Her Name Is Rose (26 page)

She woke at six the following morning and went down to Grace's kitchen. She made tea and stood at the window that faced onto a small garden, which she hadn't noticed in the dark the night they'd had dinner.

When she'd finished her tea, she went out the back door in her bare feet and stood on the grass wet with dew. Her feet welcomed it. The as-yet-unlit garden was enclosed with an herb border made with railway ties fringing a brick wall. Peppermint spurted shoots through its gaps. An ill-shaped bed with a pink rosebush, some blue geranium and nepata, and tall white cosmos, which yearned for a good pruning, was dead center in the garden. She moved to it and began with urgent energy to deadhead the spent cosmos flowers. She did it out of instinct because some part of her needed to weed. She moved closer to the rosebush, and with her fingernail, nipped away thin growth along the stem. Iris bent to pull a dandelion sprouting at its base. She made a small pile of weedings and had the oddest feeling that it didn't matter where she was, only that she was
doing something,
and for a moment she forgot where she was.

“Will you stay forever?” Grace came toward her, hands deep into the pockets of her bathrobe, which hung open and showed a knee-length pink nylon slip.

“I didn't realize you had this space out here. It's a little oasis.”

“But I could use a good gardener, as you can see. Right?”

Iris smiled.

“Sit down, Iris, please,” Grace said, moving to the garden table and its twin metal chairs. “I want to show you something.”

Iris thought, Dear God, what now? She sat opposite Grace, who handed over a thing she'd been holding in her pocket. It was a copy from a newspaper dated February 15, 1992.

CAR CRASH CLAIMS LIFE OF YOUNG WOMAN

A woman crossing Huntington Avenue died yesterday morning as the result of a car accident. According to eyewitnesses, the driver of the vehicle, a man in his fifties who is recovering in the hospital, swerved to avoid the young woman when she slipped on the ice. The car spun out of control and hit her head-on. Paramedics rushed to the scene to assist the injured woman but were unable to revive her. She was declared dead at the scene by authorities.

After contacting her parents the police revealed the name of the dead woman as Ms. Hilary Barrett, a local resident of St. Botolph Street and librarian at the Mary Baker Eddy Library across the road from where the accident occurred. Ms. Barrett graduated from Boston University and Trinity College, Dublin. She was twenty-four and is survived by her parents, Marjorie and Jack Barrett, of Chappaqua, New York. Ms. Barrett was a valued employee at the library and colleagues expressed great regret at the loss.

Authorities have warned pedestrians in the South End to be mindful of icy road conditions at this time of year and have urged residents to use the crosswalk.

Iris couldn't articulate what she was experiencing right then, except she felt a jumble of feelings encircling her, like a tornado, of sorrow, anger, despair, fear, but also an odd, and therefore surprising, sense of relief. There it was in black-and-white. Her mission to find Hilary was at an abrupt and sad end.

So was her promise.

There'd been a very good reason why the beautiful young woman she and Luke had met nearly twenty years ago had stopped responding to queries from the Adoption Board in Dublin. Iris looked down at her hands. Grace sat beside her, and when Hector started to come out she shook her head at him and he turned and went back inside. Iris could have called out to him, but she didn't.

The sun was easing into a space between two buildings and a long, narrow rectangle of light lit up the grass like a neon banner and now it slanted against the wall at the southwest corner. Iris turned to Grace and told her story. The whole story.

Grace reached across the table and laid her hand on Iris's wrist and held it. They sat this way for a while. What was there to say? What was there that could be said? Inch by inch, the narrow rectangle of sunlight widened. Insects moved from shadowed corners.

“I'm sorry, Iris,” said Grace finally, “I'm so sorry.
What
you must be going through.” She let go of Iris's wrist.

“When did you know?”

“About Hilary?”

“Yes.”

“Billy. Billy found out. Yesterday. You'd already left. He's a wiz with computers. You see … I remembered the name but I couldn't place it. It was so long ago.”

“Did you know her?”

“No. No, I didn't. I mean, I knew
of
her. Afterward. It was in the papers and…” Iris watched Grace lower her head and close her eyes. After a few moments she replaced her hand on Iris's. “What did he tell you about himself?”

“Hector?” Iris said and gave Grace a look that showed it couldn't possibly make a difference.

But Grace ignored it and went on. “Probably not much, I'm guessing. The thing about Hector, well, I think I can tell you. It's not a secret, right? He lost his wife to cancer … years ago. Her name was Julia.” Grace stumbled on the words she spoke. Her eyes darted toward the door of the kitchen and back to Iris, and she dropped her voice. “He thought there was a spark between you. I must admit I saw it, too. So did Billy. I mean, am I right?”

There
had
been a spark, Iris admitted, but today it was too weak to ignite. Today she felt only shame and sadness.

What was she anyway? The collector of lost and dead souls? No. She wasn't going to feel sorry for Hector. Julia was years ago, she thought. He should be over it by now. Isn't that what people said? The first two years are the hardest? For her it'd been, what? Two years and two weeks and a day since Luke died. No. Absolutely not. She wasn't going to feel sorry for him.

But she did. She did feel sorry for him. Maybe he, too, had lost his soul mate. And for a fleeting moment she opened her heart to allow in his sadness.

She looked into the corner of the garden where the sunlight had widened its netlike cast against the redbrick wall, catching every other leaf and flower bud in a dazzling glare, and now the tiny back garden glowed.

