The Garden of Happy Endings

by Barbara O'Neal

  Her hair snagged hard in something, and she found herself falling. Then she was flung sideways, her neck whipping painfully, and she caught sight of a foot. Someone laughed.

  Elsa went cold, realizing that her hair hadn’t caught in something, it had been grabbed. By the time that sank in, she was on the ground, splatting against the mud. She yelped, pushing against the hands holding her ankles and waist, reaching for the hands in her hair. “Don’t do this,” she cried, panting. “It’s only going to make it worse.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” her main captor said, and punched her in the face.

  It was so shocking, so painful, so incomprehensible, for the space of seconds Elsa couldn’t move or even breathe. She smelled the sulfurous scent of rotten apples, clouding the air, making her heart squeeze painfully with fear.

  “No!” she cried, pushing frantically at them, yanking her feet, moving anything, everything she could. Arms, head, body twisting, legs scissoring.

  He hit her again, his fist like an anvil. And again, and her eye stung with stars. She tasted blood. Boots slammed into her ribs, her back, her legs. She curled up, her hands over her head, but someone yanked them away and started tearing at her shirt. She fought against them, grabbing a wrist and biting it, and he stood up and kicked her in the ribs. “Bitch!”

  “Hold her fucking hands.”

  Somebody grabbed her wrists and yanked them over her head and somebody else had her feet, and hands tried to skin her pants from her body. She squeezed her knees together, brought one up to his belly, and he yelled, “Fucking hold her still!”

  He pushed an arm over her throat, leaning hard, gagging her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another figure, the boy who wore a dark blue hoodie. He held his white cat, his expression calm and sad at once.

  Help! she screamed in her mind, at the top of her voice, and again she felt a punch and something gave over her eye. She thought, urgently, and irrationally, of Charlie. Keep him safe, keep him safe.

  The third time he saw the angel, Joaquin awakened in the cold dark from an almost unnaturally deep sleep. She was the same, her dark eyes, the green light, but there was no smile on her lips. She said, “Go to the garden and find Elsa, now.”

  He did not hesitate, but ran down the stairs as fast as he could, shirtless and barefoot, out the back door of the rectory. It was just past twilight, and gloomy with the storm that still had rain leaking out of the sky. In the middle of the garden, he thought he could see a soft light, and ran for it, dread building in his gut, so powerful he did not cry out at all.

  There was light on the scene, that was the only way he could have seen what he did. A swarming, surging tangle of humans—gangbangers, two—no, three—and a young woman, soaking wet, swinging her hands, kicking at the attackers, yelling, crying, and at the center of the mass, Elsa splayed out in the mud, her body muddy and white. Still. “Stop!” he cried. “What are you doing?”

  He grabbed the shoulders of the one on top, hauled him away with almost superhuman strength, and the teenager tumbled sideways.

  The other two scattered, falling backward, putting their hands up in front of them. One scrambled to his feet and ran away into the darkness. The other one crouched in fear. Joaquin collared the leader, the would-be rapist, and hauled him up by his neck. Rage filled Joaquin, mighty and punishing, and he felt the power in him to snap the youth’s neck. Porfie fought him, but it was a foolish contest, flailing hands, his pants around his ankles.

  “Don’t,” Elsa said in a craggy voice. Her face bleeding, she rolled to her side, covering herself. “You will hate yourself. His mother will hate you. It will just keep going.”

  Joaquin subdued the youth, one hand behind his back, and barked to the cowering boy, “Take his pants.”

  “He’ll kill me, Father.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  The frightened one crept across the mud, staying low to the ground, and yanked at the other boy’s pants. Porfie kicked at him, struggling against Joaquin’s stranglehold, but the boy managed to get his leader’s pants off.

  “Elsa, can you walk?”

  She did not answer, and he saw now that she was lying very still on her side, her back smeared with blood or mud or something else dark. He raised his eyes in terror and saw Paris standing there in her bra and jeans, her hair stuck to her neck. “I tried,” she said. “She stopped them from raping me.”

  “It’s all right,” Joaquin said. “Cover her up. And you”—he lifted his chin at the terrified youth at Elsa’s head—“call 911.”

