by Karen White
I looked into my sister’s clear blue eyes, but saw no guile. But I could not help but consider her gift suspect. She had never given me anything that did not come with a high price.
I sensed a presence beside me, and introduced my sister to the doctor, watching carefully as her gaze passed between the two of us as if she could read something that was not there.
Feeling wary, I thanked my sister, then led the doctor upstairs, saying a prayer under my breath that my beloved husband and son would be cured, and that I had imagined the dark shadows that crossed Georgina’s eyes when she had seen me approaching with Dr. Enlow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ava
ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA
JULY 2011
I opened my eyes and blinked, my finger rubbing the birthmark on my left hand, a faint memory of the woman, Pamela, doing the same thing. I sat up on the couch and saw Matthew, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled, a deep frown on his face.
I sat up and pushed the afghan off my lap and retrieved the music box from the curio cabinet. I opened it, allowing the delicate notes to drift through space and time. “Now do you believe me?” I asked.
“Believe what? That you absorbed a lot of information today at the archives? That you have a brilliant imagination that has created intricate details of the lives of people who lived here two hundred years ago? Yes, I can believe that. But can I believe that these are your memories from a life you lived before? No. It’s simply not logical.”
I snapped shut the lid of the music box. “Then how do you explain this? How could I have known those lyrics if my own mother didn’t even know them to sing to me? And how would I know Pamela’s name?”
He sat back in his chair and allowed his shoulders to relax. I knew he practiced this for patients, so they wouldn’t be aware that he wasn’t as calm as they needed him to be. “You saw the proof today, in the old book of verses. The words were written two hundred years ago, so they’ve been around for that long. The tune itself is from medieval times, so it’s been around for a long time, too. That’s all logical; don’t you see? You heard the words once, maybe twice—maybe in school, or on television, or whatever—and your subconscious remembered them. And you told me yourself that Tish found mention of a midwife on St. Simons named Pamela—which means you most likely read it somewhere before. Doesn’t that make a lot more sense than this other scenario of a past life?”
I placed the music box on the table between us, and focused on keeping my voice calm—something I’d learned from him. “I keep seeing Pamela in a boat, and on the beach, and she loves the water. And I feel that love; I feel it as if I’ve lived by the water my whole life instead of being petrified by it.” I took a deep breath, wondering whether I really believed what I was about to say. “I want you to take me sailing. I can’t say that I will ever love it as much as you do, but I don’t think I’ll be frightened of it anymore.”
He had started to shake his head before I’d even finished speaking. I crossed the space between us and curled up in his lap, my head tucked between his jaw and shoulder. “Don’t you see how much I love you? That I trust you to keep me safe? That I mean it when I say the hypnosis has changed me in some degree, that it may have lessened my fear of water enough that I would allow myself to go on a boat with you?”
My head lifted and fell as he breathed in and out so softly that I thought he’d gone to sleep. Finally, he said, “I can’t imagine any part of this as being a good idea.”
“Remember before my first job interview you taught me those breathing exercises to calm me so I could cross over the causeway to Brunswick? If I feel panicked I’ll know what to do. But I won’t need to; I know I won’t. You’ll be there.” I lifted my head and met his gaze.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, almost feeling the spray of water against my skin. “I need to do this.”
Our lips met, and I saw the stars behind my closed eyelids, my blood thrumming through my veins like a fast-moving river toward the ocean. He held me, and I was no longer afraid.
We broke apart as the front door burst open and Mimi and Gloria appeared on the threshold, their arms burdened with shopping bags.
Matthew and I immediately went to them and took their bags, noticing as we did the pastel-colored toys and the very chubby teddy bear peeking out from the top of the largest bag.
“Don’t look!” Mimi said, trying to close the top of a bag where what looked like a windup mobile sat perched on top.
“We’ve been working on the baby’s room all day,” my mother explained, “but we needed a few more things. I think we’re going to have to extend our rental agreement on the condo for a few more weeks. I’m afraid this project is going to last a bit longer than we originally thought.” She didn’t look the least bit apologetic.
Mimi straightened, rubbing a hand on the small of her back. “I hope you don’t mind, Ava, but a frame shop called today and I answered the phone. They said your order had been ready for over a month and they were calling to remind you to come pick it up. Since I brought a picture for the baby’s room that needed framing, I figured we could kill two birds with one stone.”
Before I could protest, she indicated one of the bags Matthew was holding. “They’re in there.”
From the bag he slid out four tissue-wrapped frames. Looking up at me, he asked, “What are they?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer, no longer remembering why I’d had them framed. Maybe the very fact that Adrienne had hidden them made me want them displayed. Or maybe even then I’d wanted something tangible, some kind of proof that what I was experiencing existed outside of my own mind.
“I thought I’d make them a gift for you, but I’m not really sure now.”
Our gazes met briefly as he tore open the tissue of the first frame and stared down at it for a long moment before looking back at me, a question in his eyes.
