The Memory Garden

by Mary Rickert

  Mavis starts to speak, but Ruthie continues. “I don’t know what you are up to, but I’ve decided to forgive both of you in advance. All these years you’ve had your best friend right here, on earth, and this is how you treat each other?”

  Nan, who inspects the tablecloth during Ruthie’s scold, looks up, expecting Mavis to respond with a sharp comment or, at the very least, a glower, but Mavis has assumed a surprisingly tender expression.

  “You don’t have to worry about me getting in your way with whatever you’ve planned for the rest of the evening.”

  “Ruthie, we—”

  “No Nan, stop. Putting together this dinner was a lot of work, which I wanted to do, but now don’t I deserve a bubble bath?”

  “Of course you do,” says Nan. “It was a wonderful dinner.”

  “I shall remember it the rest of my life,” Mavis adds.

  “Well, that might have meant something when we were younger,” Ruthie says. “Will you girls join me in a circle?”

  Nan figures it’s the least they can do. She takes Ruthie’s extended hand, which is shockingly cold; Mavis takes the other. Then, with only a look to make them understand, Mavis and Nan hold hands.

  “This circle ends the Flower Feast,” Ruthie says. “Though it does not end the cycle.” As Ruthie releases her grasp, she says, “You have no idea what my life was like.”

  Mavis and Nan exchange a look.

  “See? That’s what I mean. Even after all these years, you two look to each other first.”

  Mavis and Nan speak at the same time. They don’t mean to make Ruthie feel left out. They never meant to hurt her.

  “All I’m saying is you should appreciate your good fortune. I know we parted under poor circumstances, but we were, well, not girls, I suppose, but we were quite young, and part of a terrible thing, for which we have suffered. Don’t try to stop me. I’m on a roller here. I have thought about this a lot over the years. I have thought about it most especially recently. We never should have let each other go. We never should have. Nan, I thought you understood that. I thought that’s why you invited us. There’s hardly any time left at all now. Less for some than for others, and that means less for all of us. We’re like the Beatles.” Ruthie leans forward, something in the light causing her eyes to appear both closer set and brighter than usual. “Heal this thing between the two of you while you still can.” Without further comment, she leaves the room, closing the rumbling pocket doors behind her.

  “That,” Nan says, “was not the sort of prayer circle I expected. She’s right, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “After all, look what happened to Grace Winter.”

  There. It’s been said. Even though they promised, all those years ago, not to speak of it; the promises of youth, Nan reasons, are not necessarily the best commitments for the old.

  “What happened to Grace Winter was not our fault.”

  “How can you say that? What happened to her happened because of us.”

  Mavis sighs, quite loudly, twisting the boa around her throat. A few orange feathers float dangerously close to the flames. “Have you lived your entire life blaming us for every terrible thing that ever happened?”

  “Are we really going to do this now?” Nan says. She feels a little thrill at the thought. After all these years, are she and Mavis going to have it out with each other? Finally?

  “No,” Mavis says, “we’re not.”

  Nan can’t believe Mavis is running away, but there she is, striding across the room, pulling on the pocket doors, though they do not open, even when she grunts and leans into them. She turns to Nan as if it is all her fault.

  “They get stuck sometimes,” Nan says. “We can go out the window.”

  “All right,” Mavis says, her eyebrows low, her mouth mean. “You want to know why I could not bear to remain your friend, is that it? Do you want to make me actually say it?”

  Nan is confused. Mavis sounds as though she thinks she is being held captive! “This happens all the time,” Nan says. “One Christmas, Bay and I had to go out the window!” It is one of Nan’s fondest Christmas memories, composed of nothing more than the silliness of climbing out the window, the shock of snow and ice, the pleasure of coming into the warm house through the unlocked front door, rushing to change into pajamas and socks, which wasn’t really necessary, but felt so wonderful neither of them argued against it, recounting their adventure later as though it were a grand event while drinking hot chocolate on the couch, the Christmas dishes left until the next morning, when the doors, rather magically, opened. “We’ve kept it as a tradition ever since,” Nan says. “After Christmas dinner, we climb out the window, and when we come back in through the front door, there are two presents waiting for us in the foyer, new pajamas, which we change into. Then we drink hot cocoa, eat cardamom cookies, and watch A Christmas Memory, the old one with Geraldine Page.”

