“Mom, they are the zinnias and morning glories we planted!” Rose said, emerging from the shed with the map they had drawn last month, after tilling the garden’s hard earth, mixing it with potting soil, pressing in the tiny seeds.
“That’s great, Rose!”
“I’m going to be a horti—how do you say it again?”
“‘Horticulturist,’ ” Lily said, smiling.
“Horticulturist,” Rose repeated. “A plant scientist. A morning glory doctor!”
Lily glanced up. So much with Rose harkened back to medicine—because that was what she knew. Doctors, hospitals, tests, procedures, operations … Lily swallowed down the wish that her daughter could have an unfettered experience in the garden—without thinking about doctors.
“The morning glories are going to grow tall,” Rose said, kneeling down again, brushing dirt away from their delicate stems, fragile green leaves. “They’re going to climb up the trellis, all the way to the sky.”
“With bright blue flowers,” Lily said.
“I’m just so glad they’re up already,” Rose said.
“Already?”
Rose nodded. “So I don’t have to worry about them, while we’re gone. If I hadn’t seen them, I might think the seeds hadn’t worked. I’ll be glad to picture them growing and blooming while I’m in the hospital.”
“They grow like crazy,” Lily said, smiling, hiding how fierce she felt at that moment. “They go wild all summer, right into September. They’ll bloom, all right.”
“Will I be home before September?”
“You will, sweetheart. You’ll be in the hospital for one, maybe two weeks. You’ll have plenty of summer left after we get back.”
“Will it be my last surgery?”
“Yes,” Lily said. She tried never to lie to Rose about her medical care; not because she wouldn’t have done anything to protect her, shield her from the realities of being a cardiac patient, but because Rose always knew … she always knew when her mother was telling a lie, and that just made her worry more. But Lily was almost certain about this—the doctors had assured her that replacing the old patch should be it.
Rose crouched down, hands in the earth, pulling out weeds. She had an instinct, knowing what should stay, what should go. She had the innate ability to nurture a flower bed, just like her ancestors. Lily remembered childhood days in the garden, when her mother had told her that gardening was the same as prayer: being quiet, present, and appreciative of nature. The gardening gene was alive and well in Rose.
“How come Jessica’s mother didn’t want us to go inside, after we dropped her off?”
“Maybe she was busy.”
“Jessie says her family has a mystery.”
“All families do,” Lily said, stitching slowly.
“Does Dr. Neill’s?”
“Mmm,” Lily said. One mystery was why he hadn’t gotten married. Lily had watched him dating a little—a female ichthyologist from Halifax, a divorcée from Sydney. But Liam stayed unattached.
“I like him.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t, do you?”
“He’s my landlord,” Lily said. “I like him fine.”
“But you don’t act as if you like him. And he’s our friend!”
“I’ll try harder,” she said, and her heart caught just slightly.
“I want him to come to my party.”
Lily lifted her eyes over the rims of her fuchsia half-glasses. Rose was gazing back gravely—challenge in her green eyes.
“It’s my party,” Rose reminded her.
“I know, but we asked the Nanouk Girls too. We have that no-men rule, you know? We wrote up that charter, and we all signed it—you too, remember? Our gatherings are women only.”
“Can’t we make an exception? A birthday party exception?”
Lily’s lips tightened. She really hated saying no to Rose. Her daughter was the least manipulative child on earth—when she wanted something, she came right out and asked for it. The unspoken words between them had to do with the upcoming surgery. Every request from Rose had a shimmer and a poignancy to it: what if Lily said no, and it was Rose’s last request? She shook her head, reminding herself to be a mother—not a doomsday prophet.
“No, Rose. It wouldn’t be fair to the other Nanouks. We can save him a slice of birthday cake. Okay?”
“Not okay,” Rose said. She kept digging for a while. Then, leaving her pile of weeds on the grass, she walked up the porch stairs. Lily shielded her needlepoint so Rose wouldn’t see, but she needn’t have bothered. Her daughter walked straight by without even a glance, into the house, screen door banging behind her.
