Winter Garden

“Would you like a drink?” she said. “We can, you know . . . talk. ”

“I’ve got a killer headache. I think I’ll just take a shower and crash. ”

She knew she could remind him that they needed to talk and he’d change course. He’d sit down with her and they’d begin this thing that so frightened her.

She probably should force it, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say anyway. And what difference would a day make? He was clearly exhausted, and she knew that feeling in spades. She could show him how much she loved him later. “Sure,” she said. “Actually, I’m tired, too. ”

They went up to bed together, and she snuggled close to him. For the first time in months she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

At five forty-five, she was awakened by the phone. Her first thought was Someone’s hurt, and she sat up sharply, her heart racing.

She grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Meredith? It’s Ed. I’m sorry to bother you so early. ”

She flicked on the bedside lamp. Mouthing Work to Jeff, she leaned back against the headboard. “What is it, Ed?”

“It’s your mother. She’s in the back of the orchard. Field A. She’s . . . uh . . . dragging that old toboggan of yours. ”

“Shit. Stop her. I’ll be right there. ” Meredith threw back the covers and got out of bed. Running around the room, she looked for something to put on.

“What the hell?” Jeff said, sitting up.

“My eighty-some-year-old mother is out sledding. But I’m wrong. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. She’s just grieving. ”

“Yeah, right. ”

“I’ve told Jim. ” She found a pair of sweats on the floor of her closet and started dressing. “He’s seen her three times in the last month and every time she’s as rational as a judge. He says it’s just grief. She saves her crazy for me. ”

“She needs professional help. ”

She grabbed her purse off the bench at the end of the bed and ran out without saying good-bye.

By spring, Meredith and Jeff had settled into silence. They both knew they were in trouble—the knowledge was in every look, every non-touch, every fake smile, but neither of them brought it up. They worked long hours and kissed each other good night and went their separate ways at dawn. Mom’s bouts of confusion had become less frequent lately; so much that Meredith had begun to hope that Dr. Burns was right and that she was finally getting better.

Meredith closed the ledger on her desk and put her mechanical pencil in the drawer. Then she hit the intercom. “I’m going to the house for lunch, Daisy. I should be back in an hour. ”

“Sure thing, Meredith. ”

She grabbed her hooded parka and headed down to her car.

It was a lovely late March day that lifted her spirits. Last week a warm front had swept through the valley, pushing Old Man Winter aside. Sunlight had left its indelible mark on the landscape: ice-blue water ran in gullies on either side of the roadways; sparkling droplets fell from the wakening apple trees, creating lacy patterns in the last few patches of slushy snow.

She turned onto Mom’s driveway, parked, and walked up to the gate. Off to her right, a man in coveralls was checking the red smudge pots. She waved to him and covered her mouth and nose as she walked through the thick black smoke.

Inside the house, she called out, “Mom. I’m here,” as she took off her coat.

In the kitchen, she stopped short.

Her mother was standing on the counter, holding a piece of newspaper and a roll of duct tape.

“Mom! What the hell are you doing? Get down from there. ” Meredith rushed over and reached out, helping her mother climb down. “Here. Take my hand. ”

Mom’s face was chalky; her hair was a mess. She was dressed in at least four layers of mismatched clothes but her feet were bare. Behind her, on the stove, something was boiling over, popping and hissing. “I need to go to the bank,” Mom said. “We need to take our money out while we can. We haven’t much to trade. ”

“Mom . . . your hands are bleeding. What have you done?”

Mom glanced toward the dining room.