The Garden of Blue Roses

by Michael Barsa

  It started just after you left. We were in the kitchen, eating at Marta's table because Mother hated the dining room getting messy. He was eating mashed-up pears from a jar. I remember that because I wondered if he was allergic to them. He'd had pears countless times before, but never before had he started gagging like he did that night. He was making funny faces too, and I wondered if he was teasing me. Have you ever heard of a 1-year old teasing? I turned away, stopped paying attention, hoping he might calm down. It didn't work. I don't know which came first, the screams or the throwing up. They seemed to fly out of him at the same instant—a throw-up-scream that sent pear everywhere, all over my new dress, my hair, the table, the wallpaper. I was angry. I can admit that now. I was angry and I picked him up. I rocked him and I shook him and my hands became slippery from all that pear. I was crying when I dropped him, when I heard that awful smack of bone on tile. Then everything became quiet. He just lay there, arms out at his sides as if soaking up the sun. He looked peaceful, more peaceful than I'd ever seen him, even with that pear smeared across his face and sticking in his hair.

  I don't know how long he was out. Minutes felt like hours. I was convinced I'd killed him. I was a terrible big sister. I hadn't taken care of him. It was all my fault. I shouldn't have fed him those pears, shouldn't have turned away or gotten angry at his screams. I held him in my arms and I knew he was dead, because hadn't I held him more than anyone else? Wouldn't I know if he was still alive? Then all of a sudden he was looking at me. I nearly dropped him all over again. He hardly blinked, just stared with those haunted eyes, and in that moment I loved him and hated him more than ever, because I knew I was now responsible for him—that I'd blame myself for anything he did from then on because I'd dropped him and damaged his brain. Would it have been easier if he'd died? It's terrible, but I wonder that sometimes. He would have been a memory, and it's easier to love a memory.

  I have no memory of this. None at all. Her letter was the first I'd heard of it, and I just held it in my hand, my numb hand, as I took it all in. Would I have been better off dead? Would I have been easier to love? Or just easier to forget? It made me think of something I'd once overheard Mother say, that she loved her children most when they were asleep. Because in sleep—as in death—she could imagine any child she wanted without having to face the actual, messy, incorrigible human being.

  I nearly cried. I might have, too, had I not forged ahead—had I not decided to mask this pain by inflicting more. I want to think that nothing had prepared me for what I was about to read, but I'm not sure if that is accurate. Once I knew the sort of betrayal she was capable of, nothing surprised me anymore.

  There was a gap of some months before the next letter.

  August 3:

  Father,

  Chancellor Smith asked whether you might be interested in giving a reading even if I am no longer here. He thought it might inspire the children to see an actual writer, especially one whose work they might have heard about or read. I told him I didn't know whether you were still doing that sort of thing. I hope so. You are such a wonderful reader. I'll never forget the time when I was six years old and Mother was in the hospital with Milo and you spent all night reading me Grimm's Fairy Tales. I couldn't understand all the words but the way you read it made everything clear. I have this vivid memory of you jumping onto my bed, grabbing the bedpost, and pretending you were Rumplestilskin. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard.

  What has happened to us since? Why are we no longer as close? I guess the easy answer is that you became famous and self-absorbed. But it wasn't just that. It was how you became famous. You must know what I mean.

  Your idea for the new novel Queen Dad sounds wonderful, and the first few pages read beautifully. I can tell already I'm going to relish the rest of it whenever you'll let me read more. I've told you over and over that you should publish these more serious works. Why keep them hidden away? Don't let the reception that Museum Collections received discourage you. You've written others that are different and far, far better. Let the world see what you can do! You can even write them under a pseudonym if you're nervous.

  I should tell you that I've begun writing, too. Just notes so far. It's to be a novel, a family drama. Based on us? I suppose that's inevitable. Everyone will read it that way, anyway.

  I didn't really understand the end of your letter. You do want me to come home, don't you? Forgive me if this is a silly question and the result of a misunderstanding. When you wrote that your work was all-consuming and that you didn't think you could see me until you'd gotten it out of your system, I wasn't sure. I know how important your work is to you. But does it really have to come at the expense of those who love you? I'm sorry to press this. I'm happy to have Marta pick me up from the train station, but can't you at least let me come up and say hello? Things are a bit overwhelming right now as I try to finish classes and pack and say good-bye. I'm tired. I can't sleep. I have these splitting headaches. These are not as bad as Mother's, but I do worry given the family history. Anyway, I apologize for how scattered this letter is. I just opened yours and wanted to reply right away.

  The next one didn't have a postmark on it, nor a stamp, and was dated September 11, after Klara had already returned home.

  Father,

  I found my old music boxes again. I took two of the handpuppets from the wall—the Cheshire Cat and the beetle—and had a little performance on the bedside. Too bad the music boxes were out of tune. For the finale I opened them all at once and it sounded like something dying. Oh well. I wish you could have seen it, though. It seems silly to keep writing like this when I'm home. If it's your work that's keeping you, you could at least send a short note through Marta telling me that. And if you've got any more pages from Queen Dad, I'd love to see them.

