Chapter Six #2
I think of Donovan’s hard date for the completion of the restoration.
Is it possible he is thinking of resurrecting the spring party?
I look out over the garden, picturing it—the landscape bright with flowers, the air soft and fragrant with all of the hope of spring, delighted grandchildren and their even more delighted grandparents wandering through open gates and along the paths… .
“Do you remember what the gardens behind the walls looked like?” I ask the women. “I haven’t been able to see them yet.”
“One of them was full of roses,” Cynthia says slowly, as though just remembering.
Marjorie and I both look at her encouragingly, but she doesn’t go on.
“That’s right,” says Marjorie, taking over. “It was absolutely full of roses. But that was back before the Gloom.” She gives me a meaningful look.
I tilt my head. “The Gloom?”
“That’s what Cynthia and I call it. Whatever this is.
” She gestures vaguely toward the home. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.
It’s not just the grounds. I can’t recall exactly when it started, but the light at the heart of this place has dimmed.
The Oceanview Home used to be lively, but at a certain point residents started leaving, several very lovely people passed away, the gardener was let go, and the grounds became overgrown and off-limits…
.” She trails off. “Maybe it’s just that we all got old and no one new came in.
I don’t know.” She sighs. “The spirit of the place has changed.”
Cynthia nods sadly. I wonder if she’s always been this quiet, or if her spirit, too, has changed over time, like that of the home.
Marjorie looks at me, perking up again. “So you plan to restore all of the gardens? Not just the big one?”
I nod. “That’s the idea. Unfortunately the gardens’ gates need to be repaired before I can start working in them.”
We all look down toward the places along the walls where the ivy is cut back from the arched gates.
“What happened?” Cynthia asks quietly.
“The ivy grew right over them, and the wood is rotting,” I tell her. “They’re beautiful, though. Jill thinks they’re original to the home.”
“Then we must save them,” Marjorie declares. “And I know just the person for the job, don’t I, Cynthia?”
Cynthia thinks for a moment and then nods.
Marjorie turns back to me, chin raised. “I happen to know a world-famous restoration carpenter,” she says proudly.
“Oh…” I begin, but the truth is I’m not sure how seriously to take Marjorie.
I’m saved from having to come up with a suitable reply when a loud crunching noise fills the air.
All three of us quickly turn to see an elderly man making his way across the terrace toward us, a rolling walker tight in his grip.
His mouth is pinched shut in a severe way, and even from across the terrace I can see that his eyes, which I realize with a start are locked on my face, blaze with emotion.
He seems to be headed straight for me.
“Fitz!” trills Marjorie in a startled, excited voice. “This is a nice surprise.”
The man doesn’t respond. I barely resist the urge to step back as he makes his way closer and halts his walker inches from my toes. His scent is a tempest of witch hazel, black licorice, newspaper, and a tight acrid note that rings of shame or… guilt?
“Hello,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m Lucy.”
His rheumy eyes rake over my face with fierce urgency, his lips twisting as though he’s preparing to spit something out.
“Fi-itz,” Marjorie tries again in a careful singsong. “How are you?”
He ignores her and goes right on staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he demands, his voice a low growl.
“Well, I’m… I’m working in the garden,” I say haltingly.
His eyes narrow as though he doesn’t believe me.
I can see the beat of his pulse in his temple, but I can’t tell if he’s confused or furious.
He’s wearing a stiff, short-sleeved shirt with faint gray stripes, and he’s put the buttons in the wrong holes, making one side of his collar stick up closer to his jaw than the other.
He grips the walker so tightly that the veins in his arms are visible.
He’s neither tall nor muscular, but I sense that he was once both—there’s an old, intimidating silhouette that looms behind him like a shadow.
After what feels like an interminable stretch of time, he grumbles something and turns away, shaking his head as he shoves his walker toward a corner of the terrace.
I release my breath and glance toward the home. Does anyone knows that these three are outside? Should I try to find Jill? Or try to convince everyone to return inside myself?
“Is everything okay, Fitz?” Marjorie asks. “You seem very upset.”
He flicks his hand irritably as though swatting away a fly, but Marjorie is no fly.