  The boy was sobbing. He fished in his oversize pants and brought out a phone. Paris knelt tenderly beside Elsa and tucked her torn shirt over her chest. “Stay with us, Elsa,” she said, brushing hair from her white face.

  “He’ll kill me,” the weeping boy said. “He’ll kill me. Father, protect me, I can’t go to jail with him. He’ll kill me.”

  It seemed to Joaquin there was too much light, that he could see too much. The gang leader in his grip struggled again, fighting against the arm across his throat, the hand that held his wrist. Joaquin held him easily, as if he were a giant and Porfie was only a ragdoll.

  “Call 911,” Joaquin said, “and then run. But if you don’t come back to see me at the church in two days, I will hunt you down myself. Sabe?”

  The boy did as he was told, and then ran.

  Paris wept at Elsa’s side, pressing her palm to her cheek. “Don’t die,” she cried. “Don’t die.”

  Elsa could hear Joaquin and Paris, but it was a strangely disconnected feeling, and she realized abruptly that she was sitting up, a few feet away, watching the scene. She could see Joaquin’s back, and the pantless gangbanger, and Paris kneeling over her form on the ground.

  The boy with the rose tattoo stood next to Paris, a cat in his arms contentedly purring. He looked directly at the Elsa who was not in her body, his eyes grave. Elsa thought there was something she should be doing, something she needed to remember, but she was filled with a sense of extraordinary quiet, as if she was not just in meditation, but had become part of the fabric of it, that quiet, that space between all things.

  And she grew aware that she was not alone in the garden, in this strange place between places. Small blue lights bounced through the plants, and when she looked closer, she saw that they were cats, most of them white cats, frolicking with one another, leaping on bugs and hiding beneath leaves to ambush. It made her laugh, that the blue lights everyone talked about were cat ghosts.

  There were not only cats, but human-shaped lights, too. Old and young, some of them standing around her body, weeping and wringing their hands, only parting like water to let the EMTs through. Others drummed and sang, and it seemed to Elsa that their song gave light to the plants themselves. Everything was limned with blue light, the leaves and the trees and the cat ghosts. She held out her arms and saw the light shape her arms and legs, herself but not herself. When she turned in a circle, she saw the glow of life in the trees, rivers flowing upward through the trunks and branches and into the leaves, then changing form and floating into the air, where the humans breathed it in.

  The boy with the rose tattoo stood beside her and gestured toward the stretcher, with her on it, moving away from the garden. You have to go with them.

  I want to keep these eyes. See the world this way always.

  Then all was darkness.

  Tamsin was worried sick by the time Charlie came up on the porch and barked outside the screen door. He was panting and muddy and soaked.

  She’d arrived home with two loaves of bread to find the door standing wide open, soup scorching on the stove. The table had been halfway set. What the hell had happened here?

  Carlos and Alexa arrived only a few minutes later. Tamsin kept telling herself that Elsa would have a good explanation when she got back. Charlie had been injured earlier. Maybe …

  Maybe what? Elsa’s car was still in the driveway. The leash was still on the hook.
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  “Where’s Elsa?” Alexa asked. She looked like another person entirely. Her hair was shiny, tumbling down her back in a clean wash, and she wore a simple blue summer dress that highlighted her eyes. On her hand was the ring.

  “I have no idea.” She lifted Alexa’s hand. “May I see it?”

  Carlos put an arm around Alexa. “We do not know if we will ever be able to have a public wedding, but we are engaged nonetheless. We will be together, and this is my promise.”

  The ring was an enormous rectangular sapphire with an antique cut and diamonds on either side. “It was his great-grandmother’s ring.”

  “It’s beautiful. You are beautiful.” She kissed Alexa’s forehead, and turned to Carlos. “And I am so happy to finally know you. Let’s all sit down and have a glass of wine. I’m sure Elsa will be back soon.”

  But a half hour passed and there was still no sign of her. Tamsin was about to call the rectory when Charlie showed up. His fur was wet and his bandage was tattered, but still intact. When Tamsin urgently inspected the paw, she found the stitches were still okay, too.

