Dust of Eden (7 page)

"Do you live alone with your father?"

"Yes."

"Isn't there someone else in your family who could provide the care you're looking for?"

He had a sense that she was fishing as much as resisting. She wanted to know how far she would be reaching out into the world if she took in his father. "We have no family left," Denny said. "We aren't fussy, and we aren't demanding, and we're very solitary. I've tried all the home-based programs, and now I need help."

"Be that as it may, the residents here have no connections to the outside world. None. They are here for life. They never leave. No shopping mall trips, no churches, no outside medical management. I'm the only one who goes into town."

He thought. "I don't see a problem with that."

"And they have no visitors."

"I'd be the only visitor my father had."

"That would be a problem."

"Why?"

"It might interfere. It might make the other residents resentful."

"But you said they had no families. Are you saying no one is
allowed
to come here?"

"You came here," she pointed out. "I'm just saying we do better without disturbances."

"I would want to see my father as often as possible—maybe every day—but I wouldn't disturb anyone. I don't see what the problem is. If you're a licensed home, you know you can't prevent access."

"It's not a rule, it's a policy. We might make an exception for your visits, but you did understand when I said the residents are here for life? I won't accept anyone who doesn't agree to that."

If there was a problem he would get his father out one way or another, he was thinking. And he wouldn't sign anything that said otherwise.

To his amazement, he didn't have to sign anything. No application, no medical disclaimers, no agreement of any kind. God help this woman if anyone ever took her to court. He wondered what her books looked like. In the end, Ariel
Leppa
and the house manager, Molly
Armitage
, took him on a brief tour that didn't change anyone's mind. And then—looking somewhat astounded, he thought—they accepted his thirty-five-hundred-dollar check for a month in advance. In less than an hour from when he had first seen their sign he was back in his car, heading home as if the surreal visit to New Eden had never happened. On the radio, the Eagles' "Hotel California" was playing, recounting a residency where checking out but never leaving was not a contradiction.

2001

"W
hy don't you ever call me by my name anymore, Molly?"

"I – I didn't realize—"

"I don't want you to be afraid of me. Say it, please, my name."

"Ariel."

"That's better. We were friends. That's why I brought you back."

Molly was red-faced, chattering the way she always did when she was nervous.
 
Ariel was implacably calm, regally motionless.

"I could have been a better friend. I know that, Ariel. Believe me, I know that."

"That's true. But we're better friends now, aren't we? We're all
genuine
friends here.”

“Definitely.”

“So why is everyone afraid of me?"

"Everyone knows we treated you badly, Ariel. They feel awkward, that's all."

"Awkward? Not sorry, not guilty—awkward?"

"Of course they're sorry. And . . . okay, feeling a little guilty about it, if you want to use that word."

"I want to know all the words you use. I want to know everyone's feelings.
 
Does anyone talk about me? What do they say?"

"It's not like before, Ariel. No one says anything against you.”

“Against me?” She said it as if it never occurred to her that she could be criticized or made fun of now. “Does anyone say anything good about me? I need to know, Molly. Just be honest. If you're honest, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I'm trying. Everyone is soul-searching. We know what we were before. The petty jealousies, the pecking order."

"And there's no pecking order now?"

"Of course not."

"No . . . jealousies?"

"No, Ariel."

"But I painted Dana younger than you. And I brought you back younger than everyone else."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Ariel.
 
I haven't noticed any resentment to speak of. Maybe from
Ruta
, but that's . . . just
Ruta
."

Ariel uttered a single syllable that might have been a laugh. "That's why I kept her more or less the way she was just before she died. Infirmities made her a better person, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do. I really do. We all know that.
Ruta
probably knows it too—deep down."

"So I'll ask you again. Why are all of you afraid of me?"

"No one's afraid. They're all . . . grateful."

"Grateful?" The word came out with clinical precision. “How did we get from afraid to grateful?

"Ariel, you're mixing me up! What if we are a little afraid? You've given so much back to us . . . it's natural to be afraid of losing it. You can understand that."

"Then"—Ariel cupped her chin in her white fist, pretending to ponder—"they think I might take that away?"

"I don't know."

"What about you? Do you think I might take it away?"

"Don't do this to me, Ariel. Haven't I been loyal? I'll do whatever --"

"Stop!" Ariel's white hand flashed in a gesture of restraint. "Not another word. I don't like playing God, Molly, but I had to decide. I had to re-create you. I did what I thought was best. Do you think I want to make a mess of my life a second time? Whatever you did to me—whatever all of you did—each of you has a second chance now.
I
have a second chance. That's why I need you to be honest with me, and to tell me what each of you needs, what you want, and what . . . you're thinking."

"I have."

"But you say
Ruta
is jealous, and I didn't know that. What exactly makes you think that?"

“Oh, it's silly, really. She complains about her looks, and I think she wants her megavitamins and herbs. Nothing is directed toward you personally."

"I can do better than her pills with my paintbrush, if she earns it. What else?"

"Nothing else."

"Surely someone wants something?"

"Another television set, maybe. The men don't like soaps."

"I'll think about it."

". . . And . . . and phone calls would be nice."

The hawkish gray head shakes adamantly. “You know we can't contact anyone—people who would know, people who were at your funerals!"

"You asked. I'm just being honest."

"Be honest."

"Naturally, everyone wants to learn about their families—you can understand that. The
Seppanens
both passed over ten years ago, and now that they're back they want to hear all the things that must have happened to their grandchildren."

