The Wicked Garden (4 page)

She glanced at the bookcases built around the fireplace. The shelves held many of Miss Poni’s books—some of them impossibly old—as well as volumes on art, gardening, magic, herbs, and mythology. There were a few novels—classics, mostly—and collections of poetry, too.

And then there were her own books—the books Troy had forced her to leave behind. She walked closer and let her eyes linger on her favorite authors: Jack Kerouac, Tom Robbins, Carlos Castaneda, Kurt Vonnegut, Lewis Carroll, and, of course, her very favorite: Graham Duncan.

Duncan had come out with seven new books since she’d married Troy. Seven books that she hadn’t read. There was a time when his books were her only friends in the world, when she had been sure she had a telepathic connection with the author while reading his words.

The precious first-edition signed copy of
Hermes In Heat
, given to her as a gift, was missing from the bookshelf. It had been missing since Ame was a baby. Troy had probably burnt it in the cottage fireplace, along with
The Spiral Dance,
her
Bhagavad Gita,
and the
Tao Te Ching.

Gretchel was brushing her fingers against the spines of her books when she heard a snapping sound. Her eyes turned back to the photos on the mantelpiece, to her ancestors, but they were all still. It was the house settling. She was just being jumpy. She touched each silver frame, one by one.

“I gave the amethyst away. I had to. So what am I supposed to do now?” she asked, and then the tears began again. She dropped into the overstuffed storybook chair, where Miss Poni had read to her as a child, and wept.

When she had calmed a bit, she turned to look at the painting her grandmother had sent her for. Its field of orange flowers was vibrant against the pale green of the wall. Gretchel hated this painting. She cursed the thing, and the voice that commanded her to paint it.

She heard another creaking sound, this time from the direction of the master bedroom. Alarmed, she got up and crept into the room, but there was nothing there—nothing but the painting of a phoenix hanging above the bed. This was more of her work. Gretchel felt a tightness in her throat as tears gathered in her eyes. She walked to the dresser and let her fingers circle the rim of an ancient silver loving cup. She remembered the last lips to touch it, and she began sobbing again.

Gretchel sank onto the bed, curled into a fetal position, and surrendered to the pain. It seemed like today she was making up for more than a decade without tears. It was exhausting. She needed to sleep. She just needed to rest for a while. She closed her eyes, and cried herself into slumber.

Wake, ye weak bloody bampot,
a voice shouted.

She be a bit of a crabbit, an er heid’s mince,
said another.

Aye, but she’s got to wake up before the pain in the bahooky arrives!

Gretchel opened her eyes inside a dream. It was dark, but she could see stars in the sky above and a huge full moon glowing bright. Her movements felt strangely fluid. It took her a moment to realize that she was immersed in water. It was warm and comforting. She felt a strong, healing presence surrounding her. She moved her hands and let the water wash over her naked shoulders. Then she saw them.

Several women were circling her, all of them redheads. She was in the middle of a grove, soaking in a huge cauldron. She could see the flames of a bonfire glowing madly nearby. There were sparkles of fairy wings flickering about in the moonlight.

It’s a braw bricht moonlit nicht, and for Hogmanay no less.

“I don’t understand,” Gretchel said.

I tol ye, her heid’s mince. She asks for help, and doesn’t listen.

Keep the heid,
an older woman said, then she addressed Gretchel.
She says it’s a good, bright moonlit night for New Year’s Eve. Blue moon it is. There’s magic in the air. New beginnings. Wind blow’n in yer favor, lass. Been blowing that way since the Solstice.

Aye!
the women agreed in unison.

Gretchel was slightly unnerved by her lack of nervousness, and watched apprehensively as the ghostly figures seemed to float around her. They kept an eye on her, too, as she simmered in the huge pot. But their gazes weren’t frightening. In fact, they were as warm and gentle as the element in which she soaked.

