by Mary Rickert
“He didn’t say I was wrong. He only said that if my mother saw me it could cause trouble, and if the women saw me, it could cause harm. ‘Some secrets are meant to remain so,’ he said. I understood. I knew about the burnings, of course.”
Bay has heard about these things too, but what does this have to do with Ruthie shooting Eve’s father? Bay looks at her Nana, sitting beside her so close now that it is hard to pretend any longer. She is so old she’s not making sense.
“I loved Miss Winter’s garden, but my mother, and the women she spent time with, thought it was a disgrace. It was all out of order, you see, wild. Miss Winter grew chives with her roses, well before it was popular to do so. Her cabbage nestled between the daisies. Her strawberries grew up the side of her house. My mother said it was a typical witch’s garden. She wasn’t evil, you know, your grandmother. Women back then didn’t have power the way they do now. Well, they had it of course, but they weren’t encouraged to use it. Anyway, she believed in a certain kind of reality and was terrified of anything that didn’t conform to it.
“She’s the one who sent me into our yard with pruning shears, sun hat, and gloves. I’m sure she later regretted it. While I was cutting back, Miss Winter was planting bulbs in the middle of the grass. When spring arrived, tulips and crocuses appeared in her yard as though they’d grown wild there. This probably sounds quite ordinary to you, lots of people garden like this now, but back then it was radical.
“Eventually, my mother realized I had formed a friendship with Miss Winter, who was not initially eager to chat with me, as I went about our yard cutting things, but by that time it was too late. Mother didn’t want me to watch Miss Winter’s cat when she went away, but I had already promised, and Mother had standards.”
Poor Nana, Bay thinks. What will we do if she has Alzheimer’s? But just in the time Bay let her own mind wander, Nan has made a big leap. Now she’s talking about working at summer camp with Eve, Ruthie, and Mavis, how much fun they had, how free they felt, wild even. It was only through the intervention of the ladies from church that Eve was allowed to work at the camp, since after her mother died, she was needed at home.
“They told Mr. Leary that the money she earned would be a boon for the family. We earned very little really; most of it went for room and board. Everyone in town knew Eve needed a break. It took me years to realize how culpable they all were. Like everyone else, her father was interested in appearances, so he agreed. On the condition that she come home for the occasional weekend, ‘to take care of things.’ That’s what he said.”
Nan catches her breath. Here she is, doing nothing more than sitting on her comfortable bed, telling her daughter a story. Why does she feel like she’s been running for a long time? Are you listening? Are you here? Do you know how sorry I am?
“Nana? Are you all right?”
“Eve was not a bad girl. Eve was a very, very good girl. She never wanted to cause any trouble.”
Wasn’t I just a girl myself? Nan thinks. Wasn’t I just running through the snow?
“Nana, you don’t have to—”
“No, Bay, I really do. I should have done this a long time ago. Eve was pregnant.”
Bay shakes her head. “But I still don’t understand why Ruthie shot Eve’s father.”
Even after all these years, Nan finds the words too bitter to speak. She simply looks at Bay and thinks, Why, you are only a few years younger than we were then.
“Wait,” Bay says, “did Eve’s father…did he molest her?”
Nan pats Bay’s knee. “You young people know so much more about these things than we did. It is a terrible bit of calculation. None of us had heard of such a thing, and it took me far too long to figure it out.”
Bay wonders how she has arrived here. Wasn’t she just a little girl listening to fairy tales in this very bed? Wasn’t she just in the kitchen making apple pie? Wasn’t she feeling, only an hour ago, that everything would get back to normal soon? How has she come to this place where the terrible stories are true?
“Can you imagine? Can you believe such a thing? Her own father… We were trying to help her. We were trying to save her. We weren’t murderers, but what if we had taken her to someone else? What if we had taken her to Miss Winter, which is where everyone assumed she went? What if we had taken her there instead of to the so-called doctor in the city? And what if, when things turned bad, we had not waited so long?”
