Standing in Vera’s foyer, I’m taken aback. I all but expected her house to be messy but not unbearably so. I imagined it to be minimally furnished, an artful bohemian aesthetic mixed with vibrant and rich colors, textures and patterns, handmade and vintage pieces. A hand-carved bench from Sweden, a velvet couch in a jewel tone with embroidered kilim pillows and plush rugs. Somehow I thought her home to be her greatest work of art but this place looks like all work but no art.
Crowded seems too trivial a word for what this is: tables with randomly stacked books, some of the backs show but most are upside down, titles illegible. Papers, so many papers. Reams of them stacked on tables, not even real tables but plastic folding things, and cardboard boxes with indecipherable black felt-tip marker scribblings in the corner. What good can come from being this disorganized? The walls are bare and devoid of any framed art. Black bags are lined up on the kitchen floor, the veined marble underneath stained with dirt and smudges. One bag is leaking some sort of fluid. My mind makes the connection and horror overcomes me as I realize what they are: garbage bags.
I enter Vera’s bedroom. She’s propped up by multiple pillows and her legs rest elevated on a wedge-like Styrofoam shape. Her mouth is open and she seems to be resting. Dots travel along her upper arm as if fingertips have dug into her, one bruise reaches all the way to her elbow. Purple, as if she had fallen on something oblong, but there are lots of bruises in yellow and green which must have been hidden by her kaftan sleeves.
The front door slams and Aubrey mumbles something under her breath. I can see the parlor and the kitchen from the bedroom door and I watch Aubrey stuff leaking bags into a larger one.
“Aubrey,” I call out into the hallway. “What happened to Vera?”
Aubrey pokes her head into Vera’s bedroom.
“Just a slip.”
“What happened?” I repeat, this time with a sharper tone.
“She fell but she’s fine. The doctor said not to worry but she needs some rest.” She pauses for a second. “She was upset with me earlier, I needed to step outside for a moment.”
“Why was she upset?”
“She was upset when she told me about you two having plans so I called Marleen to let you know,” Aubrey says and tucks a messy strand of hair behind her ears.
“How did she fall?” I ask and hold my breath.
“It was really just a slip in the kitchen. I don’t know if she told you about her”—there’s a pause, during which she lets out a deep breath—“her habit of going through peoples’ bags. She leaves them in the kitchen and she won’t allow me to tidy up.”
Vera is stirring, then fiddles with the blanket.
“Your friend Donna is here, Vera,” Aubrey says and then lowers her voice. “I know this place looks alarming but I’m organizing her notes. She’s working on so many projects. There’ll be a collection of essays and a short story collection, maybe even two. And she is working on a novel. At this point there’s so much material I don’t even know where to begin. We’re imaging some of her handwritten notes so editors can get a better look at them. You know, the anniversary of her book is coming up. Thirty years. There’ll be a special edition and we want to include some new content. It’s a lot of work, as you can see.” She nods toward the hallway and the stacks of papers.
“Donna.” Vera struggles to make her voice boom.
“She’s been very difficult all afternoon.”
“I’ll keep her company. Don’t concern yourself with that.”
I turn as if to dismiss her but I see Aubrey flinch. I sound harsh again. I don’t mean to.
I step toward Vera and lower myself carefully onto the bed so as not to bounce the mattress. “Vera, what happened?”
Her eyes are open now. Her helpless posture makes her look even more fragile than usual.
“I slipped in the kitchen and everyone is making a big deal about it. My ankle hurts but no sprain or break.” She lets out a deep breath. “Yet here I am. In bed.”
I stroke her hand and swipe her hair from her forehead. I’ll make sure someone touches up her roots and keeps up her nails. I vow to have her hair done in that strawberry blond that she loves so much, if it ever comes to that. I tell her none of that—that would be macabre.
“I’m so sorry about—”
“Don’t worry about anything,” I say and turn to see if Aubrey has left the room. I hear the pipes humming and water running in the kitchen. A mop lands on the tiles with a clatter. A door slams.
Vera looks at me for a long time. “What’s the matter? You look worried. I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Promise me you’ll drop by every day.”
“Of course.”
“So what’s the sour face all about?”
“I was just thinking.”
“About the driver, about going to see Edward?”
“Yes.” I hesitate. It made much more sense in my mind but saying it out loud seems foolish. I think Edward had something to do with your fall. “I don’t want to burden you with this.” My voice sounds breathless, almost as if I’m winded, having ran or exerted myself. “But I have to tell you something.” I lower my voice even further. “I swear, I’m not making this up but I heard them two nights ago.”
“Heard them?”
“I heard Edward talk to Marleen.”
I’m hearing voices, is the gist of it. I ponder the comment I heard Edward’s voice. It does sound daft, I agree. I have no explanation for it but I know what I heard.
“What were they talking about?” Vera asks, not doubtful at all.
“I couldn’t make out the words. But I’ve been thinking. Marleen, she gives me pills and they make me loopy but I stopped taking them. I’ll get to the bottom of it. But I need you to know, I need someone to know. They are in on it.”
