Winter Garden

Winter Garden Page 22

Meredith smiled tiredly. “That’s a bit overly dramatic. I’ll handle it.”

“Of course you will, but honey, should you?” Daisy put the folder down on the desk. “I can run this place, you know,” she said quietly. “Your dad trained me. All you have to do is ask for help.”

Meredith nodded. It was true, although she’d never really thought about it before. Daisy did know the orchard and its operation better than anyone except Meredith herself. She’d worked here for twenty-nine years. “Thanks.”

“But you don’t really know how to do that, do you, Meredith?”

Meredith fought the urge to roll her eyes. It was what Jeff said to her all the time. Was that really such a flaw? To do what needed to be done? “Can you get Dr. Burns on the phone for me, Daisy?”

“Of course.” Daisy headed for the door.

A moment later, Daisy put through the call and Jim answered.

“Hey, Jim,” she said. “It’s Meredith.”

“I expected you to call. I heard from Parkview today.” He paused. “Nina?”

“Naturally. She’s seen The Great Escape one too many times. They don’t know when they’ll have another opening, and there’s no way we can afford live-in help. Can you recommend another nursing home?”

It was a moment before Jim said, “I’ve spoken to her doctor at Parkview, and with the physical therapist who worked with her. I also visited Anya once a week.”

Meredith felt herself tensing up. “And?”

“None of us witnessed any significant confusion or dementia. The only time she got a little rattled was when that storm hit last month. Apparently the thunder scared her and she told everyone she needed to get to the roof. But a lot of the residents were upset by the noise.” He drew in a deep breath. “Your dad used to say that Anya battled depression every winter. Something about the cold and the snow bothering her. That, plus the grief . . . anyway, bottom line: I don’t believe she is suffering from Alzheimer’s or even severe dementia. I can’t diagnose what isn’t visible to me, Meredith.”

Meredith felt as if a huge weight had suddenly been placed on her shoulders. “Now what? How can I take care of her and keep her safe? I can’t run Belye Nochi and my own home and be there for Mom all the time. She was cutting herself, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I’ve made some calls. There’s a senior complex in Wenatchee that’s really nice. It’s called Riverton. She would have an apartment with a backyard that’s big enough for some gardening. She has the choice of cooking her meals or going to the complex’s dining room. There’s an opening in mid-June for a one-bedroom. I asked the manager to reserve it for you, but they’ll need a deposit quickly. Ask for Junie.”

Meredith wrote it all down. “Thank you, Jim. I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem.” He paused. “How are you, Meredith? You didn’t look so good the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks, Doc.” She tried to laugh. “I’m tired, but that’s to be expected.”

“You do too much.”

“The story of my life. Thanks again.” She hung up before he could say more. Reaching down to the floor, she picked up her purse and headed out of her office.

At Belye Nochi, she found Nina in the kitchen, reheating a pot full of goulash.

Nina smiled at her. “I’m watching it, see? No fire yet.”

“I need to talk to you and Mom. Where is she?”

Nina cocked her head toward the dining room. “Guess.”

“The winter garden?”

“Of course.”

“Damn it, Neens.” Meredith walked through the damaged dining room and went out to Mom, who was sitting on the iron bench. At least she was dressed for the cool weather this time.

“Mom?” Meredith said. “I need to talk to you. Can we go inside?”

Mom straightened; only then did Meredith realize how soft and rounded she’d looked before.

Together, neither touching nor speaking, they walked back into the house. In the living room, Meredith got Mom settled in a chair and then built a fire. By the time she was finished, Nina was with them, sprawled out on the sofa, with her stockinged feet propped on the coffee table.

“What’s up, Mere?” she asked, flipping through an old National Geographic. “Hey, here’s my shot. The one that won the Pulitzer,” she said, smiling, showing off the two-page spread.

“I spoke with Dr. Burns today.”

Nina set the magazine aside.

“He . . . agrees with me that the nursing home isn’t the right place for Mom.”

“Uh. Duh,” Nina said.

Meredith refused to rise to the bait. She kept her gaze on Mom. “But we both think this house is too much for you to handle alone. Jim found a nice place in Wenatchee. A senior condominium-like complex. He says you could have a lovely little one-bedroom unit that would have its own kitchen. But if you didn’t feel like cooking, there’s a dining room, too. It’s right downtown. You could walk to the stores and the knitting shop.”

“What about my winter garden?” Mom asked.

“There’s a backyard with the unit. You could build a winter garden there. The bench, the fencing, the columns; everything.”

“She doesn’t need to move,” Nina said. “This is her home and I’m here to help out.”

Meredith finally snapped. “Really, Nina? How long can we count on you? Or will this be like my wedding?”

“There was an assassination that week,” Nina said, looking uncomfortable suddenly.

