The Garden House

by Linda Mahkovec

  Miranda let out a deep breath. She had done what she came for, and could leave now. She just wanted to go home, be back in her house.

  Was that a noise? Or the wind?

  Her eyes fastened on the low, narrow closet in the back corner. More of an air shaft for pipes and – she didn’t really know what. They had never used it for anything.

  Again, she was overwhelmed by a sense of fear. But she had come this far. She had to look. And yet she stood rooted to the floor.

  Just get it over with, then go home, and wait for Ben, she told herself. Again, the nausea mounted in her stomach.

  Step by step, she crossed the room until she stood in front of the closet. She looked for a way to open the door – but the knob or handle was missing. Suddenly she felt she was in her dream, and a rush of prickles crawled over her. She stared at the closet, deciding what to do. She ran her hand along the side of the door, and then pressed over the impression where the knob had been. The door popped open. She pulled it wide.

  With her heart banging high in her chest, she bent over and stuck her head inside, craning her neck to see how high the shaft went up. It was dark, but it appeared to be empty. She tapped on the wood inside, to see if any of the boards were loose. She raised her head further up, and on impulse called out, “Johnny.” Then again, louder. “Johnny!”

  She closed her eyes and listened.

  Bang!! The front door slammed shut! She jumped and hit her head as she backed out and straightened.

  There was William.

  His hair disheveled by the wind and rain, a look of alarm in his eyes, he stood by the door. He seemed to be shaking. Or maybe it was her. His eyes were fixed on her.

  “M-Miranda? Wh-what are you d-doing?”

  Miranda broke out in a dizzy sweat. She had never heard him stutter before.

  William glanced around the room, then back to Miranda. “W-what – why – ”

  “I brought your mail. You asked for it, remember? And Paula made you some cake. I – I thought I heard a squirrel or something trapped back here.”

  William moved forward, and looked in confusion at his suitcase on the desk, the papers that had been taken out of the waste basket.

  “W-Why – why…,” he stuttered, bringing his hand to his forehead and rubbing it.

  While his head was in his hand, Miranda skirted the room and made her move to the door.

  “Sorry to run, but I think I hear Ben returning.” She darted out the door, and ran up the darkened path to her house, casting a wary look behind her.

  Reaching the top, she looked behind her, but William had not followed, as she had feared. As she entered the house, the wind caught the door and slammed it loudly behind her. She gave a cry of alarm, and quickly locked it.

  She ran to the living room window, and watched the garden house for several minutes, waiting for something to happen. But there was no movement. She wiped at her rain-spattered face, and wrapped her arms around her.

  What just happened? she thought, pressing on her heart, as if to still its pounding. Nothing happened. There’s no reason for me to be so afraid. Nothing happened.

  Perhaps the wind had slammed the garden house door, and it hadn’t been slammed in anger. She thought of William’s face, his stuttering. He hadn’t seemed angry or violent – but he was clearly upset. Did he think she had found something? What had she missed?

  Nothing happened, she said again. And yet one thing is now certain: He knows that I know. There could be no more pretense.

  She tried to call Ben, but again there was no service. She hung up in frustration. Keeping the phone in her hand, she went back to the living room, and peered down at the garden house. The wind bent the plants and flowers, but there was no sign of movement inside. She closed the curtains.

  After a few minutes, she went through the house and made sure all the doors and windows were locked. Against the storm, she told herself. Of all times for Ben to be gone. And Paula. She never felt so alone in her life. Should she call the kids? What would she say? I have no proof, but I think we’re housing a –

  Miranda shook her head; she was so close to piecing it all together, but she still didn’t know exactly what she was looking at. And yet her gut feeling had never been so strong – constricted, bunched up like a fist. She just knew – something. She wrung her hands in anxiety as she paced the living room and kitchen.

  She glanced at the clock. It was getting late. Would William leave again? Why had he come back so soon? To catch her? Or had he come back for his cell phone?

  She went to the living room window again, and parted the curtains a crack. A light was on in the garden house, but the shade was drawn. She kept her eyes on it, waiting to see what William would do. But after a while, her legs grew tired and she sat on the couch.

  The rain began to fall heavily. A thrashing storm, not the usual soft pattering of rain. Wild gusts, branches scraping, a sudden pelting of rain against the windows. She shivered at the sounds.

  Again and again, she tried to call Ben, but kept getting the message that the caller was out of range. Realizing the futility of pacing the house and looking out the window, she finally went upstairs to bed.

  She decided to keep on her fleece pants and sweatshirt. Why? she asked. Because I’m cold? In case I have to run? Do I keep my shoes on?

  From her darkened bedroom, she looked out the window at the garden house. The streaked rain and matted leaves on the window made it difficult to see anything. She thought she could see movement behind the lit shade, but couldn’t be sure. It could be shadows caused by the moving tree limbs. Down below in the garden, the bushes and flowers shuddered and churned in the dark wind and rain.

  Holding onto her cell phone, she climbed into bed and pulled the blanket around her. Outside the window, the trees swayed and creaked.

