But what harm, I wondered, could a memory do?
I had no idea just how dangerous the past could be, no sense of the terrible chain of events that I was about to set into motion.
Chapter Eight
Catmint: A flowering herb in the mint family with fronds of highly aromatic violet flowers whose fresh, lemony scent inspires serenity
On my second day at the Oceanview Home, I look up from my work to see Jill hurrying down the steps toward me, her face drawn.
“We need to talk—” she says, but suddenly she smiles. She’s caught sight of Gully, who pads good-naturedly toward her, tail waving behind him.
“Well, look at you, you absolute giant,” Jill coos. She strokes his head and gazes adoringly into his big, brown eyes. “Gully, isn’t it? Hello, you sweet boy. Hello, Gully.”
After a few moments of petting, Jill remembers herself and straightens, clearing her throat. “Lucy. About yesterday…” She trails off again as she looks around the garden. For a moment, she seems at a loss for words. “It already looks so… different,” she says quietly, almost sorrowfully.
I tilt my head. “Is something wrong?”
“No… no.” She lifts her chin, her expression sharpening. “I understand that you met some of the residents yesterday.”
“Yes. Marjorie and Cynthia. And Mr. Fitz came out, too, a bit later.”
Jill looks surprised. “Fitz? Huh.” After a beat, she goes on. “Well, Marjorie put me in touch with her grandson, who is apparently a world-renowned restoration carpenter, whatever that is. He said he can take a look at the gates and advise us as to next steps. He’ll be here sometime this week.”
“That came together quickly,” I say. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised—Marjorie seemed determined to help.”
“She’s determined, that’s for sure,” Jill says dryly. “She’s also pushing to get tables and chairs placed on the terrace.”
Jill seems resistant to this idea, but I can’t imagine why. The terrace is a far more appealing place to take a meal than the home’s dreary, airless dining room.
“Marjorie and Cynthia seemed very happy to be outside,” I tell her. “They told me all about the gardens and how things used to be.”
Jill’s brow furrows. “Cynthiatold you about the gardens?”
“It was Marjorie, really,” I concede. “Cynthia didn’t say much.”
Jill nods. “She’s become quieter, more withdrawn, recently. But her friendship with someone as upbeat as Marjorie is good for her. Even the routines of their friendship… the fact that they’ve known each other for so long. Disrupting routine is very hard on people with cognitive decline.” Her voice catches slightly on these last words and she looks away.
“It must be difficult to watch,” I say.
She gives a small, sad shrug. “There are days when Cynthiaremembers everything and everyone. There are days when she’s anxious and forgetful. On most days, she’s simply quiet, and on those days especially, Marjorie is a great comfort to her. I understand from some of the staff that they’ve been friends for many years, since long before my time here. Apparently they used to be quite mischievous. Pulling pranks on the other residents, trying to set up members of the staff, things like that.”
Her voice grows thoughtful, her thoughts meandering. “It’s very hard to get old,” she says quietly. “To have so little control of your health, of your own life. To feel alone. To watch your friends die, or move away. To feel that you are no longer yourself…”
I think of my father, who does not seem like himself without my mother. I think of Vikram Neel, the chef who is on a hunger strike because he can no longer bake, can no longer connect with the person he has been for most of his life.
“You’d like to protect them,” I say gently.
Jill’s dark eyes snap to meet mine. “How could I do that? I can hardly…” She presses her lips together, heat flaring on her cheeks. “Anyway,” she goes on, “there isn’t any reason for you to know any of—for you to know any ofthem. You have a job to do, and it has nothing to do with the residents. Just stay on task, Lucy.”
“Is that what you came out here to say?” I ask, startled. “That you don’t want me to interact with the residents?”
“Yes.” Then she adds, “And to tell you about the carpenter.” She shoots a brief look of softness in Gully’s direction before turning and marching up the steps to the terrace, her back rigid and her black hair starkly gleaming in the high afternoon sun.
I watch her go. What bit of information am I missing that wouldhelp me make sense of her perpetually shifting moods? What possible reason could she have for not wanting me to speak with the residents? The very thought of attempting to ignore Marjorie the next time she steps out onto the terrace and yoo-hoos down to me makes me smile. She wouldn’t let me ignore her even if I wanted to.
Beyond the boxwoods that line the paths, among the thick tangles of weeds in the beds of the sunken garden, I breathe in hints of the flowers that have survived despite years of neglect. Lavender, salvia, catmint, phlox, a variety of allium—they’re all hidden within the straggly green range of crabgrass and chickweed.
Some of the flowers surprise me. It’s a bit of an anachronism that Agatha Pike planted salvia in a formal garden. Salvia’s silhouette is looser, wilder than the structured stems of lavender—it feels like a nod to California in a garden that otherwise would have had a refined, European sensibility. Then again, it’s possible that Agatha never intended the salvia to be here. Birds, or the wind, might have carried the flower’s seeds from a neighboring garden. There is only so much planning one can do; nature will have her way. I decide that I won’t remove the salvia when I find it. I like it here, where its earthy, herbal fragrance acts as a foundation for the softer, rounder aroma of the lavender.
