The Memory Garden (27 page)

There is salt snow and wet snow, hard snow and crystalline snow, as though fake and part of a giant snow globe. There is graupel, the snow skiers love because it acts like ball bearings beneath fluffy snow, perfect for gliding across. There is wild snow, the kind that swirls across the sky like an angry child’s scribble. And there is lace snow, which falls delicately, revealing to any close observer the various patterns of flakes. The snow Nan gets for her birthday that December is a combination of all these types, and it has been falling all day.

Nan is glad no one she knows is traveling. The road conditions can’t be good. She turned off the radio hours ago, after reading the email from Howard. She shut everything off, the computer, the radio, even the lights. The stove is on, and the oven, of course. The dining room table is set. She used the lace tablecloth and pink china. The candles are lit. She stands at the front door in her blue velvet dress, looking out the window, waiting.

In spite of everything, when she sees them coming, and she is certain it is them—who else would it be?—she claps her hands, one happy clap, causing the candles throughout the house to tremble.

They come up the snowy hill, passing beneath the great elm with its yearning branches, the lacy flakes doing nothing to dampen the little flames flickering on the cake.
Only
Ruthie
, Nan thinks,
would
carry
a
lit
birthday
cake
through
the
snow.
Bay, wearing her coat unbuttoned, as though it were a warm spring evening, sees Nan and waves an ungloved hand at her.

She’s going to catch cold
, Nan thinks, opening the door. Ruthie, also apparently unaffected by the weather, her back straight, head erect, smiles beneath the close-set blue eyes. She insists they can’t come inside until the candles are blown out. Bay starts to explain how they don’t do that, but Nan leans into the falling snow to make her wish, enjoying the flakes on her face, the cold sting. (
Snow
bees
, that’s what Andersen called them.) The cake’s beautifully feathered white frosting glitters with snow. “Bay did it herself,” Ruthie says in response to Nan’s compliment as they shrug off their coats. When Bay takes the wet things to hang in the bathroom, Ruthie leans close to Nan to whisper, “She’s quite overcome me with her talent, you know. All I can do is teach her the basics and watch what she does.”

Ruthie carries the cake into the dining room. When Bay joins them, they take a vote, and it is unanimous: they will eat cake first, because, as Ruthie says, they don’t want to ruin their appetites. Nan is about to slice into it, the gleaming knife hovering above the perfect terrain of frosting, when the doorbell rings.

“Well, who could that be?” Ruthie asks.

Nan shakes her head, though she thinks she knows. She goes to the door and takes a deep breath before opening it, Ruthie and Bay peering over her shoulder. In all the excitement, Nan’s tears are mistaken for joy.

“What? You going to leave me out here like an old boot?”

She’s not dressed properly, of course. Bay takes the purple shawl into the bathroom, and Ruthie offers Nan’s slippers, but stops midsentence to peer suspiciously at Mavis.

“Don’t you have any luggage?” Bay asks.

Mavis waves a bracelet-clanking wrist, the question an unreasonable distraction as she walks past them into the dining room, which shimmers with candlelight. She says she isn’t hungry; she’s eaten enough “for an entire lifetime,” she says. “Don’t mind me,” she insists. “I’m on a completely different schedule now. What are you doing here?” she asks Ruthie.

Nan cuts the cake while Ruthie explains how she fell in love with the little house in the woods. “They call it the witch’s cabin.” She laughs, as though this is the funniest thing. “It needed work, but we fixed it.”

“Oh, wait until you see,” Bay says. “There’s a stone fireplace and a front porch. Today, while we were baking, a deer stood right outside the window, watching.”

The frosting, Nan thinks, is so light it melts in her mouth, barely sweet, the vaguest taste of rosewater, a confectionery dream. When she wipes a tear, the others look at her, but no one demands she explain herself, which she appreciates.

After dessert, they eat their dinner while Mavis regales them with tales of Africa. Nan feels a little shy about serving Ruthie and Bay, who are the better cooks, but she has kept it simple, no fancy tricks. Goulash. Warm rolls. A good merlot.

“Don’t you even want wine?” Bay asks Mavis. “Wait! Where’s Howard? Is he with his parents?”

“He stayed in Africa,” Mavis says, “taking care of business.”

Bay puzzles over this as she clears the dishes. She comes in and out of the room a few times to complete her task, and all the while, Nan stares at Mavis; what to say, how to say it? Ruthie seems struck by the same sort of reverie, for she, too, is uncharacteristically silent.

Bay takes extra long to return after the table is cleared. When she does, she brings with her the scent and chill of cold air, the glisten of snowflakes in her hair.

“Come on, Nana,” she says.

Nan stands slowly, accepting Bay’s hand, which is quite cold but exceptionally soft, letting her lead the way, looking back to see Ruthie pushing her chair in, patting her tight curls as though some damage could come to them. Mavis remains seated, flickering in the shadows. With a gentle squeeze of Bay’s hand, Nan stops.

“Are you coming?” she asks.

Mavis shakes her head.

“I’m glad you were here,” Nan says. Bay gently pulls, but Nan can be surprisingly strong when she needs to be. “Do you hear me? I’m glad you were here.”