“What is it?” she presses. “What’s wrong?”
Silence hangs in the air.
Then, at last, he answers: “She looks like someone I used to know.” His eyes meet mine for one cold moment and then flick away.
Marjorie clucks her tongue sympathetically. “That’s a funny feeling, isn’t it? Like you’re seeing a ghost.”
“I didn’t say the woman was dead!”
“Oh! No, you didn’t,” Marjorie amends quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, she is dead!” Fitz barks so loudly that Marjorie, Cynthia, and I all draw in our breath.
He rattles his walker. “Of course she’s dead!
I just didn’t say it. You don’t have the right to know everything about everyone just because we’re all stuck here together.
This isn’t a sorority! You’re not class president! ”
Marjorie blinks rapidly behind her glasses. I’m about to step in and say something consoling when a woman in a navy caregiver uniform comes rushing through the automatic doors.
“There you are!” she cries, breathless. “I’ve been looking everywhere for all of you. You know you really aren’t supposed to come outside without—”
“Oh, Eva, we’re fine,” Marjorie cuts in impatiently. “We’re better than fine! We were just enjoying some fresh air and saying hello to the new gardener. That is, until Fitz and his thundercloud appeared.”
The aide turns to me. “Hi. I’m Eva,” she says distractedly. Her nails are long and painted purple with what appear to be tiny white flowers. She’s younger than me—maybe right out of college, or even younger than that.
“I’m Lucy,” I tell her.
And then Marjorie announces loftily, “We’d like the tables placed back on the terrace.”
Eva turns toward her. “The… tables?”
“The tables that used to be out here! If we’re fixing up the gardens, we’d like to be able to sit outside and enjoy them again. That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m sure the tables are in some storage room. Jill will know. You know what? I’ll ask her myself.”
Marjorie and Cynthia, arm in arm, head as one toward the doors. As they sweep past me, Marjorie holds out her hand for the glass that I only then realize I’m still clutching. When I return it to her, I’m certain I see a hint of amusement in Cynthia’s face.
Eva looks at Fitz with a pleading, uncertain expression. “Mr. Fitz, will you, um… would you come inside, too? Mr. Fitz? Please?”
The old man shakes his head.
“Oh, but,” Eva tries, looking out toward the bright sea as though hoping to find a solution written there, “aren’t you… cold?”
“Cold?” Fitz mimics sneeringly. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll be in when I’m good and ready and not a second sooner.” The way he stands there, like a statue, his chin lifted skyward as though he’s trying to see anything but the garden, makes me fear he might never leave, just out of spite.
Eva twists her hands together and glances over her shoulder at the home. When she looks back at Fitz, a mild sort of panic has spread over her face.
Before I can think better of it, I quietly tell Eva that I’ll wait with Fitz. “Until you’re able to send someone else out,” I say, “or he goes inside on his own.”
Eva’s expression floods with relief. “Would you? Thank you.” Almost before she has the words out, she has turned and nearly sprinted inside.
Once she’s gone, Fitz takes up his low grumbling again.
“You think I was rude to that Marjorie Swenson woman. Well, I was rude!” he says and rattles his walker for emphasis.
“But, you see, I’ve been rude to her since the moment we met, and she keeps trying to befriend me.
It’s maddening. If you don’t give a woman like that boundaries, she’ll walk all over you. ”
I feel myself bristling a little on Marjorie’s behalf. “I thought she seemed very nice.”
“People who are nice tend to want something from you.” Fitz’s eyes are an extraordinarily icy shade of blue, and when they rake over my face, a shiver moves through me. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”
I immediately straighten. “That’s not the sort of thing my mother would have believed, let alone repeated.”
Fitz looks away and doesn’t respond.
“I think—I think that if Marjorie wants anything, it’s simply companionship,” I say once I’ve collected myself. “Friends.”
Fitz rolls his eyes.
I give up and look out over the grounds, working through a mental list of all I need to do, and turn toward Fitz again only when I hear the sounds of his walker complaining over the slate terrace.
I watch until I’m sure he’s made his way safely inside and then, relieved, turn my attention back to the garden.