The Garden House

by Linda Mahkovec

  “Maybe I should have stayed. I don’t know why I gave up so easily.”

  “Sometimes that’s your solution.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of my failures, Ben.”

  “I’m not doing that. I’m just saying that sometimes you have to push through things.” After a moment, he rubbed her arm. “Anyway, give yourself credit for going. Did you get anything out of it? Any information?”

  Miranda didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but she knew this was Ben’s way of apologizing. “Maybe a little. The importance of tracking expenses, measuring results, that kind of thing.”

  Ben nodded encouragingly. “That’s good. It’s a start.”

  Then she told him about the breakout groups and how it had all felt over her head. “I just gave up, doubting whether a business would be the right thing.”

  “You could start small and see how it goes. I can help you set it up.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “I really think it would be good for you,” Ben said. “A way to get out from under the influence of those dreams you’ve been having. It’s like they’re preventing you from moving forward.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to dispute the idea, but changed her mind, not wanting to argue. Besides, even though Ben didn’t understand the power of an intuition, she knew there was some truth to his words. The dreams were preoccupying her more than she cared to admit. She nodded as if in agreement. She then leaned over to the trellis, picked a sprig of climbing jasmine, and held the sweetness to her nose.

  “You know,” said Miranda, “I was so upset when I came home. I was mad at the speaker, mad at myself, at a loss.” She shook her head at each remembrance. “Then I came home and sat out in the garden.”

  “Your refuge.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I got all sad about my old dreams never amounting to anything, just feeling bad. Then William came up and we talked a bit. And somehow I saw the bigger picture. And I felt good about who I am.”

  “Don’t I make you feel like that?” Ben asked with an easy laugh, but there was a hint of hurt in his eyes.

  “Yes,” Miranda said qualitatively.

  “But?”

  Miranda lifted her shoulders. “I guess I needed to hear it from someone else. William really knows how to listen.”

  “And I don’t? You see? You always value someone else’s opinion over mine. I tell you that all the time.”

  “What are you getting so testy about?” Miranda started to clear off the table. “You need to start getting some exercise, Ben.”

  “Me? You’re the one who thinks the dry cleaner is shrinking all your clothes.” He stood and lifted his plate.

  Miranda started to take the plate from his hand. “Never mind. I’ll clean up.”

  “I’ll get it.” Ben held onto the plate, stacked a few dishes on top of it, and brought them inside.

  They both loaded the dishwasher, banging the dishes and growing more annoyed as they got in each other’s way.

  Miranda was beginning to feel like a yoyo – getting excited, then depressed, then feeling good, then bad. “I’m going upstairs.”

  Ben reached out to her, but she turned and left before she noticed his gesture. He finished up in the kitchen, hearing the water run upstairs. He rested one hand on the counter, and stared down at the floor.

  Then he took a cigar and a lighter and went back out onto the deck. He sank into a chair and lit his cigar. From down below, he saw William arrive back home, park the car, and enter the garden house.

  Ben leaned back in his chair, resting his eyes on the window upstairs where Miranda was taking her bath. Then he looked down at the lighted window in the garden house, and ever so slightly narrowed his eyes in thought.

  *

  That night Miranda dreamed again about the trapped child and the strange building.

  Again, she followed the sounds of pleading voices and scuffling. She hurried up a flight of stairs, and from one landing she saw across to a room off another stairway.

  This time there were two children, a boy and a girl. A man grabbed the girl’s hair and pulled her roughly to him. The boy kicked him repeatedly, until the man pushed him down and placed a heavy foot on his back. The boy squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

  Miranda ran down the stairs and across the room, searching for a way to get to the children. But there was no staircase leading to them.

  Miranda awoke, raised her head, and listened. Then she jostled Ben. “Ben!”

  He grunted but kept his back to her.

  “Ben, I had another dream. I really think there’s a child in danger.”

  He groaned. “Not this again.”

  “The dreams are so real. I know they mean something. I can feel it.” She waited for him to say something, and then gave him a light nudge.

  “Why don’t you discuss it with William?” he said.

  Miranda sat up, furious at his comment. Then she rolled onto her side and punched up her pillow, wondering why she had bothered trying to talk to Ben about it.

  Chapter 8

  Miranda woke up late, feeling groggy and irritable. She heard Ben in the kitchen, and hurried downstairs only to see him grab an apple and his briefcase before heading out the door.

  “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” she asked.

  “I’m late as it is.”

  She followed him to the door. “Don’t forget – Paula and Derek are coming to dinner tonight.”

  He made no comment, but walked to his car and got inside.

  Miranda waited to see if he would turn around and wave, but he gave no sign that he noticed her. She went back inside and closed the door, thinking what a stubborn man he was.

  After getting dressed and having a bite to eat, she went to the garage and brought the bag of old china to the bench outside the front door. She was determined to complete one of her projects – in part to prove to Ben, and herself, that she could. She looked at the stack of cracked and chipped china from one of her visits to a flea market with Paula. Several years ago. Her intention had been to make a mosaic mirror, but she had never gotten around to it.

