Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  Rachel felt something building inside her, rising up like a bubble from the queasy tension in her stomach. Pushing up her throat, inexorably, even while she struggled to control it.

  Then bursting forth, a shocking sound in the silence of the courtroom.

  She began to giggle helplessly.

  Now David was staring at her, his face seeming to swell, turning an ugly bloated scarlet.

  Then she was remembering something else, years and years ago, a Sunday when she and David had been strolling in Central Park, David nearly tripping on a crack in the asphalt, his arms flinging out, pinwheeling madly, the expression on his face almost comical. Catching himself just in time. Standing nearby, there’d been a kid, ten or eleven, who’d started to laugh, hands cupped over his mouth. And David had stridden over, out of breath, enraged, grabbing the kid by the front of his T-shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet. “Don’t laugh,” David had hissed. “Don’t ever laugh at me.”

  And now he must think I’m laughing at him. Making fun of him.

  Rachel watched, still giggling, as he grew pop-eyed, and a muscle in his cheek began to twitch.

  Then, incredibly, others began to laugh softly, and Rachel remembered how infectious giggles could be, especially when you were trying hard to control them.

  [477] It was too much for David.

  Now his mouth was working, twisting, making him ugly somehow. Breathing heavily, David leveled a wavering finger at Rachel.

  “Bitch! It was you. All your fault. Everything.” Even his voice had changed, coarse and rasping. “I’ll get you for this. I’ll make you suffer. Fucking bitch!”

  The silence in the courtroom was absolute. A moment of suspended animation so perfect it was almost a vacuum.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Di Fazio rushed to the stand, struggling to subdue his witness.

  Mrs. Saucedo, in a kelly-green pantsuit, began jabbering excitedly in Spanish to the woman behind her, probably a relative.

  The calm of the jury box disintegrated, men and women—blacks, Hispanics, whites—suddenly all talking at once.

  Other voices, speaking rapid-fire Spanish, joined the babble.

  I have to get out of here. Now. Right now.

  Rachel stood up, felt the blood rushing from her head, leaving only white noise, like the snowy static that fills a TV screen after the station has switched off for the night. She felt as if she were traveling backward through a tunnel at a very rapid speed. She thought dreamily, I’m going to faint, aren’t I?

  The last thing she remembered was the crashing sound of a gavel.

  Rose watched Rachel fold in on herself, begin to crumple. Rose started toward her, but by the time she reached Rachel, there were half a dozen people clustered about her.

  A stocky silver-haired man had his arm about Rachel’s shoulders, supporting her. Rose, drawing closer, recognized him as the man who had spoken to her once before, who had congratulated her in the corridor after she had won the Krupnik case. Oddly, since then, she had run into him several times outside the courthouse.

  A Greek name. Alexandros, wasn’t it?

  What was he doing here?

  Then Rose stopped, arrested by the sight of a woman rising in consternation from a bench in the very back of the courtroom. A woman, straw-slim and graceful, dressed in a cashmere suit, a [478] heathery blend of cerulean and lavender and misty blue. And underneath, a wisp of silk blouse showing, soft as a cloud. Gloves, too, and a hat that shaded most of her face. An older woman, but still quite beautiful. You could see that, just in the way she moved.

  As the woman came closer, Rose felt her heart quicken. I know that face. Where? Where have I seen her before?

  Then the woman reached distractedly to straighten her hat, brushing her ear, where a tiny diamond earring glittered.

  It came to Rose, suddenly, wondrously. It’s her.

  Rose unconsciously fingered the ruby teardrop in her right ear. She felt as if she were in some kind of absurdist play in which all points, past, present, and future, had converged on this one stage.

  No, I’m imagining things. It can’t be.

  Then the woman was pausing, midway up the aisle, her gaze locking with Rose’s. Eyes that were huge and bright with tears, the color of sea water, set in a face as fine and webbed as old Meissen china. Eyes filled with a mute and terrible anguish.

