Garden of Goodbyes

by Faith Andrews

  Fine. Four letters. One flippant word. The severity of this entire situation deserved more than that. A mountain of old resentments and bitterness stole my artificial self-control, but I too held back. “Good.” I craned my neck to find Carol and raised my finger in the air to grab her attention.

  With the waitress on her way and Eden and I at an impasse, I contemplated how much worse this could have gone. She could’ve chosen not to show up at all. But here she was—in the flesh. Giving of her time and concern for the two people in the world she probably wished were dead and buried.

  The morbid thought had me picturing Lennox—weak and worn-out, at the lowest of the low, his rock bottom. As Eden placed her breakfast order of eggs over easy and dry wheat toast, I said those silent prayers again.

  Please let this work. Please, Eden, have mercy on us even though we don’t deserve it.

  Present

  THE RIDE TO WHEREVER IT was Violet was taking me was pure torture. If we were a normal family, I would’ve told her to hop in my rental car and take the ride with me. But normal was so far from what we were it was laughable. Instead, Violet vaulted her tiny, frail body into what I recognized as William’s ancient, red pick-up—I couldn’t believe it had any life left in it—and I sequestered myself to the Ford Focus and the solitude I was accustomed to.

  During the fifteen-minute trip along familiar winding roads, my mind played tricks on me. And my heart—that thing I chose to pretend didn’t exist—drummed in my chest at the rate of a hummingbird’s wings. Soon I’d have to face Lennox. Seeing Violet was hard enough. As much as I loathed her for what she’d become, for what she did to me and Lennox, the sight of her in that condition made me long for the days when she was an impressionable little girl who looked at me as if I was her sun peeking through gray clouds.

  “Eden, can you braid my hair in pick tails again?” She hopped up on my lap and let her head fall back, her ebony locks tickling my thighs.

  “Pigtails, V. Like the animal.” I leaned down and snorted in her ear. “Oink, oink!”

  Violet’s infectious laughter filled our small bedroom, shedding light upon the dark walls and dreary atmosphere that always surrounded us in this house. Moments like this erased all the bad. Moments like this kept me hopeful that one day everything would be as bright as Violet’s laughter.

  Moments like that were gone. It was a wonder my memory bank still had the capacity to hold on to things like that. If it weren’t for recollections like those, I’d be forced to believe the little girl who once brought so much joy to my miserable upbringing was a figment of my imagination, an apparition I conjured just to survive. But the woman driving the pick-up heading down the pain-streaked memory lane of my past was very real, even if she was a far cry from the innocent, neglected child I once regarded as my saving grace.

  Now she was the epitome of a junkie. A textbook version of a strung-out addict. Her once supple skin was sallow and blemished. The chocolate brown hue of her eyes was no longer flecked with golden life. Her hair was too long and unkempt, as if she hadn’t seen the inside of a salon for years. And her frame was so small, so undernourished, I had to presume whatever money she did have, she spent on vice rather than food.

  I couldn’t say I didn’t expect this. That would be a blatant lie. I envisioned it rather clearly. But the reality versus the presumption demolished any hope I might’ve had that my baby sister wasn’t a total lost cause.

  Violet came to a stop at one of our hometown’s busiest intersections. Being here was weird. Too familiar for my taste. I had no desire to reacquaint myself with anyone or anything in these parts. I was here for Lennox. Nothing else. No one else. I’d do the best I could to convince him to get help. Maybe even see him to the rehab facility of my sister’s choice, and then get the fuck out of here and back to my reality. It was that reality that had my hand yearning to put this car in reverse and peel out in the other direction. But before I could move the gearshift, the light changed and Violet made a right turn, en route to the one place I hoped I wouldn’t have to see while back here.

  William’s house.

  I couldn’t even bear to call it home. A home is a place you want to be. Where the heart is, and all those charming quotes fit to be framed and hung above your cozy fireplace.

  Nope. Not for me. Home was hell.

  I hated that house. I hated everything it represented. I’d burn that shithole and all its contents to the sinking ground it stood on if given the chance. I prayed and pleaded and tried to convince myself Violet was leading me somewhere other than the one place I loathed more than life itself, but I felt in my core: I was being beckoned to the dreadful place where it all began.

