* * *
• • •
There was no warning, no transition, no proclivity to violence. Then the vandalism at the construction site occurred. After Edward smoothed the waters with the builder and wrote a check, he demanded to know Penny’s reasoning but she just raised her shoulders as if his guess was as good as hers.
The next day, an envelope addressed to him arrived in the mail. It said Care of Edward Pryor in a cursive handwriting, jagged letters without any discernible style. He remembered thinking that it was an odd way to address a letter.
Mr. Pryor. We don’t know each other . . .
His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he pulled the pages closer.
. . . but I think you ought to know what happened that night.
His first thought was how much was this going to cost him?
You don’t know the half of it.
Edward dropped into the chair behind his desk.
I have enclosed pictures my son took that night.
He stuck his hand inside the envelope and pulled them out one by one.
I thought you ought to know. If this were my daughter . . .
He sat with a churning stomach, clutching the pictures. He must have been pale as the wall behind him. Snowbound by Sherwin Williams. What an odd detail to remember. He couldn’t show Donna the pictures, it would break her heart. This is how it began, this mishmash in his mind, the moment he pondered if some thing lived beneath Penny’s skin.
About the cat, he read and willed himself not to flinch.
He jerked when he heard Donna’s voice behind him.
“What’s this?” Donna asked.
“Just catching up on charting,” Edward said and tucked the photos underneath a pile of paperwork.
Donna stood with her teeth tucked over her bottom lip. How long had she been standing there, looking over his shoulder?
Donna took his hand and pulled it toward her chest, where he felt her heart beating.
“You work too much. Let’s go away,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “Just for a little while.”
Edward glanced at the files in front of him, the calendar and his OR schedule, the paperwork under which he had tucked the photographs. It struck him how they could both look at the same thing yet draw different conclusions.
They looked out the Tudor window, across the dew-wet lawn, the panes of glass in a crisscross pattern, distorting the view. Everything—the trees, the driveway, the fence, the road—all seemed warped.
Except the expanse of the lawn. That remained in focus. And vast. So vast.
12
DONNA
I turn it over in my head: how to confront Edward. What to say to Penelope, once I see her. A malaise overcomes me like a wave. It sloshes over me like a leg cramp gone too far, unable to stretch the muscle to alleviate the pain. I have to stay busy, do something, until then, and maybe somewhere in my house is a sign of her, a phone number, anything. Somewhere in this place there must be a sign of Penelope other than the framed picture in the parlor.
“Marleen,” I call out. “I’m going to be in the storage room for a while. Sooner or later we’ll have to get this mess cleared out,” I say in a dismissing tone, resisting the urge to raise my voice. I twist the doorknob to the storage room. It turns but the door doesn’t budge.
“Let me unlock it for you.”
I spin around, surprised by her closeness. Marleen reaches into the pocket of her apron and unlocks the door. I want to scold her for scaring me but I don’t. And her appearance, that meek black skirt and blouse and that apron—have I not told her repeatedly not to wear anything so dated? I grab her by the arm and walk her toward the kitchen.
“Don’t mind me, just carry on with what you were doing. I’ll be just fine. Time to go through those boxes anyway. And if you have a moment to spare, if you can give the silverware a good cleaning, that would be great. I’m thinking about having a dinner party. Invite some people. You know, have some fun. It’s been rather dreary here.”
That’s a lie, I don’t know anyone who I’d want to have a dinner party for. Marleen stalls, or maybe I just imagine it, but I continue to nudge her into the kitchen.
I open the first box. My Meissen figurines. Unrolling the packing paper, I catch the tumbling shepherd in my hands. Followed by the winged cupid figurine, a group of hunting dogs, and a girl in a blue dress walking a goose on a leash. One by one, I cradle them in my hands. They used to sit on the mantel at Hawthorne Court, but here at Shadow Garden, Marleen is dead set on keeping them packed away for fear they might break. After I fold the tissue paper around each one, I attempt to close the box lid—I watched Marleen once, the way she tucks the corners under without ever using a piece of tape—but I can’t manage to do it and I give up.
