Where Petals Fall Page 7

  “Junie?”

  Junie spun around, startled.

  Deep lines surrounded Peter’s squinting eyes like spider legs. Tiny folds of skin formed a deep Y between his two brows. As a young girl, June had watched Peter hard at work in his den at all hours, night after night, poring over his law books. Ellen had always said that her father never slept. Junie used to have fantasies about how great it would be to never have to go to bed, to play all night long. As she got older, and when she married Brian and had to live with his late-night meetings and evening preparations for cases, she realized how silly those fantasies were.

  “H-hi.” Why were her hands trembling? She shoved them into her pockets, suddenly very aware that she had stepped off of the stones and was now standing on the perfect grass. She moved back onto the stones. “Sorry, I, um…I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  The bottom edge of his slacks were stained. Junie looked around the backyard, feeling the loss of the gorgeous gardens like harsh, sharp realities marring her fragile memories. Her memories were already held by a fraying thread.

  “How’s your mom doing?” he asked.

  Junie forced her gaze toward the ground, away from the roses. She was fine if she didn’t look at them. “She’s doing as best she can, I guess. Sad.” What was she saying? Peter had experienced that sadness firsthand. “I’m sorry,” she offered. “It’s all…new.”

  “Losing someone you love is not easy.” Peter looked at his house. “They say time heals all wounds, but I’m not so sure it does. I think time adds a dimension of fatigue, which just makes it seem like the wound has healed because you get tired of battling the loneliness.” He walked toward his gardening shed.

  Junie watched him walk away, remembering when she and Ellen had helped Peter and her father build their sheds. Helped, Junie thought with a smile. Junie could still feel the weight of her father’s tool belt hanging from her waist. She remembered Ellen goading her on to sneak more tools than they were offered. What a thrill it had been to be working by her father’s side! While Junie tried to remain serious, so her father would allow her to help with other projects in the future, Ellen had been giggly and bored. Over the course of two days, their fathers had erected two identical aluminum structures, large enough for a workbench and a few garden tools, each given a different name: Peter’s a gardening shed and her father’s a toolshed. She and Ellen had worked side by side on each shed in the middle of August. Junie smiled to herself, remembering how they “worked” by carrying tools, bending over little remnants of wood that their fathers allowed them to haphazardly bang nails into, and trying to rein in Ellen’s goofy antics. They ran circles around their fathers’ carefully organized work sites. Humidity had been high that summer, and Ellen and Junie were first in line when Ruth and Susan brought them a continuous supply of icy lemonade. After they’d completed erecting the sheds, the girls were given the ground rules; while Peter’s gardening shed was open to anyone, her father’s toolshed was declared off limits. Too many things that could hurt you, her father had said. He went so far as to put a padlock on the door.

  “And Sarah? How is she?”

  Hearing her name brought her own issues back to mind. “She’s…the same. Not worse, but not better, either.” Junie was taken by the concern in Peter’s eyes. She wondered if he’d had that same concern for Ellen, or if that awareness came only after her disappearance. She knew he had doted over Brian and hadn’t over Ellen, but she wondered if he’d felt the same concern, even if not made apparent by his actions. He’d reached out to Sarah since the day she was born, spending time with her even as a tiny baby, when they’d visit Junie’s parents. Brian didn’t allow for overnight visits at his father’s house. The relationship between them was too strained, but Junie always made sure that Peter had time with Sarah, and it surprised her how taken with her he was. He wasn’t a go-outside-and-play-ball type of grandfather, but he took Sarah by the hand and walked through the gardens; he read to her and kept fresh cookies and treats on hand when they came into town. Most important, he was mentally present for Sarah. When she was with him, his eyes were on her, and he paid attention to what she was doing, not to his clients’ cases, which Junie knew rattled around in his head nonstop. She often wondered if his desire to be there for Sarah had been some sort of reconciliation in his own mind for the way he’d treated Ellen.