Her tensed muscles relaxed as she allowed herself to be held by the water, watched over by kindly eyes. As the tribe of red-haired women circled her, Gretchel felt tiny bits of herself merging back into place, like pieces of a puzzle connecting, or the skin closing over a scar.
Yes, that’s it
, she thought. The more they danced, the more whole she felt. They were healing her. She knew, without knowing, that this was a ritual as old as time, and she allowed herself to surrender to it. For the first time in almost twenty years, her heart was open.

But the moment didn’t last.

Ah, piss. The bloody devil’s bride’s a comin’
, one of the women called.

Startled, Gretchel was jolted out of restorative bliss and back into panic mode. The women were panicked, too, running from the clearing and disappearing into the mist that surrounded it. Turning her head this way and that, trying to identify the source of their terror, Gretchel saw her greatest fear approaching. She hadn’t seen this apparition in seventeen years, but now she was back: the Woman in Wool.

Slowly and steadily, the entity walked toward the cauldron in the grove. Her bland blue wool dress was filthy and tattered. Her bare feet were covered in dirt and blood. Her hands were claws, ravaged by time and hard work. Her hair was a tangled red nest. But her face…. Gretchel might have thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen if that beauty wasn’t marred by the purest evil.

Gretchel splashed at the water, frantic. She looked again for the women who had been with her moments ago, but she knew that they were gone. She looked for the flutter of fairy wings and saw none. She was alone, naked and defenseless, with her worst nightmare. She finally managed to pull herself out of the cauldron and set off running across the grove and into the forest. Gretchel was a fast runner, but that didn’t matter in a dream. She turned back, and saw that the Woman in Wool was catching up with her without ever hastening her terrifyingly deliberate pace.

“Leave me alone,” Gretchel shouted. She felt like she was running in place. She couldn’t make her legs move fast enough.

Suddenly a wolf howled and the Woman in Wool dropped to the ground. Gretchel felt a slight tinge of relief, until she felt the first flames licking against her legs, her belly, her breasts. She was burning. There was fire all around her. She heard the ambulance cry and jerked awake.

After a moment of confusion, Gretchel realized where she had awakened. Being trapped in the nightmare would have been preferable.

For the first time since the accident, she felt the full impact of what had happened. There was nothing—no medication, no alcohol, no madness, and no charmed amethyst—to protect her from the pain. It felt like a vacuum had sucked her heart right out of her chest, and then blew it back in with unimaginable force.

She couldn’t breathe. She pounded on the dashboard, frenzied, until finally she took in a stinging breath of bitter cold air. She wrapped her hands around her waist as tightly as she could. Her abdomen cramped with remembered loss. Her arm ached from a long-healed break, and the ghostly pain from her side nearly sent her into a psychotic episode.

Looking around the old pickup truck’s charred interior, she remembered everything.
Everything
. She closed her eyes and let the memories wash through her fully and completely.

And then the truck vibrated as she let out a banshee wail that could have awakened the dead—and maybe had.

She kicked at the door. It wouldn’t budge.

“Help me!” she screamed.

She tried pulling up the lock on the passenger side. She couldn’t grip it, and her bare hands were seared from the cold.

“Gretchel!” She heard in the distance.

She finally realized what she had to do. She began climbing out the window.

“Gretchel!” She heard again.

She hesitated, and looked back in the cab, just as she had done twenty-five years before, but this time there was no one there to reach out to. Then she pushed herself out of the truck window almost the exact same way she had done before to save her own life.

“What in the hell are you doing?” bellowed her mother.

Gretchel looked around as she stumbled away from the truck, shaking wildly.

“How did I get here?” she cried. She pulled herself up and looked around again, noticing that the sky was dark. She smelled smoke—burnt flesh. She felt her waist again.

She heard shuffling behind her, in the Wicked Garden. She turned around to see her daughter’s black horse staring her down from the fenced pasture. The horse never came this close to the Wicked Garden. Epona neighed and bucked as if she’d been spooked.

