The Mother Garden (14 page)

“I'm Agnes.” She offered her hand. On her right pinky sat an enormous garnet. As she extended it, all the light from the sky was swallowed by that stone.

My mother's mother had a garnet ring, the color of almost dry blood. When my grandmother died, my mother had it made into a pendant. I remember a particular outfit she wore: a black tunic with a full black skirt, black ballet flats, and the glossy red pendant displayed prominently against her sternum. At night she kept the garnet in a satin-lined brass box. The day we buried her, I stood by the grave, watching people's shoes as they shifted their weight. The dirt fell on the pine box with a hollow thump, and then, as dirt hit dirt, it made no sound at all. The adults passed the shovel as the rabbi keened. All these people would follow us back to the house, eat tuna salad and bagels and drink fruitysoda as they talked. When they left, I planned to go into her bedroom, where her garnet would be cool and smooth.

But when I got to her room, the brass box was empty. My father and I tore the house apart looking for the pendant. In the middle of the night I came downstairs to find him on his hands and knees with a flashlight, peering around the shoes in my mother's closet. “I can't understand it,” he said to me, his voice shrill, his face ashen. His wrists looked very thin.

That evening, I took them a little champagne to celebrate Agnes. Her presence out back made a significant difference.

“So, where are your children?” I asked her. She made a fluttering motion with her hand.

“Oh, grown and flown, dear,” she said. “My daughter's married and living in Idaho. My son's in graduate school in Montreal.” She handed me her empty glass. “Do you have a sweater I could use for the night?” she asked. “I know I'm not your size, exactly, but I didn't think to bring one.”

The small attic of my house contained nothing but boxes of my mom's things. Dishes and figurines, her wedding dress. I dragged one down labeled clothes. When Agnes put on the crimson pullover, it fit her perfectly.

One afternoon Agnes told Erika that she should try to write to her children, even if she couldn't send the letters. “Start with getting your thoughts straight,” she advised. Erika ripped a buttercup to shreds as Agnes talked, but the next day she asked for some paper and a pen. Agnes had a calming effect on Doreena. She still chattered, but with Agnes around there were periods of time when she'd look at the trees or examine her lunch basket without sharing her observations.

My enthusiasm for the project intensified. In the mornings I brought the mothers coffee (Erika drank green tea), and Agnes and I would chat. She asked me questions about where I grew up and when I told her about my mother, she pressed on her collarbone so as not to cry.

Jack asked me to type a sample press release. We weren't quite ready to open to the public, but he thought if we could get one or two more mothers in the next week, we could do a preliminary showing. I fussed with it after breakfast, then I made Erika's recipe for cream cheese sandwiches with pimento-pistachio paste. I handed them to the mothers in napkins. I was headed to Jack's, to print out what I'd written, when I heard yelling.

Agnes must have torn herself from the dirt in a hurry. Clumps stuck to her ankles. She rummaged through the first aid box Jack fastened to the wall of the shed, and rushed to Doreena. She yanked Doreena's slacks down and slammed her clenched fist against her dappled thigh. Doreena's hands fell away from her throat.

“It's okay,” Agnes said. Erika, who'd just begun to dig herself up, stopped moving. Agnes pulled up Doreena's pants. With maternal grace, she dusted off the mulch.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She didn't realize there were nuts in the sandwich. She's allergic,” Agnes said.

“Oh, Doreena.” I walked down the wooden steps into the garden. “I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

That night, Jack and I installed a small clay fireplace by the back fence while the moms soaked their dirty feet in basins of sudsy water. We brought out bags of marshmallows and chocolate. Jack played simple songs on his new mandolin. Doreena sat silently and at one point in the evening, Jack put his arm around her.

We replanted the moms in their spots around midnight, toasting their magnificence with jars of hot toddies.

“Where would we be without you?” I said to Agnes. Her hair fell just like my mother's, dark and incorrigible, all over her face. She reached out and touched my shoulder.

“You can't save everyone,” she said softly. “But you save who you can.”

“What's the matter with you, anyway?” Laurel hisses at Agnes. “How hard is it to diet? For Pete's sake, couldn't you get a little cardio every once in a while?” Laurel's dangerously thin. You can see the strap of muscle coil around her upper arm, the tendons in her neck. When you get too close to her, she smells sulfuric.

Agnes doesn't respond. It's a ridiculous attack. She's not fat, though her body has more curves than the other mothers. Her breasts are formidable and her hips make her long skirt bell.

“I would appreciate it if you'd keep your opinions to yourself,” Agnes says.

“I would appreciate it if you'd move your big ass,” Laurel says.

“Watch your language,” Doreena says.

Erika turns to Laurel. “You're a little out of line,” she says.

“You're a little out of touch,” Laurel shoots back. “That long hair thing went out with Crystal Gayle in, like, nineteen seventy-nine.” For a moment Erika looks wounded. Her long fingers rise to touch her tresses, but then she stops.

“It must be difficult being you,” she says.

“Not at all,” Laurel says. “It's fantastic.” She begins a series of squats.

A ladybug lands on Agnes's sweater. It crawls over her breasts and into the crease of her armpit. She inserts a finger into the crease and the glossy bug crawls onto it.

“Three spots, three wishes,” Agnes says, handing the bug to me. It sits on my finger. I'm always tempted to wish for things I cannot have—
I wish there were no such thing as loss
—but before I can think of a better wish, it flies off into the bougainvillea.

Laurel is mother number four. For her I got twenty grand. Jack landscaped the yard at her husband Franz's law firm and the two of them got to talking about the mother garden. Because Franz is a lawyer and the garden is technically mine, the offer (on creamy cotton paper) came addressed to me. Laurel needed something to do—the acting wasn't panning out; he needed space to focus on the office remodel. Their kids were in high school, able to get themselves to basketball and sailing club. He'd pay me the money for her upkeep and in addition, he'd throw in a weekly hairstylist and a biweekly shrink.

