“Just luck, I guess,” she said and looked around as if to make sure no one was listening.
“I guess so,” Edward said.
If she ever talks about Penelope, will you let me know? He wanted to say that but he didn’t. He imagined a blank page with all his questions and below he’d scribble Penelope, Penny, and Pea, if she ever mentions those names, call me, tell me what she said, but that seemed counterproductive, it might only confuse her or make him appear unstable.
“Does she ever talk about her daughter?” he insisted, then caught himself. “Please don’t think I’m a creep or anything like that, but she . . . she—”
“You act like one. Since you’re wondering.”
“Your name is?” Edward asked.
“Vera Olmsted,” she said, with her voice so low he could hardly make it out. “And you are?”
“Edward Pryor.”
“We value our privacy. I hope you understand.” She nodded and turned, as if she realized she had said too much.
“Well, Ms. Olmsted, I appreciate your talking to me,” he called after her.
Things were simple one moment, difficult the next. He stilled himself, like a bow in suspense. Above him the heavy clouds prepared to descend on the lush gardens, and cold air entered his nostrils. His body was overtaken by a scent, he couldn’t tell if it was some sort of fertilizer the Olmsted woman used on her porch or if it was the gardens all around him, or maybe it was just his imagination, but he smelled—
It was just a moment in time, a fragment of a recollection he hadn’t acknowledged in years. Yet here it was, alive. Urgent. The memory came hasty and unbidden in the form of a scent, dust and hay and ammonia. He had asked to see the barn and the residents didn’t object, though he never told Donna—and he remembered a horse standing in a stall, so regal with the white coat and brown patches, skin pink around its nose. How its ears flicked back and forth, rapidly swiveling about.
That boy, Gabriel, he wasn’t well. Would never be well again. A brain can only take so much impact, though there’d been hope with him being so young and one can never underestimate a body’s capability to heal itself but his skull was no match for that horse. Edward had spoken to the boy’s parents often over the years, told them he felt responsible somehow, their being at his party and all, but he never mentioned Penelope, never mentioned that he had put two and two together. He had seen tiny flecks of sawdust on the floor of Penelope’s room the night the search for the boy was underway. At first he told himself those powdery particles could be anything but then he spotted larger curly wooden bits placed in the fireplace of the dollhouse and that’s when he knew.
The wind picked up and Edward buttoned his coat. It was only going to get worse. That Blue Norther was coming, ready or not. It was coming.
* * *
• • •
It took Edward the better part of a year to achieve what he had set out to do: unsettle Donna.
All those carefully selected items, all those times he went to Shadow Garden, put up with security, dropped off a bronze statue, a photo album one week, one of her favorite dresses, the one with the animal print she used to love and wear often, a book the next, including a note he had found in Penelope’s room, one she had written as a child, stuffed away in a box that contained everything from her first school year, an attempt at writing, first letters, then words, and finally sentences. He even found a children’s book with a creepy dollhouse on the cover that had dropped behind a dresser drawer and had been stuck there for who knows how long. For months she didn’t seem to react to any of it and he felt as if he was quibbling over scraps, wasting his time, but eventually, according to Marleen, Donna was beginning to become unglued. She had begun to ask questions, demanded to know where all those items came from, and Marleen remained steadfast. She believed in some sort of therapeutic component of it all until he dropped off the urn. He had felt her hesitation then and not only did he fear the end of the cooperation on her part, but he was also running out of things that seemed suitable. The room he had created for the collection of the items was filled with bulky furniture unfeasible for the task at hand.
When he called her to tell her he was dropping off the urn, Marleen was adamant that planting it might be a bad idea.
“How is her daughter’s urn a positive memory? I think we might set her back months. When you approached me, you assured me you’d limit this, this . . . undertaking to pleasant memories. I don’t think I’m prepared to go forward with this any longer. I think I told you once it doesn’t feel right, I’ll no longer be part of this.”
No need to be surprised, Edward thought then, Donna had won over Marleen a long time ago. She’s molded her to her advantage. Donna was like the mouth of a lion, swallowing everything and everyone.
“But Marleen,” he said and clutched the phone in his hands, “the urn is all she has left of her daughter. She would want to be with her. Would want her near. Right?”
“I will remove anything that causes her any kind of stress, Dr. Pryor. Know that.”
“I understand, Marleen. I understand.”
Dropping off the urn was the last time he’d gone to Shadow Garden. He was done. No one could sustain this state of mind, this madness lingering in the bones, eventually it would reach to the edges of his body and do him in.
It no longer felt like he was coming out on top or getting closer to the truth—after all, he had arranged for Donna to be a recluse, with Marleen and the planted memories of her past being her only connection to the outside world—but she wasn’t cracking the way he thought she should. His last trump, the ace in a hole, was all he had left and he had just handed it to Marleen.
* * *
• • •
One night he heard someone in the house, roaming around like a thief. He saw light in Penelope’s room and for a second he believed in ghosts but then he knew it had all come to fruition.
Donna had arrived and Donna’s memory was ready to let go, to expel the truth.