  Mavis sits down so hard that the candles tremble. “All these years, how I’ve missed you,” she says, staring forlornly at the table still littered with the remnants of dessert, the small plates splotched with melted ice cream, pansy syrup, blueberries.

  “You missed me?”

  Mavis sighs deeply, still not looking at Nan. “I couldn’t stand to be with you after what happened, I couldn’t stand your certainty, your smug—”

  “I was never—”

  “You were,” Mavis says. “Don’t lie about it now. How could I have been so wrong? How could I have made such a tragic choice?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Nan says, the words dragged out of her as though they bear thorns. “You were trying to do the right thing. We all were.”

  “You don’t know how long I needed to hear you say that.”

  Nan is startled; it never occurred to her that Mavis needed anything she couldn’t get on her own. “I never blamed—”

  “Don’t ruin it,” Mavis says, “with one of your lies. Don’t you know? I forgave you a long time ago.”

  “You forgave me?”

  “Yes. I know you find that remarkable.”

  Nan is surprised by the expansion in her chest, right where her heart is. As though a small bird caged there for all these years is finally released. She is surprised by her tears, and surprises herself further by leaning across the corner of the table to hug Mavis, who sits stiffly but lifts a hand to pat Nan’s shoulder. Nan is surprised most of all to hear herself say, “I’m sorry. I am. I forgive you too. I forgive all of us. I do.” Nan detects no scent of salt, none at all, so maybe it’s true.

  “What about him?” Mavis asks. “Do you forgive him?”

  Nan pulls away. “Well, there are limits,” she says.

  What is the cost of life? As she’s gotten older, Nan has come to the conclusion that there is a price. Maybe it’s true what they say about how the good die young, not out of some otherworldly cruel hunger, but because living involves difficult decisions, the occasional willingness to be brutal, make cold assessments, come to unkind conclusions. Sometimes, Nan thinks, it all works out. Sometimes, it does not.

  There was a time when Nan thought she would always weep, until one day she didn’t. She covers her eyes with her hands, as though it suddenly is unbearable to look. How can so much loss be survived?

  Hearing the scrape of chair across the floor, Nan prepares to be hugged. It’s what anyone would do in such a situation. She is taken somewhat out of her grief by the notion of Mavis rising to administer a hug, though it takes such a long while Nan peeks between her fingers. Mavis, clutching the feathered boa close to her chest, blows out the candles in the candelabra on the table.

  “Come,” she barks, “help me with the window.”

  They work together to push out the screen, which falls with a clatter onto the front porch. Isn’t it just like Mavis to offer no solace beyond distraction? Na
n steps carefully through the open window, grateful it’s the sort that reaches almost to the floor, because even this small maneuver is precarious. She turns to watch Mavis exit, hiking her narrow dress high, revealing, of all things, support stockings, the kind worn for varicose veins.

  When did time grow so small? The present is all they have left. Who are they kidding? Ruthie is too old to open a restaurant. Mavis is too old for Africa. They are all old now, far too old for the future; perhaps that’s why they are finally able to deal with the past.

  They stand on the porch, staring at the night sky seeded with stars. “Do you still plan on this ceremony?” Mavis asks.

  Nan frowns as though the question is absurd, though actually she rather hoped the ceremony would be forgotten. Like many inspired ideas, it suffers under scrutiny. What does she know about getting rid of ghosts? All she knows is what people say: “send them to the light,” and whatnot. She has grave doubts it could really be so simple. Besides, what if she got it wrong? What if instead of banishing them, she brought more into her life?

