Winter Garden

Mom swallowed hard. Meredith could see how she steeled herself to say, “We?”

Stacey put a hand out.

Mom took it, clutched it, really, hanging on.

Stacey led her through the living room and out a set of French doors. Beyond lay a perfectly tended backyard. The scent of flowers was a sweetness in the air—lilacs and honeysuckle and jasmine. Stacey flipped a switch and a string of lights came on throughout the yard.

That was when Meredith saw the small, squared garden-within-a-garden tucked in the back of the yard. Even from here, with the inconsistent light, she could see an ornate bit of fencing.

She heard her mother say something in Russian, and then they were moving again, all of them, walking down a stone path to a garden that was almost exactly like the one Mom had created at home. A white ironwork fence with ornate curliques and pointed tips framed a patch of ground. Inside was a polished copper bench that faced three granite headstones. There were flowers blooming all around them. Overhead, the sky erupted in amazing, magical color. Darting strands of violet and pink and orange glowed amid all those stars. The northern lights.

Mom sat—collapsed, really—on the copper bench and Stacey sat beside her, holding her hand.

Meredith and Nina stood behind her; each put a hand on Mom’s shoulder.

VERONIKA PETROVNA MARCHENKO

1919–

Remember our lime tree in the Summer Garden. I will meet you there, my love.

LEO ALEKSOVICH MARCHENKO 1938–1942

Our Lion

Gone too soon

But it was the last marker that made Meredith squeeze her mother’s shoulder.

ALEKSANDR ANDREYEVICH MARCHENKO

1917–2000

Beloved husband and father

“Last year?” Mom said, turning to Stacey, whose eyes filled with tears.

“He waited his whole life for you,” she said. “But his heart just . . . gave out last winter. ”

Mom closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Meredith couldn’t imagine the pain of that, how it must feel to know that the love of your life had been alive and looking for you all these years, only to miss him by months. And yet he was here somehow, in this garden that so matched the one her mother had created.

“He always said he’d be waiting for you in the Summer Garden. ”

Mom slowly opened her eyes. “Our tree,” she said, staring at his marker for a long time. Then, slowly, she did what she always did, what she could do that so few others could: she straightened her back and lift ed her chin and managed a smile, wobbly and uncertain as it was. “Come,” she said in that magical voice, the one that had changed all their lives in the past weeks. “We will have tea. There is much to talk about. Anya, I would like to introduce you to your sisters. Meredith used to be the organized one and Nina is just a little bit crazy, but we’re changing, all of us, and you will change us even more. ” Mom smiled and if there was a shadow of sadness in her eyes—a memory of the words I’ll meet you there—it was to be expected, and it was soft ened by the joy in her voice. And maybe that was how it was supposed to be, how life unfolded when you lived it long enough. Joy and sadness were part of the package; the trick, perhaps, was to let yourself feel all of it, but to hold on to the joy just a little more tightly because you never knew when a strong heart could just give out.

Meredith took her new sister’s hand and said, “I am so happy to meet you, Anya. We’ve heard so much about you. . . . ”

No foreign sky protected me,

no stranger’s wing shielded my face.

I stand as witness to the common lot,

survivor of that time, that place.

—ANNA AKHMATOVA, FROM POEMS OF AKHMATOVA,