The Memento

by Christy Ann Conlin

  The next day Jenny wanted a picnic by the lily pond. As usual, she insisted she was fine walking, and as usual, it took us forever just to get there. When we arrived she had to sit down right away on the bench, wheezing away, clutching her stomach. She took to coughing, and I gave her some water from the picnic basket. The swans were floating at the far end by the dilapidated Atelier. She called to them and they gurgled back at her in this low, disturbing way. I had a blanket and put it on the ground where we ate our cucumber sandwiches. She had hardly any appetite, and then she stretched out in the shade, but not before telling me to get her a pink water lily from the pond. Jenny was never too tired to give orders.

  That was the last thing I wanted to do, and I told her the lilies was far out in the water and she didn’t like picked flowers anyhow. She ignored me and had Art fetch the boat tied down by the Atelier. He had done repairs and painted it—it was the newest-looking thing around. The swan house on the small island in the middle of the lily pond was looking awful rickety too, like a rundown doghouse for a big attack beast. I dawdled at the edge of the bank, adjusted my dress. I didn’t want them to know I was afraid so I climbed in. Art paddled us about. He called to Jenny that we were looking for the perfect one. I didn’t glance at the water, and I knew Art noticed.

  “We don’t have all day, Fancy,” Jenny said. “I’ll need a nap soon. Just pick one. You grew up doing this. Why are you acting all bizarre?”

  Nerves came over me again when I leaned out of the boat and grabbed one of them pink floating flowers. The weeping willows hung over us, and it seemed to me every time I got my fingers close to a lily, something underwater pulled it away from my fingertips. A whisper of wind rippled over the surface and the glass bells in the willows tinkled. I thought about when I first got here, the face I thought I saw. The light dappled down through the thin branches and distorted my reflection on the water. My throat was tight and I didn’t answer when Art asked if I was okay. I was determined to get Jenny a goddamn lily and I reached one more time for a big fragrant one right by the side of the boat. But as I touched it I saw eyes below the surface of the water, and lips moving as if they was singing. I swear that’s what it looked like. I screamed and pulled back with the lily still in my fingers but it wouldn’t give. I tugged hard, the boat rocked and over I went. Art almost fell out but he steadied himself as I flailed my way through the water to the island and leaned on the swan house.

  “What happened?” Jenny was sitting up on the marble bench now, leaning forward, her hands folded.

  “Nothing.”

  Art was looking at me strangely, and I knew then I would have to tell him sooner or later about the unnatural things happening, how my thinking was all confused. One minute things seemed normal, and then the next it was all wrong, and then back again. They’d think I was crazy. I couldn’t stand the idea of Art believing my mind was frail like my mother’s and Jenny’s. Or him having to report me to the social worker. I remember realizing maybe he could help me make sense of all the confusion with his psychology. I was either going crazy or it was the memento in me, and both were horrible scenarios to consider. But I couldn’t trust either Jenny or Art. It was too risky. I had to act like everything was regular and right as robins in the rain.

  Art rowed over to the island just as them stupid swans started making low fizzling hisses and picked up lightning speed at the other end of the pond, coming for us. Jenny squawked at them and they stopped dead in the water, turned right around and went back where they came from. That in itself was disturbing. They got right out of the water on the far end of the pond and sat there on the bank.

  “They are well-mannered and do as I say. So you two follow their example. Now, since you couldn’t get me a water lily, get me the box in the swan house,” Jenny said.

  As usual, we had no idea what she was on about. She repeated her instruction. Art and I exchanged a glance.

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  Art hopped off the boat and onto the island. It was easiest to humour Jenny. That said, there wasn’t no way I was reaching inside that swan house. The big white birds was hissing from the far bank. Any second they could come slapping those hard bony-ridged wings at our heads. Art didn’t let on the swans were worrying him and he went right over to the small building. He crawled in and come out with a box wrapped up in plastic.

  “What’s in that?” I yelled over to Jenny.

  “Don’t drop it in the water,” she said.