  “Do the doctors have any ideas?” He opened the shed, his back to Junie. The smell of fertilizer filled the space between them. He moved gardening tools into a wooden box.

  Junie caught sight of the rose clipper. “No, nothing. They’re thinking it might be emotional rather than physical.” They hadn’t seen each other since Sarah’s regression had begun, and Junie wondered if Peter and Brian had ever talked to each other about Sarah’s regression, or if it was just another issue that would be left to rot between them.

  Peter stopped, clipper in his hand. He turned to face her. “And what do you think?” He looked seriously into her eyes.

  “I…I don’t know what to think.”

  “Regression,” he said. “I had a case once, a little girl had regressed after being sexually abused.”

  Junie’s heart sank. Don’t say it.

  “That’s physical, though, not emotional.”

  He said this so matter-of-factly, so clinically, that it stung. “Yes, physical.”

  “Well—and I hope I’m wrong—have you considered this? You do have new circumstances. You’re in a new area, new teachers, you don’t really know the people.” He shrugged.

  “Peter, how can you say that?” Junie took a step backward. “She’s your granddaughter.”

  “I’m not judging her,” he said in what Junie imagined was his best attorney voice. “I’m looking for facts.”

  “Well, she’s not one of your cases. She wasn’t sexually abused. That’s already been ruled out.” Junie didn’t know what was worse, feeling disgusted that her father-in-law would say such a thing, or her growing suspicion that something was off about Peter. He had slipped into attorney mode so quickly, and he’d always kept that side of himself separate when it came to Sarah. Her eyes shot to the wayward gardens. “I think there’s some other medical explanation. They did an MRI, but the therapist said they should do it with dye, and I’m going to request that next.”

  Peter nodded, as if considering the procedure.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, but I would look at all avenues. Seems strange that she’d suddenly become an emotional wreck without something physical attached.”

  Shut up. “We’re considering everything.” Except emotional manipulation. Brian’s armchair diagnosis weighed heavily on her mind.

  Junie turned back toward the roses. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what happened?” She lifted her chin toward the weeds.

  “Oh, that.” Peter put the remaining tools into the box, then closed the shed door. “I’ve just been too busy to tend to them, I guess.”

  “But you have a lawn service. Couldn’t they do it?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, they don’t do roses.”

  As much as Junie hated roses, she didn’t really want them to shrivel up and die. Peter’s garden was a reminder of the times she shared with Ellen. She wanted to say, You’ve got more money than God. Find someone who does. Instead she said, “Oh, well, that’s a shame. They were so pretty.” She swallowed the lie.

  Peter laughed. “Junie, we all know you don’t like roses.”

  She lifted her eyes and threw her hands up. “Caught me.” As they walked toward the front yard, the tension in Junie’s shoulders eased. She hadn’t realized she was clenching her muscles. “Peter,” she asked, turning to face him. “Brian won’t talk to me about Ellen, never has. Has there ever been any information, any leads?” She cringed, hoping he wouldn’t get mad at her for asking.

  “No, Junie. I guess there are some things we’ll never understand.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Junie touched the lock
on her father’s toolshed. She’d spent many afternoons pondering her father’s private oasis. She laughed to herself. She used to fantasize about having her own building where she could lock away her private things. Of course, as a child, Junie didn’t have private things. Her life was an open book. She wondered if perhaps that wasn’t normal. Should she have had private things? Secrets worth hiding? Did Ellen have them?

  She put her hand against the locked door and closed her eyes, remembering her father coming in and out of the building, each time with a different tool in hand. She opened her eyes as clouds moved slowly across the sky, blocking the sun. The air chilled, darkened. She held the lock in her hand, a memory scratching at the back of her mind. Junie had been standing in her bedroom looking out the window. It was early evening, the sun had set and the moon had not yet appeared in the sky. Movement in the side yard caught her eye. She watched her father lead Ellen to his shed. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a key, and unlocked the shed. He and Ellen went inside. Her father turned, one last glance behind him, then closed the doors of the shed, shutting the rest of the world out and himself and Ellen in.