The second box contains painting supplies. I had taken a private art class once from an artist who painted beautiful landscapes, but I’d never gotten around to actually attempting a project, and so the canvases and paints have been sitting untouched, the oil and tempera, and the water colors, the paint dried in the tubes after all those years, the brushes brittle. I should make an attempt now since I have not much else to do. Come to think of it, I could paint Penelope the way I remember her that one summer at the cabin when her hair turned golden from swimming and lounging in the sun. How beautiful she was and how I’d suggested she should go even blonder, how it suited her, especially when unruly freckles appeared on the bridge of her nose. Penelope always dyed her hair two shades too dark, which made her look pale and aged her, but that too was a battle I shouldn’t have fought.
The next box clinks with flatware, the holiday sets, and I won’t trouble myself with pulling a single piece out of the velvet-lined containers. Stuffed below are greeting cards, too many to count, with Penelope’s childlike scribble, oblong hearts and flowers with round petals, clumsy crayon strokes within the lines, others just a chaos of scrawls and colors.
A book catches my eye, on top of three stacked crates. I stroke the worn and cracked sleeve, its pages swollen with water damage. I don’t see how I’d keep a book so old and torn and damaged, unfit for a shelf, the jacket so faded I can hardly make out any words—must be one of those book club selections that seem cheesy but turn out to be an entertaining read over a summer vacation—and I almost toss it aside but then my eyes scan the faded title.
My heart stumbles—it’s a book about a girl and a dollhouse. The dolls move, talk, play instruments, lead a secret life of their own which the humans know nothing about. I scramble to recall the story, remember a girl searching for her missing sister who has vanished and the doll family go about their clandestine mission to find her, at night, when the house goes dark.
The cover, though the story is uplifting, is rather dark; a girl kneels in front of the dollhouse with her back to the onlooker, hand suspended in midair, taken by the fact that the dollhouse is deserted. It’s just a book, yet it’s not that simple; it disappeared years ago in some drawer, stashed away on a shelf or cubby at Hawthorne Court, leaving Penelope upset when she couldn’t find it. For months there were endless questions and a stubborn insistence we turn the house upside down to look in every nook and cranny, but we never located it. How did this book end up here, on top those crates full of linen and silverware and odds and ends, here at Shadow Garden? And why is my heart beating so fast as I’m holding it in my hand?
I don’t want to be disturbed, want to be left alone with this memory, but Marleen’s voice trails in from the kitchen, the words being swallowed somewhere along the hallway. Parts drift in through the open door, urgent words and a tone that defies her usual quiet and eager to please demeanor.
The book cracks open at will and unfolds on a page, a piece of folded paper stuck in between like a bookmark. I attempt to lift it off the page—is it a note or part of a note? Words, one line after another, like a tally or maybe a
list of some sort. The dots above the I’s appear a letter or so later than they ought to. I recognize Penelope’s handwriting, hasty and messy, the words have gaps between them, not like after a period, but random spaces that make no sense at all. Penmanship has always been a pet peeve of mine, cursive especially, and I had scolded Penny often but looking back at it now it wasn’t worth the fight, didn’t warrant any harsh words.
I snap the book shut. I unfold the paper and smooth it with my palm. My mind goes to work, I scrutinize every letter, over and over. I can’t make out the words. I try and try but the letters are more an attempt at practice than formed words or sentences. My cheeks turn hot and I feel the blood rushing in my ears.
I have a thought. It’s random, I realize that, yet it is powerful. Penelope made sure this book made it here so I’d know she needs me. She is trying to tell me something, not with the words themselves but with the fact that her lost book ended up with a box that ended up here at Shadow Garden. On top of a box with bedsheets, a box to be unpacked first. Everybody puts sheets on first after a move but there are so many boxes, other boxes with other sheets, and maybe if I hadn’t dillydallied I would have seen this months ago.
