Flower (12 page)

T
omorrow I visit Miss Macready I want to find out if she talks to the ghost of the sea captain, the way I talk to the girl who whispered her name to me.

Something wakes me up. The room is full of shadows and Lillie emerges from them. She seems different tonight, kind of hesitant, as if she’s here for the first time. She runs her hand over the furniture, touches the jug and basin on the chest, then stands by the window and looks out onto the garden. I say her name softly: “Lillie?” She doesn’t answer. Lillie’s far away, in a dream of her own. I don’t think she can hear me. I hope she’s not feeling sad tonight. She doesn’t stay.

*

The nursing home looks better than it sounds. On the way here, Gran and I had a competition to see who could come up with the worst name we could think of for a seniors’ home. She won with Journey’s End!

The lobby is painted cream and green. There are fake trees, which only look semi-real. An old man shuffles in, hanging on tightly to the rails along the walls. There are pictures of flowers and ships, the kind you see in dentists’ offices. A few old people wander through, mostly using walkers or canes. It’s awfully quiet. I wish I hadn’t come.

Gran asks the efficient-looking young lady at the desk where we can find Miss Macready. She checks her computer and tells us she’s on the roof deck, then points us to the elevator. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach.
How do I bring Lillie into the conversation? Do I ask if she ever saw her too? I’d better stick to my plan of asking about her childhood.
We get off at the fifth floor.

It’s really nice and relaxing up here. Pots of crimson, white, and pink geraniums stand at intervals on the waist-high brick walls. There are five or six round tables, each shaded by a green-and-white striped umbrella.

A young man wearing a white jacket wheels a trolley from table to table, offering juices, tea, or coffee to the residents, some of whom are playing cards or just napping in the afternoon sun. Gran tells him we’ve come to see Miss Macready, and he takes us over to her. She looks
small and frail in her wheelchair, a light blue shawl draped over her shoulders.

“Your visitors are here, Miss Elisabeth, and I’ve brought your apple juice.” He places a nonspill cup in front of her.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Macready I’m Norah Carr. We met when we bought your beautiful house. This is my granddaughter Katie; she’s staying with us on her vacation. Katie sleeps in the room next to your old nursery She’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

I say hello and put the bunch of white and yellow daisies I picked this morning and the bag of cookies on the table in front of her.

The young man says, “I’ll find a vase for your flowers, Miss Elisabeth. They will look nice in your room.” She thanks him, without taking her eyes from my face. Poor Gran might as well be invisible, but when she says she’ll come back for me in half an hour, Miss Macready turns to her for a moment and actually says her name. “Goodbye, Mrs. Carr.”

The minute Gran leaves, Miss Macready says, “I thought she’d never go. I’ve waited such a long time for you.”
Weird, she doesn’t even know me.

“You brought me a present–what is it?” I help her open the bag, and tell her I baked my favorite cookies for her. She fumbles for one, takes a small bite, and says,
“Not between meals, Bessie.” Her shoulders shake. She’s laughing and I’m afraid she might choke. I look round for the attendant.

The young man notices and comes back. “Do you need anything?” he says. Miss Macready waves him away. He adjusts the umbrella and goes off. I move my chair closer to Miss Macready.

“He’s a kind young man. I’ll ask him to come to my birthday party. I am going to be ninety-seven soon,” she says.

“Congratulations. Did you have birthday parties when you were a little girl, Miss Macready?” I’m hoping she’ll tell me about her childhood.

“Of course I did. Don’t you remember how we played hide-and-seek with my guests in the garden and there was always a big cake with candles for ‘dining-room tea’? Why did you go away? Why won’t you take care of me the way you used to?”

Gran warned me that Miss Macready might get confused. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

“Hold my hand, hold Bessie’s hand, the way you always did.” I take her hand, which feels soft even though her knuckles are swollen. I’ve never met anyone this old before. Maybe she thinks I’m one of the girls who played with her in her garden. I don’t know why she stares at me.

“Do you remember how I was afraid of horses?” she asks.

It’s surreal out here on the rooftop. I feel as if I’m taking part in play, or a foreign movie, and I’ve forgotten my lines. I make a guess: “Even of your rocking horse?”

“You know I was. When Papa brought the horse upstairs to the nursery, he lifted me on and I screamed, ‘I’ll fall, I’ll fall,’ but you climbed on too and held me. You said, ‘I won’t let you fall, Bessie’ and you sang.” She half-croons in a quavering voice:

“Papa wanted me to learn to ride a real horse, but I never did.” She gives a mischievous chuckle. “After Papa died, I told the gardener to put the horse in his shed.”

“I’ve forgotten why you were so afraid of horses, Miss Macready.”

“Now, you’re teasing again. You know how I love to hear you tell me that story.”

Help. I’m lost. What story?
In desperation I say, “It’s your turn to tell it today, Miss Bessie. We always took turns, didn’t we?”

“I like it when you call me by my pet name.” She starts to speak. She knows every word by heart.