  We got back in the boat and Art gave a couple quick strokes until we reached the edge of the pond. Art tied the boat to a small tree and he carried the box over to her. It wasn’t heavy, not for him. He set it down beside her. She tapped it.

  “I put it there a long time ago, when I was stronger,” Jenny said. She was completely fatigued now.

  Art walked down to the Atelier, where he had left a wobbly wheelbarrow, and Jenny didn’t put up no fight when Art scooped her up, along with the box, and put them in it. He pushed her through Evermore, her head bobbing, some scary-looking baby out for a walk. Jenny clutched the parcel in her arms. She was singing but I couldn’t make out the words.

  Jenny didn’t offer anything about the wooden box at supper. It took some prying. I asked her what she had stashed away in the swan house. She looked at the candles and at the china in the cabinets around the walls, deep in thought. I can see her in my mind, the soft light making her seem healthier than she was.

  “Family photos and papers. And my sister’s journal,” she said. “I haven’t read it yet. I took it before they closed the house up.

  It’s got a lock on it. I’d have to break it. You know how she liked her secrets. There are other items I’ve got hidden away. I’ve already looked at them. Now I know why my mother wanted the Annex torn down. But we don’t need to talk about that. You should go see your mother. Ronald called again. He accused me of not giving you his messages. I told him that was most certainly not the case but he kept interrupting me. She’s very sick, he said, and keeps asking for you. Your mother won’t have much longer. That doesn’t seem to bother you. I feel that way about my mother but your mother is a better person, even if you find that hard to believe.”

  “She’s just making it up about being sick. It’s always the same with her. Whenever Ma does something nice it’s because she wants something. I know what she’ll go on about. You saw well enough what she’s like.”

  Jenny took a big sip of wine and wiped her mouth on a napkin. She asked Art if he had any other activities planned. How she had enjoyed the stepping stones, she said.

  “Oh yes,” Art said, “I have a garden meditation in mind.” He seemed happy to change the subject.

  It was a distracted conversation, all of us thinking of not just Ma ranting by the tombstone but of what Pomeline might have written in that journal. It was no surprise Jenny had held off reading it. She was as patient as an ancient tortoise, biding her time. Art pressed on about the garden meditation.

  Jenny clapped her hands. “I love your activities, Art. It’s like day camp. Of course I was never allowed to go to day camp.”

  “Agatha, you would have loved the hospital I was in. We did all kinds of them therapeutic activities,” I told her.

  “I spent plenty of time in hospitals when I was a child, time you could not imagine, Fancy.”

  “Grampie used to say we was all born to die, just some of us earlier than others.” It struck me how mean that was to say. What my intention was, I didn’t know.

  Jenny wasn’t fazed. “Your Grampie was a wise man, Fancy. You should think more about what he taught you.” She put her glass down, stood up and off she went with her cane, saying good night as she went out the door.

  Art and I cleared off the table and did the dishes. He couldn’t help himself looking at me and it bothered him. He blushed, and I pretended I didn’t notice. My dress fell off my shoulder while I washed the plates. He watched me as he took them off t
he drying rack and wiped. I let him have a look. It made my heart pound without fear, a welcome change.

  I asked Art if Jenny was unbalanced, hiding the journal in the swan house and dragging us out there pretending she wanted flowers. This was getting a bit strange, even for her. Art said he’d talk to her tomorrow. Maybe it would help give Jenny closure, he pondered. That’s why people liked reading the diaries of the dead, so they could shut a door. “Not talking about tragic things doesn’t mean they didn’t happen. We all need closure, Fancy.”

  Closure. A word I had only ever heard used for roads and bridges.

  It was fitting.

  6.

  The Hobgobblies

  THERE WAS one thing about Jenny that never changed and that was how she was full of surprises. In all my life I never knew anyone else like her. That summer when we was all cloistered up at Petal’s End she had me believing she needed a caregiver but it hardly seemed that way, seeing as she wouldn’t let me do a damn thing for her.

