The Garden House

by Linda Mahkovec

  Miranda was silent for a few moments. “I think we were afraid to talk about it. Things weren’t discussed openly like they are now. So many children are at the mercy of horrible people. Trapped.”

  “What made you think of her?” Ben pulled on the hose and began watering the hanging baskets by the door.

  “I don’t know. What if she was telling the truth? What if she was being abused and was hoping we could help?”

  “What happened to her?”

  Miranda looked out, trying to remember, then shook her head. “One day they were just gone. Moved away to somewhere else. I wish – I wish I would have done something. Told someone.”

  “I think you’re more upset about that shelter than you realize. I wish you’d listen to me, Miranda, and not go back there.”

  “That’s not it.” Miranda frowned and plucked off a few more brown petals. “I think these roses could use some plant food.”

  As Ben jerked on the hose to gain more slack, Miranda saw that the hose pressed against one of the rose bushes, bending it. She rushed over to pull it away.

  Chapter 6

  Miranda pulled across from the shelter and unloaded the bags of clothing. It had been two weeks since she had first gone there. As she neared the front steps, she noticed a large pile of pulled weeds on the sidewalk and saw that the garden had been freshly edged and watered. She was surprised to see that the little bleeding heart had been moved to the shade and now had several delicate buds hanging from the stems. I can’t believe the girl actually listened to me, she thought.

  Miranda dropped off the bags inside in the donations box, and left. Coming around the corner, she almost collided with the same two boys from the first time, who were clearly surprised to see her again.

  “Badminton, anyone?” she asked cheerfully.

  As she drove off, she saw the young girl in her rear-view mirror. She was walking towards the garden carrying two buckets of water, and stopped when she saw Miranda.

  Miranda was glad to have missed another confrontation. She drove off, happy that she had gone back, and happy that it was over. That’s that, she told herself.

  *

  Miranda rubbed lotion on her hands and arms after her bath. Ben was downstairs working on a floor plan, as he often did at night. She heard a car door slam and went to look out the bedroom window. William had parked in the rear of the garden house. When he opened the back door, golden lamp light poured outside, and then disappeared when he shut the door.

  Miranda read for a while in bed, reading the same page over and over. She eventually turned off the light and fell asleep. She woke up once when Ben came to bed, and then she fell into a restless sleep.

  From somewhere, she heard a cry, and her sleeping mind wove the sound into her dream.

  She was walking outside when she heard a voice calling out, a child’s frightened voice. She wanted to find the boy and protect him. She followed his cries to an old abandoned outbuilding, gray and dilapidated; she entered.

  Everything was old, dusty, jumbled. Odd flights of stairs led in different directions but didn’t connect with each other, or dead-ended against the walls. She climbed up one flight of stairs, hearing the tiny voice. At the top, she came to a room full of doors and cupboards. She tried to open them.

  “Where are you?” she called.

  “I’m here,” came his voice.

  She followed his voice to a door, but it didn’t have a handle. She ran her hands around the frame. “Who are you? Are you hurt?”

  “Johnny. Don’t tell him where I am.”

  She tried to press the door open. She heard footsteps behind her and quickly turned around.

  Miranda woke, her heart still pounding. She sat up and listened. Again, she thought she heard a cry and cocked her head to listen. But all was silent. She nudged Ben and whispered, “Ben. Ben!”

  He sleepily rolled over. “Hmm?”

  “Ben, did you hear anything?”

  That caught his attention. “In the house?”

  “No. Outside. A cry or something. I had a dream. And it was so real. There was a child. Trapped behind a wall. I couldn’t get to him, but some guy was going to hurt him.”

  “Just a dream.”

  “But I’m sure I heard a cry.”

  “Probably Paula’s cat.”

  Miranda lay back down. Ben put his arm around her, and soon his breathing became deep and rhythmic. She pulled the cover up, and fell back asleep.

  *

  The next morning, Miranda was buttering some English muffins when Ben came into the kitchen.

  “The coffee’s ready,” she said. “Do you want an egg, or oatmeal?”

  “No. This is fine.” Ben poured out a cup of coffee, added some milk, and took a few sips. Then he stopped, leaned back in his chair, and turned his head to Miranda.

  “Am I starting to have weird dreams now, or did you wake me in the middle of the night to tell me about a trapped kid?”

  It sounded ridiculous in the sunlight and solid shapes of morning. But Miranda still had a sense of something being wrong. “It was so real, Ben. You know how some dreams are like that? It was like I was there and could hear him. I’ve had several of these dreams now, about the same little boy.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “I’m beginning to think they mean something.”

  Ben looked up, doubtful. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. What if there’s a child trapped somewhere? That’s the feeling I get. And that dream about the predator. And the daycare incident. It all makes sense. Somehow.”

  “Our man Jasper,” said Ben, and bit into the English muffin. “Besides, you said nothing happened at the daycare.”

  Everything was starting to get mixed up. Dreams, rumors, her insecurities. “I know it sounds crazy – but haven’t you ever had a flash of intuition, when you just know something?”

  “No. I haven’t. Look, Miranda. The kids are fine. You speak to them every day. It’s that shelter. You said so yourself. I don’t want you going back there.”