Mavis, who has been staring at the candles as though mesmerized by them, turns to Nan and smiles.

***

Nan dons her coat, gloves, scarf, and boots, resisting the temptation to look out the kitchen window. Bay steps from foot to foot like an excited child, while Ruthie smiles thinly, distracted, figuring things out. When Nan is finally ready, Bay opens the back door, waving her hand with a flourish.

Nan steps into the snow-fresh world, walking carefully down the stairs into the yard (one can never know about ice) toward her candles. Blinking against the pelting flakes, she takes a deep breath that fills her lungs until she gasps. “Why, look at all that light,” she says, pressing her hands over her heart.

Bay stands at the window, watching Nan in her red boots, her long black coat, the old knit scarf wrapped around her head, the snow swirling, like a figure in one of those globes, solid in the midst of a shaken world.
Forever
, Bay thinks, her fingers hovering near, but not touching, the glass. “Forever,” she whispers, reaching toward the small flames swollen to golden auras like the hundred magic moons of a fairy-tale garden.

Forever

“Sometimes our inner light goes out, but it is blown again into flame by an encounter with another human being. Each of us owes the deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this inner light.”

—Albert Schweitzer

With gratitude to: Lori Alberts, Cathy Barber, Kristen Barrows, Bill Bauerband, Christopher Barzak (first reader, patient friend and guide), Rick Bowes, Dr. Brugaletta, Tom Canty, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Basha Cord, Karen Crandall, Shana Drehs, Dr. Richard Dunham, Jeff Ford, Connie May Fowler, Meg Galarza, Douglas Glover, Marcia Gorra-Patek, Anna Klenke, Joshilyn Jackson, Ellen Lesser, the Lyons family, Howard Morhaim (your affection for this work has meant a great deal to me), Beth Phelan, all the folks at the Howard Morhaim Literary Agency, my family, Terry Schuster, Sourcebooks, Jonathan Strahan (here’s your witch’s story!), Thomas Tunney (words can never say…), Gordon Van Gelder (special thanks for opening the door), Vermont College of Fine Arts, Karen Wiederholt, and Gary K. Wolfe.

1.
Discuss the meanings of the plant descriptions at the beginning of each chapter. How does each plant relate to the events of the chapter, and why do you think the author chose each one? Are there certain plants, herbs, or flowers that have special meaning to you?

2.
Nan’s unusual garden is a constant presence in the novel, acting almost as a character itself. How does the garden setting affect the mood of the novel? What are some other examples of gardens used in literature?

3.
At the beginning of the novel, Nan is seventy-nine years old and Bay is fourteen. How do you think their relationship has been affected by Nan being a significantly older mother?

4.
What secrets does Nan keep from Bay? What secrets does Bay keep from Nan? Nan, Ruthie, and Mavis are all very aware of their age and status as older women. How do age and the passing of time play into the novel?

5.
Nan tells Mavis that she especially hates being called “cute.” Do you agree? Has your relationship to the word changed over the years?

6.
Nan reveals herself to be a complex person—overall, do you think she’s a good person?

7.
Nan, Mavis, and Ruthie each had potential that went largely unrealized in their lifetimes. Is this because of what happened with Eve, or simply what happens with age?

8.
Nan, Mavis, and Ruthie took Eve to the city for an abortion given by a man who said he was a real doctor. What if they had made a different choice? What if they had gone to Miss Winter instead? Would things necessarily have turned out differently? What if Eve didn’t have the abortion? What would her life have been like? Would the four of them have remained friends?

9.
At the time of Eve’s abortion, there was no legal option for one. Nonetheless, Mavis insisted they go to a “real” doctor. Discuss why she thought this was a better option.

10.
Discuss the characters in the story. Who behaved criminally? Who behaved heroically?

11.
Is a criminal act defined by conscience or law?

12.
Why does Ruthie respond so passionately to Bay’s comment that she understands how it feels to want to murder someone? Could Bay ever have been an actual threat to anyone?

13.
In some ways, this novel is about how people don’t see one another. Discuss how this is explored in all the characters. Have you ever had an experience where you later realized you had not “seen” someone?

14.
Although much material is written about broken romance, broken friendships are given less attention and yet can be just as difficult. Have you ever lost a friendship you wish you had maintained?

15.
Ruthie and Mavis convince Nan that she had nothing to do with Karl’s death. Were they right to do so?

16.
How does Nan’s guilty conscience affect her life and the decisions she makes?

17.
During the feast, Stella says that forgiveness is done for the self, rather than for the one who has done the damage. Do you agree or disagree?

18.
When Mavis asks Nan if she has forgiven Eve’s father, Nan indicates that she has her limits. Is forgiveness a duty? Should someone who has been harmed always feel responsible to give forgiveness? By the end of the novel, who has been forgiven and who hasn’t?

19.
Discuss the way food is used in this novel—Nan’s birthday breakfast, the sandwiches Bay leaves for Karl, her birthday dinner, Ruthie’s pancakes, the flower feast, the apple pie—and what different foods mean to you. Have you ever had a meal or dish that carried a strong emotional impact either while you were eating it or later as a memory?

