. “What are you thinking? You get spooked. You’re your own worst enemy, Elise.”

  “You’re hurting me,” I said.

  His eyes widened. He loosened his grip, the wind tossing his hair, but he still held on. “You don’t want to leave me, do you?” he said. “We had so many good times. I took care of you.”

  “You did,” I said, trying a different approach. “We loved doing so many things together. Just making breakfast, laughing at the comics in the newspapers. Playing Scrabble.” It was all I could do to conjure happy memories.

  “I learned how to play,” he slurred. “But you always kicked my ass. You never gave me a chance.”

  I did, I wanted to shout. For four painful years, we tried and tried. “Your eyes are closing,” I said. “Take a nap, and we’ll talk when I get back. I live here. I’m going to come home.”

  “You loved me, but everything was too hard. I made it easier for you now. It’s so easy.”

  “Give me my keys.” My teeth chattered; my lower back began to ache.

  “You’re safe with me. Don’t you see that?” he said in anguish.

  “You’re still hurting my shoulders,” I said.

  He let go, held up his hands. “Sorry. I’ll drive. I’ll take you anywhere. We don’t have to stay here.”

  I tried to sidestep him, but he grabbed my arm again, his grip strong and painful, despite the sedative effects of the Slumber powder.

  A knife of pain stabbed my lower back. I gasped. “Let go of me.”

  “Come inside and we’ll talk. I love you.”

  “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

  He yanked my arm, nearly pulling the bone from my shoulder socket. I stumbled, and he threw me down onto the gravel. I lay there, winded. Had he just done that? He’d never raised a hand to me, never . . . What had I done? The Slumber powder must’ve messed with his mind. Made him violent. But I’d always worried that violence lurked right around the corner for him. That at any time, he might throw a punch—or throw me.

  I scrambled to my feet, staggering away from him. Then I broke into a run, sprinting toward the dark trail through the woods. The shortest route to Chantal’s house. The moon still cast its silvery light across the landscape. Maybe I would find my way.

  “I’m sorry,” Brandon called out behind me. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do that.” The thuds of his footsteps echoed behind me, catching up fast. He grabbed my shoulder, pulling on the fabric of my coat. I let him yank it right off me, as I stumbled forward and kept running, the cold wind blowing through my damp shirt. My lungs ached, screaming for air. He caught up again, grabbed my shoulder. I swung around and wrenched away—he staggered off-balance, and I kept running, stumbled on a tree root, fell forward in slow motion, and then hit the earth with jarring force.

  I sat up and looked back. I couldn’t see far into the darkness as a cloud blindfolded the moon. My phone was in the pocket of my coat, left behind somewhere—wherever he had thrown it. But if I could make it to Chantal’s place, she could call the police.

  Footsteps thumped behind me, Brandon calling my name, shouting at me to stop. I pushed to my feet and took off again, adrenaline kicking in. I needed to remember the trails, the turns. Left, right. The cloud let go of the moon, and light bled across the forest again. I could see, for now—the contours of the trail, the labyrinth I’d frequented as a child, running at top speed. But I never imagined I would be running for my life. The lights of Chantal’s house winked in and out of view, but I couldn’t tell if they were growing closer or farther away. I could hear Brandon yelling behind me, his voice hoarse and full of rage. “Stop, Elise! Stop, damn it!”

  My lungs seized—my heart nearly exploded. I had to stop, lean forward, catch my breath. I could hear him cursing as he stumbled through nettles. The crackling of underbrush not far behind me. I ran again, but I could no longer see the lights. The forest had thickened. I was heading in the wrong direction. Brambles raked at my legs. I’d veered off the trail onto a deer path.

  “Elise!” he called out, his voice receding. I had a chance, but where was I?

  I emerged in a clearing. The clouds whisked across the moon, then the gray light revealed a one-person tent sagging next to a driftwood log, the ash of a campfire inside a circle of stones. Had I wandered so far off-track I’d reached the state park, the campsites? It wasn’t possible. Thank goodness, somebody must be here.

