The Memento

by Christy Ann Conlin

  Dr. Baker pushed people aside as Jenny cried with her dry eyes, her shoulders heaving. Art took my hand and led me away from the gazebo and the chaos that had erupted over Marigold. We went to the Wishing Pool surrounded by the polished gemstones from the beach that Mr. Charlie had collected with his dear mother who loved him so. The pieces of Grampie’s and my brother’s teacups were like mini stepping stones in the bottom of the Wishing Pool, disappearing from view occasionally when the goldfish darted about and made ripples over the water as the afternoon sun fell down. We sat transfixed by the water when we heard someone yell “Fire!” and in the southern sky we saw black smoke looping up in great feathery plumes as the forest behind the carriage house burned. We ran back, and in the pandemonium only Jenny didn’t seem surprised or panicked. She lifted her head up and slowly turned it, the blaze shining in her glasses.

  22.

  The Expedition

  HARRY INSISTED on taking us to the island. He said we needed to go precisely because of all that had happened. It would be good for our spirits to get away from Petal’s End. An expedition always helped put things in perspective, he said, and perspective brought relief. It would help take our minds off the calamity. The tragedies. The upsets.

  They had arrested Hector, arrested him for his big fields of ferny green plants he was growing way back on the land. The police did not know who set the fire. Hector did not tell on Jenny and she did not admit it. She blamed Hector for Margaret being at Petal’s End. It was his fault, she had impulsively decided. She was angry, too, that he had laughed alongside Margaret when she made fun of the Parkers.

  Marigold was in the hospital. Her fall had caused a heart attack and a broken hip and wrist. Estelle said Dr. Baker wasn’t fit to care for her. They’d had a huge argument and Harry had intervened. Pomeline had just sat in the music room playing, one hand smooth and the other stiff, the music broken and empty. She didn’t seem to notice the tumult, just plunked away playing her exam selection over and over as if in a trance. There were to be no exams. The sole focus of her life had been taken away in one moment.

  We’d left Dr. Baker and Estelle arguing and we were on the dock at noon. We left in the thick fog that was sitting low over the bay. I sat at the side of the boat looking into the white, thinking about Grampie, hearing him sing to me. On the wings of the wind o’er the dark rolling deep, angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep. Angels are coming to watch over thee, so listen to the wind coming over the sea. The mist was wet and coated my face. My lips were salty when I licked them, and I couldn’t help but think of Marigold and her distillations, her rose ottos and absolutes. It was an eerily muted journey.

  We were nearing the island when the fisherman who was taking us out cut the engine. He didn’t need to shush us. Art and I knew what to do. We’d been out in the boats many times. Harry looked confused, and Art whispered to him that the man was listening for gulls, for the sound of the wind hitting cliffs, for the waves breaking on the shore. He had no radar on his boat and he did as his father and his father before him had done and listened for the island. After a few moments the man seemed satisfied and went back to the wheelhouse to restart the engine.

  We veered sharp west and suddenly vast vertical red cliffs emerged out of the fog, daunting and prehistoric. In places, trees and meadow at the very top of the island plunged over the edge in a sheer drop as though the island had been ripped away from the mainland long ago. In spots deep vertical gouges cut into the precipice as though some giant god had raked his jagged fingernails over the cliff face and left his mark. Enormous swells and waves bashed into the cliffs, white foam and spray erupting far into the air. It seemed from this side there was no way up, that the island was a fortress. We rounded the western end where huge towers of rock stood high as buildings. A falcon, perched on top of one of the rocks, lifted up and soared away, disappearing into the mist. We had to journey around the entire island to find the spot on the north side where the wharf and fishing sheds used to be, where the island sloped down.