“Or like Dad’s seventieth birthday? What happened that time? A flood, wasn’t it? Or was that the earthquake?”

“I’m not going to apologize for my work.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying that you might have the best intentions in the world, but if something terrible happened in India tomorrow, all we’d see of you is your ass as you walked out of the door. I can’t be with Mom every second and she can’t be alone all the time.”

“And this would make it easier on you,” Mom said.

Meredith searched her mother’s face for sarcasm or judgment, or even confusion, but all she saw was resignation. It had been a question, not an indictment. “Yes,” she said, wondering why the affirmation made her feel as if she’d failed her father.

“Then I will go. I do not care where I live anymore,” Mom said.

“I’ll pack up everything you need,” Meredith said. “So you’re ready to go next month. You won’t have to do a thing.”

Mom stood up. She looked at Meredith, her blue eyes soft with emotion. It was a look that lasted a heartbeat—and then was gone. Turning on her heel, she went upstairs. The bedroom door slammed shut behind her.

“She doesn’t belong in some glorified nursing home,” Nina said. Meredith honestly hated her sister for that. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to pay for a live-in companion, someone who can do all the shopping and cleaning and bill-paying? Or maybe you’re going to promise to stick around for years? Oh, wait. Your promises don’t mean shit.”

Nina slowly stood, faced Meredith. “I’m not the only one who breaks promises in this family. You promised him you’d take care of Mom.”

“And that’s what I’m doing.”

“Oh, really? What if he were here right now, listening to you talk about moving the winter garden and packing up her things and moving her into town? Would he be proud of you, Meredith? Would he say, Well done. Thanks for keeping your word? I don’t think so.”

“He’d understand,” Meredith said, wishing her voice were stronger.

“No. He wouldn’t, and you know it.”

“Fuck you,” Meredith said. “You have no idea how hard I tried . . . how much I wanted to . . .” Her voice broke and tears gathered in her throat. “Fuck you,” she said again, whispering it this time. She spun around and practically ran for the front door, noticing that the goulash was burning as she yanked the door open and went outside.

In her car, she slammed the door shut and clutched the steering wheel. “It’s easy to be self-righteous when you’re gone,” she muttered, starting up the car.

The drive home took less than two minutes.

The dogs greeted her exuberantly and she knelt down to pet them both, letting their enthusiasm at her return be a balm on her rattled nerves.

“Jeff?” she called out. Getting no answer, she took off her coat and poured herself a glass of wine. In the living room, she turned on the gas fireplace and sat on the marble hearth, letting the real heat from a fake fire warm her back.

For years she’d tried to love her mother in the same unconditional way she had loved her father. That desire to love—and be loved—was the cornerstone of her youth, and its first true failure.

Nothing she’d done had ever been right in her mother’s eyes, and for a girl who desperately wanted to please, this failure had left scars. The worst of them—besides the night of the Christmas play—had come on a sunny spring day.

Meredith didn’t recall how old she was exactly, but Nina had just started her swimming lessons, so maybe ten, and Dad had taken her sister to the pool, so Meredith was alone with Mom in that big, rambling house. She’d snuck out after lunch, with tools in her hand and a packet of seeds in her pocket. Alone in the winter garden, humming with excitement, she’d pulled out all the ivy that grew over everything and dragged away the old verdigris copper column that gave the garden a jumbled, messy look. Attacking the muddy black earth with her trowel, she’d carefully planted flower seeds in neat and tidy rows. She could picture how they would grow and bloom, how they’d give a bright and pretty order to the messy green and white so-called garden.

She’d been pleased with herself for coming up with the idea and executing it so well. As she worked the dirt and divided up the seeds and carefully placed them in the ground, she imagined her mother coming out here, seeing this gift, and—finally—hugging her.

So intent was she on the dream that she didn’t hear the house door slam shut or footsteps on the stepping-stones. The first notice she’d had that she wasn’t alone was when Mom yanked her to her feet so hard and fast that Meredith stumbled and fell sideways.

What have you done to my garden?

I wanted to make it pretty for you. I—

Meredith would never forget the look on her mother’s face as she dragged her across the yard and up the porch steps. All the way into the house, Meredith was crying, saying she was sorry, asking what she’d done that was so bad, but her mother said nothing, just pushed her into the house and slammed the door shut.

Meredith stood at the dining room window after that, crying, watching her mother attack the dirt, throwing the seeds away as if they held some kind of poison. Mom worked like a mad person, in a frenzy; she brought all the ivy back, cradling it in her hands with a gentleness she’d never shown her children, and when that was all returned to its place, she went for the column, dragging it back, muscling it into its place. When the winter garden looked as it had, she dropped to her knees in front of the column and stayed there all afternoon, with her head bowed as if in prayer. She was still there when night fell and rain started.