  She leaned against the counter, considering his words. “No, that’s not it.” She sat down and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, as if for warmth. “Anyway, I told you, I’m not going back. I brought the last of the clothes.”

  “Good. Then the dreams will stop.” Ben took another bite. “I think you just need to move on with things.”

  “What does that mean?” Miranda asked defensively.

  “Just that – the kids are gone. And you need to find something else to fill your time.”

  “You think I’m fabricating dreams to fill my time?! My God, Ben, my sense of self is a little stronger than that.”

  “I’m not saying that, but you’re letting these dreams get in your way. You spent so much of your time with the kids, and now that they’re gone – ”

  “I don’t believe it! You think I have empty nest syndrome. I hate that expression. It makes women sound like they have only one purpose in life. That’s really outdated, Ben.”

  “I didn’t say that. You did. I’m just saying now’s your chance to do something else. For a change.”

  They ate in silence, Miranda wondering why she had snapped at Ben. Perhaps she was living in her head too much. She reached for the brochure from Paula, glanced at it, and handed it to him. “Paula told me about it.”

  Ben scanned it. “You going to go?”

  “I might. Maybe I’ll get some ideas.” She sipped her coffee.

  He nodded as he read the brochure. “This is a great idea. I’ve always told you that you should try to sell your work. And that’s what you’ve always wanted. If you could treat it as a business, it might make it more tangible, more achievable.”

  Miranda knew that Ben saw her as too unfocused, jumping from project to project. And she knew that he was right. “That makes sense.”

  “I could help with that part of it, the business side,” said Ben.

  Miranda inwardly cringed at the word business, envisioning spreadshe
ets and ledgers, a pencil behind her ear.

  Ben gave a quick nod, as if all was settled. “It’s a great idea. I’m glad you’re going.”

  “I said I was thinking about it.”

  Ben picked up his briefcase and the set of drawings, and kissed her goodbye. “See you tonight.”

  Miranda brought the dishes to the sink, casting a glance now and then at the brochure.

  She leaned against the counter with a hand on her hip. Then she dumped her cold coffee into the sink, and poured herself a fresh cup. She sat at the table and began to read the brochure more closely. Perhaps if it was a business, she would work on schedule rather than waiting for the time to be right. Maybe there was something to that. It had certainly worked for Paula.

  Miranda tried to imagine herself with the same excitement Paula had when she talked about profit margin and cash flow and marketing ideas, but no enthusiasm arose within her.

  Rather, what excited her was a new idea for a piece, wet clay in her hands, squeezing out a glob of cobalt blue onto a palette, forming a pattern out of mosaics. She feared that at heart she was not marketable, and that the only thing her creative endeavors would ever produce was, as Paula might say, a negative cash flow.

  And yet it was Paula’s love of things that got her started with her business – her passion for finding and then transforming old, discarded, ordinary objects into something interesting or beautiful. She had turned her love for shopping at garage sales and flea markets into a thriving small business. Her first store in Wallingford had done so well that she had opened a larger one in Bellevue, and was planning a third store that her sister would run in the San Juan Islands. She had never seen Paula so happy and energetic. Why shouldn’t she be able to do the same?

  The ill-defined unease that had haunted her lately was gradually being replaced by the solidity of a practical plan. The seminar would be the first step. She would at least go and hear what they had to say.

  She went to the calendar, circled the date, and wrote Small Business Seminar. Now she had something concrete to hold onto, to focus her energy on. She was tired of moping, tired of analyzing her dreams and imagining crazy things. What she needed was to get busy and start making things happen. Like Paula. Like Ben.

  Miranda laced up her running shoes, and started on a brisk walk. She took the same route as she had the other day. When she reached the top of the hill, she looked over again at the house with the swimming pool, but she didn’t see the champagne-drinking artist.

  But ever since that day, Miranda had begun noticing other older women who inspired her. Whether she was at the health food store or nursery, at a restaurant or in one of the neighborhood shops, she noticed women who moved with purpose, and laughed with gusto, women who dressed with style, and who seemed to live with passion.

  Miranda enjoyed the challenge of the steep hill, and soon worked up a sweat. She would go home, shower, and make a salad. Register for the seminar, and read the book from Paula. From this point on, her life would move forward, not backwards, or worse, remain in that awful stagnation where nothing happened.

  When she reached her street again, she saw Nicole up ahead with her two kids. Though it had been Miranda’s firm intention to stop thinking about trapped kids and predators and the daycare and the cries at night, the momentum of those thoughts had not yet come to a halt. She didn’t want to give in to an overactive imagination – but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  Nicole and her kids were peering inside a tall bush. Nicole noticed her coming, and waved.

  “Hi, Miranda!”

  “Good morning! Hi, Danny. Hello, Ariel,” Miranda said, bending down to them. “What have you found?”

  “Shhh!” said Danny, pointing into the bush.

  Miranda peeked in and saw an empty bird’s nest. She opened her eyes wide to the gratification of the little boy and girl. “Wow! A bird’s nest.”

  “But the babies are gone,” said Ariel.