Vera blinks twice in rapid succession. “In on it? On what?”
“I’m not crazy, you know.”
“Oh, Donna. Of course you’re not crazy. Who said you were?”
“Not in those words but I swear, Marleen babies me like I don’t have any sense whatsoever. My wardrobe, she now selects my wardrobe.” I stand up and twirl. “Do I look like I need someone picking out my wardrobe?”
“You look lovely, my dear. You always do.”
“See. See.” I poke my finger at her.
Vera yawns. Her head rolls from one side to the other.
“Donna.” So soft, like a feather floating. Vera is restless, as if there’s something on her mind.
“What, Vera?”
“I wish things were different.”
“Different how?”
“Donna, I’m so sorry. I wish I could do something.”
Vera reaches for my hands, clutches them against her chest. It strikes me as dramatic, not something she’s ever done before.
“Do something about what?” I ask.
“About what happened to Penelope.”
“What do you mean? What happened to her?” My heart races. “What do you mean?” I repeat.
“Two nights ago, I heard a sound, somewhere in the house, but, you know, these walls, I don’t know, there’re lots of noises at night. The building settling, maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure what I heard. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, so I went outside. I saw someone, a man. He spoke to me. He asked me questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“About . . .” Her voice gets weaker and weaker, the word is barely a whisper.
“Was it Edward?” As I close my hand tighter around hers, I position my ear close to her mouth so as to not miss a single word. “What kind of questions did he ask you?” She doesn’t answer. “Vera?” Her breathing becomes deeper, her head slouches. “Vera, tell me. Vera . . .” Her hand loses its strength. She’s asleep.
I’m eager to wake her, make her tell me about this enco
unter. Impatience can’t get the better of me, I won’t allow it, and I pull my hand away from Vera before I wiggle this fragile woman’s bony shoulder to get her to talk to me. I feel myself shake with anger. Anger toward Edward but mainly anger at myself, how I had turned into a woman with a subservient streak the days before he dumped me here at this place. Even the employees here come and go as they please, yet here I am, trapped. How clear it all is now. They don’t want me to leave Shadow Garden. Edward is behind this.
On my way out, as I pass the accent table in the foyer, I see a pair of scrubs draped over a table, atop a stack of papers. What I do next I can’t explain. I grab the scrubs and I don’t even bother hiding them, I walk past Aubrey who is elbow deep in a garbage bag, the sleeves of her white shirt cuffed.
Outside, an army of men in khaki pants with orange vests and baseball hats has descended upon the grounds. There are hedge trimmers and riding mowers for the large expanses of lawn, and pushing mowers for the smaller areas. I rush toward my door and I fumble with the lock. My shoulders brush against ivy that has made its way up the storm drain, a couple of leaves touch my mailbox already, so resilient and gritty, snaking its way up and over.
In the bedroom I turn on the radio to drown out the droning mowers. It makes things worse. I feel like crawling into a corner and pressing my palms against my ears to escape the hurricane-force noise. I understand more than people give me credit for. Penelope was my garden. I didn’t tend to her as I should have. Maybe I’m getting what I deserve.
Marleen leaves early—I’m very tired, all that walking exhausts me and I’m worried about Vera, I think I’ll just turn in early—and then I’m alone. The sky is dragon-fruit pink and soon it’ll be dark. I don’t know what it is about this time of day, as if there’s a magnetic pull, but panic rears its head as if I’ve forgotten how to maneuver in the dark. A house ablaze with chandeliers and sconces is where I should be, that’s how I see myself, and those memories have me on edge and all I want are for the sharp corners to dull, for the shadows to become less menacing.
Penelope used to hide in closets. There’s an urgent need to trace my way back like a ball of yarn. And a plan forms in my mind.
13
PENELOPE
Penelope watched the guests and their children arrive at the party. Her mother had told her she was allowed to invite a friend from school. Shannon had been her friend for the better part of a year but for no reason they stopped talking and Penelope was perfectly fine with it.
“It’s just a casual open house and it would be rude to exclude children. But please keep an eye on them,” her mother told her but Penelope was taken aback that her mother would trust her with such a responsibility.
Women’s heels clicked across the marble floors, the men wore casual dress shirts with gold watches on their wrists. She noticed even grown-ups formed cliques. Penelope understood the concept but not the reasoning behind it. The women admired the floors, the walls, the ceilings, they ran their fingers over counters and the men stood on the back patio, looking left and right and toward the neighboring house in the distance where the lawn blurred into the woods. None of this is real, Penelope kept thinking. How her mother chatted on and on about where the chandelier was from or what country in Europe the counters were imported from. It felt like some tedious social experiment.
As she observed the caterers busying about, she was determined to follow her mother’s instructions: smile, stay with the children, don’t bother the adults, and most of all, don’t get into any trouble.
