Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  “Surprise!” Sylvie cried, beaming. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

  Rachel stared, bewildered, then felt stricken with guilt. My God, my anniversary, and I forgot. We forgot. So that’s why Mama invited us to dinner tonight.

  She stared at the cake, wishing it would disappear, hating Mama for reminding her how her marriage had gone wrong, and hating Mama for her graciousness, which all Rachel’s life had seemed to point out the gulf between the two of them.

  The memory came rushing back, those awful piano lessons after school, tinkling out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Farmer in the Dell” over and over until Rachel thought she would die. But Mama never got tired of listening, even singing along or tapping a foot. Rachel first used to think she was just being nice and motherly, but after a while, Rachel realized Mama actually liked hearing her thump out those mind-numbing tunes. Her little girl was supposed to be like herself, gentle, sweet-tempered, a lover of the finer things in life, music, art, flowers. But Rachel, as she grew, saw herself very differently.

  “Mama, you shouldn’t have. It’s ...” Rachel trailed off, defeated by her mother’s good intentions. “You just shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

  Sylvie smiled at Rachel, and lowered the porcelain-handled cake knife in her hand. “I know, dear. I wanted to.” She smiled, looking more ethereal than ever, her skin pale as soap against a scoop-necked cranberry silk blouse, her carefully arranged hair brushed with wings [441] of silver. Graciously, she added, “You’ve been under so much pressure with this dreadful lawsuit, I didn’t think you’d have the time or energy to make a fuss over your anniversary. But that’s what mothers are for, isn’t it?”

  Rachel felt a pang. Would she ever be a mother? Not bloody likely.

  She looked over at Brian, seated in the Chippendale chair beside hers, wearing a faded shirt and worn cords. His informality felt like a breath of fresh air in this dining room with its symmetrically arranged sconces, dark paneling, and stiffly draped curtains. He was wearing his hair longer these days, fanning just over the back of his collar. She noted the gray in it, but it looked good on him, comfortable. He had grown into himself, she realized, rounded at the corners like the covers of a well-read book, his lanky frame filled out, the angles of his face softened.

  His eyes met hers, then cut away too quickly. A pain ripped through her chest.

  I love you, she wanted to say to him. I love you so much. Can’t you see that? We don’t need hearts and flowers and cakes. From the very beginning we weren’t ordinary.

  Then Rachel suddenly felt flat, defeated.

  “Just a sliver for me,” she told Sylvie. “I ate so much dinner, I don’t know if I can manage another bite.”

  Sylvie cut a generous slice, and passed it to Rachel. “You’re too thin. You should eat.”

  Rachel smiled. “Look who’s talking. If I’m too thin, Mama, it’s only because I take after you.”

  She watched Sylvie flush, her eyes take on an added sparkle. Sylvie gave a tinkly laugh. “Well ... maybe. It’s funny, but I had lunch with Evelyn Gold the other day, and she’s put on so much weight. She’s big as a horse! And, well, I know it wasn’t very nice of me, she’s my dearest friend after all ... but I couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit smug.”

  “I thought the Golds were living in Florida,” Rachel remarked.

  “Why, yes. They’re just up for a week or so, visiting Mason.”

  Rachel perked up. Mason! God, she hadn’t seen him in ages. Let’s see ... it had to be a couple of years. She should call him; would do her good to see Mason again.

  [442] Breaking the brief silence, Sylvie asked, “By the way, have they set a date yet?”

  “Date?” Rachel felt confused, then realized Mama was talking about the trial. The last thing in the world she wanted to think about now. But she supposed Mama had a right to know. “Not yet,” she answered. “My lawyer says it may take a while. Snowing, she calls it. That’s what attorneys do these days, snow each other with so much paperwork that maybe one of them gets buried in the avalanche.”

  “She? Your attorney is a woman?” Nikos leaned toward her. Rachel turned her attention toward Nikos. He looked more somber than usual. Dressed in a dark three-piece suit, Nikos seemed older, too. And he’d been much quieter than usual all throughout dinner, his speech careful and measured. Could he and Mama be having problems?