“Gretchel, it’s almost 5:30. Mama reminded me you were coming here. Have you been in the Wicked Garden this whole time?” her mother asked as she helped her up from the ground.

“I have to leave. We’re going out for dinner. Look at me. I’m a mess.”

“What were you doing in the truck?” Ella cried.

“Mama, I have to go!”

Backing out of the drive, Gretchel saw the shotgun laying in the backseat of her car. She gasped at the sight. She had no idea how it got there, and she didn’t have time to take it back to the cottage. She sped down the country road hoping she could get a shower before Troy got home. Then the voices started. She hadn’t heard them while she was awake since... since...

Noo, jist haud on!

She’s aff er heid.

Yer bum’s oot the windae, Mama, let er go about it then.

Will ye look at the bloody huge chebs on the chootker!

Aye. Huge fer a Skinny Malinky longlegs.

On and on they went, uninvited guests that wouldn’t go away and wouldn’t shut up.

Gretchel was pulling into her own driveway before she remembered that she hadn’t taken her grandmother the painting she’d been sent to fetch. But, then, she suspected that Miss Poni had another motive entirely in sending her to the cottage.

CHAPTER FIVE

Irvine, 2010s

It was nearly six o’ clock when Gretchel got home. She put her car in the garage and thanked all the gods and goddesses she could think of for the service door. The last thing she needed was for the neighbors, particularly Michelle, to see her carrying a shotgun into the house. Once she was inside, though, she had no idea what to do with the thing. Nowhere felt safe from Troy, and she certainly didn’t want her kids to find it. Then it occurred to her that Ame had been staying with Holly and had no plans to come home anytime soon. Gretchel slid the shotgun under her daughter’s bed, trusting that she’d have a chance to take it back to the cottage before Ame’s winter break was over.

After cleaning herself up a bit, Gretchel retreated to her walk-in closet—sacred space and occasional prison—and collapsed to the floor. The voices had faded, only to be replaced with anxiety and fear. She had to keep it together. Troy had already picked out the clothes he wanted her to wear. She was surprised that he hadn’t chosen shoes, too. She fingered a gray wedge and tried not to think about her afternoon at the farm. She had to focus on surviving the evening ahead. One calamity at a time, she reasoned.

She replaced the gray wedge, picked up a black heel, examined it, and then threw it across the small room. She was a barefoot kind of gal, a woman who could run over rocks without the slightest cringe of pain. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the feeling of grass between her toes.

“Strange place for a nap. Or are you in trouble again?”

Gretchel jumped at the voice of her teenage daughter.

“Ame, you scared me! What are you doing here?

Ame looked at her strangely before saying, “Uh… I live here?”

“I thought you were staying with Holly until it was time to go back to school.”

“I came back to get some clean clothes. Is that a problem?” Ame didn’t wait for an answer before she sat down next to her mother. “Have you been crying? Why didn’t he lock the door?”

“I’m not crying. Please be quiet,” Gretchel begged.

“What’s wrong? Did he beat you again?” Ame asked, suddenly furious.

Gretchel shook her head. Her daughter carried enough burdens without having to deal with rumors of the affair.

“You found out about Michelle, didn’t you?” she asked. Gretchel looked up, stunned. It wasn’t the first time Ame had been able to read her mind.

“How did you know?” Gretchel asked.

“Zach told me when I got back from Champaign last week. That’s why I’ve been staying with Holly. I was afraid I’d lose it and accidentally knock Dad down the stairs, proceeding to stomp on his face until his skull cracked open, allowing blood and what I think might be a brain to ooze onto our lovely wool carpet. But it would be an accident, of course, just like it has been when I’ve explained my black and blues all my life,” Ame said. Gretchel looked down in shame. “Mom, why are we still here?” Ame’s voice rose and cracked, making her sound more like a little girl than an angry teen.

“I just don’t have everything figured out yet,” Gretchel whispered.

“We need to get out for real this time,” Ame said. Gretchel looked deeply into her daughter’s eyes. They were wise eyes, and gray like her own.