Through the patio doors, those large panes reaching from floor to ceiling, a family arrived with a boy with pale skin and black hair. Her mother greeted them, air kisses and all, and pointed at Penelope across the room as if to say that’s my daughter, you’ll be safe with her.
* * *
• • •
The day after the party, her mother asked Penelope about her “take” on that day as if there was a range of interpretations that lend themselves to an analysis. As if Penelope, at thirteen, could interpret what had happened.
She remembered hiding in a closet until her mother found her. She also recalled the smell of ammonia, and something else—a whole complex array of odors—and her skin itching. Through the slats of the closet door, out of the corner of her eye, she saw flashes of lights in all colors, red, blue, and amber, as if from a rotating beacon.
“Tell me what you remember of that night, Penny. You were there.” Donna was harsh in her delivery, keeping eye contact, not allowing her daughter to falter.
Penelope thought of it as a clever game of realities. She was short in turn, said, “I only know what you told me.”
14
DONNA
Penelope didn’t make it through two months before I was summoned to the Academy. As I parked the car, I recalled my high school and the breezeways thick with the smell of chicken broth, a maze of empty hallways, and a single counselor who was a hideous man in a wrinkled shirt.
The administration wing of the Academy resembled more an office suite filled with conference rooms, upscale furniture, and executive office equipment. A secretary led me into a room and though I wasn’t sure what to expect, I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. The counselor had an untrustworthy feel about him with his small light-brown eyes, bulbous nose, and softly shaped jaw. He wore a flannel shirt and I remember thinking how odd that was for this time of year.
I dropped into a chair and crossed my legs, inspecting the room. I jerked as he closed a drawer. Without much fanfare he told me Penelope led a group of girls attempting to enter the school building at night. They didn’t succeed. “If they had, it would be breaking and entering, assuming they didn’t destroy anything, which would be vandalism on top of that. They were lucky they got caught before it got out of control.” He emphasized she wouldn’t be suspended but we needed to address her behavior. He softened somewhat when I asked why there were no other parents waiting to be seen, why Penelope was being singled out as the culprit and accused him of making her out to be a leader of a rabid gang of girls when it was merely a teenage indiscretion.
He made multiple attempts to gain insight into her motivations. His questions felt intrusive and misplaced for the price we paid at such an institution. I answered sparsely, bewildered by his audacity in thinking a school counselor was remotely equipped to get to the root of who Penelope was.
I’d heard professional opinions over the years, first I consulted a pediatrician who specialized in childhood disorders, and then there was a psychiatrist who recommended weekly appointments during which I sat in the waiting room staring at a red light above a door.
One day I drove her back to school after an appointment and she was in a mood. I pulled into the overflow parking lot of the Academy and told her to walk the rest of the way.
“Drop me off at the front door,” she said and didn’t as much as reach for her seat belt.
“Penny, it’s literally right there, don’t make me drive through this maze of cones and speed bumps every ten feet. Go to the office and give them the note so they don’t count you as absent.”
“I’m not walking, drive me to the front.”
I asked her five times and five times she refused. I had been steadfast in my resolve, but just like water filling small cracks in a rock, as the water freezes and expands, the cracks widen and split apart the rock. I lost my patience.
“Get out of this car and walk into the building and if you don’t, I will pull you out and throw you on the lawn,” I yelled.
Penelope stared at me, still not moving.
I reached for the door handle. Penelope releasing the buckle, opening the door, and storming out was all one action. Putting the car in drive, I looked over my left shoulder for oncoming traffic and simultaneously stepped on the gas. Something told me to look straight ahead and I saw her just in time, standing in front of the bumper. I hit the brakes
and the car stopped but her body rocked gently backwards as the car bumped into her. Rule number one had always been, you walk behind the car, never up front. She told Edward I hit her with the car in a fit of anger, which was not even close to the truth. I wondered how far she’d go to prove a point.
After I left the Academy, thoughts tumbled through my mind in restless succession, fears that had been growing steadily. What had begun with a plastic fork at a birthday party embedded in the arm of another child, a shard of glass in a backyard in Florida, had turned into destructive behavior. Another notch in her belt. I felt guilty for thinking this way but one thing I knew for sure: once there was an official stamp on her forehead she wouldn’t be able to erase it.
I tend to be overly dramatic and blow things out of proportion, I know that about myself, but I had to shut this down. I had to shut down the pediatricians and psychiatrists and psychologists, the therapists and counselors. I shut it down for her. For Pea, for Penny, for Penelope. For all of them. I shut it all down before it got away from me.
She’s just difficult and most important of all, she’ll grow out of it. That story became fixed, frozen, unchanging. I could live with that.
15
DONNA
Reconciling what happened the day of the housewarming party, that’s where my mind is stuck. I realize truth and memory aren’t the same thing but if they were, could both be faulty? My mind is finicky that way.
Here is a fact: by recalling an incident, you corrupt it. If you want it to maintain its pristine and virgin state, just let it sit, don’t disturb it. I’ve been playing that game for a while and it’s time to blow away the cobwebs and look at the truth, even if it isn’t pretty.
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