  “Help!” I said, trying not to shout. “I need help. Is anyone here?”

  No answer. No sign of anyone. Somewhere not far enough away, Brandon crashed through the underbrush. “Elise? Elise! Where are you?”

  I ducked at the entrance to the tent. “Hello?” No answer. I unzipped the front, crawled inside. In the dim, temporary light of the moon, I could make out a sleeping bag, a portable lamp, a small cooler, a flashlight. Stale body odor hit my nose, the smell of apples. I grabbed the flashlight, turned it on and covered the beam with my hand, swept the muted light around in the tent. Someone had slept here recently. The cooler was open, a half sandwich inside, a juice bottle. A plastic water bottle lay on the floor of the tent, tipped over. The roof of the tent appeared to be waterproof—everything inside was dry.

  “Elise!” Brandon called out in the distance. Now again he seemed farther away. Maybe I had lost him. I swept the flashlight beam around in the tent, looking for a phone, a weapon, a two-way radio—anything. A book peeked out from inside the sleeping bag. I pulled it out. It was a lined school notebook, several loose pages falling out, squiggles inside. I thought I recognized the handwriting.

  If I die now, it was not an accident. Dr. L . . .

  The cursive looked like my mother’s. But not exactly. The loops were tentative, the lines shaky. The sentence was repeated many times on many lines. Over and over. But my mother could not have written these words. Unless her ghost had visited the campsite, had decided to write through the hand of a living person, to warn me. But I did not believe in ghosts.

  No, these were practice words. Someone else learning how to write like my mother. I lifted the notebook, my fingers numb and red from the cold. My eyes watered—I was still trying to catch my breath. The tent shuddered in the wind—waves crashed against the beach not far from here, flinging up the dank, salty scent of the sea. As I flipped the page, printed photographs fell from the back of the notebook. They landed in a jumble on the sleeping bag.

  Brandon no longer called for me. He’d taken off in another
direction, or he’d given up on chasing me, or he’d simply gone silent. I hoped he would not find the campsite. If I stayed in the tent, I might be safe. Unless. Unless the tent was his, and this was his campsite. But he’d said he was staying in a rental in town, with a view.

  He’d spied on us, peered in through the windows, possibly even sneaked through our house. Of course this was his campsite, his tent. Which meant he knew where it was. He could find me at any moment—but in the dark?

  I couldn’t quite grasp what I was seeing—what was going on here? A notebook in a tent, a campsite, my mother’s handwriting. Photographs—I picked up the topmost one, glossy but slightly creased. It was a picture of Brandon and me, a close-up taken by the wedding photographer. We must’ve been exchanging rings or about to kiss. He gazed down at me, grinning, his eyes bright and hopeful. His hair had been shorter, no beard, and he had not yet bulked up. I barely recognized him. I looked young, my face smooth and cherubic, a garland in my braided hair. Naïve. I’d worn soft white cotton, the sunlight bathing us in warmth. It had been a June wedding, and we were under another tent—a big, high-topped white one, in the sun. There was my mother in the background, seated in the front row of the tent—smiling. How happy I’d been, how hopeful. But now I felt as though I gazed upon a different person, not me at all. Brandon and I had been married in the garden at the Port Bay Winery north of Seattle. He’d wanted a grand affair, but most of the guests had been his friends and family. He’d managed the planning, right down to the catering, the types of flowers, the choice of band that played at the reception. I’d helped, but I hadn’t been in control.

  Brandon and I starred in all the photographs—kissing, dancing, me throwing the bouquet, our friends laughing. There were other photos, images depicting the best moments of our trips we took to Vancouver, Portland, the Cascades. My face smiled out from every shot, our lost past concentrated in the back of this warped, water-damaged notebook. Hidden inside a sleeping bag. But now I saw the past in a new way. He’d planned the trips, gently suggested what I should wear. He’d never wanted me to venture from the hotels without him. It hadn’t been a late development in the marriage—he’d exerted his control early on. Why hadn’t I understood?