The Memory Garden (The Dahlia #1)

CHAPTER 1

Rebecca

The voice was urgent and low. “Rebecca.”

For a moment she wanted to dream it back to its neat little corner, the flat slate-blue landscape where she’d been safe, floating on air, moments before.

But then the beeps came, and the soft intermittent puffs. The hum from a machine to her right, or behind her. The cold antiseptic smell that twitched at her nostrils, tickled her throat. Her body ached everywhere. Rebecca cracked open an eye, then shut it just as quickly.

Oh, dear God. What have I done?

The hospital. It was all coming back to her now. She wiggled a toe, just enough that she could feel the tight sheets tug and press against the top of her ankle. A finger next. Movement was good. Movement meant she’d be okay. Of course she’d be okay. She had to be.

“Rebecca Chastain.”

Louder now.

She steeled herself. She wouldn’t think about it. Not yet. There was plenty of time for that.

“Mmpf.” The word felt odd on her tongue, and she swallowed past the dry mouth, squinted as she tried to sit up. The room was at once too bright and just right.

The nurse stood at the foot of her bed, a helmet-haired thirty-something with gray eyes far too close together, her yellow scrubs dotted with tiny farm animals. She moved to Rebecca’s side, keeping a firm hand on Rebecca’s collarbone—settle down—as she pressed a lever on the bed.

The room went from far off to front-and-center in an instant.

“Do you know why you’re here?” The nurse’s voice was softer now, no trace of impatience.

Rebecca’s heart began to pound. She nodded. “Th-the pills.” Her voice sounded nothing like her own, like she was either twelve years old or sixty.

“Thirty of them, to be exact. You’re very lucky they found you.” The nurse fluffed the pillows behind her, added a small one behind her neck. “Up for visitors?”

Rebecca’s expression must have said it all.

The nurse tsked, but it was a good-natured tsk. “Your granny just stepped out for some coffee. She’ll be back in a moment.”

Granny. Rebecca eyes filled with tears. Stupid. Stupid to think she could do this, this one ridiculous thing, and keep it from the people she loved. Of course Granny was here. Her parents, too. Of course they would be. And Sarah, and Marisol.

She looked at the nurse, unable to form the words.

And Peter.

Oh, please. Please not Peter.

All she’d wanted was sleep, escape. Silence.

Now everything she feared was crashing in around her like a massive wave, as if she were six years old again, floundering beneath the surface, unable to break free.

The tears came, coursing down her cheeks, ugly thick tears that made her eyes swim and her lips swell. Her breath came out in awful, hoarse, hiccupping sobs.

“There, there, honey.” The nurse stood close, patted her back.

Rebecca found herself resting her head on the woman’s soft bosom, cradled in her fleshy arms as if she’d done this a thousand times before.

The nurse fished atop the table and handed over a tissue. “Here.”

Rebecca mopped at her face, grabbed for another tissue.

“I bet you’re one relieved lady,” the nurse said over her head.

Rebecca looked up to see Granny standing there. Her Granny, petal-pink pocketbook clutched in her hands with her old, familiar Bible poking out between the handles, spring straw hat, the same hat Rebecca remembered from her childhood, crooked atop her gray curls.

And her eyes. Those dark, deep eyes. Indian eyes, Granny called them. Watching. Waiting.

But instead of judgment and disappointment, Rebecca saw worry, concern. Even a little fear.

Most of all, she saw love. The years melted away.

Hours later, the room was quiet, the warm glow of the setting sun smoothing out the lines and spots on Granny’s arms as they sat, hand-in-hand, in the hospital room. Granny smelled of peppermint and lavender, the scents of home.

“Was he worth it?” Granny asked quietly, and Rebecca didn’t even have to strain to hear the South Carolina twang in her words. “If the pills had worked, if you’d died last night, would he have been worth it all?”

Rebecca let out a breath. “No.”

It was the truth. Peter wasn’t worth it at all.

And right now, he seemed like he was a million miles away, as if she’d imagined him, an artificial replica of those perfect men she and her cousin used to conjure up in their bedtime make-your-own-husband games, where they’d invent the ideal man they’d one day marry.

Vikki’s was usually blond and outdoorsy, occasionally an artsy type or a politician thrown in here or there.

Rebecca’s, however, was always tall, dark and brooding, charming and dashing, always rushing out to handle the next big thing and then coming home with flowers and romance.

She’d gotten what she’d asked for. Peter was certainly dashing. And ambitious. And everything else she’d thought she wanted.

Until he broke her heart. Until he didn’t come home at all, except to pack his bags and inform her he was moving in with what’s-her-face.

Alyssa.

Rebecca had set herself up for failure from the start.

“It was everything, Granny.” She swallowed hard. “Peter, losing my job, not being able to dig myself out of the pit. Everything I built my life on, it all just crumbled down to nothing. I just feel so … so empty.”

The last word was so soft it could have been a whisper. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears back, but one slipped past, tickled her cheek as it rolled to her chin.

Granny just arched a brow, patted her Bible, which now rested beside her. “Sounds like it’s time to build your house on solid ground.”

A long silence fell over them, so long Rebecca thought Granny might have fallen asleep there in the hospital chair. Surely Granny was tired. She’d taken an early flight to come here, had sat all day keeping watch, taking care.