"No one can go back to their families."

"They know that."

"It would jeopardize everything, create a sensation. Who in the outside world wouldn't scheme to live forever or become young again? And given that the resources are limited, that could become very ugly very quickly. We'd be targeted and dragged on stage, and . . . and I don't know what would happen then, but it would all be over."

"Over?"

"Over. Finis. Kaput. What did you think I meant?"

"I didn't know."

"We couldn't hold up to scrutiny. Quickly or slowly it would end for our little family."

"We don't want it to end, Ariel."

"Then keep me informed, Molly. It's one thing to miss one's grandchildren, but I need to know if anyone starts talking foolishly."

"None of them want to go back to where they were before you brought them here."

Ariel leaned forward very slightly. "And where was that?"

A look of weary dread sprang into the plump woman's eyes. "I – I can't describe it."

"Evidently everyone was aware of their surroundings. Was it good, was it bad? Heaven or hell, Molly?"

"Please, Ariel . . ."

Ariel's right palm flashed up again. "It couldn't have been heaven, because then you wouldn't be afraid of going back. And if it was just nothingness, you wouldn't be afraid of that either." She turned her left palm up. “So, is there a hell, Molly?”

Molly's fleshy cheeks fluctuated like small bellows but nothing came out.

"Maybe it will clarify for you after a while, Molly. Then you can tell me. I'm depending on you. That's why I've given you . . . responsibilities.
And
rewards.
 
Speaking of which, is there anything special you'd like?"

Color ebbed back into Molly's face. "I won't lie about that, Ariel. I have a granddaughter too. I mean, you can't help but think about things when you see what's happened here. You remember Lindsay—you saw her at my birthday party five years ago. She has cystic fibrosis. I don't even know if she's still alive. She should be, though. Five years. She should be alive. And . . . and sometimes I've just wondered, you know, what if she were painted healthy again?"

"Molly, you know I can't."

"But it would be as easy for you as Jesus Christ touching the lame."

“Hardly.”

“You could do it, though. And how do you know God didn't intend for you to perform miracles?”

“Well.” Ariel shook away a dazed smile. “Whatever happened after you died, it didn't destroy your belief in God and Christ.”

Molly darkened.

"I don't even remember what Lindsay looks like,” Ariel said. “I'd have to get a photo. And then what would the others want me to do for them? I'd have to deal with that. There would be no limit to the things we'd all want for the people in our past. It would get out of control and jeopardize everything."

"She was so young, is all. Barely three. She'd be eight now."

"You don't know what you're asking. The sick child her parents have now would die, just like my Amber did."

"—
Paavo
or Dana could go and make some excuse to take a photograph. I don't think my daughter would recognize Dana. Or Kraft could go, for that matter."

"Kraft doesn't remember the past, so how could we trust him to not get lost in the present? If he was picked up wandering and taken to a hospital, his picture could get into the paper. Someone might recognize him."

"Sometimes he remembers."

"Kraft? He told you he remembers?”

“He called me
Mollypop
one day. No one has called me that since high school.”

“Interesting. But it doesn't make any difference as far as your granddaughter, Molly. Even if I did paint her back, she would be here with us. How would we return her to her parents? And even if we could do that, what would they think when they saw her healed and alive after they had just buried her? No, Molly . . . no."

K
raft remembering? Molly had said Kraft was remembering.
Mollypop
. Ariel looked in the mirror, patted the bags under her eyes, stroked the sagging flesh beneath her jaw, drew her shoulders back.

Why don't I paint myself younger?

A fold of gravity here, a tuck of time there. A half-dozen brush strokes could correct what she saw in the mirror. Call it her own health insurance. Her own
life
insurance. She had a different vanity from
Ruta's
.
Ruta
needed to fool herself. Ariel could use vanity like a utilitarian thing, fooling just the world.

She descended through the house without turning on lights, waggling her cane to touch familiar objects, groping through the rooms to the school corridor. When she reached Kraft Olson's room, she made three faint raps with the neck of the cane.
 
Not surprisingly, there was no response. And when she gently pushed open the door, he was sitting at the window, his features hidden in silhouette.

Why don't I paint myself younger?

In she came, setting the cane aside and crossing the moonlit floor with as easy a gait as she could manage.

"Hello, Kraft."

"Hello," he said after a moment.

She presented her face full in the moonlight and looked into his eyes, but they were empty, hollow, vacant.

He might not recognize her, but, oh, how she recognized him! Right down to the last brush stroke with which she had brought him back; the last atom – she thought – of the man she still loved. She had done a wonderful job, especially the hair and the eyes. Perfect hair that he had always seemed to take for granted. No
preener
, Kraft Olson, grooming himself with surreptitious sweeps of a comb. She had spent more time brushing his hair to life on canvas than she had ever seen him do in real life. And the spectacular eyes—she had captured those too. So where had the old cavalier glint gone now that he was alive again? She had painted him younger than when his Alzheimer's had become pronounced. In his mid-sixties. But then, how could you tell when dementia really started, especially with someone as smart and articulate as Kraft had been? It was strange, because the others remembered what had happened up until their deaths, unlike Amber, who remembered nothing. Maybe with Amber it had been too great a span—age forty-four back down to nine—or maybe it was because she had been alive at the time of the re-creation. But even with dementia, Kraft had recognized her and the others at times up until he died, so she had thought that giving him back a few years would ensure he remembered everything about her. But he did not remember her at all.