It was the picture of the woman standing on the beach, her dark hair tangled by the wind. “I found them behind the frame of Adrienne’s sketch of the house. Tish said that the last time she saw Adrienne, she was at the frame shop, having her sketch framed and asking for these to be placed inside.”
Mimi and my mother collapsed into chairs, and a part of me knew I should be getting them water or something to help them cool off. But I couldn’t look away from Matthew’s face and his expression, which looked like a person who’d just been punched so hard it had sucked the air from his lungs.
“The last time she saw her…?”
He didn’t look as if he could finish.
“Before Adrienne died.” I touched the frame. “I think this is Geoffrey Frazier’s wife.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice rough.
“A similar sketch appears in the old history book I found at the garage sale, identifying her as his unfaithful and treasonous wife. The artist must have drawn it from the same portrait Adrienne did.” I paused, seeing again dark hair whipped by the ocean’s wind, feeling the strands stinging my lips. “I think this is Pamela.”
“Because that’s who you see when you’re under hypnosis?”
I shook my head. “No.” I searched for the words that might explain why I recognized her. “Because when I look at her picture, it’s almost like I’m looking in a mirror.”
His eyes widened as he took in my fine, wavy blond hair and slight build—so unlike the willowy and brunette Pamela.
Without saying anything else, he sliced open the next one, the lyrics of the lullaby written in calligraphy. I watched as his eyes scanned the page before meeting mine.
“Those are the lyrics I found in the book of verses at the archives. The ones I knew but didn’t know how. Adrienne must have found them, too, in her research. And loved them enough to write them down.” I paused. “Or because they had a special meaning for her, too.”
He dropped his gaze and opened the third package, this one the sketch of the house that had seemed different to me. We both st
udied it in silence.
Finally, I said, “It’s different from the one that hangs on the wall. I couldn’t figure out what made it that way until just now.” I tapped my finger on the glass. “Look—there’re curtains on the windows instead of shutters, and there are no flowers anywhere. Not even in pots.”
I moved my finger to where the kitchen house was visible in the background. “And there’s a large double door leading into the cellar that doesn’t exist anymore.” I drummed my fingers, building courage. “This is the house I see when I’m dreaming or under hypnosis. It’s the house Geoffrey and his wife lived in.”
He didn’t respond but began stacking the frames, holding on to them as he stood. “Why would you think I’d want these framed?”
The words stung, and I was embarrassed that he’d said them in front of Mimi and my mother. I hunted for a suitable answer as I thought of all the ways I’d tried to erase Adrienne from this house, yet still I’d felt the need to frame these prints. I considered everything I’d learned about the subconscious mind from Matthew, and little pieces in my brain began to shift and slide. I cleared my throat. “Maybe because I thought Adrienne was trying to say something and that I was meant to figure it out.”
The look of alarm I read in his eyes frightened me more than anything he could have said.
Mimi, standing stiffly, shuffled over to us. “Don’t forget the last one. I brought it in and they were able to frame it today at the store. It’ll spoil the surprise, but I can’t wait any longer for you to see it.”
I sent her a grateful look as I pulled the fourth tissue-wrapped frame from the bag. I started to cry before I’d ripped off the second strip of tissue paper. The image of me posed in the pink crocheted dress with the pale satin sash blurred in front of me.
“We thought you could get a photo of Matthew as a baby and hang them together in the baby’s bedroom.”
I swallowed my disappointment, wishing they’d brought the portraits of Mimi and my mother wearing the same dress, wanting to finally hang them all together. Instead, I smiled, then kissed Mimi on soft cheeks that smelled faintly of face powder.
“It was your mama’s idea,” Mimi said.
Gloria pulled herself to a stand. “Well, since you’d already sent her the dress, I figured it was fitting to start her own photo collection. Make sure you leave room next to yours for your daughter’s portrait.”
“Or I could hang all four in the hallway,” I blurted out, knowing it was my sense of hurt that had made me confrontational.
“Maybe,” my mother said as she picked up one of the shopping bags, her tone an easy dismissal. Changing the subject, she said, “Matthew and Ava, could you bring up the rest, please? Mimi’s just about give out from this heat. Just leave them outside the baby’s room, because you’re still not allowed inside.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Mimi muttered as she took the framed print from me and began her slow ascent up the stairs.
I turned to Matthew, hoping to apologize for breaking my promise to allow Adrienne to remain buried. But he’d already left the room, the door to his study closing softly behind him.
Two weeks after Adrienne’s framed prints had been returned to the house, I stepped out into the back garden and handed Jimmy a sweet tea. He took his gloves off as he accepted the glass, and I watched his hands as he drank, wondering whose they reminded me of. His fingers, even under the pink welts of his scars, appeared delicate and fine-boned, not at all what I would have thought a landscaper’s hands would be. But then I remembered the beautiful flowers of his own garden, and the patience required to grow them, and it seemed fitting that his hands would be small enough to cradle delicate blooms.
“That’s real good,” he said. “Thank you.” He finished it with a last huge gulp, then placed the empty glass on the step behind me.
“My mama made it—she’s got a way with sweet tea, doesn’t she?”