  And with that one glance, Rose felt reality abruptly end, the long and gritty sidewalk that had brought her to this place, this moment. She had stepped off the curb into a dream.

  Who are you? What do you want from me?

  Then the moment was gone. The woman became suddenly brisk, angling her way toward the group clustered by the table, her slender gloved hands reaching out, forming a beautiful blue bower about the pale statue that was Rachel.

  With shock, Rose heard Rachel cry out, “Mama!”

  Chapter 36

  Letting himself in, Brian immediately caught sight of Rachel, curled in the Adirondack chair by the fireplace. He stopped, his hand still on the doorknob, a stunned joy spreading through him.

  “Rachel.”

  His heart leaping now. Had she come back, then? Was that what she had been waiting to tell him?

  She looked up at him and smiled. Yet her expression was so sad, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears.

  Brian felt his joy fade, his gut wrench. What was she going to say?

  Dear Christ, if she’s come to tell me it’s over, for good, I don’t think I could stand that. I’ve been missing her so damn much. I need her.

  “Brian. Hi.”

  Her voice seemed to unlock him, pull him in from the door. He walked toward her, slowly, eyes fixed on her. He imagined himself a photographer. One who had spent endless hours frustrated by imperfect angles, murky light, awkward poses, and then suddenly saw everything come perfectly together. The table lamp giving off the perfect amount of light, a muted sepia shade, rounding out the woman curled in the chair with soft shadows, painting her in soft pinks and golds and greens.

  All he stood to lose, it was so clear to him now.

  Brian felt as if a cold ringer were touching his heart.

  When had she ever looked so young? Or so beautiful. Almost like a teenager, in jeans and one of his old shirts, her bare feet tucked up underneath her, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dark gold hair looked freshly washed, spilling over her shoulders, damp and still glittering with moisture.

  He saw now how vulnerable she was under that tough facade. [480] He had expected her always to be strong, to be able to manage anything. And maybe the anger he’d felt toward her had been frustration that she didn’t really need him. He had wanted so many times to gather her into his arms, the frightened little girl he’d always suspected was inside her somewhere—the girl he saw before him now—just the way he’d used to do with Rose.

  He ached now to touch Rachel, hold her, but something held him back. As if she might break apart, or worse, draw away from him, pull back into her shell.

  No, he’d let her set the pace, choose the moment to say what she’d come here to say.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  His blood seemed to turn to ice water.

  But she smiled faintly.

  And then he understood. She meant the trial. Oh Jesus, of course.

  He hadn’t seen her since yesterday, that unbelievable scene in the courtroom, people crowding around her, cutting him off from her. He had yearned to scoop her up in his arms, carry her right back here where she’d be safe, where together they could begin again. But he had stopped, afraid she would resent his intrusion. And—even more stupidly—he had felt angry. She should make the first move, he’d thought. She had hurt him. Leaving like that, with only a note stuck up on the refrigerator.

  And now, with the trial over, she’d had a chance to think things over, and decided it was hopeless for them to go on.

  “The lawyers met this morning,” she said. “The Saucedos have agreed to settle.”<
br />
  Brian, sitting down on the sofa opposite Rachel, felt a stiffness in his limbs, as if he were folding the blades of his old Swiss army knife. And he felt cold, so cold.

  But still he forced his attention to what she was saying. He was glad the trial was over. But not surprised, after what happened yesterday. That bastard, Sloane. Why hadn’t Rachel ever told him Sloane had it in for her?

  “You don’t look too happy about it,” he said.

  She stared at the painting over the mantel, a watercolor of huge sea turtles swimming underwater. Brian remembered when Rachel [481] had found it, in a little gallery on Grove Street, and how she’d fallen in love with it on the spot. Don’t you see, she had explained, what a miracle it is, how graceful they are underwater, those creatures who are so clumsy on land?

  Rachel was like those turtles, in a way. Swimming with powerful strokes in waters where she was familiar, dangerous waters other people would drown in, saving lives, even risking her own when necessary. But faltering, unsure, when it came to opening her heart and trusting someone, trusting him.

