In the Light of the Garden: A Novel

by Heather Burch

  He ruined every beautiful thing in his life.

  And now here he was. Going yet again to the woman who deserved so much more, so much better. But this time, he’d knock. This time, he’d take the abuse she would surely offer because yet again, he’d left her standing on a pier waiting for him. He pooled his strength as he made his way to her front door. The gate of the white picket fence squeaking, then slamming shut behind him as if a premonition of the reception he’d receive.

  Louise opened the door. Her body was stiff but her eyes kind. “Is everyone all right?”

  He’d not expected that and had to rearrange his thoughts so he could answer.

  When he didn’t, she opened the door a bit more. “I heard about the tree. Daisy running away, Ellen’s burns. One of the neighbor’s stopped by. Is everyone OK?”

  She shouldn’t be asking that; she should be yelling at him. His eyes misted. “I left you standing at the pier.”

  She nodded. Behind him, a crow squawked, and the wind rose, lifting the leaves on the nearby palms and making them sing. “You did.”

  “I tried to call.”

  Her mouth was an untelling straight line.

  “May I come in?” He looked past her into the house.

  “No, Harold.” Her grip tightened on the doorknob.

  And his heart shattered. “Please let me explain.”

  She pulled a long, slow breath and let it slip from her mouth. “You don’t need to. I know what happened.”

  His hand started to reach out, but Louise leaned back, withdrawing from his touch. He bit down hard and folded his hand and placed it safely in his pocket. “You know I didn’t leave you there purposely.”

  She nodded, the lines of her face deepening slightly. “It wasn’t your fault. It was out of your control.”

  He nodded, hope unfurling in his heart. “Exactly. It was out of my control.” Maybe she was going to give him one more chance. So much more than he deserved, but people were capable of more love and more forgiveness than he’d ever imagined. Maybe part of the reason every beautiful thing he’d been given left him was because he hadn’t fought for them. He should have fought for George. He shouldn’t have stayed away so long. There was always hope for amends. He believed that. He believed that in his heart and knew it to be as true as the rising of the sun in the day and the moon at night. Even for an old man, there could still be hope. He believed. Until Louise opened her mouth and stripped away every shred of hope he’d just mustered.

  “It wasn’t your fault. But it doesn’t matter. I was still left standing there waiting. I waited for you for so long. You never came all those years ago. And then I found Marvin, and life was good, but one day he left me waiting. He was gone. And sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting on him to come home from fishing. I just can’t do it again. I’d rather know no one is coming than to know one day I’ll be left waiting. Sorry, Harold. You deserve better.”

  Emotions were horrible little things, staying quiet one moment, then exploding the next. There was a sound deep his throat, a choked cry; then the tears came in a flood, flowing from his eyes and landing on his shirt. “I don’t deserve anything. I destroyed my brother’s family.”

  “It was one night. You made a mistake.”

  He wiped a weathered hand to his cheek. “How do you know that?” He’d never discussed the details of that night with anyone.

  “George and I were close at the end. He told me you slept with Marilyn. He told me why it happened.”

  “He hadn’t been able to . . . she thought he was having an affair . . . but, but really, he was going to a specialist on the mainland to see what was wrong with him.”

  She smiled, her own tears—careful, cautious tears—making the apples of her cheeks shine. “I know all of it, Harold. You needn’t go over it again. It must be painful.”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, wishing he still carried a handkerchief, but he’d given his up years ago. “Why was George so open with you? He seemed so ashamed.”

  “Because I was the one who was supposed to send his letter.”

  Harold remembered walking to his mailbox at the dance studio and finding the letter postmarked less than a week before. The letter that arrived weeks after his brother’s death. “The letter? It came after he died. Why did you wait? He and I could have reconciled.”

  She nodded. “Yes, he knew that. Even wanted that. But Charity was more important. He knew Charity would need you. He wanted you to be here for her. She’s all that matters now. Harold, I know you want to run. But she needs you. It’s time you tell her exactly what happened. The whole truth. You can’t carry all the blame.”