  “What have you been doing, Charlie-Man?” she said, calling him Elsa’s pet name. “Where is your mama?”

  He whined and looked at the door, as if she would be coming in at any moment.

  “What happened to poor Charlie?” Alexa asked.

  Tamsin explained everything. “I think I need to get him cleaned up a little and rewrap this paw.” She sighed. “We’re going to have to postpone dinner.”

  “This is weird. Charlie wouldn’t leave Elsa.”

  “You’re right,” Tamsin said. “Why don’t you call the rectory while I look after his foot.”

  “Do you have the number?”

  “Look it up.” Tamsin led Charlie into the bathroom. As if he were apologetic for all the trouble he’d caused, he followed meekly, with his head down.

  Tamsin found a roll of bandages in the medicine cabinet, along with a bottle of alcohol—no way—and some hydrogen peroxide. Better. She dried him off with an old towel, then sat on the side of the tub and gently lifted his injured paw into her lap. “You’re going to be really sore in the morning, Charlie,” she said, taking away the shredded, muddy bandage. He panted hard, looking at her patiently. “Where’d you get to, honey? Were you afraid of the storm?”

  He whimpered again softly.

  “It really is terrible that we can’t explain lightning to you.” She positioned the paw over the toilet bowl and poured peroxide over it. It foamed, but not terribly, and she did it again. “Good dog.”

  Alexa appeared at the door. “No answer at the rectory. Do you want us to drive to the church? Or maybe Deacon will know something.”

  A slow burn started in Tamsin’s gut. Something was very wrong. “Go by the church and see if you can find Father Jack. If you can’t—” She scowled. “Crap. I don’t know how to get ahold of Deacon.”

  Her hands were shaking as she wrapped Charlie’s paw.

  Alexa came into the room and put her hand on Tamsin’s shoulder. “Why don’t we stay here with Charlie and you go look for Aunt Alexa?”

  “Okay.”

  In the dining room, Elsa’s phone began to ring.

  Tamsin picked it up. “Hello? Elsa?”

  “It’s Father Jack, Tamsin. You need to come to St. Mary Corwin. Elsa has been injured.”

  “Injured? How? What happened?”

  “Just come. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The first time she saw an angel, Elsa awakened to the slow beep of machines. For long moments, she could not get her bearings. The room was not well lit, but she could make out shadowy figures around her.

  Clearly, it was a hospital, but what was she doing here? There was something she should remember, something that lurked—

  The boy from the garden stood by her bed, holding his cat.

  What are you doing here? she asked.

  Watching over you, he said. My name is Rafael.

  Are you alive?

  He shook his head sadly. They killed me. Threw my body into the river. Everybody thinks I ran away.

  Are you an angel?

  “She’s talking.” She felt someone take her hand. Tamsin, she thought. “Can you hear me, Elsa?”

  Charlie! she thought urgently, and tried to sit up. But she didn’t even move her head before everything exploded. “Charlie!” she cried, but it came out as a mewling sound, hardly words at all, and she couldn’t figure out why that would be.

  “He’s safe,” Tamsin said. “He came home. Alexa and Carlos are with him.”

  Relieved, Elsa slid away again into the muffling darkness.

  “Are you going to be okay, Mom?” Alexa asked. When it became clear that Elsa’s condition had stabilized somewhat, Joaquin, Deacon, and Tamsin agreed on a rotating schedule so there would always be someone with her.

  Paris, thankfully, had only experienced minor injuries, yet she was devastated by the incident and the fact that Elsa had been injured trying to defend her. Seeing how distraught she was, Tamsin insisted that Paris and Calvin come home with her. They were now settled in and sleeping.

  Tamsin nodded wearily at her daughter. “I’m just going to get some sleep.” Alexa and Carlos hugged her, and left to head back to his hotel, hands entwined.

  She was absolutely exhausted, and thought about a glass of wine, but decided against it. Instead, she brewed a cup of herbal tea and pulled out the quilt she’d been working on. As soon as she spread it over the table, the insistent sound of “Dominique” started to play in the back of her mind. Exasperated, she turned the radio on, very quietly, to a classical station.