  We pulled along the gravel path, rocks and pebbles crunching beneath our tires as some kind of welcoming committee. That sound brought on a flood of painful memories that overwhelmed me with debilitating force. I wanted to run before I could even step foot out of the car. But I knew if I tried, my legs would be useless. Like those dreams where you’re being chased and have lead for limbs.

  I hadn’t been here since the day I left—without a goodbye. Without taking a single souvenir of the life I was finally leaving behind. I promised myself I would never return, and yet, here I was, betraying the one person I could count on. Myself.

  I stole a modicum of courage and ignored Violet’s flailing arm, flagging me to join her up the walkway. I needed a minute. Maybe even more than a minute. Maybe I would sit here all fucking night until I was good and ready to face whatever it was behind that door that I swore I would never open again.

  I held up my hand, refrained from flipping her the bird, and dug my phone out from my purse on the passenger seat. Within seconds I was connected with a voice that lulled my erratic breathing back to its natural rhythm.

  “You okay, love?” Joy’s presence soothed me, grounded me, made me remember this stain in time was not permanent. Being here was temporary. I had a better life waiting for me.

  “No,” I admitted without any buffer.

  “Talk to me. Walk me through what you’re feeling.” Joy was wasting her time as a book publicist. She was meant to be a therapist. Or a saint for dealing with me.

  “There are too many emotions to name, Joy. I’m flooded with them. Overflowing. Drowning. Lots of water analogies I can use here. You get the idea.”

  Joy chuckled and then went right back to business. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, babe. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again . . . You don’t owe them anything. If this trip down memory hell is going to fuck with your well-being, skedaddle the fuck on home and don’t look back.”

  That somehow charmed a laugh out of me and made the gravity of the situation disappear for a split second. Not long enough. “I’m here,” I huffed. “I may as well get it over with. How long can she actually imagine I’ll stay? I’ll do what I came to do and that’s it.” That sounded convincing enough, but I needed Joy to approve. “Right?”

  “Only you have the answer.” I wasn’t happy with that. I needed her guidance now more than ever. I wasn’t too proud to admit this was one of those times I wished I had someone else calling the shots and giving me step-by-step instructions. Surely, one of my author clients had written How to Face Your Soul Shattering Past for Dummies.

  “Ugh!” My head fell back against the seat and I closed my eyes. “Let me get this over with. Is it okay if I call you as soon as I’m done in there? You don’t think I’m a pain in the ass for bugging you every step of the way?”

  “Are you kidding?” Joy screeched. “You better call me! I’m your best friend. I know how hard this is for you. If one of us didn’t have to be here holding down the fort, I’d be right next to you instead, holding your hand.”

  That warmed my heart. I didn’t doubt the sincerity of her words. “I love you, Joy. Thank you for everything.”

  “Love you, too, babe. You can do this. Remember, you’ve been through the worst already. The rest is just residue from your f
ormer life that you get to kick away with the filthy scum you left behind.”

  I hung up, trusting she was right. I’d already suffered the most intense agony of my life. When you survive the death of your heart, any other pain feels as insignificant as a pin prick. That’s what I believed.

  Only, it was a lie.

  The one thing more painful than the initial wound was reopening it, messing with the scar tissue, and plucking at the gashes that never truly healed in the first place.

  Present

  ONCE I FINALLY SUMMONED THE courage to open the car door and place my feet on the gravel-covered ground, adrenaline must’ve kicked in and taken control. One foot in front of the other, my body worked for my brain rather than the standard other way around.

  It was almost as if I had no say in the matter. That nagging feeling from before—about being beckoned back to this horror show—was in full force. However, it wasn’t just a magnetic pull from the past that drew me to climb the rickety steps of the house. It was dangerous curiosity. Like those naïve heroines in spooky flicks, scaling the dark walls of a haunted house and going up to the attic all alone.