  She tossed restlessly for what seemed like hours, but when she checked the time she saw that only an hour had passed. Eventually, she drifted into a fretful sleep.

  As so often happened, the sounds of the night worked their way into her mindscape, and the creaking of the tree branches found its way into her dream.

  The rhythmic squeaking sound was disturbing her sleep, so she left the house to find the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from the garden. She walked down the path to the garden house, the creaking sound growing louder.

  She stepped up to the garden house, and gently pushed open the door – and covered her mouth in horror. There was William’s lifeless body hanging from the rafters, the body still swaying and causing the rafter to squeak.

  Miranda woke with a start and sat bolt up in a flash of understanding. She put her hands to her mouth as all the pieces finally came together.

  “Oh, my God!” She threw off the covers. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she cried as she ran down the stairs. She grabbed a jacket from the hall tree and held it over her head before dashing out into the storm.

  Nearly blinded by the rain, she ran down the flag stone steps, all her recent dreams converging in her head. How could I not have known?! How could I be so blind? Please let me not be too late!

  As she neared the garden house, she saw a pale light through the curtains. She ran up to the porch and put her hand on the doorknob. Her hand shook as she grasped the doorknob, afraid of what she might find. She pushed open the door.

  William was packing. Placing his folded clothes into his suitcase. Not at all surprised that Miranda had opened his door in the middle of a stormy night. After a moment, he stopped and turned his face to her.

  Their eyes locked in silent understanding, his eyes full of pain and infinite sorrow.

  Miranda dropped the dripping jacket to the floor, and slowly walked up to him. With a wounded look in her own eyes, her voice trembled as she softly spoke. “You’re Johnny.”

  William turned away from her, still holding the folded clothes.

  “Oh, my God, William. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought – I thought – I’m so sorr
y.”

  Still not facing her, he asked, “How – how did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t know. I just kept having dreams. Disturbing dreams about a little boy – a little boy who was trapped, and I thought he needed help. And a girl who – ”

  Miranda stopped. At the mention of a girl, his whole bearing changed. His mouth began to quiver.

  “Kristina,” he whispered, crumpling onto the couch. “My sister. Kristy.” A choking cry escaped him. “I – I don’t know what happened to her. I can’t find her.” He buried his face in his hands, deep, heaving sobs of sorrow pouring through his fingers.

  Miranda gently sat next to him, and kept murmuring, “I’m so sorry, William. I’m so sorry.”

  As William rubbed at his eyes, his cheeks, Miranda noticed, for the first time, the small circular scars on his hands. He began to speak disjointedly, stuttering, struggling to find words.

  “I – I couldn’t protect her. I tried. But. Sh – she gave herself – so that I – she – ”

  For a few jumbled moments, a confused rush of words and sobs fought for dominance in William. Then he seemed to give up, and sat utterly still.

  He reached for a folded towel and handed it to Miranda. She draped it around her shoulders, realizing she had been shivering. He took another, and roughly wiped his face.

  Then he leaned forward, his head in his hands, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Our mother was sick – was dying. She didn’t know what was happening to us. He – our stepfather – at first, he just bullied us, beat us. Then one day, at the public pool, it began. He started – he started to – he said it was going to be one of us. Kristy said to use her. And so he did. And anytime I tried to speak out, he made it worse for her.”

  Miranda felt sick to her stomach as she filled in the blanks, and felt the depth of sadness and pain in William.

  After a span of silence, he continued, speaking softly. “When Mom died, they separated us. A great-aunt took me away. Another relative was supposed to come for Kristina. I didn’t want to leave Kristy. But they made me get in the car. She waved goodbye to me – and that was the last time I saw her. I later found out that she ran away that day. She was fourteen. I was twelve.”

  In the silence, Miranda tried to imagine the loss and suffering and fear that must have filled the young brother and sister.

  “And you – you never heard from her?” Miranda didn’t want to press on his wound, but she wanted desperately to know, to help him, if she could.

  William looked up and wiped at his face again. “I did. She sent postcards – for several years. From different cities. They always read: ‘I’m fine. Please don’t try to find me.’ Then one year, they just stopped. But I’ve never stopped searching for her.” His voice quavered, and he pressed the heels of his hands on his eyes. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  He sat quietly for a long while, staring out at the past. Then he took a deep breath, and shook his head. “I spent years wandering the streets of the places the postcards were from – New Orleans, Atlanta, San Francisco, Portland. At one point, I hired a private investigator. But he couldn’t find anything. He said she must have changed her name. Then a few years ago, I began using the internet to search for her.”

  Only now, back in the present, was he able to look at Miranda. “There are websites for finding missing persons. I’ve been in correspondence with so many people who thought they might have known Kristina. One or two women I thought might even be her.”

  Miranda nodded at him in hope, wanting it to be true.

  He leaned back on the couch, crushed. “I was so sure this time. That’s why I came out here. I’ve been on the trail of someone named Tina, someone with children. The name, the age, certain details. I was so sure. From things said about her, I knew she was living in Seattle. I thought she might even be in this neighborhood. I gave out this address, to let her know that I was here.”

