The Memory Garden

by Mary Rickert

  “I have to get out of here,” Howard says. “The smell is really bad.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Bay says, though truth be told, it is. They walk through the bank of grass into the yard, the odor dissipated by the mysterious scent of dead lilacs. Stella is nowhere in sight, but Mavis still paces the yard, taking what appear to be measured steps in starts and stops, punctuated by exhalations of smoke, her dress aglow against the blue sky. She signals Bay to join her, but Bay pretends not to understand and waves without enthusiasm until Thalia rounds the corner of the house, stopping briefly to speak to Mavis.

  As Thalia walks toward her, Bay is filled with an odd feeling: both happy and sad, as if they have been separated for decades. And while it is true they haven’t spent as much time together in the past month as they usually do, it’s not as bad as years; it’s only been a few weeks.

  “Is she one of your Nana’s friends?” Thalia asks.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said something like, ‘Oh, that’s right, you can represent normal.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just ignore her.”

  “But what does she mean?”

  “Just ignore her. No one knows what she’s talking about half the time.”

  Bay watches Mavis stop short, halfway up the back stairs, descend, and walk to the front of the house, her lips moving as she gestures with her cigarette, smoke trailing behind her like ghosts.

  “Are we having meat tonight? ’Cause you know, I just turned vegetarian.”

  “Thalia, I have to tell you something.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll move stuff around on my plate and bury it in the potatoes—”

  “No, I don’t know what we’re having. Ruthie’s making dinner. It’s a surprise.”

  “Thanks for inviting me. I’m so excited. What kind of ceremony is it? Hey, who’s that? He’s cute.”

  “Thalia, wait.”

  When Howard, who is standing beneath the lilac trees turns at their approach, Thalia giggles. Bay understands; seeing him is like finding the guy from Twilight in her yard.

  “This is my friend Thalia. Thalia, this is Howard.”

  “Hi,” Thalia says too loudly with a giggle.

  “Come on,” Bay says, “we should see if Ruthie needs help setting the table or something.”

  Thalia beams at Howard. “See you at dinner?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were having a party. Maybe I should leave.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Bay cringes at how mean she sounds. “Of course you’re invited.”

  “I’d like to. I’d like to stay.”

  “Good,” Thalia says. “We would like it too!”

  Bay grabs Thalia’s elbow, steering her away from making a fool of herself and up the hill toward the house.

  The light has taken on that polished look, the way it gets on summer evenings, that small space of time that always makes Bay a little sad. Stepping around several runaway shoes, she inhales the delicious air, scented with savory herb, onion, and chocolate. These are the smells Bay can identify. She doesn’t know what else composes the delicious aroma, though it’s a pleasant problem to work out. Onions, chocolate, lavender, and curry, she thinks, but what else? Roses?

  The back door screeches open, and Ruthie steps out, changed from her peony apron into a brightly colored striped skirt, its fullness achieved with layers of petticoats and a white sleeveless blouse that reveals the loose flesh of her freckled arms.

  “Oh! I was just coming to get you young people. It’s almost time. Where’s Howard?”

  “He’s back there, he’s—”

  “I’ll get him,” Thalia says.

  “No. You need to get dressed. This is the Flower Feast, you know.”

  There’s no way Ruthie ever killed anyone. Bay can’t believe Stella would say such a thing. Then again, look what people say about Nan. Look at what the kids at school say.

  “I didn’t bring anything special to wear,” Thalia says. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “Not to worry, dear. I put some things on your bed, Bay. Nothing either of you girls would be interested in normally, I am sure, but there should be something fun for tonight.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I didn’t. Go on now. I’ll get Howard.”

  “Did Nana wake up yet?”

  Ruthie’s smile collapses, and the screen door she’s been holding open with her foot falls shut with a screech. “Actually, I’ll see about Nan. You girls tell Howard there’s a suit laid out for him in the parlor. Don’t dwiddle. You don’t want to be late.”

  Her Nana never sleeps all day. What can it possibly mean? What if…but Bay won’t let her mind go there. Thalia chats happily about the mysterious Flower Feast and the opportunity to dress up, which segues into a rumination on whether she’ll be seated next to Howard, and why didn’t Bay tell her about him, where did he come from, anyway, and is that why she’s been acting strange lately?

  “It’s not like that,” Bay says. “What do you mean I’ve been acting strange?” Don’t be dead, she thinks, sending the thought all the way to Nan. “Don’t be dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “No one’s dead,” Bay says, perhaps too vehemently. She doesn’t want to talk about the fear she has of her Nana dying, as though naming it will make it so. Nan is not dead. She’s taking a very long nap—an all-day nap. A nap longer than any nap she’s ever taken.

  “Are you sure?” Thalia squeezes Bay’s arm so hard it hurts. “Do you think Howard’s a ghost? Did you feel cold around him? I did. I just realized. I think I did. Don’t you think it’s possible? I mean, if your Nana is a witch? It would make sense, wouldn’t it? That there would be ghosts around here? Is that why they’re having a ceremony? To send him to the light?”

  “Howard’s not dead, and my Nana’s not a witch, and I’m not the one who’s been acting strange.”