  Don’t go that way! What are you, stupid? Those were the things I would scream at the screen. Only this wasn’t a movie. I couldn’t change the channel or walk out of the theater. This was real life, and like one of those on-screen idiots, I feared I was walking straight into the arms of my worst nightmare. Yet, I did it anyway.

  I should have trusted my gut. I should have taken the warning signs seriously. The discolored, chipped-paint exterior, the warped plank and rusty nails boarding up a smashed window, the stench of mold, wood rot, and abandonment.

  Not much had changed, to be honest, but it was still a dreadful sight. Knowing that Violet still lived here, part of me hoped she’d used some of her girly influence to spruce up the place she called home. I laughed in spite of the circumstances, because that notion was ridiculous. Violet couldn’t take care of herself, let alone this godforsaken piece of property.

  Nevertheless, I took a deep breath, choking back the dank and musty odor. With one hand on the doorknob—the same knob I used to slam the door on my past so long ago—I entered with a lump in my throat and a throbbing pit in my stomach.

  “Welcome back,” Violet chuckled sinfully as she lit a cigarette in the eat-in kitchen where I could almost touch her from the living room.

  In a rush of ten thousand emotions with all five senses at attention, I was sucked into a vortex of memories I thought I’d buried deep below the surface of dignity I worked so hard for. I wanted to cry. Yes, I’d let the tears come. It was okay to cry; Joy told me so. I tried with all my might to hold them back, but as I stood in the house that haunted my dreams and tainted any good memories I ever had of my childhood, visions whooshed past me with a dizzying effect.

  William piss ass drunk and screaming at me for fucking up his dinner.

  A four-year-old Violet crying for the mama she never knew.

  Violet sitting at the kitchen table, dismissively, as I warned her not to go near Lennox ever again.

  It was too much to recall after suppressing the memories for so long. I wasn’t strong enough for this.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” I lurched forward and hung my head between bent knees.

  This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I needed to leave.

  “Calm down, Eden. You’re making this harder than it has to be with your dramatics.”

  I could smack her for being so smug. She was the one who called me here. She was the one who couldn’t handle her own shit. How dare she make light of my feelings and the shock my body was enduring from this ambush of bitter memories?

  “You know what?” I composed myself and fought the nausea, my eyes meeting hers from across the room. “Go fuck yourself, Violet! I’m out.”

  With that, I turned my back on her and darted for the door and outside.

  She called out from behind, and met up with me on the road with her hand on my shoulder. I shuddered from her touch and shrugged her unwanted grasp away. “Don’t touch me,” I mumbled. The words scraped my throat and burnt the inside of my nose with tears as I spoke them. She was my sister, my flesh and blood, and the idea of her skin on mine made me wince in disgust.

  “Eden, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”

  “Oh, but you are a bitch and I can’t do this. I don’t need to do this. I’m leaving. Find someone else to paddle your sinking boat up Shit Creek.”

  I swung the car door open without looking back. Jumping into the driver’s seat, I started the ignition, threw the car in reverse and almost floored it. The image in the rearview mirror, however, rendered me immobile.

  With her hands over her eyes and her body wracking with sobs, Violet made it impossible to drive off without barreling over her. A sick, twisted part of my brain urged me to do it. Step on the gas and get rid of her for good. But there was another part of me—the unpolluted portion that remembered things from long ago—that saw the little girl who once needed me and loved me and kept me sane in an insane world.

  “God, give me strength,” I whispered with my eyes closed. There was no use calling on Him when He’d betrayed me in so many other ways, but I was at a loss. I needed something, anything to keep me here.

  And that’s when he emerged from the house.

  Lennox Dean. Or at least I thought it was him. He was barely recognizable from the man who once owned my heart, the NFL rookie, the rising star. In his place was a deteriorated version. An imposter exploiting his body and butchering its beauty with poison, time, and regret.

  When I first saw the state of Violet, my heart sank to my toes. The initial return to my childhood home kicked that same sunken heart to the curb. But seeing Lennox? Like this? Anything that was left of my fractured heart was completely obliterated.

