The Wonder Garden

by Lauren Acampora

  Tonight, she goes through her box of vinyl and settles on Nina Simone. The doctor smiles in comprehension, and they fold together onto the futon. Camille is grateful not to be one of those women for whom beds are ruined by past partners. For her, history is continually erased so that each man is the first. There is no trace of Nick on this mattress. The doctor puts his hands in her hair and presses his fingertips into her scalp.

  Only once does she think of Avis, asleep in her bed, but this comes to her from afar. There is nothing to keep her from falling, spiraling back to the raw sensations of her younger days. Each touch of this man is a discovery, and she nearly cries with gratitude for this renewal, this unexpected springtime.

  He does not spend the night. This is an important trait, Camille recognizes, this unspoken consideration of her circumstances.

  They spend an evening in the city. Camille drops Avis off with the housekeeper at Nick’s apartment, wishing that her date were beside her instead of waiting downstairs in his double-parked BMW. She wants the housekeeper to see him, so that she might describe him to Nick. Looking over the woman’s shoulder, she glowers at the loft’s furnishings, the antiseptic white and chrome, backlit by a wall of blinding windows. She nearly throws Avis’s toy bag inside, and presses a baggie of cookies into the housekeeper’s hand.

  Within an hour, she is on a hotel bed with the doctor, talking about Paris. He’s been there several times, it turns out, and speaks workable French. There may be opportunities for him abroad. Camille expresses disbelief that he’d be so easy to sway, so amenable to adventure.

  He kisses her. “If not now, when?” As simple as that.

  When the night is fully dark, they wander down White Street to a new restaurant with black leather banquettes and brushed nickel sconces. She appreciates the gesture, but her head is already in Paris. The preening patrons of this restaurant—of Manhattan, of America—strike her as uptight and vainglorious. Even the food is pert and prude. She longs for the bloody steaks and stained-wood bistros of the Left Bank. She longs for the rancid smell of the Métro. She grips his hand under the table, and he gives her the thundercloud look.

  “Let’s do it,” he says. “Let’s go for a week or two, just look around, see what the properties are like.”

  Camille lances an endive and brings it to her mouth. It is inexpressibly tender. The space it leaves on her plate is like an opening to the future, a smooth white channel. She chews slowly. This is a moment to capture. The doctor is in front of her, staring in his turbid way, his protean face taking on new and amazing arrangements. His lips lift in a sly smile meant only for her, those devastating, cloven lips.

  “We could look at Montmartre,” he says with a convincing French inflection. “Or the Marais. It’s very hip right now.”

  Camille sips her Grenache. This bottle—his choice—is like none she’s ever tasted, with a palate of blackberry, chocolate, and things that couldn’t possibly be there, like roses and pine needles. She waits until the last of the taste has dwindled in her mouth before speaking.

  “You should get to know Avis,” she says quietly.

  The doctor takes a drink of water, nods.

  “Maybe we could spend a Saturday together,” Camille ventures.

  “That’s a fine idea,” he says.

  When he drops them at the house late that night, he pets Avis on the head tentatively, and Camille thinks she sees something recoil in his eyes, as if he’s received an electric shock from her hair. This is to be expected, of course, from a man without children.

  Avis pulls back and clings to her mother’s leg.

  “It’s all right,” Camille says with a little laugh. “She’ll get used to you.”

  The fact that he’s here is what matters. He does not need to be a father. Camille will make certain that Avis does not require more than he can comfortably give. She will make certain that this remains a pleasurable endeavor for him, all the way through.

  It’s already October, but she puts on a Betsey Johnson ikat dress over leggings. Little girls are right, she thinks, to wear their Easter best to school. Why not be beautiful every day? Today, it pleases her to watch the other mothers’ eyes slide to her cleavage and vault back as if scalded. She feels sorry for them, without any hope of such regeneration in their lives. There is nothing newly available to these women, sunk as they are in the sludge of marriage and family, that could match this kind of elevation. Who can blame them for packing together like nervous ewes?

  She has begun arriving a few minutes late for pickup to avoid the bleating flock. The school has yet to levy the ten-dollar penalty they are forever threatening. But today, the teacher meets her at the classroom door with a portentous smile. Camille prepares an excuse: broken traffic light, clogged parking lot.

  “Mrs. Donovan,” the teacher says in her nursery school falsetto, “do you have a few moments to talk?”

  Ten dollars, Camille decides, is a fair price to pay for the benefit she receives. She smiles deferentially and enters the classroom. Avis is involved with a dollhouse, a pathetic thing built of unvarnished wood. The teacher gestures to a squat little table, and Camille lowers onto a tiny chair, her knees jutting up. Everything in the room is custom-built for children, so that she feels like Alice in a dream.

  The teacher is younger than Camille, dressed in head-to-toe L.L.Bean. “We don’t want you to be alarmed,” she begins, “but we’ve noticed that Avis seems to be having some trouble expressing herself verbally. Of course, our children are all at different stages of development, but at this age, we encourage them to make their needs known with words rather than screeching or pushing. But this can be difficult when there are underlying problems.” The teacher maintains sympathetic, professional eye contact as she speaks in her girlish voice. “We think it might be a good idea for you to bring her in for an evaluation.”