59
DONNA
I reach for the letters and Edward doesn’t protest. I stuff them into my purse. I guess I’ve done what I came here to do. Edward on the other hand fell just short of getting the answers he was looking for. The letters are mine to keep, that’s my punishment for him, I suppose.
“Just go, back where you came from,” he says, slumped over, defeated.
He calls a taxi and gives the driver instructions to take me to Shadow Garden. I open the thumb turn bolt of the garage door leading to the front path and step outside. The taxi is parked down Preston Hallow Road, a short walk. It’s barely daylight and I won’t alert the neighbors. What would they say if they saw me, especially in this condition? I haven’t looked in a mirror in days, it has seemed almost unnecessary to get a look at myself, it’s always just a glimpse, never my true self. Was that the reason I shrouded them, because what’s the point of looking at someone you don’t recognize?
I get into the taxi and I realize how shaken up I am. My eyes are tired and I’ve seen too many things, heard too many explanations. I concentrate on the silver maples and the taxi takes a left. I turn and look back at the house. The entire upper floor is illuminated. There’s a shadow but I could be mistaken—it could be the oaks and the branches swaying in the wind—and by all accounts Edward sat in the kitchen when I left.
I no longer understand what reality is, what it isn’t, and what exactly is the opposite of it? Not a dream state, but an alternate reality that one lives in but never recognizes as such? Unreality?
I understand Edward. For the first time I comprehend his conundrum, his need to understand, this fervent obsession to assign everything a name, a reason, a cause, a motivation. Last night, he asked me over and over why Penelope would see a need to confess.
“After all she’d done,” he said and wiped his forehead. “After everything, all the doctors an
d the therapy. That boy . . .” His eyes grew wide. “That boy, that poor boy. Why suddenly did she feel the need to confess when so much was at stake?”
Poor Edward. He will never know.
Say I know the answer. Say Penelope and I had a conversation about this while he was out dumping the body. Say Penelope told me, “No one can get away with this.”
She saw the magnitude of it all and I understood. She couldn’t hide in a closet, couldn’t talk her way out of it, blame it on others. The dark. A horse. Pills. Doctors. She was to blame and there was going to be a consequence but this time we had risked it all. We had proven ourselves worthy, and maybe that was all she needed to know. In the end Penelope was a coward, and that too is not a judgment but merely an observation. Better to confess than to be found out. It was a new one but that was the world she lived in. Don’t try to understand it.
I wonder, if people knew our story, would they question our love for our daughter? I imagine hearing a story like ours and I’d be the first one to question the parents’ love for their child. I haven’t spoken of my love for her yet. Though it’s hard to imagine, considering her brazen ways, she was vulnerable. Know this, I want to tell them, know that she was all we had. We loved her the way you love the weakest, the most defenseless. We loved her the most. We defended her. We put it all on the line for her. We risked it all for her. What greater love is there?
I know this but I will never tell Edward. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
* * *
• • •
The driver doesn’t speak to me and I stare out the window, having nothing to say to him. Alone with my thoughts, I doze off. When the taxi turns onto Decatur Road, Shadow Garden lies in wait. The gate is closed, and I see Shadow Garden for what it is: a fortress. For the first time it dawns on me that getting in may be as difficult as leaving.
My mind is racing. I could go up to the gate and pretend I went for a walk and ended up on the wrong side of the fence, but this place is in the middle of nowhere and the walking trails are within the perimeters of the property. I look down at my scrubs. How do I explain those? And I’m not supposed to leave without a driver, not that that’s a rule but an understanding we have. Stay within the property for your safety. I remember those words but not the circumstances of the conversation. Marleen will carry on about this for days on end and I think damage control, my first go-to response when something happens. Mitigate damages.
I walk up to the gate. Within the lush emerald landscaping there’s the oval sign with gold letters on a black background set within a square of bricks. I stare at the keypad. Blank. My mind is blank. There’s a number combination drivers use but I wouldn’t know what it is. My fingertips make contact with the keypad but don’t push any keys.
Above me, a camera hums, adjusting its angle to get a better look at me. I push the red HELP button. A crackling speaker announces the presence of the security gate attendant in the small square building.
“Welcome to Shadow Garden,” the voice crackles.
Inside the fence, two elderly women with visors walk past, staring at me. “Can you open the gate?” I ask and lean closer to the speaker above the keypad.
After a short delay the voice asks for my name.
“Donna Pryor.”
“Just a moment, please.”
If he prompts me for anything else, I’ll be reduced to tears. I can feel myself slipping.
“Can you hurry, please?” Goddammitcutmesomelackmyhipispounding. Two nights without sleep and I feel like something is amiss in my head. To ground myself, I picture my bedroom, lying in my bed with the ceiling overhead, the humming of the fridge from the kitchen, drifting off to sleep.
“Please look directly into the camera.”
Another hum. I watch the shutters of the round black circle open then close, and open again.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Pryor. Please go straight to the office,” the voice says and I breathe a sigh of relief.
