“Some things never change.”
“That’s not true.” He stopped and picked up something in the sand. He showed it to her.
“Coral,” she said.
“Dead or alive?”
“Probably dead.”
He tossed it into the ocean. “Just in case. Tell me something. Do you have family?”
“Not here.”
“But somewhere.”
“That’s debatable.”
She tried not to think of them. It wasn’t often she had happy thoughts of her family, or could separate the happiness from the rest. The playroom she and the other kids played in was an example. Her memory of it was bittersweet. It was where they were free to be kids, which meant free to run around, free to shriek and build forts, free to paint pictures and play endless games of tag, free to have fun. The playroom was where she met Richie when they were ten.
“I have more brothers and sisters than I know what to do with. Aunts and uncles, too. I’ve lost track of how many.”
“Really? That sounds like quite a family. Do any of them know you’re here?”
“They’re done with me.”
“How do you mean?”
She gave her standard recitation. “I grew up in a special place. I left. They don’t like people to leave. When you do, that’s it. As far as they’re concerned, you don’t exist. They erase you from their minds.”
“That’s quite a trick.”
“You don’t think they can? Think again.”
She and Richie were inseparable. They played together, hid together, shared secrets, held hands. When they were older, they kissed, and slowly started to explore each other in other ways. Then they were caught, and after that she never saw him again.
“When did you leave?” Shep asked.
“Not soon enough.”
“And your parents?”
“We didn’t have parents. Only aunts and uncles. I knew my father a little, but I couldn’t tell you my mother’s name. I doubt she could tell you mine. She wouldn’t, if she could.”
“Because you don’t exist to her?”
“I don’t exist to any of them. And you know what? They don’t exist to me.”
“Yet you do exist. I mean here you are, existing.”
“Not by choice.”
“Only by choice. You could have drowned yourself.”
“I plan to.”
“I hope to dissuade you.”
Other couples strolled by, along with families, singles, and loose packs of friends. People did not come to Villa Gardenia to be inside at sunset. The sky was putting on a show. It looked like melted gold, with ribbons and threads of red and amber. As the sun reached the horizon, it turned liquid, then slipped out of view like a penny in a slot. At the very last instant, when the final pinpoint blink of light was snuffed out, a green oval appeared in its place, suddenly, incredibly, as if by magic. It looked like an eye stood on end, a cat’s eye. Its edges quivered and spread like ripples in a pond, until the whole sky was shimmering with emerald light. Then, with a wink that felt like a bomb, it was gone.
Violet was dumbstruck. “I’ve never seen that before.”
Shep clasped his hands, bowed his head, and said a prayer.
They continued walking, until they came to the end of the beach, which was marked by a spit of sharp rocks. Shep was lost in thought, and didn’t notice that Violet had fallen behind. When he did, he hurried back and apologized.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve worn you out.”
“You haven’t.”
“How long since you’ve eaten? Or slept?”
She shrugged.
“You must be exhausted. And starving.” He glanced back in the direction they’d come. “I’ve dragged you way too far. I wasn’t thinking.”
You were too busy being nice, she thought. Or pretending to be nice. “It’s okay.”
He held out his arms. “I’ll carry you.”
“I’ll pass on that.”
He turned around. “Climb on.”
“No way.”
“I insist.”
She’d been with plenty of guys who weren’t what they seemed at first. The difference now: she felt sorry for this one.
“I’m not going to ride you,” she said. “So stop.”
He frowned, as if there’d been a failure of communication. “Will you eat something then?”
He pulled a palm-sized packet from his pocket. It was wrapped in leaves, which he unpeeled to reveal a moist dark bar. He broke off a piece and handed it to her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Manna.”
“For real.”
“I don’t remember the name. It’s a local treat. I have a supply.”
“You first,” she said.
He bit off a chunk, chewed and swallowed it. She waited, and when he didn’t gag, turn blue, or double over, she took a bite. Then a second one, before returning it.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat. Please don’t act crazy.”
They found a quiet restaurant. It was open air, which allowed them to hear the susurration of the surf, and to smell the gardenias that were planted outside. Violet ordered something light: all her appetites had shrunk. Shep had the catch of the day. He asked if she wanted something to drink.
“I gave up drinking,” she said. “Feel free.”
“I don’t like to drink alone.” He inhaled. “I love that smell.”
“Gardenias.”
“Yes. And salt air.”
“I could never grow gardenias. Wrong climate, wrong soil.”
“You have a garden?”
“You could say that.”
She told him a little about herself. She had a small, private garden and oversaw a much larger public one for her job. She worried about the plants. She never liked to leave them for long. The hardy plants would be fine, but the more fragile ones would suffer in her absence. Some would not survive.
“You feel responsible.”
She did. It weighed on her.
“These are plants you planted yourself?” he asked.
“I’ve nurtured some of them from birth.”
She remembered every single one. Her own garden would suffer most of all. Unlike the public one, there was nobody to care for it, certainly nobody remotely in her league when it came to a practiced and loving hand.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Your garden. Describe it to me.”