  He shook his head, rejecting the thought. “I need to carry the blame. I don’t want her thinking her grandfather did anything wrong.”

  “Blame is seldom on one man’s shoulders. If he’d been honest with Marilyn . . . Harold, truth is better than sacrifice. Trust Charity to be big enough, to have enough Baxter blood running through her veins to understand. You’re not blaming George. That would be ridiculous. But he has a fault. As does Marilyn. Be honest with her and stop trying to protect ghosts.”

  He was still processing the chain of events. “But, you couldn’t have sent the letter. You were shocked, nearly terrified when you saw me.”

  She nodded. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you would come. You’ve always carried so much burden for all the things around you. I figured it was too late, that you’d shut that door and thrown away the key. But I tried to prepare myself to see you—just in case—but I have to be honest, all those feelings and emotions from so long ago took me by surprise.”

  Even her limp had returned with the memories. She’d limped to the front door. But by the next time he saw her, the limp was gone.

  “Louise.” It was one word. One man’s desperate plea to hang on to the last splinter of a boat that had long since sank. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Go to Charity. She still needs you.” Louise offered a tiny smile and closed the door.

  Instead, he sat down on the lone rocking chair on her porch. Charity needed him, yes. But for once, he was going to be the one waiting. He set the chair into motion. He’d sit there for hours if need be; all night, if necessary. He’d sit there and rock and wait for Louise. He’d wait as long as it took. Hours. Days. Weeks. Because for the first time in his life, he was going to fight for what he wanted.

  It was late in the night when Ellen Marie drifted down the steps. Her feet were wrapped in bandages, and she felt the squishing salve between her toes, though she barely noticed. Still the sensation reminded her of something, something far away as if it had happened to someone else and she’d mysteriously felt the ghost sensations of it. Or maybe it was from her past, so far back she couldn’t access it. It had something to do with wet sand and retreating shorelines.

  Ellen placed a cold hand on the banister, partly to steady her shaky legs, partly to anchor her. Her heart ached like a foreign thing deep in her chest. In her gut, an emptiness clawed, deeper than anything she’d ever felt. Not when she’d lost her mother. Not when she’d lost her father. Those were situations she merely knew she must stiffen her jaw and deal with. She hadn’t allowed the pain to permeate past the plan. Too young, she’d been left to fend for herself. But she’d been doing that since she was twenty, so life for her hadn’t really changed. After her mother died, she’d tried to reach out to her father, but he’d been as stubborn as she. Unfortunately it all came off wrong and cost her everything because once the words, “Either cooperate, or I’m moving Charity to New York,” were out of her mouth, there was no going back.

  No, she hadn’t grieved for her parents at the time because she’d been too busy trying to figure out how to compensate for being left without a mother and then without a father. Money. She’d been so certain money would help her heal from the loss. It all seemed twisted now when she thought of it. Perhaps she hadn’t grieved for them at all, and that fact alone made her grieve
now.

  The last step was the worst. Ellen winced and touched first her toes, then her heel, to the marble floor. The house was quiet but held the acrid scent of something recently burned.

  The stinging at the bridge of her nose surprised her, but Ellen sniffed and bit back the tears that could so easily fall. It was madness to feel such loss over a tree. Charity’s face filled her mind. Driving up, flying out of the car, and then stopping as if struck while emotions ran rampant across her face. Ellen squeezed her eyes shut to drown out the memory. She shuffled across the kitchen floor and carefully made her way through the sleeping porch. She constantly ran into things in the overcrowded, makeshift pottery studio and with her feet burned and bandaged, the last thing she needed was to stub a toe. Small as that could be, she instinctively knew it would break her.

