Shadow Garden

by Alexandra Burt

  She took all three. She chewed them, though the bitterness made her gag but the tip of her tongue pushed the chalky substance underneath that small membranous fold where it dissolved. Three were a lot, even for her. Especially while driving. Better hurry and get home. The car engine was still running, and putting the transmission in reverse and pulling out of the parking lot occurred simultaneously.

  Penelope followed a white Honda into the street, honked at the driver, who was too hesitant to weave into traffic. At a light, a police officer came to a stop beside her. She put her hands on the wheel—ten and two—and looked straight ahead. Did he follow her, had he seen her honk at that driver? There was a slight pull behind her eyes, yet she was not afraid, she was young and good-looking and the car was loaded to the gills, surely he could see that. The officer stared at her but Penelope didn’t care. Her heart couldn’t speed up if it tried, it was like she was floating in the clouds. No sharp corners, no harsh edges, all fluffy all the time.

  It began to sprinkle, barely a need for wipers, every other movement of the blade did nothing but lick a dry window, and then the cubicle rent nagged at her again. She wanted Jeanine Haney to know how responsible she was, wanted to transfer the money online right then and there so she didn’t have to think about anything for the rest of the day.

  Her eyes got so heavy that Penelope got as far as White Rock Lake Park. She pulled into the parking lot. She’d been here before, on a weekend, last summer, when there were riders on road bikes in uniforms and helmets, joggers, dogs and kids, couples lying on the grass. She had sat on a bench and watched the dogs, had wanted a dog of her own but then she deserted the thought. She couldn’t care for anything alive, she’d just mess it up. And her mother would never allow it, not at her house. “Take care of the cats out back if you want something to do,” she’d say. To be honest, Penelope cringed at the thought of another responsibility. So much easier to just not bother with anything.

  It was October, almost sunset but not quite, and White Rock Lake Park was all but deserted. She was glad there were no people around, the last thing she needed was someone to knock on the window asking if she was okay. One minute it was daylight, the next it’d be dark.

  She pulled up her banking app and transferred the rent money, imagined a pop-up on Jeanine Haney’s computer, you received a payment from Penelope Pryor, and then wooziness set in. Penelope let the car idle for a while but then she cut the engine and sat in the dark with her windows rolled down, hoping the fresh air would wake her up. Give her a jolt, a second wind.

  Her eyes stared off into the distance. This place, it was beautiful. Peaceful. She had an epiphany right then and there—she hadn’t thought it before but it had come to her sitting in this deserted park—there was nothing that suited her in this world, nothing. She was sure of it. Who was she kidding, this real estate thing wasn’t for her, and she knew it. Too much talking to too many people, too much fakery. She just couldn’t catch a break, couldn’t find her niche, that’s what her mother called it. It was so much harder since people expected so much of her, as if she wasn’t allowed to fail, and she had given up on the interior design thing which took too much hustling. People didn’t just show up at her doorstep, she had found that out quickly. She thought about buying houses and becoming a landlord and she’d run that by her parents, they’d have to put up the capital after all. She’d draw an income and hire a property manager—maybe that was her niche, having people do things for her—maybe that would work out. Do most people know what to do with their lives?

  The rain picked up but came from the west so she left the window rolled down, the drops barely landed on the leather interior. The sound of a car door opening. And voices. Another car door. People talking over one another. High-pitched. Not in that order, but all at once.

  To recall this all later meant to mix it up, forget the composition of the moment, like being asked how many gunshots you heard, you couldn’t remember, it happened too quickly, jumbled, no one could recall how many or what came first.

  On second thought, the voices hadn’t been shrill at all, it was the fact that they’d jerked her out of her floating state that made them sound menacing. It wasn’t even an argument, a slight raising of voices at best, nothing more.

  The cold air had done her some good. Time to go home. It had been a long day, most of it she spent in the bathroom, in a stall, trying to get herself together. It was just the way it happened sometimes, months of relative peace and then something insignificant—was it the fact that she had approached the deadline for the move?—would throw her off and she was a ball of yarn, every single strand tight, unable to find the beginning or the end of anything. In those moments, she went overboard, alcohol, spending, men, forgot to pay bills, as a matter of fact she had been evicted for not paying rent at her last place, that’s how she ended up living at home again. That posed a different kind of problem altogether. Her parents. She needed them but didn’t want to need them and that’s where she was stuck, between a rock and a hard place, or worse, going down a spiral. When she was like that, she didn’t always catch herself in time, though her father did—she could tell by the way he looked at her, stern and concerned—and now she had just days left to get it together. She chuckled. One month to get out of her parents’ house. As if she’d take that long if she knew how to get away from them.

  Penelope started the car, followed the bike trail that ran along the lake, just to see if the car was where the people had shouted earlier. It won’t hurt to look, it won’t hurt at all.

  There was a car with a driver’s door ajar. She kept her eyes on it and stepped on the gas. Her movements were sluggish, as if packed in cotton balls, and her foot was heavy, she could tell by the way the car jerked forward. She wasn’t buckled in yet, tried to untangle the twisted belt mess, free the buckle, and everything happened so fast that she didn’t have time to think, to take it all in.