  “Fancy,” Jenny said, “you are just like Loretta. The house is running smoothly. And you’ve been so thoughtful to help with the cooking.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re happy, Agatha. That’s what I’m here for, ain’t it, not a vacation?” I chuckled a bit because it was funny and all, her thanking me for working for her, which was what her grandmother would have done.

  She was staring at me intently then, the dusky evening light bouncing off her glasses. Jenny had not made mention of the journal since the day we brought it back. But she was watching me all the time. If there was the slightest movement in the trees or a creak of the floor she’d turn her head quick and see if I reacted. I would look up from the stove and her eyes would be on me. Then she’d leave the room. Twice I was lost in a book on the verandah and raised my head to see her standing there, like she was waiting. But what Jenny was waiting for I had no idea. Several times she said my name as though she had caught me about to start something, but when I’d ask her what she wanted she would tell me to never mind, the entire while studying me. When I mentioned her behaviour to Art he said we both knew what Jenny was like and to pay no attention to her.

  It was mid August when she let out why she had brought me back to Petal’s End. We was in the garden after supper, watching her swans cruise over the surface of the lily pond before they retired for the night. I recall how Art stood up and walked down to the edge of the water. His hands were in his pockets, his silver hair looking plum in the sunset light.

  “It’s lovely having you assist in the house, with the laundry and the cleaning, and of course the cooking. As you know, I’m not well, and I am not going to get better,” she continued. “I am mortally ill.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “There have been noises in the house at night. I’m sure you’ve heard them.”

  “Is it the hobgobblies?” I said, winking at her, but she didn’t react.

  She sipped her wine and licked her lips. “Yes, I suppose it is. You know I keep the windows closed, like my grandmother, so they can’t get in.”

  “I have noticed that, Agatha.”

  “Well, it isn’t keeping her out. I can hear her at night, on the staircase. I can hear her going down the stairs and the music room door opening and I can hear her sit at the piano. I can hear the lid opening. She’s preparing. She’s come back to get us. Given what you have gone through, and of course your family experience, we need you to help us.”

  “Agatha, this really isn’t a good idea. I don’t think it’s time yet.” Art watched the swans shake and twist their long necks, grunting and whistling as they paddled to the island. He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look me in the eye, for he had betrayed me.

  “Art, you bastard. How could you go and tell Jenny, or Agatha, or whatever it is you want us to call you? I’m not like Grampie. You swore you’d keep that a secret.”

  He turned then but he looked at Jenny. “See, I told you to just let this alone.”

  “She doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. She’s in total denial. An altered reality.”

  “I do too know what you mean, you freaks. I can’t see the dead. Maybe I believed that stuff back when I was a kid. I ain’t going chatting with Pomeline. You’re out of your mind, Agatha. You’re the one in an altered reality. Art’s just indulging you.”

  “I told you this was a bad idea, Jenny.”

  “Do not call me that, Art. And you, Fancy, you are the one being indulged.”

  “Everything is a bad idea, just one after another. This ain’t just a bad idea, it’s an abomination. Grampie used to say what you send out the door in the morning will come back to scratch at the door in the night if you haven’t made your peace. I made my peace, but you two have not made your peace with what happened, and that ain’t my problem. We all swore over there on the island, didn’t we?”

  “We did. Pomeline fell,” Art said.

  “She didn’t go falling off no cliff. I don’t see why you keep pretending it’s so. And are you trying to blame me? That’s nonsense to put it on me,” I said.

  Jenny was rocking her head back and forth like she was a wind-up doll breaking down. “We need to go over to the island and set things right. Art’s bought a little boat for me, down in the harbour. We are going to take that out to the island. We’ll do a prayer. Just as they did in that story Sakura told us about. Remember? You can call Pomeline for us. Her body was lost at sea. It’s August. It’s Obon. Her spirit is loose. Don’t you remember? Won’t you at least go look for her in the mirror at the front of the house?”