It wasn’t big, she said. No more than twenty feet square. It was out the back door of her ground floor apartment. She’d started it when she first moved in. She wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, and in fact had stopped trying. Days could go by without her speaking to another person outside of work. Initially, she’d felt isolated, as though something vital were missing from her life. The feeling never completely went away, but it gradually subsided.
Weeding the ivy and weed-infested, previously untended, plot was a dependable pleasure. The act of pulling up a clump of something unwanted, plucking it right from the ground, was a visceral pleasure, the way that anything purely physical was, like digging a hole, lifting a stone, brushing her hair. Bringing order to chaos was also a pleasure, of a different kind. It was settling to her mind, like solving a puzzle, or cleaning up a mess. Never mind that the mess might be of her own making. It was equally, if not more, satisfying to clean it up.
An added satisfaction: Mother Nature actually seemed to welcome this.
Preparing, then planting, the beds, poking the seedlings and tiny plant homunculi into the enriched, waiting soil, then giving them their first drink, was icing on the cake.
“Sounds wonderful,” he said.
“I got lucky.”
“How do you mean?”
The garden faced south, she explained, which, in a city where densely packed buildings cast long shadows on open space, was a stroke of good fortune. What it lacked in size it made u
p for in sunshine. She grew roses, irises, culinary herbs, assorted wildflowers, and one tall, gorgeous, lip-pink sage. In the sunniest corner, beside a trellis fragrant with jasmine, she had a small table and chair. On weekend mornings, over coffee, she would sit in this chair, and on the good days, the best days, be content.
She would ask herself how to maintain this contentment in a world where people were out for themselves and not to be trusted, and where her natural tendency was to trust and to please. She’d been taught to please others. She was quick, on the whole, to compromise, and quick to give in if it meant making peace. Saying yes was no weakness in her universe, yet somehow she kept ending up with the short end of the stick.
In her garden, given the right care, everything said yes. The leaves were leafy, the stems and trunks were thick, the flowers were astounding. When she stepped outside, she was met by a chorus.
“Of beauty,” Shep said knowingly. “How wonderful.”
“Of voices,” she replied.
His face lit. “Saying what?”
She had never told anyone before. “Look at us. Can you believe your eyes? All things are possible.”
“Amazing. I’ve heard that same chorus.”
“It’s not true.”
“No? It’s tempting to think so.”
“Where have you heard it?”
“Most recently? Death Valley. It’s where I live.”
“It’s a desert.”
“Yes. A wild place. And far, far from mute. It has more life, more songs, than you can imagine. I’m there for half the year. The rest of the time I travel.”
“Looking for train wrecks.”
“Not at all. But not shunning them.”
“You’re a do-gooder.”
“I confess. It’s perverse.”
She liked this man. He shared her sense of humor. She felt a bond.
“How long will you be in Gardenia?” she asked.
“Unknown.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Days, for sure.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll go.”
Suddenly, she wasn’t hungry. She craved a drink instead.
When dinner came, he tucked his paper napkin into the vee of his shirt. It seemed the size of a postage stamp on his massive frame.
“That looks ridiculous,” she said, hoping to hurt him.
He smiled congenially. “I’m sure it does. But I’m a messy eater. And it’s a new shirt.”
“Your fish looks toxic.”
“Really? It’s the catch of the day.”
He refused to be baited.
She hated him.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she said.
After dinner he walked her home. They made a date to meet the following morning. Violet made him promise that he wouldn’t stand her up. That, he said, was an easy promise to make. Short of a natural disaster, he’d be there.
She opened her door, then hesitated.
“What?” he asked.
She didn’t trust herself to speak, and shook her head.
“Please. I’d like to know.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’re precious. Life is precious. Death is precious too, but in its time. Not now.”
“But why you?”
“Why not me? Why not you?”
“You have a gift,” she said.
“You have one, too.”
She felt like a leaf in the wind. “Let’s not get carried away.”
He grinned.
“Tomorrow then. For real. You’ll be here?”
“Bright and early.”
“At nine?”
“On the dot.”
She entered her room. “A gift, huh?”
“You have no idea. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“I’ll see you then. Good night, Shep.”
“Good night, Violet.”
DAISY
Once she’d had her fill of water, she sat back and took stock. She was in a steeple-shaped cavern, fifteen or twenty feet wide at the bottom and as tall as a skyscraper. There was an opening at the top where the sun shone through, illuminating the cavern’s upper wall with a narrow cone of light. The rock in that area and for most of the way down was broken into columns and ledges. It looked climbable. If her shoulder allowed it. If, after days without so much as a morsel of food, she had the strength.
The pool owed itself to a trickle of water that originated high on the wall and ribboned down before hitting an overhang, from which point it dripped. A moss grew on this overhang, darker than any moss she’d ever seen. Above the overhang, because of the sun, it was lighter in color. There was a large clump of it, chartreuse green and vibrant as only moss could be, and to the side of it, from what looked like a fissure in the rock, grew a shrubby plant with flowers and berries. It looked familiar. The berries reminded her of blueberries, and she had no trouble imagining a bowlful of them. With cream. And bananas. And other berries. And toast.