  There was a thump. Not like something getting caught underneath the chassis of the car, some armadillo or animal low on the ground. It was more like a dull and faint bang. It wasn’t a guardrail, it wasn’t a bike left behind—there was no sound of screeching metal—but she hit the brakes and the car came to a halt, its front tires digging into the asphalt. She instinctively ripped the steering wheel to the left to keep from hitting it full force, whatever it was. (She remembered stories of deer flying through windshields, yes, it was a deer, it must be a deer.) She reached for the belt but couldn’t find it, though she fumbled for it and what if a deer flew through the windshield? It would kill her for sure.

  Her body propelled forward, and her chest made contact with the steering wheel. Penelope got out of the car and on a cloud she floated. She paused in the middle of the bike trail, the yellow line gray as if the world had lost all colors.

  She saw something. On the ground. It looked mangled at first, some of it pointed up while other parts seemed to be stuck to the asphalt. It took her brain some time to catch up and she staggered toward it.

  A woman.

  She wanted to call out her name but she had no clue who she was. She wanted to tell her that she didn’t mean to hit her but that it was dark and that she didn’t see her, but the woman appeared fine. Dazed, yes, confused, yes, but moving, sitting up. A large purse, a tote, off to the side, items strewn everywhere.

  Penelope bent down and she stuttered are you okay are you okay oh my God what happened, where did you come from are you okay are you? On and on she went, like a fountain, babbling along.

  “Help me up,” the woman said.

  29

  PENELOPE

  There was a woman on the ground, but she talked, made sense—help me up, she said—and it wasn’t bad if she could talk and wanted to get up, was it? She extended her arm, and Penelope put one hand in hers, the other underneath her elbow, and pulled her to her feet.

  “What’s your name?” Penelope asked, wondering if this wasn�
�t a figment of her imagination, a name was going to make it real, and she wanted to commit it to memory.

  “Rachel.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” Rachel said.

  She seemed fine, her trench coat was belted, she hobbled, but only because she had lost one shoe, the other one was still on her foot.

  In a fog, Penelope gathered that Rachel was beautiful. Her lips were painted red, and her hair was shiny, and she smelled of something clean, like soap or shampoo, maybe detergent.

  Rachel stood and parted her trench coat, exposing a bloody knee for Penelope to see.

  “What were you doing here?” popped out of Penelope’s mouth before she could rein it in. She should offer to take her to a hospital, should do the right thing, make sure she got help and medical attention even though she looked just fine. “Can you walk?” she added quickly. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No,” she said, her voice fearful. “I think I’m fine,” but she was breathing hard. Really hard.

  Penelope didn’t know if it was a no to the walking or a no to the ambulance, but the woman’s breathing became more labored by the second, maybe that was what made her sound timid.

  “I need to sit down,” she said.

  “My car’s right there. Let me help you.”

  They walked together and Penelope held her up. Rachel staggered, still in that one shoe, but only two steps, then she kicked it off as if it just came to her that walking would be much easier without it.

  Penelope opened the passenger door and the woman got in. Ladylike, she placed one foot just in front of the seat, lowered herself with her weight carried on her thigh, her head clearing the doorframe and she sat on the outer edge of the seat, then she bent her knees and brought her feet inside the car. She arranged her skirt to cover her bloody knee. Penelope couldn’t help but think that her mother would like this woman, with her tasteful trench and her perfect hair, the way she slid into the seat of Penelope’s car, so refined and elegant, even after what had just happened.

  The woman’s head fell back, hit the headrest.

  “Let me get your stuff and I’ll take you to a hospital. Just to be sure.” Penelope shut the door, ran and grabbed the shoe, scooped the keys and other items—mints, a lipstick, a wallet—into the tote, then made one more effort to grab the other shoe, but the heel had come off. She stuffed the shoes into the tote and rushed back to the car.

  Getting in and starting the engine happened simultaneously. Penelope made a U-turn, no reason going in the other direction, she didn’t even know where it led and she must get the woman to a hospital. There was a medical center that Penelope remembered, on Highway 78, one of those urgent care centers. That was her best bet. It was urgent and the woman needed care, Penelope thought in a haze. She tried to be logical. No, that’s no good. Come to think of it, they do stitches and strep throats, nothing major. But was it major?

  Penelope was unfamiliar with her surroundings. She needed to get to 78, but her head hurt, her eyes burned in her head, she could no longer concentrate on directions. Will they take her blood? She hadn’t been drinking but would they test for other substances? Her heart was calm, not a quiver there, but her mind did somersaults.

  “I’m sorry, I have to pull over, I’m going to need a minute. I need to use the GPS,” Penelope said and looked around for the nearest street address to input. She was in some sort of a residential neighborhood, small houses with siding and patchy lawns and no one was out, even though the lights were on behind just about every window. “Unless you know the way,” Penelope added and turned to look at the woman. Her head was twisted in an unnatural way, like a baby in a carrier without a head support. Contorted.

  “Are you okay?” Penelope touched the woman’s hand. So pale and childlike, the hand of a twelve-year-old. “Hey,” Penelope said and tugged on her arm. “Can you hear me?” Penelope wiggled her arm, trying to get her to stir. She wanted to call out the woman’s name but she didn’t. A red line emerged from the woman’s left nostril.