  “Are you okay? You seem—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m just saying it makes a lot of sense, you know? Maybe she has a special ability. My mother says when my grandmother died she used to visit all the time to rearrange the spices. She says some people have the sight, and—”

  “Thalia, stop.”

  “I’m sorry, Bay. Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Howard has joined them, so quiet they didn’t hear his approach.

  “Ruthie says she has a suit laid out for you in the parlor,” Bay says through her tears. “I am such a freak.”

  “You’re not,” Howard says, and Bay realizes she’s done it again, spoken out loud what she meant not to. “I mean, maybe you’re a little different, but all the best people are.” Howard wraps one arm around her shoulder, and Thalia, standing on the other side of Bay, does too.

  “Yoo-hoodle! Bay! Yoo-hoodle!”

  Ruthie stands at the back door, waving her hand high. She wouldn’t deliver terrible news with a yoo-hoodle greeting, would she?

  “You don’t want to be late for the Flower Feast! You need to get dressed. Bring your friend. Howard, you come too.”

  Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe Ruthie wants to get me close before she delivers bad news, Bay thinks as Ruthie pivots back into the house.

  “She’s probably emotional because of her hormones,” Thalia whispers to Howard.

  Thalia, who has several older aunts in various stages of menopause, has recently begun attributing everything to hormonal flux. Bay would laugh were she not so distracted by the beating of her heart. They are at the foot of the stairs when Ruthie pops out of the door like one of those Glockenspiel dancers at German Fest.

  “You almost came into the kitchen. I’ve told you and told you not to come into the kitchen, and you almost did.” Thalia says something about hormones. �
�Don’t be ridiculous,” Ruthie scolds. “I got over all that decades ago.” She frowns down at Bay. “You promised. You promised several times. Now I understand why Nan is worried about you.”

  “Nana’s worried about me? That’s what I wanted to ask, about Nana.”

  “What about her?”

  “Did you remember to wake her?”

  “Of course I remembered! What do you take me for? You sound like my husband.”

  Bay isn’t sure how to proceed. She apologizes profusely to Ruthie, whose drawn lips loosen with each sorry, until at last she is smiling, telling them to hurry and get ready. “Nan is taking her bath, but you three are so young and fresh, you’ll be fine as rain with soap and a bowl of water, which I left in your room, Bay. Howard, you can use the sink in the downstairs powder room.”

  They walk to the front of the house in silence, Thalia taking sideways looks at Howard, which Bay notices with sinking recognition. It would be embarrassing, because really, she knows she looked at him the same way, except that now, Bay realizes, Howard probably has no idea about any of it. He probably gets looked at like this all the time. He probably thinks the whole world is composed of beaming females.

  When they step into the foyer, all three of them are struck still with the pleasure of entering a home filled with the pleasant air of a holiday feast.

  “What is that?” Howard says.

  “I hope it’s not meat.”

  Bay can hear water running through the pipes, the reassuring sound of her Nana taking a bath. The scent that fills the house is divine. Bay hopes for a peek at the setting for the feast, but the dining room doors are closed. She and Nan rarely use them, ever since the time the old pocket doors got stuck one Christmas. (Which actually was one of the best Christmases ever, and the start of Bay’s favorite tradition!)

  As Bay and Thalia ascend the stairs, the scent of vanilla bubble bath mingles with the delicious kitchen aromas. When they arrive at the landing, Stella comes down the hall, wearing a dress the color of blue morning glory, with a full skirt, much like Ruthie’s, though Stella’s dress is strapless. She spins for them, modeling how nicely it fits and how pretty the color is on her.

  “I was wearing heels, but Ruthie made me take them off,” Stella says, displaying her bare feet, the toenails painted red. “Apparently no one wears shoes to a Flower Feast. Who knew?”

  How can she act so sweet? How can she say such things and then act like she’s accused Ruthie of nothing more than stealing cupcakes?

  “Bay, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m good.”

  “’Cause you look a little odd.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like you’re almost crying.”

  “It’s her hormones,” Thalia says.

  “Bay, did Howard bother you in some way…or did Ruthie—”

  “No, Howard’s not like that. And Ruthie isn’t either.”

  “She’s overwhelmed,” Thalia says.

  “I’m fine. We have to go get dressed.”

  “You’ll let me know, right, Bay? If there’s any problems I can help you with? And you, too,” she says to Thalia, though it’s clearly an afterthought.

  The girls promise as they back down the hall, Stella frowning her heart-making frown, until they enter Bay’s bedroom, closing the door behind them.

  “Would you stop telling everyone my hormones are bothering me?”

  “Look at these. Oh, Bay, look at these.”

  A dozen dresses are laid on Bay’s bed, each at least as pretty as Stella’s, the colors of summer blossoms: sundrop yellow, snapdragon white, hydrangea blue, a hollyhock pink. Bay runs her finger lightly over them, as if they are too fragile for touch.

  “Where did she find these? I can’t believe they were all stuffed in her suitcase along with a chocolate cake,” Bay says. Is that something a murderer would do?

  Thalia squeals as she sorts through the dresses, apparently equally delighted with each, until she holds up a white one trimmed with glass beads and silver thread. “This is the best, don’t you think?”