Her stomach was so very empty. Her whole body ached at the thought of food.
She had more water, then slept. When she woke, the cavern was brighter. The sun had moved. It shone lower on the wall, highlighting the fissures, cracks, ledges and shelves. She could see what she thought was a route. It would take her past the shrub, whose small dark berries begged to be eaten. But where would she find the cream, she thought wistfully, returning her attention to the wall and her paramount task, to get out.
The more she studied the route, the better it looked. She had an urge to get started, right then and there, but she cautioned herself to be patient. Going off half cocked had gotten her into this mess to begin with, and here was a chance to correct that mistake. She was not opposed to self-improvement. On the contrary. If it helped in some material way, she was all for it.
So she took her time, observing, weighing, considering her line of attack. She took enough time that she received an expected gift: a small cloud floated by the opening high overhead, beautiful in itself, but more importantly, a sign of the beautiful world outside. The one she would soon enter. The sight of the cloud had a ripple effect. Suddenly, she saw the world she was currently in with new eyes—the breathtaking upsweep of its walls, nearly vertical; its soaring, chimney-shaped vault; the hugeness of the whole space, its majesty and grandeur, as if nature were polishing the apple of itself. And then there was the light and shadow show, more gorgeous than it had any right to be, and the thickening of the air as the sun angled through it. And the pool, and the little patch of sand. A very special place, this cavern. Once she got out, she’d have to figure out a way to get back in, something less jarring to the system, and bring Richard.
After a lengthy internal debate, she decided to put off the ascent. There was adequate light, but she had no idea how long it would last. It would be catastrophic to be stuck on the wall as darkness descended. Best to spend the night and start at first light the next day. Better still, get some food in her belly first. Dinner, for example. Breakfast. She was weak from hunger, and the climb, as it was, would test her strength. Add to that the unusable arm. Could a test be any sterner?
She discovered that she was worried, which was an unfamiliar state. Doubt, then fear, the two great soul-killers, reared their heads. She might not make it. She might hit a snag. She could fall. She could die, or hurt herself in some terrible new way. Any sensible person would have quailed.
Daisy was sensible, but she was also hard-nosed. Sometimes the two were in conflict. Her hackles rose to hear a thing called impossible. She bristled at the word can’t.
She was tough, and she was stubborn: these were her armor against an unpredictable world. Beneath the armor she was flesh and blood, like anyone. She was tough there too, but also vulnerable. She believed in the goodness of things. She was susceptible to romance. She could—and had—put her heart up for grabs.
She could be playful. She could be girlish. Sunshine had been known to flow through her veins. It flowed
now: she had a free afternoon, and how about that? Things could be a whole lot worse: she could be chained to a hospital bed, or a desk, or a wall. Though probably not a wall.
Judging by the width of the incoming sunlight, which shone in a narrowing band on the uppermost cliff, it was late afternoon. Plenty of time left to take care of some pressing business.
Accordingly, she peeled off her clothes (her shirt with an effort) and took an inventory of the merchandise. She sported a variety of scrapes and bruises. Both her knees were torn up from the long crawl. The lump on her head was smaller, which was good. The pain in her arm was not as sharp, also good, but it was deeper. It throbbed like a rotten tooth. And the arm looked different than the other one. She could see the ball of it, and the whole thing was rotated forward and down. She couldn’t move it without the pain becoming unbearable. Parts of it hurt to touch, though not as much as she expected. So maybe it wasn’t broken. Maybe only out of position. It was against her nature not to be hopeful about this, but the truth was, it didn’t matter. It was useless in any case.
On the plus side, it didn’t prevent her from bathing, as long as she kept it still. Without soap or shampoo there was only so much she could do, and with only one arm what she could do was a chore. But afterward, her skin tingled, and she felt as fresh as, well, herself.
Night finally fell. The cave turned gray, then black. The one or two stars she could see had no effect on the darkness that enveloped her, which, like before, was total. As was the silence, save for the sound of dripping water, her own little waterfall. This was the music to which she nodded off.
She woke two or three times during the night from hunger. She was grateful when daylight came, and after filling herself with water, she got under way.
Routes always changed when you were face to face with the rock. But hers turned out to be a good one, and the changes—and more significantly, the challenges—were minor. Two hands, naturally, would have been better. An energy bar or five, better still. It was weakness as much as anything that slowed her down. When she stopped, which was frequently, it was not just to plan out her next few moves. It was also to gather strength.
She passed the shrub, pausing to appreciate its pretty, bell-shaped flowers, its clusters of shiny black berries, and the amazingness of its being in the cave at all. She imagined a plant suddenly deciding to sprout from the dark recesses of her mouth: it was as improbable as that. She knew enough not to eat the berries, at least not a bellyful of them. That said, they looked harmless enough. The safest thing would be to test one. Not a whole one, but a part of one. A very small part.
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