“What do you think?” I asked Jack.

“I think we're going to get a call from Montel Williams any second.”

“Or Jerry Springer,” I said

“Maybe Martha Stewart,” he said. I thought of all the projects we could put in
Living.
A mom bouquet with colorful streamers around it. Sunhats full of birdseed to attract the jays. On weekends we could invite motherless girls to make gingerbread houses with the mom of their choice.

“Twenty grand,” Jack said. “We'd be crazy to pass that up.”

“Do you think I should go over and meet her?”

“Chh,” Jack said. “If you can deal with Doreena, you can deal with some retired trophy wife.”

Laurel hasn't stopped moving since she arrived. Her arms spiral, her fanny wags, she does a hundred squats at a time. She won't eat anything but lettuce and celery. Her limp blond hair is ragged at the tips. She looks like a malnourished daffodil.

“You spray me with that hose and I'll scream,” Laurel yells. Something's stuck a little farther up the hose than I can reach. I've forced a twig down to dislodge it. It seems plausible that Laurel stuck gum in there. She's always chewing it. “You seem to be on some kind of power trip, missy, but you're just a pipsqueak with this bizarre fetish. And when my agent gets wind of this, boy—”

I finally get the thing out of the hose. It's not gum, it's a snail, and I've broken its dark little shell. I aim the strong spray at Laurel's bony legs. The tension jangles Doreena, who immediately starts to recount various supersales at Marshall's. For half an hour, from the kitchen, I can hear Laurel's litigation threats mingling with bargain prices.

“Don't talk to me,” I say to Laurel when I go back outside. Agnes looks defeated. She sits with her ankles in the dirt, knees clasped. She looks at me, waiting.

“We'll figure this out,” I tell her. “I'm sure she'll calm down after a day or two.”

“A day or two?” Agnes says, shaking her head. “I'm sorry, Claire, but I'm afraid this isn't what I came here for. I'm not up for it.”

“Wait,” I say. I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Claire?” she says, reaching up to touch my hand. It's then I realize how hard I'm squeezing.

I never thought through losing these moms. Jack and I figured we'd max out at ten, get a lot of publicity, and maybe buy a larger piece of land where we could expand. He sees us landing an NEA grant—what with the administration so fixed on family issues. “It's the perfect project,” he said. “All happy endings and unity.” And the moms would be bountiful. Over the weeks they've been out back, I've slept better. I don't have nightmares of being left in the desert with only a ruler, of being put on a rowboat in a storm with my fingers rotting.

From the kitchen window, I watch them. Laurel's absorbed in a swiveling motion, probably designed to enhance the waistline. Erika rakes her hands through her hair, vacantly studying some grass. Doreena rambles about cholesterol, her eyes wide, the white roots of her hair beginning to show.

I could bring Agnes inside the house. But there's no garden in there—what would I tell the other moms? I could convince her to try a new part of the yard. I could give Franz back his money, though at this point, I see I've been duped. He's not taking Laurel back.
Stay,
I could tell Agnes.
Please. Don't go.

“Don't go,” I said to my mother. She was on the rented hospital bed in the study, a dead plant resting on the table near her feet. I'd killed that plant, withholding water for weeks. I crawled onto the bed when the social worker left the room and straddled her, peeled her eyelids with my thumbs.
“Mom,”
I said. She opened her mouth and a noise like the creak of a door came out. “Mom, you have to open your eyes.” Her tongue moved.
“Open your eyes.”
And then she did, she looked straight ahead, past me, past the ceiling.
“Look at me,”
I said. “Don't go.” My tears hit her lips. Then she rattled, a shake went through her, and she left.

There will be more moms, I tell myself. As soon as our press release hits local papers, the moms will be lining up to join. Look at the trumpet vine, the herb garden, the fireplace. Look at the new dress Jack bought for Agnes. “To accentuate her goddess shape,” he'd said. With the cream chiffon she wore green malachite beads and a pale sage belt. She kept the crimson cardigan for the evenings. He'd even given Doreena a new outfit. He chose a soft flame-colored shirt for her that hung below her hips. With it, she wore peach culottes with fine green stitching. It was a beautiful project, our garden. The birds gathered on the roof of the shed, tilting their little heads to the sky as they twittered. Cats from the neighborhood prowled the fences, sunned themselves on the lawn.

Maybe if I gave the moms a unifying project—something to shift their focus. Jack had basic woodworking skills. We could make the back deck bigger, and with the money we got for Laurel we could install one of those wine barrel hot tubs. Then, at night, amidst a tangle of flowering vines, the mothers could soak in the starlight.

I open the refrigerator to get some juice and there she is, my mother, in her dark tunic, the garnet shining against her pale skin. She looks waxy with bright lips and a long, sharp nose.

Claire.
Her eyes are fierce.
What are you doing out in that yard? You're acting like a nutcase.

I try to close the refrigerator but she locks her arm, holds it open.

“What are you doing here?” I say. For a while, after she died, she'd creep into my room some nights, sit quietly on the edge of the bed, touch my hair, but she hasn't bothered to do this in years. “You can't say anything about this!” My words bounce off the appliances. I dig my nails into my arms because pain makes ghosts disappear, but she stays and looks reproachful.

Then the front door opens and a teenage girl flies into the kitchen holding a pink leather purse.

“Where is she?” she says. I look around but my mother is gone. I shut the refrigerator and feel a little shaky. The girl gets right in my face. I smell her soap and perfume mingling, strawberry gum in a violet patch. Makeup cakes her skin, and her brown hair, carefully streaked with blond, sways in a sloppy ponytail.