  Rachel hoped not. Nikos was so good for Sylvie. These past few years, Mama seemed to have bloomed, like one of her own roses. Color in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes. Rachel was sure they were sleeping together. And wasn’t it wonderful that Mama had Nikos to take care of her?

  Yet how silly to think of Mama that way, as some kind of virgin, someone in need of looking after. Mama, after all, had proved she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

  “Yes, a woman,” Rachel told Nikos, adding with a laugh, “we do rise above being nurses and secretaries now and then.”

  Nikos smiled. “Yes, of course, I didn’t mean ... it’s just that your mother has told me so little about this unfortunate situation.”

  “My fault,” Rachel said. “I’ve been keeping her in the dark as much as possible.” She turned to Sylvie. “I didn’t want to upset you any more than necessary, Mama.”

  Something flashed in Sylvie’s misty green eyes, turning them hard and brilliant. Rachel drew back, a bit startled, uncertain.

  “There’s no need to keep anything from me,” Sylvie said. Her voice was soft, gracious as always, but with a vein of steel. “I won’t fall apart. I’ve dealt with a lot worse.”

  Rachel again felt ashamed. Of course. When Daddy died. Mama had been strong then, stronger than Rachel ever thought she could be.

  [443] Then Brian reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it, and Rachel felt moved to tears. How long since he had touched her this way, spontaneously, without awkwardness?

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I just ... I haven’t felt much like talking about it. To anyone, as a matter of fact.”

  “There isn’t much to tell at this point,” Brian volunteered. “The usual pretrial stuff, what they call discovery. Rose has been taking depositions. She—”

  “Rose? Her name is Rose?” Sylvie interrupted, her shoulders stiffening, her voice sharp. She sat immobile, knife poised, flame points of reflected candlelight leaping on the silver blade.

  Brian shot her an odd look. “Rose Santini,” he said.

  The name seemed to echo in the now unnatural stillness of the room.

  Sylvie just sat there, eyes wide, face drained of color. Why should her name mean anything to Mama? Rachel wondered. Why on earth was she staring like that?

  The knife slipped from Sylvie’s hand with a muffled chink, scattering black crumbs across the snowy damask. Sylvie sat clutching her chest, swaying slightly, her face blanching.

  Rachel rushed to her side, alarmed.

  “Mama! What’s wrong?”

  Sylvie shook her head. Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut, then opened again, as if she were struggling for breath. Her hands tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

  Now Nikos was at her side.

  Sylvie waved him away, her hand fluttering in midair like a wounded bird. “Nothing ... nothing,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right. Something I ate. Just a bit light-headed at the moment. I ... I think I’d better lie down. Will you please excuse me? No, Nikos, you stay. Rachel will help me upstairs.”

  Rachel slipped an arm about her mother, surprised, shocked even, at her thinness. Could she truly be ill? I’ve been so caught up in my own problems, Rachel thought, chances are I wouldn’t even have noticed.

  The possibility of losing her mother hit her like a blow in the stomach. She couldn’t imagine life without Mama, her gentleness, even Mama’s rose-colored view of the world, so pleasantly sheltered and old-fashioned, so different from hers.

  [444] Upstairs in the quiet of what had been her parents’ bedroom, Rachel heard o
nly the ticking of the carriage clock atop the highboy. Slowly, she looked around her. She remembered, as a child, tiptoeing through this room, with its pastel carpet and polished antique furniture, the delicate vases and Staffordshire dogs arranged on spindly tables. Holding herself in, not even breathing too hard, for fear of breaking something. Now she saw how lovely it was. How it reflected Mama, beautiful, serene, an island apart from the rest of the world.

  Nothing bad can happen in this room, she told herself.

  Rachel gazed down at Sylvie, thin and pale under lace-trimmed Porthault sheets. Rachel had found some Valium in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and given her one. She was almost asleep.

  If only Mama weren’t so horribly white. In the soft pink light from the lamp on the nightstand, Rachel could see the dark, bruised-looking circles under Sylvie’s closed eyelids.

  She settled carefully on the edge of the bed, concentrating on the gentle rise and fall of her mother’s chest.

  Rachel thought with a pang of Alma Saucedo, the times she had sat there like this, keeping vigil. Except that Alma, wasted and almost unrecognizable now, would never wake up.