Bay shakes her head. Poor Nana, poor Eve, poor Mavis and Ruthie!
“My neighbor, old Miss Winter, with her crazy garden and weird-smelling herbs, helped girls in trouble, you know. It was quite illegal, of course. It was all illegal back then. But Eve didn’t go to her. Oh no, we had to do the ‘right thing.’ In the midst of committing this crime, we became provincial. We took her to a doctor. Or so he said. Who knows what he was? He was bad at it.
“Then later, when Eve was dying, we fooled ourselves into believing she wasn’t. That’s why I say don’t fool yourself about reality, Bay, it’s never worth it. In the morning, I came to my senses, that’s what it felt like, as though I had been cast under a spell. For a long time I blamed Mavis for it, as though she had power over me. But all of us were just muddling through, even her.
“People saw us running down the street in the snow. People saw me and Miss Winter, and they assumed they knew what they had seen. The night of Eve’s funeral, someone burned down Grace Winter’s house. Her poor cat, Fairy, died. Miss Winter wasn’t hurt, physically that is. She left town before the cinders burned out.”
“But, Nana, you were so young, and you were afraid, and—”
“This was a terrible thing, Bay. I watched my friend die in her bed, and then I let the whole town think Grace Winter killed her. I am sorry to tell you this about me, but it’s time you know.
“When I left after my parents died, I thought I could leave that part of me in the empty lot where Grace Winter’s house once stood. I was a weak person, Bay, I am sorry to say. All I did was take some pennyroyal from the wild garden that grew where her house had been while Ruthie, our Ruthie, of all people, did what no one else had the courage to do. She shot Eve’s father. Our Ruthie did that, and even after all these years, I only wish she had better aim.”
Bay stares at her Nana, sitting in bed in the velvet dress, her white hair hanging around her wrinkled face. Who would ever guess that this sweet old woman had such a secret?
“We always said we’d be friends forever, but we didn’t get along after Eve’s funeral. I believe my father suspected; maybe not everything, but some of the truth. He couldn’t talk to me about it, though. I’m not sure it would have helped if he tried. We girls blamed one another, you see, and we blamed ourselves. I’m not sure anyone could have saved us from what we did and didn’t do.
“I never thought I’d be happy again, and then you came along, and I was. Happy, I mean. I didn’t want you to struggle the way I have, and because of that I am afraid I overprotected you. Everyone has power. We weren’t entirely helpless. We had power, and we did the wrong thing with it. Which brings me to you.”
The room is too warm. Whatever made Bay think autumn was near? Why is her Nana looking at her like this? Bay doesn’t even realize she’s shaking her head, until Nan says, “Yes. It’s time. Don’t interrupt. You have to listen, Bay. You’ve lived in fantasy long enough.”
“I’ve lived in fantasy?”
“Being born with a caul is perfectly natural. I know you think it’s disturbing, but it isn’t. It’s amniotic membrane, that’s all, formed over your face. You don’t need to make that sour-lemon expression, Bay. Some people call it being born behind the veil. It’s not a veil of obstruction; it’s the veil that separates you from the obstructions most of us suffer. As long as your caul is safe, your gifts are too. You can’t drown. You’ll be able to predict the weather. You have a talent for healing.”
“I really
don’t want to talk about this,” Bay says. She wants to get off the bed, leave the room, and rewind time. She remembers how happy she felt, just this morning, cutting apples for the pie.
“You have a talent for healing, and—”
“Please, Nana, stop.”
“You will see ghosts.”
“Not if I don’t want to, right?”
“You will see them whether you want to or not.”
“But I don’t want to see ghosts. I don’t want to be scared all the time. I just want to be normal.”
“Who said anything about being scared all the time? You really don’t need to make a big production out of this, Bay. Plenty of people see ghosts. It’s just that most of us see them from a great distance until we are close to death ourselves. Your gift is really a matter of focus.”
Bay is sorry that Thalia left. Today would be a good day for a friend. “Will they hurt me?”