  A man approached, walking two large brown dogs. They stopped and sniffed the tree where Penelope was parked, their leashes stretched. The man was less than five feet away from her car and he looked at her, made momentary eye contact, but Penelope didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as reach for the button to lower her window, and he continued on down the sidewalk.

  Penelope spotted a street sign. Bellfield, and she typed it in the phone but she couldn’t comprehend the instructions. She switched to the map function and that she could understand, the highway around the next corner, down the access road and then take the next exit and one turn to the right. There was a red cross on the map, which meant hospital.

  Penelope floored the gas and the tires squealed. She ran a stop sign, a car came straight at her, they both hit the brakes and came to a screeching halt inches from each other. The driver blew his horn, angrily, three or four times. Penelope raised her hand to apologize for her lack of attention.

  She talked to Rachel without looking at her. Everything will be okay don’t do this to me the hospital is around the corner please please please. Last time Penelope had looked, Rachel’s chin had rested on her chest. People fall asleep in airplanes like that, in cars even, nothing to worry about. She’ll be okay, she’s unconscious and everything will be fine. It will be all right.

  Penelope took the exit and then took a right, could see the lit-up red cross from far away, the illuminations, five or so stories, and she slowed down. There was a sign, outpatient, but she had to find the emergency room entrance. She turned right, then hit the brakes when the parking lot suddenly ended. There was a row of dumpsters, and she was behind a building with delivery ramps and this was all wrong.

  She wanted to collect herself, for just a minute or so, wanted to come up with a story. No, story was not the right word, she didn’t plan on lying about anything, she just wanted to arrive at some logical explanation so she wouldn’t be rambling on and on, so she could tell them that the woman was fine, just fine, walking, talking, one minute she was grabbing her coat, pulling the lapel, the next her head was bent and there was blood coming from her nose.

  Penelope got out of the car, hurried around and opened the passenger door. The moment the overhead light came on, when she saw the woman’s face, she knew. The trickle of blood had turned into a tributary of red, leading from her nose across her cheek and down her neck. The woman wore a bright red silk scarf around her neck, tucked into the coat, now Penelope saw how bright the color was, poppy, almost candy-apple red.

  Penelope’s stomach dropped as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. She wanted to shake the woman, get her to wake up. Wanted her to respond, in a coherent way. She wasn’t sure what had happened—had the woman not gotten up off the ground earlier, had she not talked, had she not been responsive—and now she was contorted and lifeless? The word dead formed in her mind but before it manifested itself in all its consequences, Penelope somehow was back in the car, behind the wheel.

  In the woman’s lap, there was another scarf, red like a garnet. No, that’s not a scarf, no no no no no no no no no no, that’s not a scarf at all. Not around her neck, not in her lap. That’s blood.

  Penelope lifted the woman’s head by her chin, but her head rolled to the side and her eyes stared straight at her, struck her with their broken beauty. And beautiful she was, even now, in a desperate and dramatic way, like a painting of a woman she had seen once, chained at the stakes and looking up toward heaven. Rachel looked like that, theatrical and exaggerated. Her eyes. Her eyes were so still.

  Penelope sat in the darkness of her car feeling every beat of her heart. A narrow stream of light approached, painting the ghostly loading docks in lights and shadows. The silence was disturbed by an ambulance siren. Penelope held her breath. The ambulance passed. She remained perfectly stil
l until the lights disappeared.

  30

  DONNA

  Penelope sits in a parking lot of a hospital and does nothing. Nothing. A bleeding woman in the seat next to her doesn’t rouse her conscience. Instead of rendering help she . . . waits? And just like that I’m caught up in a tangle of narratives. I’ve been without sleep for two days, I haven’t eaten, my hands are shaking, that’s how low my blood sugar is. I rummage through my purse for anything resembling a mint, gum, or granola bar. Nothing.

  I flip to the next page. Speculations and opinions on my part are useless but before I read further, I should try to remember. Hear me out. I make no sense, even to myself.

  First, I search my memory and vaguely discover a story resembling the one I just read. Doubt is my next instinct. None of it makes sense. None of it matches up with the narrative I’ve had in my head. And then it all turns peculiar because I know what Penelope did next—suddenly I know it and I can no longer deny it.

  There’s a conundrum I have inside. Can I trust this Penelope?

  You’d think that’s the most powerful thought in my mind but there’s something else. I stuff the letters in my purse. A question demanding an answer: am I trying to recall something or shut something out?

  A voice in my head answers. Find proof.

  31

  DONNA

  I position myself by the stairs leading down into the garage with my hand resting on the banister. I step down—one, two, three, four—and reach into the darkness. The palm of my hands makes contact with the hood of a car. Running them down and back up, I feel a round emblem above the grill. Four rings. Edward’s car. His Audi.

  Five steps to the left and there’s my Infinity. On the other side of the garage, the sprinkler display box illuminates the space enough to make out shadows. The third spot sits empty. It’s where Penelope used to park. It feels wrong but I don’t know what’s wrong about it.