  Outside the air was cool and carried the scent of burned wood. A blackened, irregular circle marred the ground around the stub of the weeping tree. It stood like a ghost in an enchanted forest. Alone, one narrow branch that had escaped the flame was still hanging on. When the wind swirled, the few remaining leaves rustled. It was a siren’s song. Moonlight lit a path to the tree, and Ellen found herself moving closer. The sandy ground was soft against her feet, as if cradling each step. It was cool from the night air and moist against her bandages.

  She stopped just shy of the remaining branch and slid a hand over the leaves. Some were charred and brittle, like the leaves at the end of fall when the last one gives up its hold and floats to the ground, finally settled to be a carpet for the coming snow. But some of them were still pliable, and hope entered a desperate place in her heart as she thought perhaps the tree would mend.

  But no. It was beyond all recovery, and it was because of her. Still, she chose to believe that since one branch remained, there was hope. The wind shifted, and Ellen loosened her hold on the branch so it could move freely. Its rustling song—so lonely in its tone—cut to her heart. “I’m . . .”

  Sorry, was what she wanted to say, but the word lodged in her throat. She was sorry, so sorry. Whether there was anything mystical or magical about the tree, she couldn’t say. All she knew was the deeply rooted sense of loss she now felt, lifetimes of grief unleashed on her soul.

  It was everything she should have felt when she’d lost her mother. But she’d lost both her parents long before that. In a way, she’d lost them to Charity. Everything had changed when Charity arrived. And Ellen had blamed the squalling, pudgy, constantly needy infant girl. As if the baby had made a choice to be born, to be her grandparents’ joy, to steal the spotlight. Every year she half expected them to try to get custody of Charity, pushing Ellen away completely. More than once, she’d considered giving her to them, but she knew that even though they would rejoice in having Charity full time, it was a bridge that if Ellen ever crossed, she’d never, ever be in her parents’ good graces again. And somewhere inside, she’d wanted to be in their good graces. Wanted them to be proud of her.

  The tree rustled again, and Ellen wondered if it was in pain. Had it felt the burning, the flame? Were the charred ends of each leaf stinging like the tender flesh of her feet? With a great quaking sob, Ellen stepped beneath the tree in an effort to comfort it. Her hands found their way to the trunk, and soot covered her palms as she stroked the tree and cried. “I’m so sorry.” Each breath was a giant, gulping sob coming from so deep within her soul, it went beyond pain to release.

  She pressed her cheek to the trunk and let the bark leave its imprint on her skin. “I’m so sorry,” she cried again, the words insignificant compared to the loss. For a moment, she pushed off the tree, taking in its body from top to roots. “I did this. I did this,” she repeated as if confessing her sin might somehow repair things. She choked back one more sob, but the floodgates opened, and pressure from deep within caused her to moan—the pain of her life, a life she could have lived so much better, permeated from the lowest corridor of her heart. The moan became a growl, something guttural, primal, and filled with disgust for herself. For the first time, Ellen Marie saw herself for what she’d chosen to be. And it was an ugly, horrible creature.

  The growl became a scream, long and loud, breaking the night air into fractured pieces. Ellen dropped to her knees. Her left one landed on a root, causing pain to shoot from her leg up. It would bruise, but she didn’t care. Nor did she care about the scars she’d carry on her leg from the melted spandex of the ball gown. The burns on her feet held no disgust for her. She’d once looked at scars on women as imperfections, horrible little blemishes. Not these. These would be her trophies. They would forever remind her of the night when everything changed. And as she drew a deep breath and raised her head from its dropped position, she knew beyond any doubt that tonight everything was about to change.

  She blinked rapidly when the first raindrops landed on her face. She didn’t see clouds above, hadn’t heard the thunderclap that so often preceded rain, but there, floating above her head, giant drops landed on her. She found herself crying tears that mingled with the drops, her soul emptying of the refuse it had held for so long. The cleansing came from the outside in, but also from the inside out—each breath, each cry eroding more and more of the iron core that anchored her heart.