“Teddy and I are going to come up with a plan. The best thing you can do right now is to just carry on. Keep saving your money. We may need it,” she said, trying to smile.

“Like I’d take a penny from Dad anyway,” Ame said. “I can’t believe he’s banging Michelle Brown, of all people. The neediest soldier wouldn’t ride that nag into battle.”

Gretchel tried, and failed, to stifle a bark of laughter. “Where on earth did you hear that expression?”

Ame grinned, “Miss Poni, of course.”

“Well, stop it. You’re just making things worse.”

Ame’s grin faded as she looked at the fraternity paddle, and then back to her mother. “I don’t think things
could
get any worse.”

She left the closet, slamming the door. Gretchel turned back to her shoes. Her blood was boiling now. Troy hadn’t destroyed her family; she had. Teddy was right. She knew that whatever circumstance she was in was a result of a choice that she had made, but she wanted to be mad at Troy. She wanted to blame him. If only for a few minutes, she needed to blame him.

She pulled out her ritual box, held the old rag doll and began to pray.

Troy suddenly poun
ded on the closet door, and she jumped. “I told you to be ready at six,” he shouted.

She instinctively glanced above her full-length mirror to the paddle.

∞

Troy was putting his coat on in the living room, when Gretchel carefully walked down the stairs i
n an ungodly pair of black stiletto boots. They were dripping with confidence, and she at least needed to appear as though she had some. Troy looked her over longer than normal.

She steeled herself as she walked past Zach and Ben, who were playing a video game in the living room. She headed straight for the kitchen. She didn’t want to look into the eyes of the child who had broken the news. It would be too much. Just seeing the two boys together was almost more than she could handle in her current state.

“Where’s Ame?” Troy demanded.

“She’s getting ready to go out,” Zach answered.

Troy looked to the boys. “Hey, Ben,” he said. “I left my briefcase in the car. Would you run out and grab it for me?”

Ben looked at Zach, and then toward Gretchel in the kitchen. The boy had grown up around this family. He was familiar with the code. He grabbed Troy’s car keys, and quickly moved toward the back door.

Troy walked to the steps. “Giant, get your ass down here.”

Ame came bouncing down the stairs. Troy was six foot tall, and Ame towered three inches above him, which Troy found absolutely infuriating,

“What’s up, Shorty?” Ame asked her father.

Troy’s face flamed, but he decided to let that one pass. “Another bottle of Scotch is missing. Don’t think for a second I don’t know what you’re up to, Giant. No booze tonight. If I smell it on you when you get home, you’re grounded indefinitely. You can kiss your job goodbye, the car, everything. I’ll make sure you’re kicked off the volleyball team, too. Do we have an understanding?” he barked.

Gretchel watched the showdown from the kitchen. She prayed for Ame to just keep her mouth shut.

“I don’t drink little man, so quit accusing me of things I don’t do.”

“You’re a liar. I know that’s why you were staying at Holly’s. You two little witches have been getting hammered on my booze again,” he spat.

“I can’t wait to get out of this house and away from you,” Ame muttered.

“No booze or I’ll take your college money and buy a fucking boat,” he threatened.

“If I don’t get a scholarship, I’ll pay for college myself,” Ame rebutted.

Troy laughed. “Right, and you’ll end up a whore like your mother.”

Gretchel slapped a hand over her mouth, and tried like mad to stop the tears from falling freely down her face.

“I think I’d rather be a whore than take a dime from you. Somehow it seems more respectable,” Ame said.

Troy smacked her across the face, and then shoved her hard. “Don’t underestimate me, you colossal waste of sperm,” he threatened.

Ame shoved him back, and he nearly fell into the wall. She raised her fist, and Gretchel screamed from the kitchen. “Stop it!”

Troy, Ame, and Zach all looked her way, shocked into stillness. Gretchel had not screamed in many, many years. Ame dropped her fist, and Troy straightened himself.