  What did you think of the pages I sent you?

  September 15:

  Father,

  I'm starting to wonder what to think. This can't possibly still be about your work, can it? Even if Queen Dad is difficult, I can't believe you haven't had a moment free for the past week and a half. Is it about what I've said regarding Milo? You need to face this, just like I have. Your own complicity. Or is it about what happened before I left for Ohio? I don't feel bad about it, Father. I really don't. And I don't think you should, either.

  Let's talk, shall we? Have you read about how SUVs are causing so many deadly accidents on the roads? I'm enclosing a newspaper article from yesterday's Boston Globe that made me think of it. Is Marta still bringing up your newspapers every day?

  I'm also reading an article about the so-called "Prison Industrial Complex." So many of the boys at school still end up in prisons that I had to read about them. Apparently states like New York and California are using prison-building to bolster the economies of their rural regions. Draconian sentencing laws are meant to supply "raw materials" for these prisons in the form of young African-American and Hispanic men. It's all very insidious. I'm so glad Vermont doesn't have these problems. Or does it? Do you have any thoughts on this?

  I also just re-read The Taming of the Shrew as you recommended, and I think you're right that Kate's final speech in Act V is much too long and involved to be anything but ironic. Methinks she doth acquiesce too much!

  Enough of this. I guess I'm just a little starved for conversation with only Milo and Mother around. I'm also at loose ends with this so-called novel of mine.

  September 18:

  Father,

  I've come to the end of the article about prisons. The irony seems to be that they don't end up helping the rural communities that much. Except for prison guards and prison builders. They seem to be the real roadblocks to reform. So it's nothing but petty self-interest after all.

  Milo has been acting especially strange these days. I came across him in the study, hunched over a model aircraft carrier and making little airplane and explosion sounds. He didn't even hear me
when I spoke to him. Afterwards I looked up the word "peculiar" in the dictionary. Did you know that it has the same root as "pecuniary"? It turns out that they both come from the Latin "pecu," meaning cattle. What does "cattle" have to do with these derivations? Cattle was what wealth consisted of in ancient times, and then the word was used to denote property of one's own, or one's "peculiar" property. Isn't that fascinating? I knew you'd appreciate it.

  September 19:

  Father,

  Mother is hardly ever home these days. Not that she ever was before, but on my first day back, do you know what she said? She said she'd taken down one of the pictures in my room—that drawing I did in third grade of a Cardinal—and was going to try and sell it. She thought I'd be happy about that. Apparently one of her artist friends told her that Cardinals were "hot" right now. I think it has something to do with a baseball team. Anyway, I let her take the drawing. I don't know what happened to it. I helped her pack up the car this morning but I didn't see it. Those other paintings, though—they're the same ones she's been trying to sell for years. I mean literally they are the same exact ones. It's eerie. She loads them in the car each morning and then takes them out each night. I don't know what to say. Can't you call someone and have them buy those things from her? She won't have to know it's you.

  September 20:

  Father,

  Maybe you're right to hide in the attic. Milo has become even more insufferable lately. Sometimes I hardly want to come out of my room for fear of running into him. It doesn't help that he looks like such a little fascist in those jackets and ties. I find myself blowing up at him for the smallest things and then feeling bad about it afterwards. This morning, for example, after Mother left, he deliberately smashed one of the handmade vases in the entrance hall. I watched him do it. He looked down at the thing for the longest time and then laid it on its side and just stepped on it. I was in the kitchen at the time, helping Marta, and I saw the whole thing. I ran out and asked him what he thought he was doing. "Modeling," he said, in that annoying way he plays dumb sometimes. "No," I said. "I mean what are you doing with that vase? How could you smash it like that? I'm going to tell Mother." And you know what he said? "You don't have to tell her," he said. "I told her I was going to do it before she left."

  Help!

  September 22:

  Father,

  Sometimes I feel I'm in this house purely by accident. As if I've wandered into some stranger's place and taken up residence. I wander between rooms, feeling like an empty husk of clothing nearly indistinguishable from the wallpaper. I sit on the stairs and wait to see if anybody notices me. I try to write, but nothing happens.

  September 23:

  Father,

  Maybe you're ashamed of how you used Milo. But let me make something clear: you didn't use me. I shouldn't have to tell you it was alright, but it was. You always said you didn't have to worry about me, that I was the one person you didn't need to protect yourself from, and you're right. I am alright, except that I'd like to talk to you.

  And why should what happened between us be so taboo, really? I mean nothing else in society is taboo anymore, so why should this be? It's in the Bible, after all, right there in Genesis—Lot and his daughters. And they are the ones who survived the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah! Anyway we were already so close mentally and spiritually. Everything else just seemed natural.

  But please let's talk. Please?

  September 24:

  Father,

  What happened between us happened. I wasn't a little girl. I knew what I was doing. We were adults, two adults together. You said once that societies have always tried to dictate how people express themselves but that we, in our private world, in Vermont, can see things our own way. One time, during, I looked at the wall next to me and saw our shadows there and thought: We could be anybody. That's how I saw it.