  Had she seen them come out? Had she run down to the shed and banged on the door? When was that? What did it mean? She could not remember ever having been behind the closed door of her father’s shed. What were they doing? Had it even happened, or was she seeing some convoluted imagery created from Ellen’s disappearance from her life and her father’s untimely death? Junie tried to remember, but came up blank. She reached into the recesses of her mind, searching for an answer, her nerves afire. She had to remember something, anything that might explain if what she’d remembered was real.

  A tug on the back of Junie’s shirt made her jump. She spun around, finding Sarah holding the green plastic ball. Junie’s mind was still wrapped around the image of her father and Ellen disappearing into the shed. Her heart raced.

  Sarah pushed the ball toward her. Junie grabbed it without thinking. She stared at the ball, wondering if she were losing her mind.

  Sarah tugged on her shirt again.

  Junie looked down at her daughter. Her silent daughter. She needed to be present for Sarah, not lost in whatever craziness was going on inside her head. She looked down at the ball and knew she could not pretend the images, or memories, or whatever the hell they were, were not real. She could not play with Sarah. For whatever reason, Ellen had inhabited her mind, and Junie was in no shape to see her screaming face again—memory or fabrication.

  Junie tucked the ball under her arm and reached for Sarah’s hand. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go create something wonderful.”

  Sarah stood on a chair, the backs of her hands and the front of her shirt spattered with chocolate.

  “What are we making today?” Ruth sidled up to Sarah and hugged her around the waist.

  Sarah stared at the bowl.

  “Looks yummy,” Ruth said, eyeing the remaining chocolate caramel cake that Junie had baked earlier that morning.

  Junie whisked the eggs with such vigor that her wrist grew tired. What the hell did her father and Ellen have to do with each other? Why was she arguing with Brian? Why didn’t her daughter speak?

  “You can’t bake this away, Junie,” she said quietly. She put her hand on the small of Junie’s back.

  “I know, Mom. I’m not trying to.”

  “Sure you’re not,” Ruth said softly.

  Junie whisked the ingredients into a soupy consistency, unable to concentrate on baking. Her problems were too big for her to wrap her mind around. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the sheet cake pan.

  “Uh-oh, this is a big one, huh? Maybe if we eat it all, we’ll at least feel better.” Ruth laughed.

  Sarah stuck her finger in the chocolate and licked the sugary sweetness without ever cracking a grin.

  “Oh, the things we teach our daughters.” Ruth nudged Junie, nodding her head in Sarah’s direction.

  Junie set the whisk down and rolled her eyes at Ruth. She took the bowl of chocolate from Sarah. “Let me work with this, sweetie.”

  Sarah held tight to the bowl, her eyes pleading, then demanding she remain in control of the bowl.

  “Sarah, I’ll give you the spoon to lick.”

  Sarah finally relented. She climbed down from the chair and plopped herself down at the table. Junie handed her the chocolate-covered spoon, then folded the eggs into the mixture.

  “Mom, do you ever remember Ellen in Dad’s shed?”

  Ruth shook her head. “What is going on with you, Junie?”

  “Do you remember her…doing a project with him, maybe? I don’t know, anything like that?”

  Ruth leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She cocked her head. “No, I can’t say that I do. What’s going on? First you’re yelling at poor Brian, and from what he said, you yelled at him because of something about your father and Ellen? What is this nonsense?”

  Junie didn’t answer. She focused on whipping the batter instead.

  “June, maybe this is all too much for you. Should you think about going home, working things out with Brian?” She nodded toward Sarah.

  Junie closed her eyes. What was too much—losing the father I adored or seeing my best friend screaming in fear? “I’m okay.”

  “Is Brian still in the den?”

  Junie nodded. “Working. He’s going back soon.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Rains. If you want to go with me, she might be able to help you.”