20.
By the end of the novel, we realize Ruthie identifies as a witch. Discuss all the ways she used her secret power for good.

21.
How is each person changed by the end of the novel?

22.
How does the fact that Bay sees ghosts affect her future with Nan, Mavis, and Ruthie?

23.
At the end of the novel, who is dead and who is alive?

24.
What might Bay’s life be like in the future?

When people ask what my novel is about, I often find myself chewing air until I sputter “a garden” or “memory” or “death.” I might add, “But it’s sweet.” I try the
elevator
pitch
, a term writers use to describe the summation of an entire novel into the space of time it might take to pique the interest of a publishing type miraculously riding the same elevator as the author.

I, however, live in a town not only not frequented by publishing types (alas, there isn’t even a bookstore), but also, as far as I know, there is not a single elevator. Perhaps that is the reason I am so bad at the infamous pitch.

“It’s about old women,” I say. “Friends who haven’t seen each other since the bad thing happened. It’s about mothers and daughters, forgiveness. Here.” I awkwardly thrust a small packet of forget-me-not seeds at the inquisitor. “It’s about gardens.”

Almost never do I say it’s about witches, so wary am I of the reduction that often arrives with the archetype because, I learned, many people have formed an idea of what a witch is and can be, or what a witch story is about.

I am not the sort of writer who knows where I am going. Only later, as I pull the disparate elements together, do I ask what their reasons might be.

Why
witches
, I wondered.
Why
tell
this
story
with
witches?

In many ways, this is a tale of hidden things and illusions—secrets, masks, and that oldest trick of all, hiding in plain sight. In fact, in spite of the sweet tone, this is a story about one of the greatest hiding-in-plain-sight manifestations of all—death. The challenge was how to write about this aspect without diminishing its potency or allowing it to overwhelm life’s tendency toward regeneration. The tradition of the witch’s garden, with its uncertain seasons, seemed a fine way to address both the fetid and fertile elements, while witches revealed themselves to be perfect figures to stand at the border. Who better suited to traverse the feminine power of creation and its opposite than a witch?

While writing this novel, I was a student at the MFA program of Vermont College of Fine Arts, where I was fortunate enough to work with author Joshilyn Jackson. Early in our acquaintance, she asked what food my story would be, which is not, actually, the typical writing teacher question.

“It’s a dark chocolate truffle,” I said in a gleeful rush, knowing I had found my perfect mentor, “with a hint of cayenne that sneaks up on you.”

Most of us live lives of half memory and illusion. For most of us, death is the shock that overwhelms the sweet. “Wait, what’s this?” we might ask, slowly recalling the ingredients. After all, it’s not like we haven’t been
warned
.

I’m afraid we’ve gotten into a terrible habit of separating our tastes as if sweet and bitter not only shouldn’t associate, but can actually be kept apart. Why is it we insist forgiveness is sweet but forget how bitter it is to produce? How can it be that, at this late date, we still look at old women as if the only stories they might have to tell are about baking cookies and raising children? Why is it that even in the mythic landscape, the very definition of borderless space, we tend to confine witches, the symbol of malleability, within narrow parameters? What are we so afraid of?

I guess I don’t tell people this is a story about witches because it seems to diminish more than to inform, which is kind of the point. Yes, this is a story about witches, but this is also the story of the way women are reduced by society’s expectations for their behavior; the way people look at old women and think they are cute, or regard young girls as insubstantial.

I am happy to applaud the old men who march in our Fourth of July parade, the veterans in their uniforms and medals; I cannot imagine the battles they fought, but I also wonder about the old woman applauding beside me who likely fought some battles of her own for which there is little recognition because, even now, women’s stories are often lost to misconception.

It is October as I compose this, sitting at my desk before the same window I looked out during the years it took to tell this story. A giant spider fashioned from some sort of weatherproof material crawls across my neighbor’s house, while a gauzy creature with a ghoulish face dangles from the oak tree’s branches. I am having a difficult time finishing this rumination, and I recognize that this is a result of some reluctance to let go. On a shelf next to my desk is the stack of books I have read as research for my next novel, and tucked into the drawer are its first pages. Yes, it is definitely time for me to move on, yet, as I look at the house which served to ground me in the space of Nan and Bay’s garden home, I like to think these characters I came to love will always exist in the space they lived in, a place Bay calls
Forever
. I like to believe this is what life is about—an untamed garden, a spiral of light, seasons of creation and destruction and yes, bitterness. Too often we forget the power we all possess. What could be more wondrous than forgiveness, that alchemy that produces from its dark root the bright flower? What could be a better trick than the one many of us struggle with—the ability to hang on even as we let go?

I just saw this season’s first snowflakes drifting outside my window. I have forty daffodil bulbs to plant; alliums and tulips, as well.
The
seasons
don’t wonder
, as Ruthie would say.
They
just
move
along.

And so must I, but not without first taking this moment to thank you for sharing this magical place. Please join me in a toast (or raise a chocolate toad). To the cut flowers! We are the living and the dead.

Mary Rickert

October 28, 2013