The Memento by Christy Ann Conlin

in anguish. Marigold seemed to shrink, the way the elderly do, getting shorter, like the earth itself in her precious garden had reached up one fine summer morning and curled fingers round her ankles and started tugging her down. Dainty don’t always hold up to aging. Jenny and Pomeline and the doctor carted Marigold about, out in Evermore, and she looked around, smirking at half of it, raging at the other.
    The bumpy lane, the thought of the Parkers and their tragedies, my birthday ruined—the entirety of the day made the bile rise in my throat and I gagged. In a daze, I heard Loretta tell Hector to stop. He slammed on the brakes and my stomach lurched as I pushed the door open and threw up all over the wildflowers growing at the edge of the forest by the road, the bitterness spewing forth. Sweat dripping down my temples and Loretta rubbing my back. Exhaust fumes made me throw up again and Loretta told Hector to shut the engine off. All went quiet except for a draught that came right up and tickled the leaves. My hands went clammy. A bird called out, a red bird, its trill long andclear, and Loretta and I both watched it fly down and perch on a low branch gazing at us.
    “It’s Grampie,” I said. Loretta’s eyes got great big and she said I was exhausted by the horrible shock to my system with Ma coming by. The bird sat on the branch and sang. Loretta shooed it but it took no notice of her. A surge of great hurt flooded over me. Was it Grampie in the bird? I do not know, but it sang out once more and flew down the lane, as though we were to follow, as though there was no turning back. I wiped my mouth on the hankie Loretta passed me and pulled the car door closed.
    We came out of the lane in sight of the house and the stark sunlight made me squint. There was a row of laburnum trees off to the south, just starting to bloom and hang with their poisonous golden chain blossoms—we were not allowed to climb those trees. I fixed my eyes on the yellow flowers as the vehicles from the Briar Patch headed out in a convoy. The Parkers had hired the garden centre to do all the gardening and lawn mowing. They came five days a week in their trucks and vans, wearing their uniforms and hats and tool belts, waving and smiling but never making much chitchat, maybe warned to keep to themselves and ask no questions. Art was the only one who spent much time with them. The Happy Helpers came as well, a cleaning service, with two vanloads of girls in uniforms, whispering to themselves, biting their tongues. They’d been warned too, it seemed. They also came five days a week, as though the Parkers were in full-time residence, when really it was just a big empty house and sprawling grounds, waiting for a party that never started, for guests that never arrived, a family who was missing.
    Hector parked at the carriage house. He ran around but Loretta was already getting out. He held the door for me. “Miss Fancy Mosher,” he said, holding out his hand. I put my hand in his and as he pulled me out he gave me a tight squeeze. “Don’t you worry. You forget about your Ma. You’re a big girl now.”
    Loretta nodded at Hector. “Thank you, Hector. You are helpful in an emergency, I’ll say that. Fancy, you need to relax. Come along to the house. We’ll have some birthday cake and lemonade later. Hector, make sure you put the car back, and don’t go disappearing. There’s cookies and I will put on some tea, if you want, and you can come help yourself.”
    “Well that’s awful kindly of you, Loretta, but I’d be happy with cold water. My father never takes a glass of water. ‘Did you ever see what water can do to a nail?’ he says. ‘What it can do to steel? Rot your gut. I wouldn’t put water in me if you paid me, unless it’s diluted with a shot of bourbon.’ He swears if the well runs dry he won’t have a new one dug. Nothing I like more than drinking down a big tall glass of water in front of my father. Makes him shudder.”