  Past

  HE WAS DROP DEAD GORGEOUS in that most-popular-guy-at-school kind of way. In other words, unavailably gorgeous. I ogled from afar because that was the closest I’d ever get. He didn’t know my name . . . Heck, he didn’t even know I breathed the same air. But that wouldn’t stop me from discretely scribbling our names together in my notebook.

  Eden Dean, Mrs. Eden Dean, Lennox & Eden Dean

  It looked fabulous. I mean, Eden Goldenflarb looked better than Eden Hayward. Anything to get rid of my ties to my father would do, but never mind that. Or William. I was focused on the fairytale ending. Lennox as my knight in shining armor. One day we could ride off into the sunset, away from here, and off to some better place. Oh, Lennox, take me away.

  “Um. Hey. You get what he’s saying? He may as well be speaking Chinese, if you ask me.”

  My erratic thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the back and the most thrilling sound.

  His question, his chuckle, directed at me.

  I almost forgot he was behind me—daydreaming will do that to you—and immediately turned the page on my notebook so Lennox couldn’t read what I’d been scribbling.

  With a lump of nerves lodged in my throat, I checked the front of the classroom to make sure Mr. Nettles wasn’t looking in our direction and then craned my neck to answer Lennox. “Yeah, I get it. It’s not that hard if you just—”

  “Any way you could help me after school? I’m tanking this class and I hear you’re more than just a pretty face. Brains and beauty—dangerous combo.” Thick eyebrows wiggled over devastatingly spellbinding meadow-colored eyes.

  Was I imagining this? I was dreaming, right? I looked down to make sure I wasn’t wearing my threadbare PJs and fuzzy bunny slippers. I wasn’t, but I was convinced my eyes and ears were playing some kind of cruel joke on me.

  I quickly warned my tongue to formulate a coherent sentence that didn’t have me drooling or babbling or sounding too eager. Luckily, my brain kicked in and did the job for me, as if confidence was my middle name. “Sure, I can help. Where would you like to meet up?” I turned my attention back to Mr. Nettles when he cleared his
throat in the direction of our whispers.

  “Under the scoreboard on the football field. Three o’clock.” Lennox’s warm, minty breath tickled the back of my neck exposed by a high ponytail. It sent shivers down my spine, causing me to bite my lower lip in an effort to stifle a moan. What the heck was that? I’ve never felt that before.

  Straightening in my seat and trying to cool my overheated teenage hormones, I bobbed my head and gave a thumbs up over my shoulder.

  This wasn’t happening. This had to be someone else’s life. How on earth would I get through the rest of the day knowing I had a study date with the Lennox Dean in less than . . . five hours and twenty-two minutes?

  I needed more time to prepare. A better outfit. Some Chap Stick?

  I was getting ahead of myself, but then again, this was my shot. Before today, grabbing the attention of Lennox Dean was a pipe dream. Now it was a reality. If I’d learned anything from my craptastic home life and horrible fate, it was that only I could fix it. This may be the only chance I had to get that fairytale ending I’d been dreaming of.

  THE REST OF THE DAY dragged by like slow torture. When the final bell rang, I scooped my books into my bag and beelined it to the bathroom to freshen up. Gazing into the dull mirror, I redid my ponytail so the loose strands were tucked neatly away. Reaching into the front pocket of my backpack, I took out my compact and blotted away any oily spots.

  I didn’t wear makeup—with no mother figure in my life to teach me those things, I got by without it. Mother nature had blessed me with fair, unblemished skin and nicely proportioned features. So many girls my age hid behind caked on foundation to cover up acne, or encrusted their lashes with far too much mascara to give them a more mature appearance. I didn’t have much to be thankful for, but I was grateful I could bear to look at my reflection in a mirror without complaint.

  Conviction in tow, I slung my bag over one shoulder and gave myself a pep talk as I made my way to the football field. By the time I arrived, Lennox was already sprawled out on the grass, textbook, binder, and loose leaf paper scattered around him. I didn’t peg him for the studious type—he was a jock. Jocks weren’t usually as into their academics as they were the game, but his readiness for what I hoped would be the first of many study sessions made me smile. I took a minute to take him in before he could realize I was stalking.