  Danny pointed up to the trees. “That’s the mommy bird. She’s teaching them how to fly.”

  Miranda lifted her eyes to the crows in a tall pine, and exchanged a smile with Nicole.

  While Danny and Ariel poked around the bushes for another nest, Miranda spoke softly to Nicole. “I meant to ask you – Did something happen at the daycare? Paula mentioned something the other day.”

  It took Nicole a moment to realize what Miranda was referring to. “Oh, that,” she laughed. “You know Dillon? Well, his mother started a new job, so his grandfather had to pick him up. Dillon wasn’t ready to leave, so he put up quite a fight. Danny came home telling me that some man tried to kidnap Dillon. I knew the school would have notified me. Still, I called his teacher, just to make sure.” Nicole put a hand on Miranda’s arm. “Last week he had me believing there was a snake under his bed. He can be pretty convincing.”

  Miranda had to laugh at the antics of Danny. He was now on his hands and knees digging in the dirt with a stick. “I’m glad that’s all it was.” Miranda felt a sense of relief and realized she had been worrying about the incident. It had sat at the back of her mind, seeking out an explanation.

  Nicole made a face of repugnance. “Danny! Put that down.” He found a worm and was trying to put it in the nest. Nicole shook her head, and steered the kids ahead of her. “See you, Miranda!”

  Miranda waved goodbye and watched them go. She remembered taking Michael and Clara on such walks of exploration at that age, and how they delighted in the discovery of a mushroom, a curl of madrona bark, a snail clinging to the underside of a stem, and Michael’s favorite, the glistening trails of the slugs.

  After one such walk, she had made a little painting for Michael. A background of textured shades of green and brown, suggestive of moss, grass, leaves. And then running diagonally, a meandering, looping line of silver paint, with just the tip of a slug exiting the canvas corner.

  She hadn’t expected him to love it so much, but it had hung in his bedroom for years, and went with him for three semesters in a dorm room. It was now in his Portland apartment. It touched her that it still mattered to him. The same way Clara had taken a small fairy painting with her to San Francisco, and one of the rosebud topiaries they had made together.

  Though she fought against the impulse, Miranda called Clara when she got home – but she was at the gym and couldn’t really talk. Then she spoke to Michael for a minute before he left to have lunch with a co-worker. She briefly told them both about the seminar, and that Paula had sold some of her pieces, and that she had just gotten back from a walk and was getting into shape.

  The truth was she still had to have some daily contact with them, even if it was just an email or text message, or the day just didn’t feel right. It would be like going a whole day without speaking to Ben.

  After her shower she felt refreshed, full of energy. She browsed through her clothes, considering what to wear to the seminar, and pulled out a couple of items that she thought were appropriate for business. They were bland and boring, but practical – clothes she had bought during the few years she had done office work, after Ben switched jobs. She had held onto them just in case she ever needed to go back to work.

  Standing in front of the mirror, she tried on a few possibilities, and grew increasingly frustrated with each piece. Her old skirts and pants were too tight; she would definitely have to try a different dry cleaner. She hadn’t gained that much weight. Had she? She wished Clara were there, to get an honest opinion. Ben always said everything looked great.

  She held up a few jackets and blouses, frowned, and decided on a black pantsuit and one of two shirts.

  As she returned the clothes to the back of her closet, she saw the old pieces she hadn’t been able to part with – clothing from when she dressed in a way that wasn’t determined by office dress code, and before she started wearing comfortable mom clothes. There they were – her long skirts, some embroidered, some beaded. She pulled out a deep midnight blue skirt that shimmered with movement, and a vintage p
rint blouse. Just the glimpse of them filled her with a deep yearning for her younger days. She returned them, closed the closet door, and went downstairs.

  But a trace of that old excitement stubbornly stayed with her. There’s no reason why I can’t recreate that earlier feeling, she thought. It could be even better. I have the man I love, I have a family. I don’t have the anxiety over money that I used to have, or the pressure of which path to pursue.

  Or did those worries and concerns help to fuel that earlier drive, making everything more intense, more urgent, more exciting? Perhaps. But she was a different woman now. Her approach to life was different.

  And yet it’s not too late, she told herself. Look at Paula. Look at the woman by the pool. Many women come into their own later in life.

  Miranda curled up with a cup of tea and Paula’s book on how to attract the life you want. For the most part, she was familiar with the sometimes trite, neatly packaged ideas. Still, she thought, it doesn’t stop them from being true.

  Her skepticism diminished as she read on, and she became more excited, realizing how she was preventing herself from having the kind of life she wanted. She was amazed to find that even her thinking had changed over the years. She used to approach life with such openness and energy, believing in her dreams.

  For so long her life had been consumed with the kids and Ben – the vacations, the holidays, the homework and sports and camps, the parties and sleepovers. She had loved it all. Every minute of it.

  But now, for the first time, she realized that she needed to reclaim, to awaken from slumber, the part of herself that used to steer her life. Perhaps this seminar really could be the beginning of something. This could be a time to blossom, to bloom into full being.

  She jumped up when she heard Ben come home.

  “You’re home early?” she asked.