  Bay thinks it might be, but she tells Thalia she should wear it.

  “Are you sure?”

  Bay nods, though she wishes she’d seen it first, until she finds a pale green dress embroidered with tiny butterflies and pearl buttons up the back that she thinks might, in fact, be the prettiest dress she’s ever seen.

  ROSEMARY Symbolic of remembrance, fidelity, and friendship, rosemary is frequently used as a funeral wreath, wedding herb, and as a guard against pregnancy. Rosemary is a remedy for diseases of the brain. Bathing in rosemary makes the old young again.

  Nan can’t believe she slept all day. She’d be worried if she didn’t feel so good. She feels wonderful. Why, when Ruthie told her it was time to get ready for dinner, Nan didn’t believe it. Dinner? How was that possible? She had the strangest dream, though right now she can only remember the odd feeling and no details, which is fine, actually, because the odd feeling makes her feel, well, odd, and there’s no reason to linger with that sensation when she can enjoy feeling good instead. This bubble bath, for instance, feels very good indeed. She hasn’t taken a bubble bath in years. Why is that? There seems no reason for denying herself such a simple pleasure for so long, though she’s sure she did have a good reason once.

  The bubbles feel like kisses, though of course that’s just silly. The bubbles are soft and warm against her skin; they pop, nothing like lips at all, though a definite pleasant sensation. Nan closes her eyes and leans back against the tub, remembering how she was once possessed of a body that was kissed; she once knew what lips felt like and made no uncertain comparison of lips to bubbles. Nonetheless, it is very pleasant indeed to be caressed by bubbles, so pleasant in fact that she responds to the knock on the door with something close to a growl.

  “Nan, are you in there?”

  “I’ll be right out, Mavis.” Nan tries to sound cheerful. After all, she has a houseful of guests; she slept right through the day and did nothing to help with dinner. The least she can do is be accommodating and not hog the bathroom.

  Mavis, however, cannot wait. She sidles in, closing the door behind her, waving her hand as Nan tries to cover herself. “Don’t make a big production. There’s nothing there I don’t already know about. We need to talk.” She sits on the toilet, crossing her legs beneath the caftan she wears, leaning forward to fix Nan with an inquisitive look.

  “Are you enjoying your visit?”

  “Don’t be coy, Nan. We haven’t time for it. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”

  “Do?”

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  Nan shakes her head, which she immediately regrets, because the lovely vanilla aroma is ruined by the scent of salt. She sighs. “Don’t look at me like that, Mavis, my memory isn’t what it used to be. Just catch me up so we can get on with it.”

  Mavis does, first reminding Nan about Karl (the “interloper” Mavis calls him) tearing apart the garden, which, Nan thinks, is as understandable as it is devastating. Young ghosts are said to be quite dramatic and erratic in their behavior. Who can blame him? A dead adult is sure to be greeted on the other side by a welcoming crowd of loved ones, whereas a young ghost might not recognize anybody. Young ghosts can be so confused that they experience the act of being sent to the light as violent. Even if they understand they are dead, they recognize all they lost in the process, and are determined not to lose again. Rather than welcoming the light, they consider entering it to be another death of sorts, an unknown destination that entails leaving the existence they do not necessarily like or understand, but at least have come to know. Young ghosts can be very difficult, stubborn and clingy in general, though Nan knows that Karl has a particular bone to pick with her. In spite of the heat of the bathroom, she shudders.

  “Are y
ou cold?” Mavis asks.

  “You let in a draft.”

  Mavis frowns at Nan, who takes the opportunity to comment on the matter of Eve and Grace Winter hanging about. Mavis looks like she doesn’t know what Nan’s talking about. Well, there’s no time to linger over how Mavis has lost her mental acuity. They’ve all lost something, after all.

  Mavis waves her hand, her Bakelite bracelets clanking against each other; she has a way of sounding like she’s always breaking something. She says Karl isn’t a ghost, but a hoodlum. Stella, she says, is the dangerous one, in spite of her innocent appearance. “Be reasonable,” Mavis says (she dares to say this while perched on the toilet after having invaded Nan’s bath). “Think of how damaging she could be to us.”

  Nan is annoyed by Mavis’s continued demonizing of Stella. What does the girl know? What does she suspect? On the other hand, what does it matter? Do they really have to die with this secret? What Nan wants from this whole mess is that she be the one to reveal her criminal past to Bay before someone else does.

  “What?” Mavis squawks, interrupting Nan’s reverie. “Don’t just stare, say something!”

  “As I’ve already said, we have to act normal. We have to pretend we’ve got nothing to hide. But also, we must have this ceremony,” Nan says, not admitting she has no idea how to proceed in this direction. Though Mavis tries to talk her out of it, Nan won’t make that mistake again. After all, she won’t be bullied by Mavis as she has been in the past, which she finally says, not thinking before she does. Mavis leaves the bathroom in a huff.

  It’s all rather complicated, Nan thinks later, dressing alone in her bedroom. She might be discouraged were it not for the enticing aromas and the pleasant sound of voices in the rooms below, the chatter of a house on holiday.