Winter Garden

Winter Garden Page 18

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” She stared at him, not quite knowing what to say.

She heard Dr. Burns drive up and relief propelled her forward.

He came into the house, looking more than a little harried, holding a half-eaten sandwich. “Hello, you two,” he said as he came inside. “What happened?”

“Mom was tearing down wallpaper and fell off a chair. Her ankle is swelling up like a balloon,” Meredith said.

Dr. Burns nodded and set his sandwich down on the entryway table. “Show me.”

But when they went into the living room, her mother was sitting up, knitting, as if this were just an ordinary afternoon instead of the day she’d tried to cook wallpaper and cut her own flesh.

“Anya,” Jim said, going to her. “What happened here?”

Mom gave him one of her dazzling smiles. Her blue eyes were completely clear. “I was redecorating the dining room and I fell. Silly of me.”

“Redecorating? Why now?”

She shrugged. “We women. Who knows?”

“May I take a look at your ankle?”

“Certainly.”

He gently examined Mom’s ankle and wrapped it in an Ace bandage.

“This pain is nothing,” she said.

“And what about your hands?” he asked, examining her fingertips. “It looks like you cut yourself on purpose.”

“Nonsense. I was redecorating. I told you this.”

Dr. Burns studied her face for a few more minutes and then smiled gently. “Come on. Let Jeff and me help you to your room.”

“Of course.”

“Meredith, you stay here.”

“Gladly,” she said, watching nervously as they made their way up the stairs and disappeared.

Meredith paced impatiently, chewing on her thumbnail until it started to bleed.

When Jeff and Dr. Burns came back down the stairs, she looked at the doctor. “Well?”

“She’s sprained her ankle. It will heal if she stays off it.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Meredith said. “You saw her fingers. And I found an X-Acto knife by her bed. I think she did it on purpose. She must have Alzheimer’s. Or some kind of dementia anyway. What do we do?”

Jim nodded slowly, obviously gathering his thoughts. “There’s a place in Wenatchee that could take her for a month or six weeks. We could call it rehabilitation for her ankle. Insurance would cover that, and at her age, healing is slow. It’s not a long-term solution, but it would give her—and you—some time to deal with what’s happened. It’s possible that time away from Belye Nochi and the memories here might help.”

“You mean a nursing home?” Meredith said.

“No one likes a nursing home,” the doctor said. “But sometimes it’s the best answer. And remember, it’s only a short-term solution.”

“Will you tell her she’s going there because she needs rehab?” Jeff asked, and Meredith could have kissed him. He knew how hard this decision was for her.

“Of course.”

Meredith drew in a deep breath. She knew she would replay this moment over and over, probably hating herself more every day. She knew her father would never make this choice and wouldn’t have wanted her to make it. But she couldn’t deny how much this would help her.

She sleeps outside . . . tears down wallpaper . . . falls off chairs . . . what will be next?

“God help me,” she said softly, feeling alone even with Jeff right beside her. She’d never known before how profoundly a single decision could separate you from other people. “Okay.”

That night, Meredith couldn’t sleep. She heard the clicking of digital minutes into one another as she lay in bed.

Everything about her decision felt wrong. Selfish. And that was what it was in the end: her decision.

She stayed in bed as long as she could, trying to relax; at two o’clock, she dropped the pretense and got up.

Downstairs, she roamed through the shadowy, quiet house, looking for something to help her sleep or to occupy her mind while she was awake: TV, a book, a cup of tea . . .

Then she saw the telephone and knew exactly what she needed: Nina’s complicity. If Nina agreed about the nursing home, Meredith would shoulder only half the guilt.

She dialed her sister’s international cell phone number and sat down on the sofa.

“Hello?” said a heavily accented voice. Irish, Meredith thought. Or Scottish.

“Hello? I’m calling Nina Whitson. Did I get the wrong number?”

“No. This is her phone. Who am I speakin’ to?”

“Meredith Cooper. I’m Nina’s sister.”

“Ah, brilliant. I’m Daniel Flynn. I suppose you’ve heard of me.”

“No.”

“That’s disappointing, isn’t it? I’m a . . . good friend of your sister’s.”

“How good a friend are you, Daniel Flynn?”

His laugh was low and rumbling. Sexy as hell. “Daniel’s me old man, and a mean son of a bitch he was. Call me Danny.”

“I notice you didn’t answer my question, Danny.”

“Four and a half years. Give or take.”

“And she never mentioned you or brought you home?”

“More’s the pity, eh? Well, it was grand talkin’ to you, Meredith, but your sis is givin’ me the evil eye, so I’d best hand her the phone.”

As Meredith said good-bye, she heard a rustling sound, as if Danny and Nina were fighting over the phone.