“Mrs. Pryor.” Marleen’s voice behind me makes me jerk. “I have some news.”
I clutch the book to my chest and turn around. My mind unfolds: This is a sign. This is not a breadcrumb indicating where Penelope is but an omen foretelling what is about to happen, signifying the advent of something. A divine message: Penelope called. I know it. She called and she’s all right and I’ve imagined it all and she’s on her way or she’ll be here tomorrow or whenever but she is all right.
“She called,” I say matter-of-factly. I can’t contain the joy. “Penelope called?”
I’m still guarded, cautiously optimistic, I have hope, yet I don’t dare hang my happiness on it, like a nail unable to support a heavy frame. Marleen isn’t surprised by my question at all. Quite the contrary. She wears an expression void of emotion and her demeanor is at a level of confidence that suggests she knows what to say next.
“Did Penelope call?” I repeat and sound harsh, though I immediately regret it.
“There was an accident,” Marleen says. “Please don’t be alarmed. Nothing life-threatening or even remotely worrisome.”
“Penny?” I ask, breathless. Accident. Don’t be alarmed. It rings true in an odd and sinister way. A memory unfolds, pristine and clear like a winter wonderland no human has set foot in. There was an accident. “What’s happened to Penny? Is she all right?” Accident. My daughter is . . . had an accident? The horror of that thought, it tears at me. It’s something that can’t be reasoned with.
“No, not Penny. It’s Vera. Your neighbor Vera Olmsted. She took a fall. They found her and she said to let you know.”
Marleen’s chatter is now nothing but white noise in my mind. “Penny.” I say it again. Penny had an accident. I know this to be true. I can’t explain it any other way.
“Mrs. Pryor, please. Listen to me. It’s not Penny, this is not about your daughter. I don’t know anything about Penny. It’s about Vera. Vera Olmsted, your friend.”
Not Penny. But Vera, poor Vera.
“Is Vera all right?”
“Nothing to worry about. A fall. But you know, at her age, it’s difficult.”
“I should go see her.”
“She’ll be up and about in no time.”
Is Marleen a doctor? How does she know that? How dare she give such opinions? Always placating, always soothing and pacifying me like a child.
“How do you know?”
“Aubrey called.”
“Aubrey?”
“Her niece.”
Aubrey’s not Vera’s niece. She looks at her like a niece. Just goes to show how little Marleen knows about any of this.
“She’s not her niece.”
“I thought she—”
“So Penny didn’t call?” I interrupt her. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she’ll call,” I add, aware how this is just a farce at this point. Penny hasn’t called and she won’t call but something inside of me compels me to repeat this every day. Not until I say it do I realize how little sense it makes.
I tuck the book in the box with the linens. Panic narrows my focus. I have to walk this off, have to purge my thoughts. From the kitchen into the parlor and down the hallway. Walking helps my thoughts propel forward; there’s a door that needs opening—not a literal door, no, but access to a memory that is difficult to get to. My steps are measured and with each one the word accident echoes in my mind. It sounds like something I recognize, not Vera’s, not my own, but Penny’s. It rings true, there’s no other way for me to explain it.
Marleen passes by me for the third time. She seems to be keeping an eye on me. In the bedroom, I can’t decide what to wear. I lean toward pants, a blouse, and a light jacket. No one cares, no one will give me a second look, but I’ve been this way since I can remember. Here I am in my underwear, staring at a garment that is laid out on the bed. This dress. Long sleeves, V-neck, a self-tie sash, lynx print. A cocktail party dress, not something I’ve worn in a long time. Who put it here?
“Marleen,” I shout, a couple of notches too loud. I feel horrid about it all, all of it: Penny, Vera, Edward, the way I talk to Marleen. I know that about myself, this inability to do what’s right.
Marleen’s face pokes into the bedroom.