  Today was the day she would follow through with it. Tomorrow she would begin on the screen. No more excuses.

  She spread newspapers in front of the bench, and set the stack of plates on them, along with a small hammer. As she examined the dishes, she tried not to think about the recurring dreams, or about Ben’s dismissive attitude towards them. Of course, most of the times her dreams didn’t mean anything at all. But there had been times when they did. She supposed they came from minute perceptions that her subconscious mind picked up on, and when they reached a tipping point, she had a dream, telling her to pay attention.

  But this time, she didn’t know what to pay attention to. There were only three things different in her life: the kids both moving away at the same time, the visits to the shelter, and the arrival of William. The kids were fine; in her heart, she knew the dreams were not about them. And though she had been initially upset about the shelter, it hadn’t left any deep impression. And William – she turned her head towards the garden house, considering if there could be anything concerning him. He was a nice guy, quiet and gentle. He had made her feel better about herself yesterday.

  She leaned back against the bench, realizing that she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself. There was another feeling about William she was ignoring, one she didn’t want to examine. There was something mysterious about him, secretive. She was almost one hundred percent sure that the cries she heard at night were coming from the garden house. Had he brought someone there? Why did she always get the feeling that he was hiding something? She shook away the thought, feeling ungenerous in her suspicions.

  She put on a pair of gardening gloves and lifted the hammer. It was Ben she was upset with. He could be so infuriating, she thought, lifting the first plate and giving it a light tap – then a series of stronger taps, until it shat
tered. She always listened to and supported him. Why wasn’t he doing the same for her? She smashed another plate, and then a saucer. Making her feel like she had nothing better to do than conjure up some drama because her life was temporarily empty. She smashed several more plates, then set the hammer down, and studied the mess. Was he right? Here I am, fifty, and completely unsure of myself, my perceptions, my feelings.

  After smashing the last dish, she stood stiffly, and looked down at the shattered china – and felt overwhelmed that she was supposed to make sense of the fragments, give them some shape of beauty. She pulled off the gardening gloves, and dropped them onto the newspapers. She would do the shopping for tonight’s dinner; get that out of the way. Continue with the mosaic project in the afternoon.

  Miranda first stopped off at the nursery to pick up some rose food. As usual, she spent more time than she intended, wandering the aisles, stopping to decide between several colors of dianthus. Across the shades of pink, purple, and red flowers, she saw a young teen who reminded her of the girl at the shelter. Miranda remembered the girl digging in the hard soil with the old, bent spoon. Why hadn’t she done more to help the girl?

  She went back to the store entrance, took a flat cart, and began to load it with potting soil, a few simple gardening tools, and several flats of flowers for both sun and shade. She stood in front of the gardening gloves and started to lift down a cloth pair. Then she put them back, and reached for the supple leather ones, remembering the thrill of slipping on a new pair. A bubble of happiness arose in her at the thought of introducing that thrill to someone else – though the girl might just as well hurl them back and call her more names.

  Miranda drove back to the shelter. The girl was working in the little garden along with another girl, so engrossed in weeding that she didn’t notice Miranda going up the steps. Miranda went inside and spoke to the woman behind the desk. Soon, three teens were helping to carry the gardening items from her car to the garden.

  The girl stood up, shading her eyes from the sun, astonished at the supplies and flowers being placed at her feet.

  “I brought some things for the garden,” Miranda said simply. The girl could do with them what she wanted.

  The girl looked down at all the items, then up at Miranda. “Why?” she asked, without a trace of sarcasm.

  “Here,” said Miranda, ignoring her question. She lifted the tools from the bag and handed them to the girl. “These will make it easier to dig.” She pointed to the potting soil. “Mix some of this into the soil around the plants. And this will help.” She pulled out a canister of plant food. “Good luck.”

  Miranda started to leave, but the girl called out to her. “Wait!”

  Miranda turned, not sure what to expect.

  The girl averted her eyes, struggling with what to say. “I’m sorry about the other day. When – ” she looked back to the garden, “when you said that about bleeding hearts, I thought you were taking a jab at me. I thought you were saying that I couldn’t take it.” Her expression changed to one of sweetness and vulnerability, revealing another side of her. “I didn’t know there really was such a flower as a bleeding heart. Until it bloomed. Look!” She walked to the shady area of the garden beneath the tree and bent down to the little bush. Then she gently lifted a thin branch with delicate pink and white hearts dangling from it.

  Miranda kneeled and cradled the tiny flowers in her hand. “They’re one of my favorites. They’ll only bloom for a month or so. I have some of these in my garden, and a few in red and white.” She stood, and extended her hand. “I’m Miranda.”

  The girl timidly placed her hand in Miranda’s. “I’m Zoe.” She shyly pointed to the girl reading in a chair, and another girl sitting on the grass near the garden. “They like it out here – now that there’s something to look at. I found the chair a couple of blocks over, set out with the garbage. I brought it back and painted it. One of the guys helped me. It’s like we have a space that’s just for us, you know.” She pointed to the girl sitting on the grass. “She always asks if she can do the watering.”