The gate opens and allows a straight view of the leasing building. I walk past the front doors and though the guard told me to go to the office, I proceed toward my building. That’s when I hear someone call my name. I can’t be sure, maybe I’m imagining this. My gait is stiff and my legs are heavy. I’m dragging my foot, I can’t even lift it off the ground. Footsteps sound behind me and when I turn, a woman working in the office extends a hand toward me. I’m not sure if she wants to shake mine, but she touches my shoulder. Virginia is her name, I think.
“Mrs. Pryor,” she says, out of breath as if she’s been running, “let me walk you home.”
“I’m fine,” I say and point in the direction of my front door. “It’s right there around the corner, the first door on the right. I don’t need any help.”
Virginia lets go of my shoulder but stays put. Staring me up and down. She’s confused by the scrubs I’m wearing, I can tell.
“Really, I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m not a child. Please leave me alone.”
She turns and walks away and I turn the corner and keep my eyes on my door and will my legs to move. There’s a small concrete step in front of my door and as I fumble with the key, I turn around. Virginia stands by the corner of the leasing building but when I stare at her, she finally disappears.
Someone should have a look at that hip again, it’s become progressively worse over the past few hours. I don’t know if I don’t lift my foot high enough or if the step is uneven, but with a thud I land on a bed of mulch. A sharp pain shoots through my right ankle. I end up on my left side and I manage to roll to avoid impact but still my head grazes the ground, just enough to send a sharp reminder that I have bumped my head. My brow, my cheek, they throb.
I rest for a second or two, then I straighten my back. Feeling exposed, I look around but there’s no one there. I push myself up. My hip snaps and I can’t straighten my leg. My left foot has to bear considerably more than its fair share required for walking and though I manage to take a couple of steps, I am hobbling now.
Inside, as I pass the mirror, right after I slip off one of my shoes, I want to get a good look at my cheek but the mirrors are still draped and I feel the blood more than I see it. I also taste it in my mouth.
I bend over to slip off the other shoe and that’s when blood drips on the marble floor in tiny round splatters. Putting pressure on my brow with the back of my hand, I stumble past the kitchen and into my bedroom. I shuffle into the bathroom, peel off the scrubs, and stuff them in the bottom of the hamper. There’ll be time to hide them later, laundry day isn’t until Saturday. If Marleen finds them, she’ll question me. If they were reported missing, there’ll be an inquiry. An investigation. Theft is one of the worst things that can happen within the gates of Shadow Garden. Even small infractions related to missing items are frowned upon; even so much as a missing shoe from a front stoop, a potted plant by a door, or a misplaced purse triggers an inquiry as if Fort Knox’s security protocol has been breached.
Pulling a small towel off the shelf among a dozen tightly wrapped into tubes, a good number of them topple to the floor. I wet the towel and head toward the foyer when I hear voices outside my door, cheerful, a casual greeting exchanged, then there’s a key prying into the lock. It’s too late and I have to just keep my fingers crossed that Marleen won’t see the blood in the foyer. After all, it was just two drops, small at that. I use the wet towel to wipe my face. All I can do is take a guess where the blood is but now I can’t recall if it was my left or right brow, so I just wipe the wet towel across both and around and around my face, the white fibers turning pink.
I climb under the covers, pull them up over my face. The towel, cold and sticky, I stuff under the pillow. I force my breathing to slow.
Usually, there’s silence in the foyer, just the sound of the front door closing, a key pulling out of the lock, all those familiar sounds I have become accustomed to, Marleen’s announc
ement, her proclamation of arrival—none of that is happening. Instead a shriek and the door slams shut.
Mrs. Pryor, Mrs. Pryor, are you all right, are you all right. Are you okay?
I continue to breathe, slow and deep. I exaggerate so Marleen doesn’t think I’m dead but with all her carrying on and gasping, one would think she assumes I was. I give it a moment and then I stir.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice low.
Before I can protest, Marleen pulls the covers off me. She stares at me, a woman in her underwear with a swollen ankle. It’s pounding and feels hot and I can imagine the look of it. I can feel her hand on my leg.
“Your ankle is swollen. What happened?”
“I twisted my leg, I guess,” I say, hoping she’ll just move on to breakfast. I’m famished. “I’m starving, Marleen, I’ll have my breakfast in bed today.”
“Why is your hair wet? Are you running a fever?”
It’s an innocent question, really, but I hear a tinge of prying within the words. The wet towel, it must have been the wet towel.
Marleen rests the back of her hand on my forehead.
“What’s happened to your face? Are you bleeding?”
“A nosebleed. Please don’t make such a spectacle of yourself.”
I’m surprised that my voice is steady and scolding, that I’m pulling this off with so much confidence.
“There’s blood in the foyer.” Her eyes dart about the room as if to look for further evidence of what I have gotten myself into.
Marleen is frazzled and I feel sorry for her. Why can’t I just tell her? Why can’t she be my ally? Should I . . . No, I catch myself. I heard her talk to Edward. She locks doors and snoops, and kind she may be, but safe she’s not. I can’t tell her the truth. My very own despicable self is illuminated in the eyes of this very worried woman. Guilt? Just for a second, but the feeling passes. She’s not friend but foe.
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