The Heirloom Garden - A Novel - Viola Shipman Page 0,40
ask.
His eyes narrow. “I had a beer.”
I look at my watch. “It’s not even noon,” I say.
“You’re not my mother.” Cory’s voice is now trembling with anger.
I see white. “Why don’t you try acting like her father,” I say. “You’re lucky I haven’t called social services. Or your wife.”
“This is none of your business.”
“It is when a little girl is in danger and asks for my help,” I say. “It is when I could evict you from your home this very moment.”
Cory takes a step toward me. He clenches his fists. “I fought for this country,” he says. “I can have a beer anytime I damn well want.”
I take a step toward Cory. “My husband fought for this country, too,” I say. “He never came home. And, no, you can’t have a beer when you want if you’re looking after a little girl.”
“Lily!” Cory suddenly yells. “Let’s go. Lily!”
When she doesn’t answer, Cory rushes into my home. “Stop!” I say.
“Lily!” he yells from my living room.
“Hi, Daddy!” Lily yells. “I’m upstairs.”
My heart drops. Cory rushes up the staircase.
“Stop!” I yell again.
When I reach the top of the steps, knees aching and out of breath, I gasp.
“What are you doing?” I manage to say. “Get out of there.”
“I got lost,” Lily says. She turns, an awestruck gaze on her face as she scans the bedroom door she has opened. “It’s so pretty. It’s like I’m standing in a field of flowers. Wildflowers!”
My knees nearly buckle. I grab the wall for support.
Lily is standing in Mary’s room. I keep the door to her bedroom closed at all times. It remains untouched. It has remained untouched for decades. Handmade paper flowers—roses, crepe-paper peonies, colorful wildflowers—now yellowed, still hang from the ceiling and sprout from vases.
Lily turns. “I bet heaven looks like this,” she says.
“Get out!” I scream. “Get out of her room!”
Cory turns to me, his eyes wide. Lily turns, her cheeks trembling.
“Get out of my house! Now!”
Cory grabs Lily’s hand and pulls her out of the room. “Come on, Lily,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I slam the door to Mary’s room as they head down the stairs.
“I’m sorry, Iris,” Lily yells, her words garbled as she begins to cry. “I didn’t mean to spy.”
I look down the staircase just as Cory pulls Lily out of the house. She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face.
“Don’t be mad. I’m so, so sorry. We’re rainbows! We’re wildflowers!” Lily begins to wail. “Say something. Please!”
I hear her voice trail off as they leave.
“She’s just a crazy, old woman,” I hear Cory say.
“No, she’s not!” Lily yells.
As soon as they are gone, I lock my gate, kneel on my gardener’s pad, bow my head and water my iris with my own tears.
PART FIVE
PEONY
“Had I but four square feet of ground at my disposal,
I would plant a peony in the corner and proceed to worship.”
—Alice Harding
IRIS
MAY 2003
The doorbell rings.
I’ve had more people in my house today than I have in decades.
I look at the pill I have sitting on the kitchen counter, hesitate, take a step and then return, downing it without so much as a drink of water.
Reinforcement.
“I’m Abby Peterson. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I just didn’t think a conversation over the phone was adequate after your call.” She stops. “And from what I’ve learned already.”
My eyes widen at her admission.
Abby looks different than I had imagined, especially up close. She’s young, so very young, but has a professorial look that belies her current babbling. She is wearing a tan suit and a periwinkle blouse, and very little makeup. She extends her hand. When I simply nod and usher her in with a flourish of my own hand, she nervously pushes her oversize eyeglass frames up the bridge of her nose.
“I hope you had a nice May,” she says. “Has been a bit rainy, unfortunately.”
Her skin is fresh. It does not resemble mine, which looks like crepe paper. How do I respond to her question? Oh, yes, it was lovely. I made a birthday cake for my dead daughter and tossed a rose onto the lake in honor of my dead husband? Not exactly a conversation starter.
When I do not answer, she says, “Your home is beautiful.” She is nervous. To be honest, I quite enjoy making others nervous. It gives one the upper hand. But there’s something genuine about Abby, something innately sweet, something I see too little of in today’s world.