“Do you need help picking out an outfit?” she asks as if it is the most ordinary thing. When does she ever pick out my outfits? I want to make a snarky remark—something along the lines of what would you know about outfit choices?—but didn’t I just scold myself for being tactless, and look at me, here I go again.
“Who put this dress on my bed?”
She hesitates.
“Where did this dress come from? I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry.” Marleen slides between me and the bed and scoops up the garment. “Let’s just put it in the closet.”
Marleen rushes to the closet, returning the dress to its proper place. I want to ask why are you doing this? I want to repeat it over and over. It’s like a game she’s playing—they are playing. Like the doll people in Penelope’s book, they go about it in the dark of night. But why? Why are they doing this?
* * *
• • •
I crane my neck as I approach Vera’s door. Two women in scrubs stand there and chat. They are part of the cleaning crew. Every morning, they spill from a van with tinted windows reminiscent of an airport shuttle bus. I’ve watched them through my bay window before as they walk to their respective buildings. By now they have begun to look familiar: one wears a turtleneck, and according to Vera, she’s covering up a tattoo. Some of the women are young, others in their fifties. They carry large purses and lunch boxes.
I’m distracted by a woman pacing up and down the walkway. Her cell phone is pressed to her ear and she seems worked up about something. She is wearing regular clothes, not scrubs, so she could be Aubrey, Vera’s assistant. I’ve heard Vera speak of her—she is like a niece to me—but I’ve never met her.
Aubrey is in her mid-thirties, her mouse-brown hair is up in a sloppy bun and she wears ghastly cat-eye glasses. That’s all you see when you look at her, a face dominated by thick frames flaring out at the temples. I wonder if she knows those are ill fitting. Black slacks stretched tightly across her stomach and a white blouse would make her look put together if it wasn’t for her sloppy cheap flats with scuff marks on the back.
“You must be Mrs. Pryor. I’m Aubrey.”
“How’s Vera?” I ask.
“She’s been asking for you,” Aubrey says.
“I didn’t bring anything,” I say.
“Don’t worry about that. She’ll be glad to have company. She’s worked up about something. She mentioned your name but I couldn’t make
sense of it.”
Vera does her fair share of complaining about Aubrey, though she’s quite fond of her. She can be overbearing, just like Marleen. Her responsibility, as far as I know, is the preservation of Vera’s estate, specifically organizing and transcribing notes Vera writes on canary legal pads, which she leaves on her kitchen counter by the dozens.
When I met Vera, I did my fair share of snooping. I ran across articles and photos of her; wrap dresses and tailored skirts with knee-high boots. She was casual yet effortlessly chic in her ribbed Henley shirts with her long hair parted in the middle and prominent eyebrows. In one picture she leans against one of those Mercedes roadsters, in another she sits in an overgrown yard with a typewriter on a weathered table. There are pictures with headscarves and large round sunglasses. She is still slim bordering on emaciated, her clavicles poking from beneath her translucent freckly skin. I saw a photograph of her once with Lagerfeld in a black suit and a ponytail, dark shades, huddled together as if they were the best of friends. She has replaced her cashmere sweaters and scarves for kaftans and loungewear these days but she’s still beautiful.
How odd I’ve never been to Vera’s apartment. “I have stuff all over the place, research and such, it’s really not in the condition for visitors,” she told me once and I accepted it. “I try forever to keep up with the clutter but it always gets away. You know how things get away sometimes, don’t you?”
I wouldn’t know but I nodded. Poor Vera suffers from some sort of brittle bone disease. She must be careful not to fall or even bump into things. Born with a broken collarbone, she was predisposed even before birth, which I assume lent itself to spending lots of time indoors as a child. There’s also some issue with her connective tissue, a rare disease which can be controlled but not cured, though it is manageable as an adult, but I don’t know the specifics. You wouldn’t know any of this by looking at her. She is one of those women who spent her life indulging in artistic endeavors, traveling and never wasting a thought on having a family. Vera’s wealthy. She doesn’t talk about money, that’s how I know, people who are don’t ever do.
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