“Oh, no,” says Nan. “We’re not talking horror movies here. Look at me. I’ve had a ghost or three following me for years.”
Bay closes her eyes. This is too much to absorb. “Are you saying you’re almost dead?”
“What?” Nan shakes her head, trying to compute backward to understand how Bay came to this conclusion. “You mean my ghosts? No, no, you have to pay attention. They are very far away, barely visible. Even that started happening only after I moved here, and I was still quite young then. It’s because of this house.”
“This house? But…wait. Who would…Eve? And Miss Winter? Was she an old lady? I think I saw her.”
“Yes, Bay. I do too. I can only guess how much she hates me. I have to live with that. But, Bay, it would break my heart if you hated me too.”
“Oh, Nana, who could ever hate you? You were trying to do the right thing. You were just… Nana, wait, I wanted to tell you! Last night, I had this dream. I fell asleep in my special place, and I dreamt that all these people passed through. Most of them just walked past, but one stopped to talk to me. Karl! Karl whispered something in my ear, but I don’t know what he said. And I saw her, Miss Winter, I think. Actually, I thought I was awake, but I must have still been asleep, because she disappeared. She didn’t say anything, Nana. I don’t know what she wants. I’m sorry.”
“But you see, Bay, even that is some help to me. Maybe she’s more at peace than I thought. It’s bad enough that I ruined her life. I have always feared I ruined her death as well. Have you seen anyone else?”
Bay shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sorry.” What’s the good of seeing ghosts if she can’t do anything about it? Here I am, Bay thinks, just accepting it. Like, well, okay, I see ghosts.
“It’s all right, dear.”
“I wish I could help.”
“Don’t give it another thought. Do you want it? The caul, I mean? It is yours and—”
“No, Nana. You keep it for now, okay? I know it’ll be safe with you.”
Nan nods vehemently, as if there’s never been any doubt. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I invited Mavis to stay with us.”
Bay pretends she doesn’t mind, though she’s been harboring the pleasant thought of sharing apple pie with her Nana after everyone has gone, sitting in the rockers on the porch, just the two of them again, everything back to normal.
Nan smells the salt, but it doesn’t bother her. She is feeling so relieved, pleased at how well everything went, that she almost forgets the rest. Bay is standing by the bed, leaning over to kiss Nan on her cheek when she says, “Wait. There’s more.”
More? Bay can’t imagine. What? Unicorns? Fairies? Vampires?
“Your birth mother,” Nan says. “I know her name.”
CINNAMON Cinnamon is derived from the inner bark of a tree of the laurel family. It is used as a perfume and anointing oil. In early times, it ranked in value with gold and frankincense. Cinnamon is said to possess excellent properties for immunity against disease.
Nan thinks that went fairly well, actually. The big secrets she’s been afraid of telling are told. The house still stands. The garden, it is assumed, still blossoms and dies, doing the business of gardens, more or less. The world still spins. The sun still shines and, Nan suspects, darkness will fall at the expected hour.
Thank goodness the dress has a side zipper; she can’t wait to get out of it. What a lovely dinner they had! It’s been a good weekend, a strange weekend, but good. Nan brings the garment to her nose, smelling it to determine if it goes to the dry cleaner or back on the hanger. She is distressed to discover how overwhelming the scent is. It is not the sweaty smell of her youth, but a sour odor underneath the scent of camphor. Has she been walking around smelling like something rotting in mothballs? She drops the dress to the closet floor. She hasn’t taken anything to the dry cleaner in years. She wonders if she’ll bother to take the dress; after all, when will she ever wear it again? On second thought, she determines to attend to it. Nan has tried to give Bay a good life, a carefree childhood, but knows that ever since Bay was a little girl, she has worried about death. Bay thinks this is her secret, but it isn’t.
There’s no getting around it, Nan thinks as she changes into her favorite housedress, so old the cotton is tissue-soft and unfortunately easy to tear, as evidenced by the small holes throughout. She can’t live forever. The least she can do is not leave extra laundry for Bay to deal with.