Lily took a deep breath. She thought of her no-lie policy and wondered whether Rose sensed that it had just gone flying out the proverbial window. Because her reasons for not wanting to invite Liam Neill to the party had nothing—or at least very little—to do with the Nanouk Girls’ charter.
Nothing, in fact. Lily steadied her hands and just kept stitching. The wide needle slid in and out of the small white squares, one after another, as she tried not to think. There was so much not to think about: her daughter’s surgery next week, whether she’d finish her needlepoint before the party, Liam Neill. The warm breeze blew, and the sun beat down on Rose’s garden. Lily kept moving the needle, trying to finish the picture.
Rose went to her room. At the back of their one-story house, her window overlooked their yard, the heathery hillside, and the outer curve of the bay. Standing in her doorway, she took a deep breath. She began to move. She was walking, yes, using her feet, but in her mind, she was flying, held aloft by invisible wings, as hard and clear and indestructible as the cicada’s wing she’d found in the garden last summer. Circling her room, she touched things—her maple bedpost; the bureau painted by her mother with fish, shells, whales, and dolphins; the books on her shelf; her collection of carved whales. Here she paused, making sure her fingertips brushed each one—whales carved from wood, soapstone, bone.
She felt the whales’ power. They were mammals, just like her. They breathed air and raised their children. Now her wings turned into fins. Rose dived under the surface, swimming easily with the whales. She felt the water rush over her body as she swam deeper, deeper … she continued to touch everything in her room, all the precious things that reminded her of her life, of her mother.
By the time she reached the wall beside her bed, her eyes were full of salt water. She blinked the tears away, gazing at the eight framed birthday squares. Her mother had made her one for every year of her life. Rose stared at them now:
The first was a country cottage with a black door and pink shutters with four cutout hearts, a garden filled with lilies and roses.
The second was a white baby basket carried over the green countryside by a red-and-yellow hot-air balloon.
The third was a blue station wagon parked among snow-laden pine trees, with four golden-eyed owls hidden in the dark branches.
The fourth was a carousel with whales instead of horses.
The fifth was fish flying through the sky and birds swimming underwater.
The sixth was nighttime, with the spruce tree in their backyard decorated for Christmas, with hearts instead of bulbs, and real stars instead of lights.
The seventh was the same cottage as the first square, but shrunken down to the size of a doll’s house … with a blue door instead of a black door … and with a hot-air balloon lifting it up, carrying it out to sea.
The eighth showed a group of girls and women, all wearing hats and heavy coats, warming their hands by a fire on the snowy, rocky shoreline while a white whale frolicked in the foreground; there were Rose and her mother, Cindy, Marlena, Nanny, and all the Nanouk Girls of the Frozen North. Rose recognized all the figures except two women off to the side … her mother had told her that they were her grandmother and great-grandmother.
The ninth … well, Rose knew that her mother was busy stitching the ninth one right now. Rose clo
sed her eyes, wishing… . She knew how terribly much her mother loved her. Even though she was only almost nine, she knew that her mother sometimes hurt with loving her so much. Having such a fragile heart made Rose feel certain things more than normal. Her skin would tingle, as if a cool breeze were starting to blow, and she’d be filled with other people’s dreams and words, as if their hearts were talking directly to hers.
Not everyone, but some. Nanny, for instance. Rose had always been able to read Nanny’s mind. She could feel her joy and curiosity, her power and strength. And Rose’s mother; Rose always knew when her mother was happy or sad, tired or, especially, worried—worried about Rose. Like now, waiting for her surgery, planning the trip to Boston—it was almost all her mother could think about, even with the birthday square to finish and the party to get ready for. But Rose wasn’t tuned in to either of them, or even to Jessica, another kindred heart spirit.
Dr. Neill. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. It was funny. At bad times, whenever she needed him, there he was. He had knelt with her down by the stone fisherman, holding her hand and letting her know she wasn’t alone. Rose knew that if she had a father, that’s what he would have done. He would have stayed with her and held her. He would take care of her.