  The rain continued, a thick curtain causing her to be both warm and cold at the same time. She’d cried all she could and surprised herself by standing in the downpour and spreading her arms wide. There, she began to laugh. She laughed like she never had before, bubbles of joy rising from deep within, so full, so great, they seemed like they might combust inside if she didn’t allow them to escape.

  Her nightgown was drenched. Her bandages ruined. Her hair clung to her scalp and cheeks while streams of water ran the length of her spine. When the rain finally stopped, Ellen pulled deep breaths of fresh salt air. She pushed the hair off her face and didn’t bother to swipe the mascara streams she knew must be present. She laughed again. It gurgled from her. She couldn’t contain it if she’d had to. And that made her laugh even more.

  A hand stretched forward and caressed the trunk of the weeping tree. “Thank you,” she said. “I understand now.”

  A small, shuddering sound drew her attention, and Ellen looked overhead and to the right where the last branch’s fingers released their hold. In slow motion, it floated to the ground at her feet. She sucked a breath, and though her mind screamed at her to feel remorse for this, the final branch, she somehow knew this was meant to be.

  This tree. This moment. This change. Her father had known. Somehow he’d known that this day would come, where everything in life became clear to her. That’s why he’d left the home and money to Charity. That’s why he’d left little to her. These things he’d done as much for her as for her daughter. Somehow, he knew she’d be the last changed life for the weeping tree.

  And that realization rooted her soul. There were no tears left to cry because all was as it was supposed to be. “I love you, Dad.”

  She picked up the branch lovingly and carried it to the sleeping porch. It wouldn’t lie on the wet ground, no. It would lie on a high shelf, a place of honor, inside the sleeping porch, where it could forever look out onto the shore and garden where it had changed so many lives.

  Ellen Marie slipped through the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom, where she could dry off before going back to bed. She scrubbed the towel against her face and hair and flipped on the light. There in the mirror—amid the mascara smears and the lines of a middle-aged woman—she saw it. Beauty. Ellen’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned forward to look more closely. Beauty that emanated from every pore on her face. Beauty that glowed from a well so deep, it was everlasting. Trembling fingers touched her cheeks.

  She was beautiful. And it had nothing to do with how she looked.

  It was 11:00 a.m. the morning after the fire when the first of the townspeople arrived at Baxter House. Every muscle in Charity’s body ached, and she pulled the door open, expecting to find an angry neighbor on the ot
her side. She’d rehearsed over and over what she’d say. Her mother had been angry; in her anger, she’d flipped a cigarette into the tree, not knowing it could potentially burn it to the ground. It was a desperate act, and unforgivable; still it was her mother, and she would stand beside her. But when Charity swung the door open, Mrs. Gorben from across the street held out a candy dish capped with white peaks.

  “It’s a pudding pie, dear. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Mrs. Gorben pushed her way past Charity and into the house. “I’ll just set it here on the table.”

  Maybe she was still dreaming. She’d dreamed through the night. Horrible, painful dreams. In one, she searched and searched for a glass of water but finally fell to the ground, lips splitting and bleeding from lack of moisture.

  Another knock at the door caused her to glance over, but Mrs. Gorben kept chattering. “I would have made something more grand, but I wanted to get right over here. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.” She patted Charity’s hand and went to the door.

  On the other side, two more neighbors greeted Mrs. Gorben as Charity stood in the center of the room wondering what was happening. She heard murmured voices discussing her at the front door.

  “I just got here myself.”

  “Poor dear.”

  “She seems to be holding up.”

  Charity shuffled her feet until she stood closer, but the shock of what was happening stole her ability to form words. Then she heard the words, “her mother,” and everything about last night came rushing back to her.

  “Charity, Charity, honey.” Mrs. Gorben came and placed a hand on her arms, which were crossed carefully over her chest. “We were wondering if your mother was OK? We heard there were burns.”

  Scattered thoughts floated in her mind as if each were a puzzle piece, and someone had placed them in a giant fish bowl to shake them up. Charity’s brow furrowed. “She burned the weeping tree.” Obviously these people didn’t know what had happened.