  Thinking about it now threatens Nan’s good mood, so she decides to think about it later. Instead, she suggests they sit for a while, and Mavis agrees without complaint.

  Nan loves rocking. They had rockers on her front porch when she was growing up. She used to sit there in summer, with a big pile of books and lemonade, the good kind, not powder from a package.

  “Oh, remember homemade lemonade?” Nan asks, but Mavis doesn’t answer. She sits with her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth open, her purple hair oddly crooked. Nan frowns, only just realizing—a wig! Why would anyone wear a wig that color? She closes her eyes, too tired to figure Mavis out.

  She used to sit on her porch, surrounded by library books and the insistent scent of rosemary, that odd herb Miss Winter planted, which produced no flower, only thin green needles yet somehow emitted the seductive aroma that filled Nan with longing as she watched the women come to Miss Winter’s house. They wore big hats or hid behind sun umbrellas or turned away when they saw Nan. They mostly came in twos, though some came alone. Occasionally there was a man. Nan drank her lemonade and pondered the ignorance of those who said Miss Winter was a lonely old witch with no friends in the world. All you had to do was be her neighbor to see that Miss Winter had lots of friends.

  A sound—what is it, the creaking of twigs as though someone walks nearby—startles Nan. She opens her eyes to find herself surrounded by dark. What happened to the bright sun? Where is the lemonade? Where is Miss Winter’s house, wild with overgrown vines and unkempt flowers? It’s all rather frightening for a moment until Nan remembers herself, and then it’s frightening in another way. Oh, I am old. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. I am an old woman now.

  WILD PANSY Known as love-in-idleness, the wild pansy was originally a white flower that, struck by Cupid’s arrow, turned purple. The flower’s juice can be used as a love potion and treatment for acne.

  Every summer the community players put on a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the park. Though Nan doesn’t like to drive, especially in the dark, she and Bay used to go, sitting on the old quilt, sharing a picnic of tomato sandwiches, pickles, and chocolate cake. Nan always offered to share her wine with Bay, who, aware of the narrowed eyes of those nearby, declined, sipping lemonade instead. After the play, when they returned home, though it was not the Fourth of July, Nan let Bay run through the yard with sparklers. Even when she was past the age for doing so, Bay liked to pretend she was lighting the stars.

  Now the yard looks much the way Bay imagined as a child, before she no longer wanted to be seen in public with her Nana and lied about not enjoying the play. (They ate their picnic on the porch and watched the fireflies blink through the dark, but it wasn’t the same. This year, with everything else going on, they hadn’t even done that.)

  Somehow, Ruthie found time to hang mason jars from tree branches and placed them strategically throughout the yard, tucked near flowered shoes, resting on flat rocks. In each jar is a white candle, its glassed flame creating an aura of light as alluring as fireflies.

  Bay feels like she’s just woken from an odd dream where nothing makes sense, to this golden night and Thalia making broad gestures with her small hands, saying something about ghosts.

  “Do you think my Nana really is a witch?”

  Thalia stops in midsentence.

  “I want to know,” Bay says, inhaling the scent of bee balm, cut grass, and grilled meat. Someone, probably in the subdivision, is having a barbecue tonight.

  Thalia is uncharacteristically silent.

  “Please, I’m serious.”

  Thalia nods. It takes a moment for Bay to realize that the nod is the answer.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, it’s kind of obvious. Don’t you ever wonder about the deer not bothering your flowers out here? Doesn’t that seem strange? Nobody has a garden like this in the country, not without a lot of fencing and barbed wire. The deer eat everything except daffodils, but you have all these flowers. Doesn’t that make you wonder? And what about roots? No one else can plant flowers in shoes and have them grow forever. Everyone knows flowers need to sink their roots into the earth. Don’t you ever wonder about that?”

  “My Nana is a really good gardener.”

  “But, Bay, who has friends like those? I mean were you even paying attention in there? Don’t you wonder if they are all, you know, witches?”