  September 25:

  Father,

  I've been re-reading Milton. Sin says to Satan that she's "a Goddess arm'd / Out of thy head I sprung." Was I just some notion that sprang out of your head too? Some notion of sin? Sin goes on to say that "I pleas'd, and with attractive graces won / The most averse, thee chiefly, who full oft / Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing / Becam'st enamor'd." Is that true, too? That you were enamored of me only because you saw yourself? Your own "perfect image"? Your student? And now? "Hast thou forgot me then, and do I seem / Now in thine eye so foul, once deem'd so fair / In Heav'n"?

  Forgive me, it's late, I've had trouble sleeping and I'm probably not making sense. I don't know whether I'm even going to send this.

  October 2:

  Father,

  I haven't written to you in a few days. I wonder whether I should wean myself off the habit. I've noticed you pull up the attic ladder these days so I can't even get close if I wanted to. Is that what you're afraid of? Closeness? It's a shame. You know I'm not going to force myself on you. You should know that more than anyone.

  Or is it the sequel to A Portrait that's consuming you? The one your fans have long demanded? Sometimes I wonder. You're not working with Milo again, are you? You couldn't possibly . . .

  October 6:

  Father,

  I've started inviting old acquaintances to the house again. Frankly I could use the company. Do you hear them from the attic? I suppose not. We sit downstairs and have tea and chat. They're not the sort of stimulating discussions you and I used to have, but they're something. My old English teacher, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, came yesterday and we talked about Macbeth and silk scarves. She's always had a somewhat Calvinist view of the play—Lady Macbeth as an example of the "temptation of evil" and Macbeth as the "fallen hero," that sort of thing. But I've always liked her and we had a nice time. She's taken to wearing the most beautiful scarves. She was wearing a rich blue one with silver ends. She says that everyone in Vermont wears only wool but that silk is so much prettier and you can wear it all year round. I don't know if it's quite my style, but I had fun trying it on. I didn't have the heart to tell her I wasn't going back to Ohio to teach, at least for now. She's always wanted me to be a teacher.

  It's refreshing to see other people. Especially when the only ones in the house are Milo and Marta, and occasionally Mother. I suppose you're technically in the house all the time. I don't count that. I don't know how you can isolate yourself like you do. Is it me? Is it because I'm here? Do you want me to leave again? Would that help?

  October 11:

  Father,

  I've decided I'm going to keep writing you these letters until you tell me to stop. Are you afraid Mother will find them? I'm not. She's lost in her own world, driving around to all her friends. I'm not even sure she'd care.

  I just re-discovered the china shop in town. Do you remember that place? Myrtle's? I can't believe it still exists. And Myrtle herself is still there behind the register, as imposing as ever. It's like going back in time forty years to see her in that pillbox hat.

  You don't have any friends anymore, do you? Do you think that says something?

  I love you, you know, no matter what.

  October 17:

  Father,

  I didn't mean to make you miss supper last night. I'm sorry. I was only sitting there, after Marta left your tray, hoping to talk to you when you came out. But you must have seen me. Would you really rather starve than talk to me?

  October 31:

  Father,

  Happy Halloween. Let me guess: You're going as a ghost. Ha, ha.

  November 8:

  Father,

  It's funny how we can get used to our lives. No matter what they are. Especially out here in the woods. Is that what's happened to you? Staying in the attic is just your routine? And I'm not part of that routine, am I? I threaten it somehow.

  My days feel so terribly slowed down. At least I'm getting more sleep. I only wish I could be more pr
oductive. I've been sending small donations to Catholic Relief Services and Doctors Without Borders, but I fear that just sending money to these far-off places is too easy, too abstract, that there is something missing, something more immediate that I'm not doing. Maybe I should go back to teaching. I did enjoy it for the most part. Maybe I'd be better off in a private school. Or even in Memorial School in town. I don't know. Whenever I think about it I start getting a headache.

  That's how I feel about Marco, too. I can see now what a terrible mistake he was. It shocks me, how blind I can be. Did you ever suspect that he was only using me to get a visa? Milo said something to me once, but I dismissed him out-of-hand. I wonder if everyone does that too easily. He says things in such an odd way. But I'm surprised how perceptive he can sometimes be. The other day, when I was staring out the window, he asked if I was looking for you.

  November 16:

  Father,

  I'm helping Marta more around the house. She looks at me strangely these days. I can't describe it. It's in her eyes—a sort of all-knowing dullness. Why did you suggest her as a go-between? Were you afraid Mother or Milo would intercept my letters? I never really understood.

  Yesterday I polished all of the silver. Today I dusted the bookshelves and cleaned the entrance hall tiles. You should have seen me, down on my knees, scrubbing away. It takes my mind off things. Off you, I suppose. Maybe that's the problem, that I've never worked with my hands. All my life I've done nothing but work with my brain. Didn't Karl Marx say we should each do a few hours of intellectual work and a few hours of menial work each day? Or was it Tolstoy?