  Then he slowly shook his head in anguished defeat. “I’ve sent so many emails, checked so many addresses, hoping – but I always come up empty.” His entire body slumped, overcome with weariness, utterly drained. “Maybe it’s time I accepted the truth. Either she doesn’t want to be found – or she’s no longer alive.”

  He stared out at the floor for a long time, then he took a deep breath and turned to Miranda. “I’ll be heading back East.”

  Miranda watched him, knowing there was nothing she could do or say that would help. “What will you do?”

  “Go back. Prepare for classes. Continue with my work. I’ve spent years working with youth groups – trying to prevent kids like her from ending up on the street.”

  Miranda put her head in her hands, filled with remorse at her earlier suspicions.

  “I’m so tired,” William said, leaning his head heavily against the back of the couch. “I’m just so tired.”

  “Sleep now, William. I’ll leave you. But please don’t leave yet.” She reached out and stroked his head, as she would have done with one of her children. “Sleep now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Miranda turned around before leaving and saw that his eyes were closed. She quietly left and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 11

  Though Miranda had risen early and was waiting for William, it was late morning before he knocked at her door. When she saw him, she noticed a different appearance about him. Less tense, more rested. Yet perhaps a bit sadder, and more resigned.

  “Morning, Miranda.” He gave a small smile and looked down at his feet.

  “How are you, William? Were you able to sleep? How about some breakfast?” She opened the door for him to come in.

  He shook his head and remained standing outside, glancing around at the signs of the recent storm. “I did sleep. Deeply. I can’t remember the last time I slept so late.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  “No. Thanks. I just wanted to say – I’m sorry you got caught up in my problems. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “It was all my doing, William. Ben always accuses me of going too far with my ideas.”

  He rubbed his brow. “But – how did you know? Why did you call out my name? No one has called me Johnny for years.”

  “I thought I heard it, one night. Someone calling out that name. I’d been having dreams about a little boy. So that’s how I began thinking of him – as Johnny. I’m afraid I was way off track, guessing all sorts of things – and then, suddenly, everything just clicked last night. And I knew that you were the little boy.”

  William listened, his brow smoothing as she explained. “I thought my past was written all over me. I’ve always felt like I was branded. I thought you picked up on it from the beginning.”

  “No, William, not at all. It was just me, missing the kids, worrying about them, getting tangled up in my doubts.” She paused before adding, “Though, I was sure I heard cries coming from the garden house – on two or three different nights.”

  William rubbed his shoe on the flagstone. “I – I used to wake myself up screaming, crying. I thought it had stopped. But lately, it’s been happening again. I keep dreaming that I finally find Kristy – but that she runs away from me.”

  Miranda lowered her head. How could she have so misjudged him? That tentative, secretive air about him was just his way of protecting his wound, the way he carried the burden of guilt and sorrow that had never left him.

  William took a piece of paper from his pocket, marked with circled addresses. “I’ll finish what I started. I have a few more addresses to check out. Two in north Seattle, one up in Edmonds. One last try, before I head back East.”

  Miranda saw the struggle. Part of him was trying to remain hopeful, but another part had already accepted defeat.

  He looked down at the piece of paper. “I don’t have much hope. The dates don’t add up.” He put the list back in his pocket and forced a smile. “I’ll be back by evening. Then I think I’ll head out. It’s tim
e I got on with my life.”

  “Won’t you wait a little longer? Ben will be back later today.”

  William nodded. “I won’t leave without saying goodbye to him.”

  He hesitated a moment, then opened his laptop bag. “I’m wondering if you’ll take care of something for me.” He took out the battered doll, and handed it to Miranda. “It’s time she had a real home.”

  Tears shot to Miranda’s eyes as she reached for the doll. “Of course, I will.”

  “Thank you, Miranda.” William quickly turned and got in his car.

  She watched him leave, thinking that she would try to talk him into staying for a few more days. Maybe Ben could convince him. She didn’t want him to leave feeling so sad. Though he seemed determined to move on with his life, she knew that he would never give up searching for his sister, or finding out what happened to her. It would be a life of no rest, no peace.

  Miranda gently placed the doll on the window shelves, between the pink kalanchoe and a small jar of forget-me-nots. “I’ll take good care of you,” she said.

  She opened the door to the deck and moved the potted plants back out into the sun, and hung up the flowering baskets. Then she swept away the leaves that the storm had brought down.

  Once the deck was taken care of, she slipped on her shoes, and went out to inspect the garden, picking up branches and clumps of leaves. For the most part, the flowers had weathered the storm well; they always appeared so delicate, and yet were astonishingly resilient.

  Throughout her garden, sunlight sparkled on the wet leaves and stones, and glistened on the black iron fencing. All around the rose bushes, delphiniums, and tall phlox lay pools of petals in pink, blue, white. As she gazed out on the garden, and back at the house, she saw what William had described to her that day in the garden: Home – and she felt overwhelmed by her deep love for it, for all the memories that were a part of it.