  Mama is fine, she told herself. She’s just tired. Decorating that house for Nikos, running all over the place, looking for just the right piece of carpet, the best price for walnut floor tiles. Like a child, caught up totally in the thrill of something new, not having any idea at all when to slow down or quit.

  Still, just to be on the safe side, she’d insist Mama call her own doctor in the morning. Go in for a thorough checkup. Mama had probably been putting it off for years.

  Suddenly a hand darted out from beneath the coverlet. Cold fingers convulsed about Rachel’s wrist. Good God. Mama! What—

  Sylvie’s eyes were open, fixed on her, wide and glazed as a sleepwalker’s.

  Rachel’s heart bumped up into her throat.

  “My daughter ... ,” Sylvie whispered, sounding odd, her eyes staring, unfocused. “Where is my daughter?”

  “I’m right here, Mama.” Rachel made her voice brisk, sensible, to disguise how panicked she felt. Was Mama feeling disoriented, or was it something more?

  [445] Then Mama seemed to right herself, her eyes blinking into focus. “Rachel. Yes.” She smiled, a smile of such deep sadness it was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing to Rachel fully the secret soul she had before only glimpsed in her mother. “I want you to know. I’ve never regretted—” She broke off, her eyes drifting shut.

  “Regretted what, Mama?”

  There was a long silence, and Rachel thought—no, hoped—that Mama was finally asleep. She had the strangest feeling, like the goosebumps that rose on the back of her neck when she was walking down a dark street and heard footsteps behind her, that whatever Mama had been about to tell her, she would be better off not hearing.

  Then Sylvie’s eyes fluttered open.

  “You,” she spoke softly but distinctly into the rose-shaded darkness. “I’ve never regretted you.”

  Rachel felt oddly relieved. Not a confession, after all, no more than she’d known all along.

  “Oh, Mama, don’t you think I know that? I couldn’t ask for a more loving mother.”

  The corners of Sylvie’s mouth appeared to turn up ever so slightly, a wisp of a smile. “Oh my baby ...”

  Then Sylvie let her eyes fall shut, and seemed to drift off. Moments later, Rachel heard the sound of steady, even breathing. Her mother was asleep.

  Rachel bent close, and kissed Mama’s cheek. Cool dry skin like silk, a sweet powdery scent. She waited, vigilant, for several more minutes, until she was certain Mama was fast asleep.

  But then, as Rachel was slowly rising to leave, she heard Sylvie mumble something in her sleep. Rachel froze.

  Then she quickly told herself, I’m imagining what I just heard. I’m tired too. Tired of keeping my head above water. Tired of David’s threats, and Brian’s distance. Of course I imagined it. Or perhaps she was just muttering something about one of her flowers.

  Why else would Mama call for Rose?

  Rachel was lost. And she felt perfectly ridiculous—she, a born New Yorker, lost in Grand Central! She glanced at her watch. Damn, she’d be late. ...

  [446] She hurried back along the cavernous tunnel, which had proved to be yet another dead end. Then, rounding a bend, she saw it—the Oyster Bar. Relief swept through her as she pushed her way through the door.

  Scanning the large, bustling dining area, she spotted someone who vaguely resembled Mason. Hastily, she threaded her way past waiters whisking platters heaped with oysters and clams on the half shell. Outside, the streets were baking, but down in this great room of gleaming wood and brass, it was blissfully cool and pleasantly fishy-smelling, like a giant sea cave.

  As she got closer, she found herself breaking into a grin. Yes, it was Mason, and look at him! Gone, the ponytail and clunky Jesus sandals. His curly brown hair looked neatly trimmed, even if his sideburns were on the long side. He was wearing a crisp-looking jacket and tie. Was this the Legal Aid look, or had he gotten tired of being a hippie? It had been so long. They’d exchanged a few cards at holiday times, and a postcard now and then, but it had to have been more than a couple of years.

  She caught Mason’s eye, and he waved.