  Finally we came to the beach where the fisherman could row us and our gear ashore and leave the sojourners in solitude. It was hard getting out of the boat. Harry’s backpack dropped in the water and his radio got soaked. Sakura tripped and sprained her ankle. It was nothing serious but she had to sit on a stump Harry found and elevate her foot. He got her a stick to use as a crutch. The mist blew in and out. That was a constant out there, the fog rolling in and out, holes opening up in the haze to reveal glimpses of the blue sky before the curtains of mist would pull shut again in an instant and all you could see was what was ten feet in front of you and nothing beyond, there on the island in the middle of the bay. We stood on the barrier beach watching as the boat disappeared around the end of the island. We were alone. Petal’s End was gone and the mainland was gone and the gulls cried out.

  Jenny was already beyond the beach, over on the grassy area surrounded by buttercups and meadowsweet. Harry and Sakura sent us up to the top of the island, and they put Pomeline in charge. They wanted us to get some exercise while they set up the campsite. They were expert campers, Harry kept reminding us. Harry made us the guides because we had been there before. We were allowed to explore the original lighthouse site. We were not to go near the cliffs. When we came down we would have supper. Sakura waved as we headed off. The fog was blowing in and her long black hair whipped around and then disappeared into the grey mist.

  We went up the only path toward the top. The island was surrounded by cliffs on all sides except where we climbed. The path had once been a farm road big enough for horses to haul a wagon up and down, but the island was taking it back now, the boreal forest growing in since it had been abandoned thirty years before. Now it was just a wide and wild overgrown trail, tall enough for children to scamper along but low enough for a grown man to have to duck. Damp ferns brushed our ankles. We moved farther into the dark green light. Art’s leg was bleeding where branches had scraped at him. Jenny hummed to herself. Pomeline, beside me, stared meditatively at the trees. And up we went to the tippity-top, the path breaking into what had been a hayfield. It had gone wild, and the grasses were up to our chests. We pushed ahead, through a cluster of trembling aspens. We could see it then, off to the west, the tall metal skeleton of the automated lighthouse. The outbuildings had fallen down. Nothing left but the stone foundations.

  Jenny crawled up the crumbling stone wall and into what had been a cellar, now just a jumble of rusted metal and blackened wood. If you pawed around you could find pieces of glass, warped and deformed from how white-hot the fire had been. There was choirs of birds singing on the branches, and late-summer raspberries growing up through the wreckage. Jenny picked a handful. I held up my hand to her, like Loretta. “Don’t eat them, Jenny. Ground’s covered in mercury from the lens in the lighthouse. Grampie told us that.”

  Pomeline told her to put them down but Jenny ignored her and stuck out her tongue. “Don’t be a fool,” Pomeline said. I had never heard her say nothing mean like that before. She walked over and reached down and held out her hand. Jenny gave them berries to Pomeline, dropping them in her white palm. Then Pomeline ate them berries, one by one.

  We shuffled uneasily. “What are you doing, Pomeline?” Art asked.

  She just laughed.

  Pomeline seemed crazed after that. We played tag and hide-and-seek and she had an uncanny energy in her that we had not ever seen before. It was as though the higher elevation was affecting her, the crisp sea air whistling through the hemlocks and pines was revitalizing Pomeline. Her ashen cheeks were now flushed red. The games stopped being games when Jenny was tugging at her sister, pulling at her like she was a small child and Pomeline was her mother. Pomeline ran away from her, up that skeletal metal lighthouse. We didn’t see at first from where we were sprawled on the Colonel’s helicopter landing pad. We lay there in the searing sun that broke through the mists every so often. We were drained, you see, from the tragedies. We hardly spoke. Art hummed and
I whistled. It was Jenny who called out.

  “Look,” she said, pointing, holding her hand to her forehead to block the brightness out. We did the same, and there was Pomeline up high on the metal ladder, her hair soaring out like a banner, her dress flapping in the wind, and she was laughing. She was not crying, she was not. “Catch me, catch me, catch me if you can,” she called out. The weather changed then, a thick grey fog rolling in, dark clouds behind it.

