Meet Me in the Garden
Page 23
“Well, we’re not quite sure yet either. But you were in a lot of pain when you awoke in the ambulance.”
“The…t-the ambulance. I remember that now. I think I tripped on a rock or something.” She cringed at the thought. It had subsided somewhat, but it was still throbbing, intense, a pain that would have most people curling up in a ball. Not Amalie—she’d gotten accustomed to the worst of it, and her threshold had increased.
Amalie thought about that morning, what had led her to that point. And then she recalled why she’d been running so fast in the first place.
The Woodsman.
“Where is he, was he there, did someone see him?” She straightened in the bed, suddenly alert, shocks dancing across her face but failing to distract her from her objective.
“Who are you talking about?” Ian asked, standing from his chair.
Joy and Roseanne exchanged a worried glance.
“Artie, Artie was there,” Amalie said breathlessly.
“What?” Ian growled. “Did he hurt you? I’ll call the cops, where’s my phone?” he added, patting his jacket, then his pants’ pockets.
“No, no. Don’t, please don’t!”
“Why, why the hell shouldn’t I? Was he following you? What the hell was he doing there?”
“He came to see me. But I don’t think he’ll be back. Please, Ian, listen.”
He was already dialing a number when Roseanne touched his arm, shaking her head. The bracelets on her wrist slid downward, jingling together. Ian paused, catching her gaze, and there appeared to be an unspoken dialogue between them.
“Roseanne. What is it?” His voice was tinged with jealousy.
“He won’t be back, Ian.”
“How do you know?”
Joy narrowed her gaze at all three of them. “Dare I ask?”
“It’s hard to…hard to e-explain. There’s m-more to it than what I told you, Joy,” Amalie stammered, sinking against the pillows. Outside the room, life went on without them, nurses and doctors hurrying past, phones ringing.
Roseanne took the phone out of Ian’s hands and turned it off. “Listen. Artie went to see Amalie today to end something. To end a cycle that’s been going on for a long, long time. He might not have even realized what he was doing, but it’s over now. This life has changed that. Amalie’s choices, the circumstances. It’s different now. Do ya understand?” She paused, cocking her head. “Amalie’s alive this time, and so are you. You both have another chance.”
Joy frowned. “Hm. I think we have to discuss this over a cup of coffee one of these days.”
Amalie squeezed her hand. “Sure, I’ll be glad to tell you everything. But now I’m wondering, does Ian get it?” She watched as Ian and Roseanne stared each other down, again seeming as if they were exchanging thoughts. Maybe both of them were recalling things in the way Amalie had, remembering the past.
Ian nodded, slipping his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “I understand. But if he so much as—”
Roseanne chuckled. “Ya love her so much. Good. Finally, things are as they should be, my dears.”
Ian’s brow furrowed. “Why don’t I remember any of this?” He sat down in the chair again and took Amalie’s hand in his own. “Why is it you remember everything, and I don’t?”
“I don’t know. But one thing is for sure, Roseanne is right. Everything’s okay now.”
The moment of her death flashed back to her; she saw herself tumbling down those stone steps, her neck snapping. Here, in this life, she was alive, the Woodsman had slipped away into the shadows, and Ian was beside her right where he should be. She tugged him close, kissing him on the lips.
“It has to work. It has worked before. It will work now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asked, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Just what it sounds like, my love. Just what it sounds like.”
***
Despite Roseanne’s insistence that he ignore it, Ian still tried to track down Artie McLaren. His friend Mike helped, but it turned out Artie couldn’t be touched.
He was gone.
He’d sailed away. Amalie remembered his firm proclamation: “…if I get sick of the bullshit too close to land, I can sail into international waters and be a free man.”
“There’s no point in worrying about it,” Mike said. “But call me if he comes back. Okay?”
“Fine,” Ian grumbled, shutting off the speakerphone.
On the back porch, Amalie relaxed against the cushioned wicker loveseat, then gently patted the spot beside her. Ian sat down, putting his arm around her. Before them, the garden was blooming, and the orange tree in the back was heavy with fruit. Ian had even found the statue of a gnome in someone’s trash, and he placed it among the flowers so it appeared to be peeking out, frozen in the act of surveying its surroundings.
A peaceful calm washed over her, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Ian tucked her against him, and she fit perfectly beside him.
“I think we’re through the worst of it,” Amalie whispered.
“We’d better be. You’re not having any visions?”
“Last night I barely had a single dream. Oh, except one.”
“What’s that?”
“I dreamt I walked right out of the house stark naked. There were people around, but I didn’t care. And I said to myself, ‘it’s a dream, so what?’ I knew, and it didn’t matter. I know what it means.”
“I can think of a meaning.” Ian tucked his head against hers. “But what’s your idea?”
She giggled, squirming beside him. “When you dream you’re walking around naked like that, and you don’t care, it’s a sign you’re becoming comfortable with who you are. You’re at ease in your own skin. You don’t mind if people know your beliefs—” She gently fingered the pentacle that hung around her neck. “Or your views of things. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re living well, and you’re happy.” She felt her lips turn upward, dimples forming in her cheeks. “I’m happy, Ian.”
“I’m so glad, pumpkin. I am too.”
“Look where we are. Look at this place.” She gestured to the beauty before them, then gasped, adding, “Don’t move, Ian, don’t move.”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s a hummingbird,” she whispered, nodding toward one of the hanging baskets where pink petunias hung over the edge in the muggy evening. “It likes our garden.”
They froze for a moment and listened. Despite the noises from nearby Indiantown Road, and the distant rumbling of engines on I-95, they could hear the gentle hum of the bird’s wings as it migrated from flower to flower, peeking between the petals with its needle-like beak.
“Do you hear what you said, Am?” Ian kissed her on the cheek as the bird flew away.
“What’s that?”
“You said, our garden. Remember what you told me about our past life, how you asked me to meet you in the garden?”
“Oh yes.” Amalie’s voice was distant, soft, laced with quiet remembrance. “We have, haven’t we? We finally made it. We’ve met in the garden.”
As they kissed, the taste of cloves on his lips comforted her, bringing her away from the past and holding her fast to the present where she belonged.
He wrapped his arms around her, leaning close before whispering, “Better late than never.”
Nearby, the hummingbird flitted away, and the sun sank past the clouds, bringing late evening—and an end to a long day.
Acknowledgements
Most of all, thank you to the Universe for always showing me the way. This book is close to my heart, a fictionalized version of a past life which occurred many centuries ago. I cannot explain how or why these visions come to me, only that they do. And I am compelled to write about them.
There are many who inspire me.
Thank you to Sheri Fredericks and Marlene Dotterer, two lovely ladies I will always look up to, for your wonderful insight and suggestions.
Thank you to Barbara, Suzi, and Cathy—my favorite roomies.
Matina Chippas—you are my best girlfriend, always.
Thank you to Mi Sun and Michael Donahue for your friendship, as well as Dick and Susan Depew, Steve Higgins, and my friends at the North Palm Beach Library.
Richard J. Procyk, I am so grateful to have you in my life, and honored to call you a friend. Thank you to the Loxahatchee Battlefield Preservationists in Jupiter, Florida, for your support and companionship—among them Guy, Mary, Reeves, Betty, Donna, and Laurie.
Heavy Head, you are a dear friend, a constant source of inspiration. Thank you for Being. Catch many horses!
Last, but not least, thank you to Limitless Publishing for all that you do.
About the Author
Rosa Sophia is a novelist and full-time editorial consultant. With a degree in Automotive Technology, she adores writing and editing as well as fixing cars. Rosa is also a crazy cat lady in training, and currently divides her time between South Florida and Pennsylvania.
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