  Camille nods. She should have known this might happen. Every child seems to be diagnosed with something these days. The classroom is crowded with physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists. There are new disorders now: attention deficit disorder, sensory processing disorder, oppositional defiant disorder. She supposes there’s money in it somewhere. It must behoove someone to capitalize on the micromanaging compulsions and amorphous fears of all these hysterical mothers.

  “Professional guidance can make a meaningful difference,” the teacher continues.

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” Camille says, rising from the midget chair. There are plenty of things she could say, plenty of ways she could poke holes in this girl’s authoritative facade, but it isn’t worth it. Soon they will be a thousand miles over the ocean.

  She researches visa requirements and buys a French language book. If they end up staying in Paris, she’ll look for a waitressing job. Even better, the doctor will find a position in a hospital and she won’t have to work at all. They’ll hire a French nanny for Avis.

  “When are you planning to do this?” Madeleine asks.

  “Soon. November or December, maybe.”

  Madeleine nods. She glances at the floor, then back up. “How well do you know this person?”

  Camille looks at her friend, the pleasingly regular features, smooth skin, thick auburn hair. There is nothing shadowed in her face, no canyon or concavity that speaks of pain or regret.

  “How well do any of us know anyone?”

  Madeleine is quiet. She smiles in a sad way, as if thinking of something private. She almost never talks about her own husband. When Camille brings him up, asks for details about his eccentric behavior, Madeleine changes the subject.

  “What about Avis’s school?” Madeleine asks. “Aren’t you going to let her finish the year?”

  Camille laughs. “It’s nursery school. And she’ll learn more from a nanny in Paris than she will here, don’t you think? She’ll become bilingual. Not to mention there’s a healthier
balance in Europe, for mothers. Women don’t have to apologize for having lives, you know? They aren’t expected to spend every minute of the day in the playground. Kids play with kids, like they’re supposed to, and adults play with adults. That’s the way it used to be here, too, until the mommy police came into power.”

  “Huh,” says Madeleine. “Well, I’ve never been to France.”

  Camille sits straight up in her beanbag. “You should come! Well, not right away, of course. But after we get settled, if we decide to stay, you and David should come visit. We could show you around, and then who knows? Maybe you’ll want to stay, too. We can be our own little expatriate community.”

  Madeleine smiles wistfully. “If we hadn’t just bought the house, maybe I’d consider it.”

  “Oh, I could totally see you in Paris.” Camille nods. “You’d fit right in. You’d flourish.”

  Again, a class mother stands sentinel at the preschool entrance, holding a clipboard with papers, an alert, searching smile on her face. Camille puts on a rushed, apologetic look and manages to duck past with Avis. But on her way back out of the building, the woman ambushes her.

  “Please, would you sign? Here’s a flyer.”

  As many of you are aware, many citizens of Old Cranbury are unhappy with the nature of the “art installation” that is currently being displayed on the property of our neighbors on Minuteman Road. Please sign this petition if you would like to see this inconsiderate eyesore removed and the property values of our town restored. Thank you!!!

  Camille reads the flyer again, unable to decipher its meaning. She looks at the woman. “What art installation?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen it. That big new house on the corner of Minuteman and Edgeware, all covered with rubber? Do you know what that is? It’s thousands of foam insects. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It looks like the Swamp Thing.”

  “That’s what this petition is about?”

  “You bet. Here’s a pen.”

  Camille studies the woman. She is petite and redheaded, with a bob cut and gray raincoat, like a little Joan of Arc. Her pretty, pointed chin is infuriating.

  “I can’t believe you people are serious.”

  The woman tilts her head and smiles, as if Camille has said something sweet. “Well, obviously when this kind of thing happens, it’s very bad for property values. Not to mention that it’s against town zoning. There’s a standard of appropriateness that homeowners have to abide by, otherwise people could construct gas stations on their properties, or raise pigs in the front yard.”

  “God forbid,” Camille says, rounding her eyes. She can only imagine what the neighbors must say about her own, unmolested property. They would probably bring her to court, if they could, for the bald patches in her grass.

  It occurs to her that she is in a unique position, with one foot already out of this place. Before she leaves, perhaps it is her duty to provoke a little self-reflection. She meets the woman’s sparkling gaze and smiles. Then, with one motion, she reaches out and plucks the papers from her hand. They make a rude, guttural sound as she rips them in half.

  She takes the long way home and drives past the art installation. The impression is, in fact, disconcerting. The house is gigantic, encrusted with a dark carapace, as if diseased. Her first reaction is, strangely, of shame for the house, as if it were the victim of some practical joke. Then, as she looks, it occurs to her that the artwork is a perfect metaphor for this whole place: a grand structure overrun by controlling, suffocating little bugs. She laughs to herself in the car. Perhaps the artist feels the same way she does. Perhaps this is his—or her?—portrait of the town. She honks the horn a few times in solidarity, and waves as she pulls away.