  Jenny went over to the old foundation, picked up a small stone and threw it at Pomeline. I remember how surprising it was that it hit Pomeline’s ankle from such a distance. Jenny threw another one and Pomeline winced. “Come down,” Jenny shrieked. “Come down and don’t cause any more trouble. You’ve been very bad.”

  Pomeline did come down, quickly, even with her one stiff hand. That’s how I remembered it. That is how we all remembered it. She stood there safely on the ground and rubbed her fingers, avoiding eye contact. She ran off to the south through the swaying meadow grasses yelling Catch me if you can and we went after her like we was hound dogs on a trail.

  As we come to the end of the meadow we saw her, looking over her shoulder. I was screaming by then for she was at the island’s edge, and the wind come through them fir trees hanging on the edge, howling, and she dropped down and there was nothing but the foggy sky in front of us. We sprinted forward and she was below the edge, hanging onto a root with her good hand. Pomeline tried to grab hold with the bad one too but she couldn’t stand the pain. Slowly, those long white fingers slipped and slipped, each one abandoning her. She was gone before we could even try to help. It started pouring then, sheets of rain coming down heavy in the storm that had blown in on the high tide. Art and I held Jenny back as the rain dampened her screams. I swear it looked like tears were streaming from her eyes just to be washed away by the rain. This is how I remembered it. We was only children.

  Even with all them years behind me now, as I sit in my chair with my aching joints and my tired heart, young Jenny cries still. It was long ago but those who walk into the future with grief know the lamentations of the dead never cease.

  Part II

  Once, far over the breakers,

  I caught a glimpse

  Of a white bird

  And fell in love

  With this dream which obsesses me.

  YOSANO AKIKO

  In my dream the dead have arrived

  to wash the windows of my house.

  There are no blinds to shut them out with.

  SINÉAD MORRISSEY, “Through the Square Window”

  1.

  The Believers

  WE DROVE over the mountain and down to the valley. Loretta wore her mourning clothes, a black dress and black bonnet. She insisted I don a dress she’d sewn for me, just like hers, and she made me cover my hair as well. We were going away, but she didn’t say where and I didn’t ask. It wasn’t a time for talking. Estelle had told us to leave immediately. We packed up our things and loaded them in her car for one of its rare outings. This one was different as it was a one-way trip. We did not talk of Hector and how the only reason the car still ran was from his careful maintenance. When we started driving away from the house it was clear just how little we had. Some clothes and books, Loretta’s worn Bible and hymnal, a few toys and knick-knacks, my embroidery basket tucked at the bottom of my suitcase. In our rush I’d left Ma’s box of supplies in my room, along with my letter from Grampie.

  Estelle was shutting the whole place down. She had berated Harry. His grief draped over him so heavy the man was barely able to walk. He couldn’t speak without tears threading through the lines on either side of his mouth. It was his fault entirely, Estelle had said, that Pomeline had fallen over the edge of the island, bashed against those cliffs. Harold alone was responsible for his innocent young cousin being sucked away by the horrible heaving waves and tides, not even a body for her bereaved mother to bury. He was liable for letting guileless children go unattended. It didn’t matter the bay had conjured up the storm out of nowhere. He should have done something.

  He and Sakura had packed their trunk and left quickly. Sakura embraced us, leaning on her crutches. Harry apologized for not helping, he was overcome as Sakura led him away. Our young faces brought the island back to him, I knew. They went to the city, where Marigold languished in a hospital. Estelle was in charge now, with Dr. Baker at her side, comporting themselves as sole survivors of that summer. It was just what they wanted.

  Art and Yvette went to stay with some cousins. We did not keep in touch. Jenny was whisked away after they brought us back to Petal’s End. We’d all been taken by helicopter to the valley hospital through a hole in the ceiling of clouds. We were checked over, Jenny, Art and I, and Sakura and Harry, while they looked for Pomeline in the bay, in the atrocious thunderstorm with the churning, monstrous currents of the outgoing tide. We’d all been desperate and parched for rain that summer. The heavens delivered and it arrived in torrents and sheets. Down in the valley at the hospital the sky loomed dark but the air was still. To the north over the mountain thunderclouds and distant flashes cracked through the air.