  Again she admired the bougainvillea, coming along so beautifully, and the dark green tree standing on the cliff. She still wasn’t quite sure what kind of tree it was, but knew that it could be quilted in, layered with lighter and darker fabric once she figured it out.

  More than any other part of it, she was pleased with the way the layering of the sea was turning out. The gossamer aquamarine tulle over darker blue cotton and sharp white sand and paisley tropical fish darting about and—

  Suddenly, she knew exactly where Scott was. She had been making this quilt of that spot since he’d disappeared.

  * * *

  The next time Elsa awakened, there was more light in the room, which she could see through the small slits created by her barely opened eyes. Any wider than that and her head felt like a rocket was blasting through it. She heard the beeping of a monitor, slow and steady, and voices somewhere beyond her, brisk and worldly. Greenery waved arms at the window.

  Then she felt her body. Left hand throbbing. Left shoulder. Right eye. Mouth. Face.

  More. Right ankle, abdomen. And oh, sweet mother of God! Left little toe.

  She made a noise.

  “Elsa?” Joaquin’s face swam in her vision, and his hand circled her wrist. “Can you hear me?”

  She grunted a sound like “yes,” discovering her throat was utterly raw. “Water.”

  He disappeared from view, returned, and positioned a straw between her lips. She sucked, and cool water poured through her mouth, down her throat. She swallowed, and tried opening her eyes a little more, but they didn’t move much. “Car accident?” she guessed.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.” There was something about Charlie, and she bolted upward, sending fresh waves of pain through her head. “What happened to Charlie? Something happened to him.”

  Joaquin gentled her, a hand on her shoulder. “He’s fine. Tamsin is babysitting him.”

  “Good,” she said, and closed her eyes, diving back into velvet.

  It was Deacon who was with her when she next opened her eyes. This time she could open them a little better, and it wasn’t quite so brutally unpleasant. He was sitting in the armchair by her bed, reading a thriller. A pair of black reading glasses perched on his nose. The sight sent a rippling wave of love through her. “Hey,
” she said.

  He leapt to his feet, whipping off his glasses. His expression told her how desperately worried he’d been. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning over the bed. “How you feeling?”

  “Headache,” she said, and swallowed. “How long have I been here?”

  “Do you want some water?”

  “Yes, please.” She thought she’d asked a question, but couldn’t remember what it was, and suddenly it didn’t matter. “Good drugs,” she said. “Godzilla could be sitting here and I’d be friendly.”

  He smiled and held the water to her lips. She drank a little, and struggled to surface a little more clearly. To talk to Deacon. “You look good.”

  He touched her face, a thumb to her cheek. “You look like crap, but I’ve never seen anything better than you opening your eyes.”

  Again she reached for something, a thing she couldn’t remember. “What happened?”

  He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the palm and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Time enough for that.”

  She remembered lying in his bed, with his body curled around hers, his hands on her body. “We made love,” she said. “I remember that.”

  “Yes.” He put her hand against his face. “We did.”

  “And Carlos came to find Alexa.” There was something about that, something she should remember, and she couldn’t. Her stomach rolled and she skittered away from it. “The Riverwalk.”

  “Yeah, it was damned romantic.”

  She felt her body going lax, her brain drifting away. “I think I’m falling asleep again.”

  “You go ahead. One of us will be here when you wake up.”

  She grabbed his hand. “You, please. Can you stay?”

  “I’ll be here,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll be here.”

  She dreamed that her room was filled with saints. She recognized them easily. San Roque was handsome in the way of the aesthete, his eyes large and extraordinarily bright. He wore a brown pilgrim’s robe and had a little dog at his side. She’d always imagined that his dog was large, like a husky, or Charlie.

  There were others, too. St. Martha and Ganesha and St. Therese. The Virgin of Guadalupe wore a purple dress and her long black hair flowed over her voluptuous body like a glorious cape. In the chair sat Jesus, wearing a pair of jeans, his hair pulled neatly back. He was astoundingly handsome, but then, she supposed that he would be. He smiled, as if he could hear her thoughts.