  “The insurance company’s offer,” she finally said, “it was a lot lower than the one they made before. Just a token, really. And the Saucedos ... they were so grateful to have it, to have anything ... oh God, Brian, it was so ... pathetic.”

  “You shouldn’t feel responsible,” he told her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She shrugged. “Who is responsible for anyone when it comes right down to it? No, I don’t think it was my fault, what happened to Alma. But I’ve told the bank to release some of the money my father left in trust for me. I want Alma’s family to have it. I don’t feel I owe them anything, but I want to do this. For that baby. For Alma’s son.”

  Rachel looked at him, and he saw some of her old fire kindle in her eyes. He thought of the courageous doctor who had gone out on a limb for him, just one more grunt chewed up and spat out by the war, but she—who knows why—had believed in him, and had cheated death. And it was that passion of hers to save and heal that had made him fall in love with her. A medicine of the heart.

  Could he reject that now?

  And the blame for all their troubles, he had a share in that. I wanted it for myself, all that passion, that burning light, I was jealous.

  “Rachel ...” He started to say “I love you,” but the words seemed to freeze in his throat. It was hard to get past that stony look on her face.

  “We have to talk, Brian. About us.” She unfolded her legs, and stood up. She walked over to the fireplace, started to reach for the pack of cigarettes on the mantel, then changed her mind, and pushed them away almost savagely. She turned to Brian, face tilted up, jaw cocked, eyes blazing.

  [482] He felt chilled, knowing this was how she looked when facing a hard task, all steel and fire, clenched with grim purpose.

  Brian instinctively jumped to his feet, put his hands out in front of him. “Wait. Listen. Before you say anything else. I want you to know ... I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry.” She was staring at him, shocked. Then she blinked, and he saw that her lashes were studded with tears. “Oh, I see, because of Rose, you mean.”

  “Rose?”

  “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Brian had a sudden urge to laugh. Rose? She thought he was having an affair with Rose. Oh Jesus, where could she have gotten such an idea—from Rose?

  “How on earth—” he began.

  “Your book,” she cut in, “I read some of it. About her.” All at once her steely composure seemed to crumple. “You don’t have to explain, Brian. In a way I understand. I ... I don’t blame you.”

  “You don’t understand,” he shouted, angry that she was hurting herself, and for no reason. “I wrote that about a time in my life. That time has passed. Just because I can recall how I felt then doesn’t mean I feel that way now.”

  “How do you feel now? No, wait, don’t answer that.” She folded her arms over her chest, gripping both elbows tightly. She kept her head down, addressing the hooked rug at her feet. “I have something to say first. Something I should have told you a long time ago, before we were married. I was afraid then. I was afraid if I told you, you would stop loving me. And now I’m even more afraid. Because ... oh God, this is so hard. ...” She stopped, seemed to struggle with herself, her face so pale it seemed almost transparent. “Because I’ve been lying to you all these years. I let you think something that wasn’t true. I let you believe there was no real reason why we couldn’t have a child.”

  Rachel felt as if she were tumbling down a gentle hillside. A spiraling light-headedness, a rush of blood to her face. A good feeling, a feeling of letting go, breaking free of this heavy weight she’d worn on her heart for so long.

  [483] For one wild, elated instant she flew up in the air, totally free. She’d done it. And she couldn’t stop now even if she wanted to.

  And then Brian, she saw, was staring at her, shocked, bewildered.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Once again, Rachel grew heavy and afraid.

  No, I can’t turn back now, she thought, filling with panic. I’ve made it this far, I have to tell him the rest. Even if he curses me, hates me, that would be better than this ... this wall between us. This awful invisible barrier.

  Oh, she wanted him back so badly, seeing him standing there, so familiar, so unbearably dear. Staring at her with those deep eyes, the first part of him she had fallen in love with. She could almost feel the heat of his body. She wanted to reach out, wrap herself in all that warmth. Lose herself in him.