  The police questioned Art, Jenny and me, and we told them that we’d been playing tag, and the gusting winds and rain came. We told them how the sunny afternoon sky had turned dark as night in an instant. After, we’d struggled down to the beach, tripping and falling in the mud. The gale had crushed down the meadow grass, obliterating our trail on the island top. Harry had come back up with me and Art. Jenny had stayed below with Sakura, who could only offer comfort. But we were helpless, all of us. The bay was bashing into the cliffs where Pomeline had plummeted down. Sakura had extra batteries in her pack and Harry used his radio to call for help, but it was slow coming in the storm. We told them this, wailing and shaking. But we did not tell them everything, for we had taken a vow there on the top of the island.

  Not for twelve years would we see each other again. We kept this second vow of silence along with the first one we’d made in the garden that summer, to keep what had passed between Pomeline and Dr. Baker a secret. Dr. Baker wasn’t as sad as he should have been. I was furious to see flashes of relief in his eyes. In those last strange few days at Petal’s End, Jenny walked about with her hands clasped, only speaking in her strange verses, humming, watching, until they removed her.

  The nightmares stayed with me for a year, and I had to sleep in Loretta’s room with her. The heavy rain and wind would make my heart leap. I would wake covered in slick sweat as though the rain had come in through the roof. My lips tasted of the salt of the sea which seemed to have seeped into my body. Sometimes I would dream of my embroidery wickerwork box I’d forgotten at Petal’s End. Other times I would see myself standing over the secret floor compartment in my room at Petal’s End where I’d left the letter from Grampie with the flower sachet. I’d awake worried that maybe the peonies had called forth fairies but not the good kind.

  They looked for Pomeline for a week. At first they called it a rescue. Then they called it a recovery. They was looking for her body, and they searched that whole massive bay from end to end, to where it emptied out into the ocean, but the natural world had claimed her. We were incapacitated with grief. Estelle only spoke once to me, when she came to the kitchen to tell Loretta we had to go. At least your mother had a body to bury. She made a horrible gagging sound like she was going to throw up and she ran out of the kitchen and down the long hall, into the main house. Loretta did not go after her. Later I slunk out to the front of the house, to the door where the mirror was nailed. I stood with my eyes closed and panic crushed my lungs flat. I was sure there was a creak on the verandah behind me and I opened my eyes. Surely this would be the evocation to bring on the memento. But there was nothing in the mirror except me, and behind me the forest at the edge of the property. The dead made no appearance.

  Death is such a quiet thing once it has come; however there is nothing quiet about its arrival. At first it feels like the dead have just gone
away for a bit, that they’ll return. A yearning takes hold of your heart. When Grampie died it seemed if I waited long enough he would come back and take his place beside me on the verandah, or at the kitchen table, surely by his easel. But of course he did not come back. You look for the dead in familiar places. You listen for their footsteps, for their laughter, for their songs. I kept thinking I’d hear Pomeline laugh from down the hall or see her moving through the garden, on one of her solitary walks, resting on a marble bench with her notebook and her pen making her musical notes, her patient voice encouraging us in our singing, and the sound of her melodies cascading from the music room and out the window. Even the sorrow and perversion of her last days of playing, the broken music she had summoned from her crushed fingers and spirit of despair, would have been a welcome sound.

  There was no funeral or memorial service for Pomeline Charles Parker. There was only an obituary. It was too horrible, and without the body it seemed she’d just gone away, that she’d forgotten to come home and, eventually, that she’d only ever been a memory, a story told to us once, a fairy who had moved through the garden, as though she was the girl in Harry’s garden story, not killed by poisonous flowers but by recklessness, a plague of recklessness corrupting us all.