bed.” In the light from the hallway, she can just make out Dr. Bridge’s sleepy features.
G ood morning,” Dr. Bridge chirps as he reaches the top of the stairs a week after the incident in the night. It is mid-December, two weeks before Christmas. “You seem happy.”
“Not as happy as you must be,” Stella says, teasing him.
“Ah, then Lily told you,” he says, taking a seat on the yellow divan.
“I asked. Otherwise I should have had to alert you to Lily’s illness.”
“Is she sick in the mornings?”
“She is. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“I’m up and out the door at least an hour before she wakes,” he says. “Iris and Streeter must know as well.”
“And Mrs. Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“They see the full, untouched breakfast trays. Lily must not have wanted to alarm you.”
“Is it very bad?”
“She says it is when she first wakes, but after that she’s fine, apart from a dull headache around five o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps she is resting even now.”
“Poor thing,” he says.
“It’s a joyous thing,” Stella reminds him.
“Yes. Of course it is.”
“I have new drawings.”
“Have you?” he asks. “May I sit next to you?”
“Yes.”
Stella slips the drawings from a paper packet. The first depicts a corner of the garden and its fence abutting yet another corner, that of a clapboard house. She has gone up the clapboards as far as she can go, at which point the lines become less distinct. With its irises in full bloom, the corner of the garden has been drawn with a more definite hand.
“Does the fact that the garden is more detailed than the house mean that you remember the garden better than the house?” Dr. Bridge asks.
“Yes,” she answers. “I tried to see upward or over to a window, but when I attempted that, I knew my hand was just making it up. This morning I thought of another addition to the garden, so I may in time be able to draw the house.”
“If you could draw the house with a window,” he suggests, “perhaps you would be able to see inside. You might see a face or a piece of furniture or a clock.”
“Possibly.”
“You’re quite sure this isn’t the house you describe as your oasis or the house beside which you laid a blanket?”
“Quite sure.”
The doctor’s presence, with his scent of laundry starch and soap, reminds Stella of the incident in the night. She does not know how else to refer to it. She was screaming. He came in to wake her. That was all.
“Might this be a house you’ve drawn before?” he asks.
“I can’t see its exterior.”
The second drawing is again of the garden, but portrayed from a different angle. To one side of the path, a bed of flowers has been trampled upon.
“In another’s hand,” Dr. Bridge says, “this drawing might have had a fetching prettiness to it. In your hand, however, there is beauty, certainly, but it seems to hover inches from its opposite. Even the irises this time appear to be deep wounds of the flesh.”
Stella is silent.
“There’s no sign of a gardener or the person you thought was below you working.”
“No,” she says. “I can feel activity when I think about the garden, but when I draw it, there’s no one there. I look for him, but I can’t see him.”
“Why are these flowers trampled?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps this is from memory, or it suggests that something bad happened there. I did have a fleeting thought of soldiers trampling over gardens and fields as they marched.”
“When you look at your garden drawings, what are you thinking?”
“My thoughts are complex,” she answers. “I take pleasure in the garden itself, in bringing it to life, in remembering something, but there’s frustration as well, because there’s so much more to know. At what point did I have this garden—as a child or as an adult? To whose house was it attached? I can’t make the pencil answer these questions. And I suppose there’s also a feeling of pride in
G ood morning,” Dr. Bridge chirps as he reaches the top of the stairs a week after the incident in the night. It is mid-December, two weeks before Christmas. “You seem happy.”
“Not as happy as you must be,” Stella says, teasing him.
“Ah, then Lily told you,” he says, taking a seat on the yellow divan.
“I asked. Otherwise I should have had to alert you to Lily’s illness.”
“Is she sick in the mornings?”
“She is. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“I’m up and out the door at least an hour before she wakes,” he says. “Iris and Streeter must know as well.”
“And Mrs. Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“They see the full, untouched breakfast trays. Lily must not have wanted to alarm you.”
“Is it very bad?”
“She says it is when she first wakes, but after that she’s fine, apart from a dull headache around five o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps she is resting even now.”
“Poor thing,” he says.
“It’s a joyous thing,” Stella reminds him.
“Yes. Of course it is.”
“I have new drawings.”
“Have you?” he asks. “May I sit next to you?”
“Yes.”
Stella slips the drawings from a paper packet. The first depicts a corner of the garden and its fence abutting yet another corner, that of a clapboard house. She has gone up the clapboards as far as she can go, at which point the lines become less distinct. With its irises in full bloom, the corner of the garden has been drawn with a more definite hand.
“Does the fact that the garden is more detailed than the house mean that you remember the garden better than the house?” Dr. Bridge asks.
“Yes,” she answers. “I tried to see upward or over to a window, but when I attempted that, I knew my hand was just making it up. This morning I thought of another addition to the garden, so I may in time be able to draw the house.”
“If you could draw the house with a window,” he suggests, “perhaps you would be able to see inside. You might see a face or a piece of furniture or a clock.”
“Possibly.”
“You’re quite sure this isn’t the house you describe as your oasis or the house beside which you laid a blanket?”
“Quite sure.”
The doctor’s presence, with his scent of laundry starch and soap, reminds Stella of the incident in the night. She does not know how else to refer to it. She was screaming. He came in to wake her. That was all.
“Might this be a house you’ve drawn before?” he asks.
“I can’t see its exterior.”
The second drawing is again of the garden, but portrayed from a different angle. To one side of the path, a bed of flowers has been trampled upon.
“In another’s hand,” Dr. Bridge says, “this drawing might have had a fetching prettiness to it. In your hand, however, there is beauty, certainly, but it seems to hover inches from its opposite. Even the irises this time appear to be deep wounds of the flesh.”
Stella is silent.
“There’s no sign of a gardener or the person you thought was below you working.”
“No,” she says. “I can feel activity when I think about the garden, but when I draw it, there’s no one there. I look for him, but I can’t see him.”
“Why are these flowers trampled?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps this is from memory, or it suggests that something bad happened there. I did have a fleeting thought of soldiers trampling over gardens and fields as they marched.”
“When you look at your garden drawings, what are you thinking?”
“My thoughts are complex,” she answers. “I take pleasure in the garden itself, in bringing it to life, in remembering something, but there’s frustration as well, because there’s so much more to know. At what point did I have this garden—as a child or as an adult? To whose house was it attached? I can’t make the pencil answer these questions. And I suppose there’s also a feeling of pride in
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