Rebecca peered out the window, straining to see the bustle of city outside. All she could glimpse was amber sunlight glinting off concrete. New York had been her home for fifteen years now, and sometimes she still felt like a tourist.

A knock came at the door, and she and Granny both sat up. The lights flicked on.

“Hi, Rebecca, I’m Dr. Carter.”

He was a tall thin man in a white coat, his balding head shining like a beacon framed by thick brown domes of hair by his ears. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and the hair domes bounced.

“Head of psychiatrics here. We met earlier, though I don’t imagine you remember. And you’re her grandmother?”

“Yes. Helen Chastain.”

They shook hands and then went through the details—the backstory, the pills she took, the stomach pumping, the counseling she’d need.

It had been Sarah who’d found her. Sarah, her best friend who lived clear across the city now, who was supposed to be driving upstate for the weekend with her new fiancé.

Sarah, who’d had a “bad feeling” and used her spare key to let herself into Rebecca’s loft apartment, found her passed out cold on her computer desk.

She hadn’t even written a note. The empty bottle of pills and glass of wine said it all.

“I didn’t mean to kill myself. I didn’t want to die.” Her voice was small, cracked on the last word. “I—I was just tired of it all. Tired of the game, the mess everything had become. Tired of hurting all the time.” A bitter laugh escaped, which turned into a sigh.

“You’re a journalist, right?”

“I was assistant editor. On the fast track.” Her lips twisted, and for a moment she remembered how it felt to rise. And fall.

“It’s a hard market.”

“You can say that again.”

He cocked his head, looked first at Granny, then at her. She decided she liked him.

“So why the pills?” He leaned in. “You know better.”

She did know better. Rebecca shivered.

“It sounds really dumb, but in some skewed corner of my mind, I guess I’d convinced myself that if I took enough pills I could, I don’t know, maybe somehow restart my life. Like I’d restart my laptop.”

“You’re not my first patient to say that.”

She shot him a look, and he shrugged.

“A call for help, hm?”

“In retrospect, yes.” Rebecca looked him straight in the eyes.

He blinked, then smiled. “I like an honest patient.” He scooted his chair a bit closer. “Want to know my theory?”

She nodded.

“I think you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder brought about by the breakup of your relationship and the loss of your job, all fueled by what we psychiatrists like to call a deep depressive state.”

She sighed, sank into the pillows. Depression, indeed.

“I’ve never been depressed before.”

“It runs in the family,” Granny said quietly, and Rebecca glanced over, questions swirling.

“And you’ve had quite a whirlwind, Rebecca.

” Dr. Carter’s eyes softened. “In, what, twenty-four hours, you lost everything you associated with your identity in one fell swoop. When the depression took root, you had nothing else to temper it, nothing else to help you cope. It was only a matter of time before you went looking for Plan B.”

Plan B in the form of a bottle of pills. Rebecca pressed her lips together, cheeks hot, warding off the tears.

All those years. All that time.

And now she had nothing.

And Peter was on top of the world.

Peter. Her “why” when he’d told her sounded pitiful even now.

She remembered that “why,” remembered how badly it hurt, how physically rotten she felt, everywhere.

It was a wheezy, plaintive “why,” raw and not remotely appealing.

She’d almost made herself sick hearing it come out of her mouth, but she’d said it, again and again.

“Why” was all she could manage. She’d hit him, then, and he’d let her. Hit him with a vengeance, with her whole body, like she did the punching bag at the gym. As if hitting him would wake him up, make him see. Make him realize how much she loved him, how much he loved her.

But he didn’t love her.

And the job. The job that had been everything. Gone, too. Weeks of going through the motions, fruitless job searches. That last interview, the one for the doe-eyed Ken doll with side-swept bangs and a fuzzy collar, he’d insinuated she was perhaps a smidge too old for the hustle. Old? Her?

Now she was empty. Stuck in this hospital bed with unwashed hair, her granny and Dr. Carter staring at her like she was glass, so fragile she might crack before their eyes.

Sniffing hard, she swiped at her cheeks. Thought about Ken doll and his dumb, patronizing smile. No. This is not how I’m going down.

“It’s not going to happen again,” she told them, looking first at Granny, then at Dr. Carter.

I’m going to make it on my own two feet. My own way. No pills, no pity party, no bones about it. I’ve got to.

Dr. Carter looked genuinely happy. “That’s the spirit. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He firmed his lips into a line as he scribbled something on a prescription pad. “We’ll try Prozac, for starters. Next is the support network.” He looked at Granny. “She’s going to need you, you know.”

Granny just nodded, squeezing Rebecca’s hand like she’d known that all along. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I mean, need you around the clock. Preferably far from here, where she won’t lapse into her old ways.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but Granny held up a hand. “Already on that.”

Rebecca blinked. “Granny?”

“Problem solved.” Granny tucked her Bible into her purse, then clicked the clasp shut with a loud snap. “Rebecca’s moving in with me.”

“Wait, ah—what?”

Dr. Carter smiled. “Good. Where?”

Granny gave a small smile. “Dahlia, South Carolina. About as far from New York City as a body can get, heart, mind, and soul.”

“We’ll have to line up counseling there, of course,” Dr. Carter said.

“Of course. Charlotte’s an hour away. We can go there if needed.”

“But—but what about a job? And Granny, I can’t leave my apartment. I have fixed rent, and—”

Granny just smiled. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweet girl. I have it all worked out.”