Nina answered, sounding a little breathless; laughing. “Hey, Mere. What’s up? How’s Mom?”

“Honestly, Neens, that’s why I’m calling. She’s not good. She’s confused lately. Calls me Olga half the time and recites that damn fairy tale as if it means something.”

“What does Doc Burns say?”

“He thinks it’s ordinary grief, but—”

“Thank God. I wouldn’t want her to end up like Aunt Dora, stuck in that pathetic nursing home, eating old Jell-O and watching game shows.”

Meredith flinched at that. “She fell and sprained her ankle. Luckily I was there to help, but I can’t always be there.”

“You’re a saint, Mere. Really.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Th at’s what Mother Teresa said to me, too.”

“I’m no Mother Teresa, Nina.”

“Yes, you are. The way you’re taking care of Mom and running the orchard. Dad would be proud.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, unable to put any power in her voice. She wished now that she hadn’t called.

“Look, Mere. I really can’t talk now. We’re just on our way out. Do you have something important?”

This was her moment: she could blurt out the truth and be judged (Saint Mere, cramming Mom in a home) or she could say nothing. And what if Nina disagreed? Meredith hadn’t thought about that possibility before, but now she saw it clearly. Nina would not support her, and that would only make matters worse. To be called selfish by Nina was more than she could bear. “No, nothing important. I can handle it.”

“Good. I’ll be home for Dad’s birthday, don’t forget.”

“Okay,” Meredith said, feeling sick. “See you then.”

Nina said, “Good-bye,” and their conversation broke.

Meredith hung up the phone. With a sigh, she turned off the lights and went back upstairs, where she crawled into bed with her husband.

. . . stuck in that pathetic nursing home . . .

Saint Mere

She lay there a long time, in the dark, trying not to remember those wretched, long-ago visits to Aunt Dora.

She was certain she had never fallen asleep, but at seven A.M., the alarm clock jolted her awake.

Jeff stood by the bed with a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

She wanted to say no, to scream it, maybe even to burst into tears, but what good would that do? The worst part of all was that Jeff knew it; he was giving her his sad look again, his I’m-waiting-for-you-to-need-me look. If she told him the truth, he’d hold her hand and kiss her and tell her she was doing the right thing. And then she’d really lose it. “I’m fine.”

“I thought you’d say that,” he said, stepping back. “We need to go in about an hour. I’ve got an appointment at nine.”

She nodded and shoved the hair out of her face. “Okay.”

For the next hour, she got ready as if this were any ordinary day, but when she climbed into the driver’s seat of her big SUV, she suddenly lost the ability to pretend. The truth of her choice swept through her, chilling her.

In front of her, Jeff started up his truck, and together they drove in their separate cars to Belye Nochi.

Inside, she found Mom in the living room, standing at her Holy Corner. Dressed in a black woolen sheath, with a white silk scarf around her throat, she managed to look both elegant and strong. Her back was straight, her shoulders firm. Her snow-white hair had been drawn back from her face, and when she turned to look at Meredith, there wasn’t a drop of confusion in those arctic-blue eyes.

Meredith’s resolve slipped; doubt surged up in its place.

“I want the Holy Corner brought to my new room,” Mom said. “The candle must be kept burning.” She reached over for the crutches Dr. Burns had brought her. Settling them in place under her arms, she limped slowly toward Meredith and Jeff.

“You need help,” Meredith said as she approached. “I can’t be here all the time.”

If Mom heard, or cared, there was no sign of it. She limped past Meredith and went to the front door. “My bag is in the kitchen.”

Meredith should have known better than to seek absolution from her mother. How well she knew that whatever she needed from Mom, she wouldn’t get it. Maybe this most of all. She walked past her mother and went into the kitchen.

It was the wrong bag. Meredith had packed the big red suitcase only last night. She bent down and opened this one.

Her mother had packed it full of butter and leather belts.

Eight

Nina woke to the sound of gunfire.

Rounds exploded just outside her window; the dingy, peeling walls of her hotel room shuddered. A shower of plaster and wattle rained down on the floor. Somewhere a window shattered and a woman screamed. Nina got out of bed and crawled over to the window.

Tanks were rolling down the rubble-strewn street. Men in uniforms—boys, really—walked alongside, shooting their machine guns, laughing as people tried to find shelter.

She turned around and leaned against the rough wall, then slid down to a sit on the powdery floor. A rat scurried along the floorboards and crept into the shadows along her so-called closet.

God, she was tired of this.

It was the end of April. Only a month ago she’d been in Sudan with Danny, but it felt like a lifetime.

Her cell phone rang.

She crawled across the dirty floor and sat against the side of the bed. Reaching up to the nightstand, she found the checkbook-sized phone and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Nina? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”