  Reaching him, she ducked down to kiss his cheek before scooting into the chair opposite him. “Mason! God, it’s great to see you! Sorry I’m late. My cab got stuck behind a double-parked moving van, so I walked the last six blocks, and then would you believe it? I got lost here in the station.” They both laughed, while she settled back, scrutinizing his face. It was thinner now, tiny lines radiating from the corners of his merry brown eyes. “Lord! It’s been ages. You look wonderful. But what happened to all the hair?”

  “A sacrifice to the great god of capitalism.” Mason heaved a mock sigh. “You know, back in frontier times there really was a wall on Wall Street, built to keep the Indians out. Well, I’m back inside the fort now, fighting off corporate raiders.”

  “What happened to the downtrodden, and Justice?”

  He shrugged, tugging his madras tie loose, leaning back in his chair. “Nothing dramatic ... I just got real, as they say. Found out most of the people I was trying to help didn’t like me, and I wasn’t too crazy about them either. One kid put it rather eloquently, I think—this nineteen-year-old punk, second-time offender, up for breaking and entering—he said, pardon me, but these were his exact [447] words, ‘You ain’t doin’ this for me, man, you doin’ it for yourself. So you can go home at night and shit vanilla ice cream.’ ”

  “Oh, Mason, I know.” Rachel couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just like that for me sometimes ... at the clinic.”

  “But you’re sticking with it.” Mason raised his glass in a salute. “You always were stubborn as hell. Say, how about a drink?”

  “Sure, but it’s on me. Remember, I’m the one who invited you.” She ordered Campari and soda. She felt more relaxed, better than she had in a while. “And your family ... how’s the brood?”

  “Oh, you should see Shan ... took to the burbs like a duck to water. She loves it—even the overflowing septic tank doesn’t faze her. And the kids, well, they’re all over the place, having a ball. Right now we have one of those inflatable plastic pools set up on the back lawn, and the three of them splash around in it all day long. We got them a dog, a golden retriever named Drake—and he loves the water too.”

  Rachel smiled at the image of Mason, who used to dunk her in his parents’ pool, now a full-blown adult, taking out the garbage, mowing the lawn, driving his kids to nursery school. And she felt a pang of envy. Three kids ... it wasn’t fair. Couldn’t God give her just one?

  Now Mason was dropping his eyes, staring into his glass. “Rachel, I heard ... about the malpractice suit. Jesus, what a crummy break.”

  Her Campari came, and she was glad to be distracted. She took her time squeezing the wedge of lime. She sipped her drink. It tasted like mouthwash to her. Nothing tasted rig
ht these days, even the lousy cigarettes she had begun smoking again. She heard trains rumbling below, and the noise seemed to vibrate in her stomach.

  She felt as if she were up on a tightrope, and any minute she might fall. The easiest thing right now would be to tip over, unload on Mason. But, she vowed silently, she wasn’t going to do that.

  Rachel shrugged. “OB has a higher rate of malpractice suits than any other specialty.”

  “Damn, I wish I could do something to help you, Rache. But the firm I’m with now, we’re so specialized, we don’t know from nothing about that kind of law. But I might be able to recommend [448] someone, if you’re not satisfied with who you’ve got. Who is your attorney?”

  “Rose Santini. With Stendahl and Cooper.”

  “Santini, Santini, yeah, I read a little piece about her in the Law Journal. Name should be Houdini, not Santini. You hear about this case of hers, with the Hassidim?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “She was defending a guy, a Hassid, accused of aggravated assault, so she brings in a whole busload of these guys, black beards and black coats, and Santini asks the plaintiff to pick out her client. So naturally he picks wrong, and Santini gets a dismissal.”

  Rachel felt her spirits lift, and a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Not that her case would be so easy. But she could imagine Rose pulling off some spectacular sleight of hand like that. Rose was damn clever ... and she didn’t shrink from taking risks.

  But Rose could destroy her, too, and so easily.

  In some dark corner of her mind, a voice whispered, And wouldn’t that be convenient for Rose then? If she told Brian everything about David, wouldn’t he naturally turn to her, his oldest, dearest friend, for advice, for comfort even? How perfect, how very cozy.

  And yet somehow, Rachel trusted Rose. Working with her so closely, she saw what Brian must have loved about her, her vulnerability beneath that fiery spiritedness, a warmth and gentleness.