“She sure does.” He jutted out his chin in the direction of my potting shed. “I know you said you didn’t want any flowers, but I think we could have a real pretty garden right there in front of the shed. Maybe some bougainvillea or azaleas against the wall, and a few rows of red shrimp plants or staghorn ferns in front? That way all that color will be the first thing everybody sees when they walk from the front yard to the back. And we could connect it with a brick path leading from the herb and vegetable garden.”
He lowered his voice, as one does in deference when entering a church. “Adrienne loved flowers. I helped her design her garden. There were even pictures of it in lots of magazines; did you know that? I could help you with yours, too. It would be different, though—Ava’s garden.” He frowned. “Or maybe we need to wait until you’ve lived here for a little while.”
I used my hand to shade my eyes from the sun so I could see his eyes better. “Why, Jimmy?”
He shrugged. “Then you’ll know what you want to take root, and what you want pulled out.”
My skin tingled, like I had stepped out of a sunny spot and into the shade. I turned away from him, focusing on the brick paths and the stakes he’d already marked in the ground. I could see what he was envisioning, the spots of color against the grays and beiges of the tabby, like vivid memories against a canvas of time. But I could see, too, the sketch Adrienne had made of the house as it had once existed, a house devoid of any color or anything that wasn’t practical or useful. I stood, it seemed, with a foot in two worlds, unable to determine which was the right one.
“I’m not sure…” I began, but stopped as Jimmy placed both fists on his hips, something I always did when I felt frustrated. He was still smiling, but I could tell that he was pretty much set on planting flowers in my garden.
“Why don’t you like flowers, Miss Ava?”
“It’s not that I don’t like them; it’s just…” I paused, trying to think of words that would explain all the years at my mother’s side tending to her plants, but never feeling as if they were mine. Her varieties hadn’t been colorful enough, or big enough, or wild enough. They were beautiful, as a serene lake against purple mountains would be, unless you were looking for the wide expanse of frothy ocean against a cerulean sky.
What was less explainable was my aversion to colorful blooms in this house, something I’d felt even before I’d known that Adrienne was a gardener.
“I do like them,” I said firmly, having given up on offering an explanation that would make any sense. “I’m just wanting to focus on one thing at a time right now, and that would be my herb and vegetable garden. Maybe next spring…”
My words trailed off as Jimmy walked toward his ever-present red wagon and wrested something out from under the bottom of a pile of plastic flatbeds. He clutched a slim leather briefcase that looked like it had seen better days, the light brown leather almost tie-dyed with water stains, the handle on top too warped to carry comfortably.
As he neared, he unhooked the clasp in front and flipped the briefcase open. “Just in case you change your mind, I went ahead and drew up a plan.” He slid out a few pieces of paper and then tucked the case under his arm. Holding up the pages for me, he said, “I know you liked my mama’s garden, so I thought maybe we could go back there and you could tell me what parts you like the most. Not that we’ll want to copy it, but just to give me an idea of what…”
His voice seemed to disappear into the humid air, all sound ceasing for what could have been minutes or hours. I was staring at the latch plate of his briefcase. Although it was scratched and pitted, I could see that three initials had once been engraved on the brass, although only the first two were still legible: AM.
My voice sounded hollow. “Jimmy, where did you get your briefcase?”
He looked up from his garden plans, surprised. “I found it.”
His brown eyes were clear as he regarded me, and I knew he was telling the truth.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the water.”
He was beginning to sound defensive
, so I forced my numb lips into a smile. “What a lucky find. Was it in the ocean?”
Jimmy shook his head, his red baseball cap shaking in unison. “No. I was fishing in Dunbar Creek and there it was, sticking in some tall grass right on the bank. I barely had to get my sneakers wet to get it.” He twisted so that he held the briefcase away from me, like he expected me to snatch it from him. “It took about a week to dry it in the sun, but it’s almost good as new.”
“Was there anything inside?”
“Yep. A bunch of papers. But they were too wet, and the ink had smeared all over the place, so I threw them out.”
“Just papers? No book—like a daily planner or anything?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just papers.”
The numbness had spread from my lips to include my entire body. “How long ago was this?”
He closed one eye and looked up with the other, as if he were thinking hard, and then he smiled. “It was right after you hurt your foot. I remember because I brought you flowers from my garden, and then I went fishing.” He frowned. “I figured somebody threw it out, so it was okay if I took it.”
I thought my cheeks would crack from the effort it took to keep smiling. “I think you’re right, Jimmy. Somebody definitely threw it out. Lucky you to have found it.” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m not feeling too good right now. I think it must have been something I ate that doesn’t agree with the baby.” My smile began to falter. “Can we talk about the garden later?”
His face showed his concern, and even in my distracted state I realized how easy he was to read, as if his face were a road map to his emotions. And how different that was from Matthew.
“Sure,” he said, stuffing the plans back into the briefcase. “Just call me when you’re ready.”
I nodded, then ran inside to the bathroom, emptying my stomach until there was nothing left. Then I curled into the fetal position on the floor, my cheek against the cool wood, and began to shake.