Winter Garden

Nina got up and went to the bed, turning on the lamp. In the soft light, her mother looked like a ghost, unmoving, her eyes closed.

“I am tired. You will leave me now. ”

Nina wanted to argue. She could sit in the dark and listen to her mother’s voice for hours. About that, her father had been right. The fairy tale connected them somehow. And her mother might be feeling it, too; Nina was certain Mom was elaborating, going deeper into the story than ever before. Did she, like Nina, want to keep it going? Had Dad asked that of her?

“Can I bring you anything before I go?” Nina asked.

“My knitting. ”

Nina looked around, saw the bulging bag stuffed alongside the rocking chair. Retrieving it, she went back to the bed. In no time, Mom’s hands were moving over the coil of blue-green mohair yarn. Nina left the room, hearing the click click click of the needles as she closed the door.

She stopped by the bathroom and pushed the door open. The room was empty.

Alone, she went downstairs and put a log on the dwindling fire. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down on the hearth.

“Wow,” she said. “Wow. ”

It was a hell of a story, worth listening to, if for no other reason than to hear her mother speak with such passion and power. The woman who told that story was someone else entirely, not the cold, distant Anya Whitson of Nina’s youth.

Was that the secret her father wanted her to glimpse? That somewhere, buried beneath the silent exterior, lay a different woman? Was that her father’s gift? A glimpse—finally—at the woman with whom he had fallen in love?

Or was there more to it? The story was so much richer and more detailed than she remembered. Or maybe she hadn’t really listened before. The story had always been something she’d taken for granted; like a picture you saw so often you never wondered who it was that had taken it, or who that was standing in the background. But once you’d noticed the oddity, it threw everything else into question.

Meredith hadn’t intended to listen to her mother’s fairy tale, but as she sat in the ridiculously overstocked bathroom, going through drawers full of over-the-counter and prescription medications dating back to 1980, she heard The Voice.

That was how she’d always thought of it, even as a girl.

Without making a conscious decision, she finished packing the box, marked it BATHROOM, and dragged it into the hallway. There she heard the words from her childhood float through the open door.

Maybe she is thinking of boys. Of a boy. . . .

Meredith felt a shiver. She recognized her own longing; it was familiar to her, that feeling of wanting something from her mother. She had known it all of her life.

She knew she should leave the bathroom and walk down the hallway and out of the house, but she couldn’t do it. The lure of Mom’s voice, as sweet and honeyed as any fairy-tale witch’s, snared her as it always had, and before she really thought about it, she found herself crossing the hallway, standing at the partially open door, listening.

It wasn’t until she heard Nina’s sharp voice say, “What do you mean, people will die?” that the spell broke. Meredith backed away from the door quickly—she definitely did not want to be caught eavesdropping; Nina would take it as interest and pounce.

Hurrying down the stairs, she was home in no time.

The dogs greeted her with dizzying enthusiasm. She was so relieved to have been missed that when she let them inside, she dropped to her knees on the mudroom floor and hugged them both, letting their nuzzling and face-licking substitute for the sound of her husband’s voice.

“Good puppies,” she murmured, scratching the soft hair behind their ears. Getting tiredly to her feet, she went to the closet beside the washer and dryer and got the giant bag of dog food—

Jeff’s job

—and poured some into their silver bowls. After a quick check that they had plenty of fresh water, she went into the kitchen.

The room was empty, quiet, with no lingering scents. She stood there in the darkness, paralyzed by the thought of the night to come. No wonder she’d stayed for the story. Anything was better than facing her empty bed.

She called each of her daughters, left I-love-you messages, and then made herself a cup of tea. Grabbing a heavy blanket, she went outside to sit on the porch.

At least the quiet out here felt natural.

She could lose herself in the endless starlit sky, in the smell of rich black earth, in the sweet scent of new growth. In this month that was a pause between spring and summer, the first tiny apples were out on the trees. In no time, the orchards would be full of fruit and workmen and pickers. . . .

It was her dad’s favorite time of year, this moment when everything was possible and he could still hope for the best crop ever. She had tried to love Belye Nochi as her father had. She loved him, so she tried to love what he had loved, and what she’d ended up with was a facsimile of his life, lacking the passion he had brought to it.

She closed her eyes and leaned back. The wicker swing back bit into her neck, but she didn’t care. The rusty old chains on either side squeaked as she pushed off with her feet.