  Junie sighed and set the bowl down. Dr. Rains lived around the corner from her mother and had been the brunt of many jokes when Junie was growing up. There was an underlying knowledge that Mary Margaret had seen her. As kids, Junie and her friends never really understood what a therapist did, much less why Mary Margaret Thatcher would visit her weekly. Some kids said Mary Margaret Thatcher was crazy and killed her husband, which Junie knew was just a story made up by bored teenagers. The neighborhood kids used to tease one another. “Watch out,” they’d say, “or you’ll end up on Dr. Crazy Brains’s couch!”

  “You’re seeing a therapist?” Junie asked.

  Ruth nodded. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just keep…I don’t know what’s going on, but Daddy’s death has unearthed something. I keep seeing him and Ellen, like there’s some connection.”

  “Oh, Junie, of course there is. They’re both gone.”

  Junie nodded. “Maybe. Maybe that’s all it is.” She sat down next to Sarah and gently touched her ringlets.

  Sarah leaned in to her.

  Ruth put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder as she walked behind her. “You think Ellen’s trying to tell you something. Is that it?” She winked and sat down across the table. “Maybe Sarah’s trying to tell you something, and you’re just not listening hard enough.”

  Junie wished it were that simple.

  “Tell me something good,” Ruth said, smiling at Sarah.

  Sarah clenched the wooden spoon in her fist; chocolate covered her lips like lipstick.

  “Good?” Junie asked.

  “Yes, good. How’s your work? How’s Sarah’s school?”

  Sarah looked up.

  “Sarah, honey, why don’t you go get your Polly Pockets?”

  Sarah scooched off of the chair and ran toward the living room.

  “Wait,” Junie called after her. “Let’s wash up first.”

  Sarah skulked back into the kitchen, washed her hands, let Junie scrub her face and wipe off her shirt. Then she headed toward the stairs.

  “Sarah’s doing well at school,” she lied. “She does fine academically.” That part wasn’t really a lie, Junie reasoned. Sarah listened and when given a task, she usually completed it. She knew Sarah’s teachers made special accommodations for her lack of verbal responses. She pictured Sarah sitting stoically among twenty children who all had their hands raised hig
h. “Pick me! Pick me!”

  “How about friends? Does she have any? Do they have any more ideas about what’s going on with her? I’ve been doing research on autism and Asperger’s—”

  “She doesn’t have either.” Junie crossed her arms.

  “Junie.” Ruth shook her head. “There’s something going on. This isn’t the same little girl who was here at Easter. You’re smart; you see the issues.”

  “Autistic kids do all sorts of things that Sarah doesn’t do. I think there’s something medical that they’re missing, but not autism. You don’t just suddenly become autistic. She learns well, without issue. She just…no longer speaks.” Junie stood and paced. Why did she have to defend her daughter to her mother, to Sarah’s own father?

  “And she wets the bed, and I saw her sucking her thumb. She hasn’t sucked her thumb in a year and a half. Does she talk to anyone besides you?” Ruth asked.

  “Yes,” Junie answered, but she couldn’t honestly remember the last time Sarah had spoken to anyone else. In fact, she didn’t really speak to her any longer, either. She used other visual clues to indicate her thoughts—drawings, facial expressions, eye movements. Her teachers certainly hadn’t made any headway. She did play well with other kids, when they’d give her a chance, but the teachers said she often played by herself on the swings at recess.

  “Really?” Ruth said, then softened her voice. “Well, that’s good. Then maybe we are all overreacting.” She stood up and looked in the living room where Sarah was playing. “She’s a sweet little thing. I only want a good life for her.”

  For all of us, Junie thought. She looked outside at the shed again. “There’s something wrong, but I have no idea what. She hasn’t been abused, so it’s got to be something else, and the only thing I can think of is some medical issue that’s caused her to regress.” Junie threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know, Mom. Do you think I baby her too much? Could it be my fault?”