Dr. Neill was so big. He had put his arm around her for a minute, when she was the most scared, when she felt the most unable to breathe. Rose closed her eyes and almost swooned. She wanted a father to hold and love her. All her friends had fathers—even Jessica, whose father was a stepfather; it didn’t matter.
Rose felt her heart beating through her green T-shirt. She wished and wished for her heart to be whole again. She had a mother who loved her; if only she had a father too. All the birthday squares, all the parties, all the surgeries in the world couldn’t do for her what that would do.
Why wouldn’t her mother let Dr. Neill come to her party? Even if she didn’t like him—and Rose wasn’t dumb, she knew that her mother did like him, deep down—shouldn’t Rose be allowed to invite him anyway? Even though the other kids were scared of his artificial arm, even though they called him Captain Hook, Rose loved him. She knew that if she had a father, he would be just like Dr. Neill.
He would love whales, dolphins, and even sharks. He would not give up, just because one part of his body didn’t work right. And he would always stop, no matter what he was doing, to help a little girl having heart pains at the foot of the stone fisherman.
He would, he would …
Chapter 5
Secret Agent’s desk was his flying machine. When he sat in his Aeron chair and hunkered down at his Dell laptop, he could be in Anywhere, USA. He could be on the wireless network, sailing on a cruise ship in the Caribbean or the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean for that matter. He could be in Paris, France. Or Akron, Ohio; Hartford, Connecticut; Phoenix, Arizona; or Walla Walla, Washington. He could be in Vancouver or Toronto. He could be at the South Pole. In reality, he was located in Boston’s North End, above a café that smelled like espresso all day.
The apartment was small, but no one need know. It could be a penthouse on Park Avenue in Manhattan, a ranch in Montana, a beach house at the Jersey Shore with the Atlantic out one window and Barnegat Bay out another—or maybe a place near South Beach, not far from where that psycho had killed Gianni Versace a few years back. Or it could just be the house-next-door, where he was just a regular guy trying to bring home the bacon and keep everyone happy.
He was hungry. Before getting started, he grabbed a root beer and microwaved two beef burritos. Set the plate down on his desk, booted up, got ready to take off. Really hungry—ate one burrito in three bites. Waited for the machine to stop clicking, logged on. Where to go today? Where should the flying machine touch down this evening? It was Friday night… .
His favorite sites: scrolled down the list, looking. He had his ladies’ sites, his playtime sites, his sports sites, his business sites. First and foremost in his mind was always the search: he was looking for someone, and he knew the kinds of Internet sites she liked to go. It was a full-time job, trying to find her. But he had other irons in the fire as well; might as well make some money while looking for his girl—the bitch formally known as his wife. Today, looking at the list, he focused on his “doing business” sites. The bank account was getting a little dry. One of his most fruitful and profitable Internet destinations had lately been SpiritTown.com. A fan site for the followers of the band Spirit.
The band was decent musically and popular enough to still be selling out stadiums and arenas twenty years after its first album. It could always be counted on to join all those group lovefests, raising money for good causes. Save the Rainforest, Free the Unjustly Accused, Women’s Rights, Peace, all that bleeding-heart liberal stuff. His wife had loved Spirit. Little Miss Save-the-World …
Secret Agent trolled the SpiritTown message boards. The members liked to take their names from Spirit’s song titles—so typical, and so easy for him to spot the soft touches. The names practically ensured that they’d give him the money he asked for—PeaceBabe,OneThinDime, Wish23, Love_or_die, LonesomeDaughter … His wife used to occasionally post here as “Aurora,” but he had a feeling she’d changed her screen name after their breakup. He hadn’t seen Aurora here in a long time… .
He took a glance at the list of recent topics—about half the threads were discussions of Spirit music, lyrics, shows, and bootlegs. The rest concerned politics and events of major interest to Spirit fans. This was sad—he actually chuckled as he prepared to start typing. These people were practically begging to be taken—they cared about everyone and everything. “Breast Cancer Awareness,” “World Hunger,” “Can We Help Kids Who Don’t Have Enough?”