Nan brushes her hair, a few deft strokes and she is done. How distressing it was, all those years ago when her hair began falling out. How stubbornly she has clung to what remains and the idea that pulled into a bun, as she is doing now, her hair looks fuller. And yet, how fortunate she is to not have suffered hair loss the way Mavis did.
Nan resists the temptation to step into Bay’s bedroom to check on her. One of the hardest things about mothering teenagers is learning that sometimes you just have to leave them alone with their misery. Bay’s door is closed, but Nan thinks she hears crying. What Nan wouldn’t give to take it all away. Why, she’d give everything. Last night, she almost gave more than it is her right to give. It breaks Nan’s heart, it really does, to think of Bay hurting like this. But at least she knows what she’s dealing with. At least she knows what is real.
Nan slowly descends the stairs. She is tired, experiencing a new pain in her bones, and she is weary, though happy that the headache that’s been plaguing her is gone. She must have been a little crazy last night to consider tearing Bay’s caul like an old dust rag. Whatever came over her? She decides to blame the wine.
The kitchen is bright with morning sun, scented by the apple pie resting on the cooling rack at the center of the small table where Mavis and Ruthie sit, arguing.
“We have to make sure it’s set out long enough,” Ruthie says, “or it’ll be running.”
“Who cares?” Mavis says. “I’ll eat it with a spoon.”
“You can’t eat pie with a spoon.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Nan says by way of salutation. “Let’s not turn apple pie into a debate.”
“All right,” Mavis says, “we cut it, and those of us who want to eat it can, and those who don’t want to, don’t.”
“But if you cut it before it sets—”
“Here’s the knife,” Nan says, “and the server. Who wants milk?”
The three of them are sitting crouched around the small table, murmuring how good the pie is, when Stella enters the kitchen, showered and changed, her short hair in damp spikes around her face like an angry porcupine.
As if they’d come to some agreement, though they had not; as if they were all suddenly fourteen again, they simply ignore her. Nan is aware of how rude this is, how immature, how futile, but she is savoring the power the three of them create when they are in agreement.
“Okay, I get it,” Stella says. “Bay told you. But I’m giving you an opportunity to explain you
rselves and tell your side of the story.”
“If you’re so interested in our side, why didn’t you contact us before you’d made up your mind about it?” Nan asks.
Stella doesn’t move her head, but glances sideways. Nan follows her focus to Ruthie, who is using her pinky finger to tuck an errant pie crumb into her mouth. “Oh, didn’t I mention? I invited Stella here this weekend,” she says.
“Well, aren’t you turning out to be Miss Devious?” Mavis asks.
“She already had her ideas. I thought this would give her a chance to get to know us better. To see how we really are.”
Nan waits for Mavis to say something smart and cruel, but instead she attacks the pie with her spoon, entirely focused on the task. Ruthie appears to be concentrating on finding crumbs so small Nan can’t see them, jabbing the table with the point of her index finger.
“I’m here,” Stella says. “This is your chance. Though I can see why you wouldn’t want to talk about it. What can you possibly say?”
Mavis looks up from the pie, a juice-dripping spoon poised in her hand. She looks at Nan; they turn to Ruthie, who stops jabbing crumbs with her finger to return their gaze, her thin eyebrows raised.
“You better get your recording device,” Mavis says.
“You’ll talk to me?”
“You might want to bring in a chair from the dining room,” says Nan. “This is going to take some time.”
***
The morning light fills the room as they talk, so bright that for a while no eye contact can be made. It reminds Nan of something like the lingering feeling of a dream, like being caught between time and space, memory and absence.
How easy this is, Nan thinks as she listens and adds details—after all these years, how easy it is to tell the story, which is not a scandal after all. “We were so young,” she blurts out at one point, and a cinnamon-scented hush settles over the room.
“Yes,” Mavis says. “And now look at us.”
“We’re like soldiers,” Ruthie says.