  Entering her own home, she is met with a peculiar, constricted feeling. It is as if she has grown larger, or the rooms have shrunk. This house, like the preschool classroom, seems to have been built for children. Setting her purse down in its usual spot on the kitchen counter, a simple motion laden with habit, she feels a sudden urgency. It has become impossible, she understands, to remain here any longer.

  Before she can change her mind, she calls the doctor on his cell phone.

  “Hi,” she begins breathlessly. “I want to know, have you been thinking about Paris as much as I have?”

  “Camille,” he answers, “hello.”

  “I just wanted to say that I’m ready to go when you are.” She takes a breath, feels a weird dizziness. “Let’s do it. Let’s buy the tickets.”

  There is an empty pause on the phone, as if the doctor is distracted. After a long moment, his voice comes back clear as the sky. “You’re right,” he says, “we should buy them. I’ll do it. I’ll do it as soon as I have a better sense of my schedule coming up.”

  Camille does not respond. It is as if she has been pushed gently into a seat like a little girl. She feels a slug of embarrassment. It had been childish of her to think he would drop everything, leave his patients on the operating table, and board an airplane.

  “So,” he says in a different, quieter voice, “would you like to get together tonight?”

  At once, her disappointment is flushed away by gratitude. She remembers how fortunate she is to have found this person. Among a colony of creeping carpet beetles, here is a creature with true wingspan, capable of traversing oceans at will.

  Still, she does not want to be in the house, does not want to look at the dried paint on the window glass, the old nail holes in the wall that Nick never bothered to patch. With her two hours of freedom, she goes shopping. She bypasses the overpriced boutiques in town and enters the consignment shop. Without looking at the price tags, she holds Paris in mind. In the dressing room, she tries on a low-backed silver dress with a matte sheen. It is too fine for any occasion here, but something she might wear on a weeknight in Paris. This, she realizes, is what attracts her to the European way of life, this offhand glamour in the quotidian: flowers on the breakfast table, aged cheese for lunch.

  She turns away from the mirror and views herself over her shoulder. Looking at her own face, she sees an echo of the doctor there. How has she never noticed the resemblance in their features? Now that she has caught it, it is unmistakable. She has heard it said that people tend to be attracted to those they resemble, whose looks are familiar in some way. This is why so many couples look like they could be siblings. It is, apparently, a vanity shared by all.

  She buys the dress.

  “Good choice,” the saleswoman says at the register. “A designer for the label lives here in town, you know.”

  “I didn’t look at the label,” Camille snips.

  To her relief, the petition woman is gone when she returns to school. Avis’s teacher meets her eyes in a meaningful way, as if they share a lovers’ secret. Camille takes her daughter’s hand and leaves the building. For the rest of the day, she finds herself thinking about having a child with the doctor. She does not particularly want another child, of course, but finds that it is impossible not to consider it, not to imagine what might arise from such magnetic coupledom. How strikingly gray-eyed their offspring would be. It is a universal impulse, perhaps, to follow this preordained script—Nature’s way of ensuring that humanity continues to invent ever-refined hybrids, lifting the species to new pinnacles.

  Later that night on the futon, she lies with her head on the doctor’s chest. Staring at the ceiling, she feels the assertion of his heartbeat, a hidden fist clenching and unclenching beneath her skull. Scanning the ceiling’s blank expanse, her eyes catch on a cobweb in the corner of the room, too high to bother sweeping. This is not a man who would notice such things, she thinks gratefully, although perhaps Madeleine has.

  Without bidding, her friend’s warning returns and resonates in her mind. There is no need to know everything about this man, of course. She knows all that matters. Still, she finds herself humoring the question, following its direct
ion lazily.

  “So, tell me what you were like when you were a kid,” she asks him.

  “I don’t know,” he replies, with an undertone of something like distaste. “Like this, I guess, but smaller.”

  “I can’t picture you as a boy,” Camille says, shifting her body to look at him. It’s true, she thinks, as she examines his face. The nose and jaw seem hardened from a permanent mold, as if he had been conceived a full-grown man.

  For Halloween, Avis dresses as Sleeping Beauty. The costume is stiff from its packaging, with its crinoline petticoat and rough glittered designs, and she fusses with the white collar that projects from her shoulders. Camille has lost the battle over shoes and allows her to wear the transparent plastic mules that have come with the dress.

  “You can wear them if you want, honey, but they won’t be comfortable for trick-or-treating,” Camille reminds her.

  “Yes, they will,” Avis says, clicking over the bare floor. She turns and looks at Camille, her hair limp over her shoulders, un-princess-like. The teacher reported that she pushed another little girl this morning, just for sitting too close. The reproach in the teacher’s eyes, as she said this, had heated Camille’s blood.

  “You dress up, too, Mommy.”

  “No, no,” Camille says with forced sweetness, “I want to make sure you get all the candy.”

  “Please dress up!”

  She is already exhausted. Being alone with her daughter has been draining lately, and it is only out of obligation that she has agreed to circle the neighborhood tonight at a toddler’s pace. This is one of the times when being a mother feels like a form of slavery, this constant servitude to a tyrant’s whims. Nothing can come fast enough for her daughter, nothing is enough.