He had registered as a member of the site six months earlier, and during that time had posted six thousand times. He had established himself as a huge Spirit fan (not true), a collector of their CDs (not true), a left-leaning Democrat (totally not true), a divorced father of two (partly true). His log-on name, Secret Agent, was taken from one of Spirit’s biggest hits, “Spy on You”: “I look through your windows, I come through your door I know why you’re hiding, I know what it’s for You’re afraid of the world, afraid of its pain / I’m your Secret Agent, I’ll make you brave again… .”
He wolfed down his second burrito and got ready to make some money. He clicked the “New Topic” button and typed in the heading “Lost in the Hurricane.” His name, Secret Agent, popped up. Then, in the body of the message, he started: “Hey everyone—did you read about that big storm, the first hurricane of the year? Hit South Florida pretty hard. My sister’s family lost everything. Everything. Their roof blew off. Jake, my nephew, got hit with window glass—it’s a nightmare.”
Then he hit “Send.” “Your message has been posted” appeared on his screen. He clicked “Return to Forum,” then sat back to wait for replies.
Secret Agent was still hungry. He walked into the kitchen, threw two more burritos into the microwave. He predicted that by the time he got back to his desk, he’d have what he wanted. It was the dinner hour, prime time for all the losers—home from work, either single or not in the mood to talk to their loving husbands and wives—to log on and meet up with their friends.
The bell chimed, and he ate standing up at the counter. This way he could stare at his refrigerator door: pictures of his wife and Ellie covered every inch. Individual shots, the two of them, even some with him in the frame—rare, because he didn’t like having his picture taken. He wiped the burrito grease from his lips and leaned forward to kiss his wife. The closeness made him mad—he started to feel the heat rise. How dare she leave him—how the hell dare she?
He rinsed his plate and cracked another root beer, cooling off a little. At least he didn’t have to worry anymore about wiping out the cookies—the temporary Internet files stored in computers. His nosy wife had figured out how to check up on him. She’d get in there, snoop around, see what he’d been doing online for fun and work… . By the time he head
ed back to his desk, he had what he needed: five quick responses to Lost in the Hurricane. Secret Agent scrolled down, reading them quickly:
“Secret—that sucks!”
“Hey, man—is your nephew gonna be okay?”
“The roof blew off? Literally?”
“Where’s the family going to stay? I read about that hurricane—it’s super-bad. Lots of people evacuated, and the ones who didn’t go got trapped. Is your nephew badly hurt?”
And then—paydirt:
“Secret Agent—what’re friends for? Let’s set up a fund on the board. I know everyone will want to help out. You’ve got a PayRight account—I know, cuz you sent me money for those boots last month. We’ll send the contributions to you, you’ll give it to your sister.”
Secret Agent couldn’t help smiling: what a kind bunch of people. His wife had very good taste in bands and message boards. She’d be proud of her online friends, to know they’d risen to this occasion. For that matter, she’d probably be proud of her husband—to think of him caring so much about the people harmed by the hurricane.
“Thanks, man,” he typed. “My sister will be really thankful. You guys are great … let me check with her, to make sure. (She wouldn’t want charity.) But I’ll try to talk her into it—gotta think of my nephew’s medical bills and all… .”
Even as he typed, more responses poured in:
“Any sister of Secret Agent is a sister of ours!”
“Your sister has one great brother, you know? I’ll be the first—here’s $100. Wish it could be more… .”
So do I, Secret Agent thought. He scanned the member names popping up on the message board. Looking for Aurora … Where are you? Where did you go? Do you think you can hide forever?
That would be his real payoff: finding what was his and bringing it home.
It was Friday evening, and Liam was working late. He spent too much time at the office, he knew. Right now, nearly nine P.M., the sky was still light—summer in the northern latitudes. His mind told him to keep working, but his body was telling him other things. He was hungry and tired, and he felt an old yearning that he’d thought was long dead.
Luanne Rice Page 5