“Mama and I were on holiday with Papa, who had business in Peterborough. I was not quite two years old, and I was waiting on the steps of the hotel with my nursemaid. Papa and Mama had promised to take me for a drive in the carriage. I saw it draw up, pulled by two black horses. Sometimes I still have bad dreams about them.” She hangs on to her shawl and sort of shrinks inside it, as if she wants to hide.

I take hold of her hand again. “Please go on. Don’t be afraid.”

“I dropped my ball, my new red ball that Papa had bought for me. It rolled away, down the steps. I ran after it, ran right between the hooves of the horses. Someone screamed, and then you were there to save me. You picked me up, and said, ‘No need to cry, little girl, you’re safe now’

“I’m thirsty,” she says. I hold the cup of juice to her lips. She drinks a little and then pushes the cup away, just like a small child does.

“And then you came to live with Mama and Papa and me.”

“What a lovely story, Miss Bessie, but I wasn’t the one who lived with you. I’m Katie–I wasn’t born then.”

“I remember you were like a big sister. Do you want to see my photographs?”

“I’d like that.”

Her purse is beside her in her wheelchair. She can’t manage to open the clasp. I help her and she pulls out two faded photos. “This one is of Mama and me, before you came to us.” It is one of those old-fashioned sepia-tinted pictures–a young woman wearing a long lace dress with a high collar and a huge hat with flowers under the brim. A plump little girl about two years old, a big white bow in her hair, stands leaning against her mother’s knee. On the back of the picture, it says
ROY STUDIO, PETERBOROUGH
, 1909.

The second photo is of the same child, a few years later, sitting on a swing. A teenage girl stands behind her, wearing a striped dress and white apron. Her hands grip the rope, as though she were about to push the swing. This one says
HALIFAX
, 1914. It was taken in the garden at Carpenter’s Rest. It’s hard to remember sometimes that the house my grandparents live in is where Miss Macready grew up. I ask her, “Who is the girl pushing the swing? What’s her name?” She doesn’t answer. Perhaps she thinks I ought to know.

“That was the afternoon you took me to the park. I have never forgotten that day. I had been well behaved all week, so for a treat you said you would take me for a walk in the Public Gardens. It was your afternoon off and I never liked you to go out without me.

“‘Hold my hand, Bessie. Don’t go running away,’ you said. We went around the lake and along the stream
first because I liked to watch the ducks. Then I was allowed to run over the little bridges and under the weeping willow. ‘Five more minutes,’ you said, ‘and then home to have tea with your mama.’

“We walked back past the ornamental fountains. A soldier stood there. Many young men were in uniform at that time in Halifax. He turned around, stared at us, and said, ‘Flower? It is Flower, isn’t it? I’ve always hoped we’d meet again one day’ And you looked at each other and laughed and laughed. I didn’t understand why, but I felt I’d lost you, even though you kept tight hold of my hand.

“‘The boy with the smile,’ you said at last. Then you and he sat down on a bench, with me between you, and the two of you talked and talked as if you’d never stop. I might just as well have stayed home for all the notice you took of me. He spoiled my treat.

“I was late for tea that day. The soldier walked us home, and shook hands with both of us. He kept hold of yours for the longest time. I had to go inside the house to Mama, but you told him to wait and you’d be out again in a moment. Later, when you came to say good night, you said, ‘He’s going off to war,’ and I didn’t know what war was. I couldn’t go to sleep then because I was afraid you’d go off to war too. It was so very long ago. I am tired now. Will you come to see me another day?”

Gran came back with a young woman. “It’s time for your rest, Miss Macready,” she said.

I bent down and hugged her. “Good-bye, Miss Bessie.”

She put a photo in my hand. “Take care of your soldier boy.”

On the drive home, Gran says, “That was kind of you, Katie. I don’t suppose Miss Macready has many visitors; she must have outlived most of her friends.”

“It felt kind of strange, Gran. She thought I was someone she knew once and talked a bit about her childhood. Do you know she never liked that beautiful rocking horse? It scared her, gave her nightmares.”

“I’ll make a point of visiting her once in a while. Talk to her about the garden and the house.”

The moment I turn off my bedside light this evening, Lillie appears. I’ve been half-expecting her. She stands by the dresser and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She experiments with hair styles, pinning her hair in a knot on top of her head, which makes her look older, finally letting it down loose on her shoulders. She checks her profile, smooths her dress, then sits on the foot of my bed. She curls her feet under her.

“His name is William, and his smile is nicer than ever. He waited for me.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to herself.

“Didn’t you know I would?” says a voice. A young man stands in front of her. He’s in uniform.
Where did he
come from? Is he really here? Is Lillie imagining him, or am I dreaming them both?

When Lillie stands up, she is almost as tall as the soldier. They hold hands, looking quietly at each other for a long time. Their faces are filled with joy. I’m afraid to speak, to switch on the light, to break the spell. The soldier puts out his hand as if to touch a strand of her hair, then sort of melts away into the shadows.

Lillie goes to the window. “We won’t ever lose each other again. He is the way I dreamed he would be. He’ll come back for me and we will be each other’s family. A family like they promised us.”

“Lillie?” But she’s gone before I get a chance to speak to her.