  “I guess everyone likes something to care for. Especially a garden.” Miranda gazed down at the sparse plants scattered about the garden. “You’ll be getting some blooms soon.”

  Zoe watched Miranda as she spoke, and then looked down at all the garden supplies. “Why – why did you do this?” she asked.

  Miranda lifted her shoulders and smiled. “Just one gardener to another. You’re off to a good start – and having the right tools is important. Oh,” she said, remembering. She reached down into the bag and lifted out the leather gardening gloves. “You’ll need these.”

  Zoe took the leather gloves and handled them as if they were velvet. “I’m supposed to dig with these?”

  Miranda had to laugh. “I’m the same way. I always hate to get a new pair dirty. But the more you use them, the softer they get.”

  “Thank you,” Zoe said, slipping on the gloves.

  “Good luck with your garden, Zoe.” Miranda gave a final glance at the garden, and began to leave.

  Zoe followed Miranda a few steps and called to her. “Maybe you can come back sometime – to see how the garden turns out.”

  Miranda turned around and smiled at the invitation. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Two more teens had gathered round the supplies. “Need some help, Zo?”

  Miranda looked back and saw that Zoe was carefully examining the front and back of the gloves. She then reached down for the bag of potting soil and stood it on end. “We need to mix this into the soil first. Then we can plant the flowers.”

  *

  Miranda stopped by the grocery store to pick up some last minute items for the dinner party. The usual excitement of preparing for such a gathering was dampened by the argument with Ben – though she wasn’t even sure what they had argued about. She put the bags of groceries in the car and started to drive home.

  Once again, she thought how short-lived her plans were to start a fresh chapter in her life. Ben was right – the nightmares she was having were clouding her vision and preventing her from moving forward. The little boy somehow locked her into the present, as if there were something she needed to do. She felt that he was calling out to her. How could she ignore that? And yet, if she wanted to move on, she would have to.

  Then perhaps by trying not to think of the dreams, new and old dream images percolated up, haunting her, making her feel both angry and helpless. Images of the boy being flung down as he tried to defend himself. The boy with his shirt off, a ladder of red welts on his back. The doors with no handles. Johnny. She was sure it was the same boy in all the dreams. The car behind Miranda honked, making her jump, and she realized that the light had turned green. When the car honked again, she quickly turned at the corner to get out of its way.

  After driving a few blocks, she found herself approaching the public pool. She flashed on the creepy man in the swimming pool dream. She slowed down and glanced over at the pool. Don’t even think about it, she told herself. Just keep driving. You’re not cut out for sleuthing. Besides, you don’t even know what you’re sleuthing about. Just a feeling.

  Then she cast a look in her rear-view mirror and impulsively made a U-turn. She drove into the pool parking lot and turned off the car.

  Why am I doing this? she wondered, surprised that she was so blindly following nothing more than a murky impulse. She knew the pool didn’t have anything to do with the boy. If anything, she thought, I should be searching for a dilapidated building. Do I miss the kids more than I realize? Am I unconsciously trying to fill my life with purpose? Am I creating senseless drama?

  She could imagine Ben sitting there next to her, the expression on his face telling her: This is going way too far. And her, stubbornly responding: It can’t hurt to look. Then I can move on.

  Miranda reached for her sunglasses and got out of the car. She walked to the chain-link fence surrounding the pool area and saw exactly what she expected to see: a
swimming pool full of children playing, bobbing up and down in the water, holding their noses as they jumped off the sides. A few parents looked on, or chatted with each other. Some read books, others were in the water with their kids.

  See it through, she told herself. Get it out of your system, once and for all. She walked up to the concession stand where two dripping kids were getting rainbow snow cones. She waited for the attendant to finish with them.

  Was midlife crisis making her neurotic? Eccentric even? Would she soon be sipping champagne in the morning, dressed in flowing robes as she smashed more china?

  Miranda watched the slow-moving teen hand out locker keys and towels. When he didn’t seem to notice her, she stepped up and smiled. “Excuse me, I’m supposed to pick someone up. Would you mind paging them for me?”

  The teen looked up. “The name?”

  Miranda glanced around her, and leaned in. “Jasper,” she said softly.

  “Jasper what?”

  Miranda shrank on hearing the name spoken aloud.

  “Last name?” he pressed.

  “Gosh, I can’t remember. It’s my cousin’s friend, who’s visiting.”

  “I need a last name.” The teen waited, and then widened his eyes in impatience.

  Miranda tapped her head. “Is it Wilson? Or Warren? Well, it’s an unusual name. Just use the first name.”

  The teen shrugged and went to the intercom.

  Miranda walked back to the fence where she could clearly see the pool area. Over the loudspeaker she heard: “Jasper, paging Jasper. Will Jasper please come to the concession stand? Your ride is here.”

  Miranda’s heart beat faster on hearing the name being called out so loudly. She was suddenly afraid of what she was doing. What if she was dealing with someone dangerous? Why hadn’t she thought of that? She closely examined the pool area, relieved that no one was taking any notice.

  “Ma’am?” the teen at the counter called out, waiting to see if he was to try again.

  Miranda shook her head and walked up to the counter. “He must have left already. Thank you.”