  Having asked for Thalia’s opinion, Bay tries hard to be receptive to it. She bites her lower lip and nods politely, but her mind is not near as compliant as her countenance. People have always been jealous of Nan’s garden. Thalia doesn’t know what she’s talking about. As to Ruthie and Mavis, well, that point, Bay has to admit, does sort of stick. They do seem kind of witchy, especially Ruthie. But isn’t that just what people say about old women? Isn’t it easy to call an old woman a witch?

  “My mother says it doesn’t have anything to do with Satan or stuff like that. She said a long time ago being a witch just meant someone who was good with plants. You know, herbs and stuff.”

  Hard as she tries, Bay can’t focus. She scans the yard, as though looking for escape. Why would she want to leave here? This is the safest place she knows, so pretty tonight, the candles glowing among the branches like fallen stars, but Bay is not, as she believed for so long, standing in Forever. Things are changing.

  “My mother says people started calling your Nana a witch a long time ago. Things just got worse after that boy died out here.”

  How is it that Thalia knows more about Bay’s life than she herself does? What boy died out here? Bay scans the yard again, thinking she will understand everything if she can just figure out where to look. The flowers, in such distress only this morning, perk brightly from their shoes—though they remain in disarray, scattered throughout the yard, giving the odd appearance of a gathering where guests were suddenly possessed of a need to wander away barefoot. The house, from here, is mostly dark, but for the soft, buttery glow emanating from the kitchen. Howard sits by himself on the lawn, in a circle of candlelight, picking blades of grass. Bay has no idea where Stella went. Probably spying on Ruthie, she thinks.

  “Bay, are you okay?”

  “I need to figure this out.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not.” Bay is surprised that her tone of voice sounds as though she is, in fact, angry. “I’m not,” she says again, this time softly. “I just need to think, okay?”

  Bay and Thalia have been through a lot, as they say. What would their lives be like if they weren’t friends? When they talk about it, as they sometimes do, they agree their lives would be horrible and lonely without each other.

  “You know you’re my best friend, right? Just ’cause I sometimes need to be alone, that’s nothing against you. You know that, right?”

  “Remember wha
t you said on your birthday?” Thalia asks. “About going away? I thought, when you started to act so strange, that maybe you didn’t want to be friends anymore.”

  Bay is shocked. How could Thalia possibly believe such a thing, though suddenly it all kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? How would Bay have felt if Thalia said she wasn’t coming back to school? “I can’t believe you thought that. I just need to figure some things out, that’s all. It’s nothing against you. I need a little time alone, okay? Look, there’s Howard. Why don’t you hang out with him? I’ll be back. We’re best friends, right?”

  Thalia narrows her eyes at Bay, as if she can best be seen at a squint, then nods abruptly. They give each other a quick hug. Bay watches Thalia run across the lawn, the silver threads in her white dress causing her to sparkle.

  How can Bay feel sad after such an amazing meal, during such a special night? She feels stuck, not sure what to do. She shakes her head and murmurs, “What’s gotten into you?” She is acting just the way her Nana sometimes does, like someone who’s lost her way in her own yard, which is stupid. Bay knows exactly where she wants to go. Her feet feel strange as she walks across the grass. Why doesn’t she go barefoot more often?

  The stench of her special place rises like a warning, but Bay can think of no better spot for solitude. Besides, she sat there just this afternoon, and it wasn’t so bad, was it? There’s not really anything particularly special about it. It’s just a circle of grass tamped down by deer that sometimes sleep there, sheltered from the yard by the lilacs and tall grass, but it is the one place that has always belonged to Bay. She even stood here last winter listening to the snow fall through the few stubborn leaves still clinging to the weeping apple trees. She has no one to blame but herself for what she finds now: Stella, changed out of her party dress, lying on the ground like a deer, waking with a start, her eyes wide, frightened.

  “Oh,” Bay says, “I didn’t know you were here.”