  There was no way I was going to tell them I’d checked that mirror every day, and right then I swore to myself not to look again, no matter how much I was tempted. “No, I will not look in that mirror. You should take it down. And I ain’t going over to the island. You two don’t seem to understand some of us have real lives. I have my daughter to get back. I can’t go on no ghostly errands for you. What would the social worker say?”

  “Well, to start with, I don’t know how you think you’re getting your daughter back—”

  “Jenny, that’s enough,” Art said. “You need to take a sedative and go to bed. You’ll kill yourself.”

  Jenny bit her lip and went back to rocking her head. “I’m going to die soon enough, so what does it matter? If you won’t help me I can’t force you to. And if you don’t even believe in your own gift there’s nothing I can do. She only comes in the night, and we’ll be safe with the windows closed. Maybe we should board them up again. We’ll be safe … for now.” Jenny coughed. “But Pomeline’s going to do something dreadful, just you watch.”

  A few days later Art and I was eating breakfast in the kitchen. Jenny was still in bed. She had retreated into herself since her outburst at the pond. She still kept a watch on me, though. While she stopped with the demand to speak to her dead sister, the weight she’d slung around that night did not leave.

  We heard a creaking sound in the hall early that morning. Jenny didn’t get out of bed until much later. Art and I clutched our coffee cups, suddenly afraid, like we was kids, and we strained our necks to look down the hall. Art stood up and turned around, his arms out, like he was going to protect me.

  Jenny arrived, infuriated, in the doorway. “Art, I told you to keep the windows closed. You should never have taken the boards off. I told both of you. And you know how I feel about flowers, Fancy. You know how I feel about cut flowers. You’re like a deranged florist, that’s what you are. You both know what this means, what you’ve done. Didn’t you even hear the wind bells warning you? Didn’t you even hear those, you idiots? Why do you think I had them hanging!” She was thrashing her cane around and her voice was ragged. We told her we didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “First you refuse to help me and then you act on your own, without even giving me a warning. You want her to get me. To punish me. You went and called the dead, you and your stupid flowers. And you, Art, with your need for therapeutic ventilation. You’
re helping Fancy. You two were always thick as thieves, one escape after another. But this is no child’s play. You want her to kill me.”

  “I didn’t open the windows, Agatha,” Art said.

  I went scurrying by Jenny in the hall as Art was trying to reason with her—we didn’t open any windows at night and no one was cutting flowers and bringing them in the house. No one was doing anything in the night but sleeping.

  But sure enough as I come out into the grand hall the door was wide open with a breeze blowing in the screen. The windows Art had unboarded were opened wide. And there on the big marble-topped round table was the huge vase full of glorious, fresh-cut flowers.

  Art come barrelling into the room behind me and Jenny came wheezing behind him. “Neither of you did this?”

  We made to close the windows and Jenny banged her cane on the floor. “It’s too late. She’s in the house now and we’re never going to get her out again. The point of no return, you imbeciles.” She went out to the verandah and swung her cane at the glass bells. They shattered on the wooden floor and she left them there, the jagged pieces, with bits of yellow and blue flowers on the shards.

  7.

  Pomeline

  THERE WAS a pattern now—weird things happening, and then nothing but the normal eccentricity of Jenny and Petal’s End. We resumed our routine, the embroidery, Art’s group therapy activities. Art was now making a concerted effort to act like a psychologist, and he said his activities would help wake up our true emotions. Sometimes feelings don’t need no waking up, I lectured him. Hadn’t he seen that already? For a time there was not another word about which was crazier, going in the boat to the island, or Pomeline returning as an avenging ghost. Grampie said to choose your words carefully, that you speak of a thing once and before you know it, there it is, in the room with you, conjured up.

  One morning I went out to the garden to look for raspberries. On the way back I glanced toward the front of the house and I noticed there was a path of rose petals leading from the house to the garden, just as there had been the day of the garden party. I walked alongside of it, slowly picking up speed until I was charging back into the kitchen where Art was making coffee. I dragged him out to see. He stood there, holding his coffee cup, squinting from the brightness of the morning sun.