“Zach, if she comes home drunk, you tell me.”

Zach looked at Ame apologetically, as she rubbed the red mark on her face. Then he turned to his father and gave a barely perceptible nod.

“You’ll always be a little coward,” Ame hissed at her brother. As she ran back up the stairs, she stopped midway and looked back at Troy. “Your moment’s coming little man. You’re not long for this world.”

∞

She knows.
That was all Troy could think when he got in the car, and saw Gretchel’s face. She looked like she’d been crying, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d shed a tear.

He tipped his head and looked at her sweetly.

“What?” she asked sharply. She found it unnerving how he changed moods so quickly. It was too easy for him to put on whatever face suited his needs or his audience.

“What would it take to make you happy? Whatever you want,” he said.

She looked down at the Tiffany watch he had given her on their last wedding anniversary. He’d given her nothing for her most recent birthday, and nothing was exactly what she wanted from him. She turned her head away, and looked out the passenger side window. She glanced at the garage door, and then at the huge house. It was too big for them—too big for
her
, with too many white walls that left her feeling cold and empty. Tears began welling up in her eyes.

The voices were stirring. She could hear their mumbling, but within the background noise of her psyche, she also heard–or was it
felt
?—a clear whisper,
The tree.
A sob caught in her throat as she glanced up at the sky. The full moon was illuminating the white trash bag that was still caught in the oak tree’s branches. Then Gretchel’s eye was drawn by a shadow, moving. She felt butterflies in her stomach, but tried to dismiss them,
Just a raccoon, probably.

She turned to her husband. “You should get that trash bag out of the tree.”

Troy leaned over her, and looked through the window. “I don’t know if I have a ladder tall enough. Can’t maintenance do it?” he asked.

“Would it kill you? You asked me what would make me happy.
That
would make me happy. It’s been there for over a week.” Her mouth filled with the taste of venom.

He sat back shocked by her outburst. “It’s really in your best interest not to talk to me that way,” he threatened. He tried to intimidate her with his stare, but instead her eyes were scaring
him
. They were the wild gray eyes of the witch he once knew.

She glared at him bitterly. “Would it kill you, Troy?”

He took a deep breath, mulling over the consequences if he didn’t comply. If she knew about the affair, she appeared to be deciding whether or not to make it an issue. He needed her to keep her mouth shut and let it go, because he was very close to sealing a deal that would make him a very rich man. He shook his head.

“Thank you,” she said, and turned away.

He glanced back at her as he pulled out of the driveway. She was still so smoking hot it made him sick, but he would never, ever tell her. Maybe she would let him touch her tonight, just for old time’s sake; it was their anniversary, after all. Surely she’d healed by now; his guilt surely had. Michelle was nothing compared to Gretchel. Maybe Gretchel was just jealous. Maybe they needed to be intimate. Maybe she’d do him like she used to, when a keg and a couple hundred dollars was all he needed to get her to do the crazy stuff.

She’d been out of her damn mind in college, with the psychotic babbling and screaming in the night. Troy was convinced he was the one that cured her shortly after the hippy left town.

He rubbed the inside of Gretchel’s skinny leg, and she jerked. “Don’t pull away from me sweetheart. I own you.”

She turned on him with a look of pure contempt. “You’re not good enough to own me,” she spat.
No! What have I done?
Gretchel wished for a moment that she could take back her words, but she willed herself not to show Troy how scared she was.

Troy’s eyebrows turned up. The crazy had returned. He bit his tongue, pulled his hand back and had to force himself not to hit her. His patience was wearing thin. He didn’t need to save the best ammunition for the divorce. He had his own ace in the hole, but apparently Michelle had so much dirt on Gretchel they could bury her twice and still have leftovers for that garden she always wanted.

“Gretchel, do I need to pull out the VCR?”

All the rage left her face, leaving it a rumpled mess of despair. Only he could debase her in such a way.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“Try me.”