  But not if she had to lie to him.

  She jerked her head up, and held his gaze. Be brave, she told herself.

  “You probably wondered, yesterday in court—” Rachel stumbled ahead, slowly, as if learning to walk again after an illness, groping for words, “why David Sloane hates me so much, why he wanted to hurt me. You see, he and I ... we were lovers. A long time ago. During my internship. I got pregnant, and he ... well, he wanted me to have an abortion. But I couldn’t. Not his way, cold, like having a tooth pulled, as if it didn’t matter. And so ... I ... I made him do it, the abortion. That’s why he hates me. And that’s why ... I was sick, you see, so sick afterwards ... and they said ... oh God ... the X rays ... they said I would probably never have a child ... a chance in a thousand. ...” She broke off, stepping backward, feeling the cold edge of the marble mantel against her back. She felt as if she were shrinking, huddling to ward off the awful pain inside her. “Now you know. Why you should have married Rose instead. Why there’s no point in us going on from here.”

  She felt tears rising in her, but she held them back. She had no right to cry, feel sorry for herself. This was her doing. And right now she was making Brian look like when he was wounded in Vietnam, pale as death, shocky, pupils dilated.

  [484] Oh, my love, I wish I could go back, change what happened, start all over. How different our lives might have been! But I can’t. What’s done is done. And I accept that. All I ask is that you not hate me too much, that you try to understand.

  But Brian wasn’t saying anything, he just stood there staring at her, with those eyes that seemed to reflect a whole universe.

  She felt lost, floating, weightless. Free of her lie at long last ... but, oh God, so alone.

  Go now, she told herself. Go before you start begging him to forgive you, to take you back.

  Rachel turned away, and started for the door. She felt as if she were walking through water, slowly, with a strange weightless grace.

  Don’t look back, she told herself.

  “Rachel. Wait.”

  She stopped, turned, and saw through a film of tears his blurred shape rushing toward her. A tiny bead of hope rose in her.

  She pushed it away. He wanted to say good-bye, that was all. To wish her luck perhaps. That was Brian, always gracious, even in the worst of times. A true gentleman.

  Oh God, why wouldn’t he just let her go? She c
ouldn’t bear the thought of them parting like tennis partners shaking hands after a match.

  Then suddenly Brian was crushing her in his arms, knocking the wind out of her.

  Rachel’s heart took flight with a startled burst.

  Oh Lord, was this really happening, Brian’s arms around her? Oh, the miracle of him, his strong hard body and his bones, so blessedly solid, as if she’d been drowning and now he was dragging her onto some wonderful shore.

  “Rachel,” he murmured, his voice choked with tears. “You idiot. How could you ever think I would stop loving you? And all this time I thought it was me, that you’d stopped loving me.”

  He was crying, they were both crying. She tasted salt when she kissed him.

  “Brian,” she whispered, “oh, Brian ... can you ever forgive me?”

  She waited, hearing sounds she had not noticed a few minutes [485] ago, the ticking of a clock, Custer purring on the end of the sofa, the hissing of the radiator.

  Then she heard Brian say, “I already have.”

  Rachel, delirious, wanted it to go on and on, this marvelous soaring feeling, but there was still something she had to know, something too important to be left for later.

  She pulled away slightly, needing to see his face when he told her.

  “Am I enough for you, Brian? Just me? Without a child?”

  The light in his eyes was clear, achingly bright, shining with love.

  “You are enough,” he said.

  Rose, walking quickly, saw the open door at the end of the east corridor. Max’s office. There was a light on.

  She broke into a run, her heart slapping against her rib cage.

  Oh, let him be there, she prayed, oh please.

  All weekend she’d been chasing Max. First, phoning him at his apartment, over and over. Letting it ring and ring and ring. And this morning, the frustration, having to hold herself in, somehow to get through the meeting at Di Fazio’s, before she could let herself think of Max.

  And now finally, finally, she would be able to see him. Not yet lunchtime, he should still be in his office. Please ...