*   *   *

In midafternoon at Logan Airport, standing at the check-in counter, Grace hugged Iris and whispered, “Hector will be sorry you left without saying good-bye. What should I tell him?”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

Iris nodded.

“That's it? Nothing more?” Grace said.

“I can't, Grace. I'm not ready.” Iris gathered her bag and shoulder bag. “Maybe…?”

“Maybe? Maybe what?”

Iris's eyes welled up.

“Okay. Okay. It's all right. I know what to tell him.” Grace reached her arms around Iris and held her for a moment. Iris let herself be held but had no strength to hold back. “Let me know how the appointment turns out. I'll be anxious to know. Right?” Grace dropped her arms and took a step back. “In such a short time I feel like I know you. Will you come back? Will you bring Rose?”

Iris couldn't speak. To speak would bring tears.

*   *   *

After she was through security, and her face washed of tears, she looked around for an Internet station and checked her e-mails. One from Tess and garden.ie and Higgledygarden.co.uk and three with unfamiliar addresses. She read Tess's first, which told her Rose was doing well since her “big upset.”

Hurry up already and get home Iris! We miss you. And PS … What the hell? What are you doing? Missing your appointment? And PPS … no need to worry about Rosie. Take my word for it.

Iris wrote back that she was coming home on Flight EI345, arriving at 6:00 a.m., and would explain everything then. But not to tell Rose. And P.S., what did you mean,
Take my word for it?

The e-mail from an R.E.B. surprised her. She hadn't expected e-mails from blog readers so soon.

Dear Ms. Bowen,

I'm glad to have discovered your blog. As a landscape architect myself in the heart of NYC, your post on poppies brought a little green into my life.

Kindest regards,

R.E.B.

Delighted, she read the other two. One asked if Iris had ever tried to grow meconopsis.
It's like having a bit of the blue sky in your border.
And the other was a city gardener asking:
Can Icelandic poppies be grown in a window box?
Such simple signposts, tokens, and yet it thrilled her. She
was
connected. Blog readers
were
a link to the world. She'd reply to them all next week and would copy her replies to Arthur Simmons.

A few hours later, she was sitting in an aisle seat in row 37 at the back of the plane near the toilets. When the beverage cart came, she ordered a gin and tonic and two of those plastic quarter bottles of wine to go with her chicken dinner. Her mind pitched back to the South End. Grace would be telling Hector that Iris had been recalled to the Breast Clinic for further tests. She pictured how his face would look. She was suddenly sorry for him. She felt like crying.

*   *   *

The next thing she knew a voice was saying, “The captain has switched on the seat belt sign. We'll be landing in fifteen minutes. The weather in Shannon on this lovely June morning is blustery but the forecast is for sunny spells.” Iris looked out onto the clouds scattered across the blue and, below, a little green.

She switched on her phone at the luggage carousel; half a dozen messages beeped their arrival.

From Tess:

Welcome Back!!! Can't b there 2 collect u. Sorry pet. Sendin taxi tho. C u later. x T ps Rose away at music event in London. WITH friend! As promised, didn't tell her u were comin. She'll b back in a few days.

A man holding a placard with her name on it smiled as she approached and he took her bag and said, “Welcome home.”

The captain's weather report had been right, there were sunny spells. The sun beamed down on everything, on cattle in the fields, on hawthorn hedgerows, on fuchsia in full bloom. She fell quiet, grateful the driver sensed she didn't want to talk. A little more than half an hour later she arrived home. When she stepped from the taxi, Cicero jumped from the rooftop of the low cabin. He didn't seem to particularly notice she'd been gone five whole days. He gave her no welcome except to jump onto the table where the food was kept. Iris put down her bag and waited until the driver pulled away.

Neither did the garden look like it had missed her. It was in perfect order. Did anyone or anything need her?

Getting used to this being alone required a skill she still struggled to perfect. It was on the far side of the road, as if always just over there—the place she couldn't get to, couldn't reach. She had traveled some distance from the initial grief-pain of Luke's death to where she was now—standing still in her garden, listening to the barn swallows'
chideep chideep
—able to somewhat appreciate how far she'd come. This is my life. But she wanted more and it was up to her to get it.

She'd read a novel lately about a man whose wife comes back from the dead. She pops into his life in odd moments, then disappears. Something about unfinished business. One day she came and said, “It wasn't up to you to make my life happy. It was up to me, but your loving helped.” Then
poof
! She was gone and returned no more.

Iris wished Luke would appear and tell her something. Tell her how to do it. Without his loving, living was the greatest challenge of her life.

She turned the key and went in.

In the kitchen, the poppies had been cleared away. In their place were two empty mugs.

*   *   *

Tess arrived in the late afternoon and, after hugging Iris a few times, walking around her in a circle and hugging her again, she said, “Poor pet.” She stood back and grabbed Iris by her shoulders.

“You ran off to Boston and missed the appointment.”

“I know.”

Tess shook her head, but smiled. “Here. Where's the phone? I'll ring and reschedule.”

“I've made it for Thursday morning.” Iris paused a moment. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course … but what about Rose?”

“I don't know, Tess. She already has enough on her plate.”

“I'll say,” Tess said.

It was an odd thing, but Iris didn't read into it. “Plus,” Iris said, “I don't know what her plans are. She's probably still upset about that wretched master class.”

“Oh … I think she's over that.”

Iris narrowed her eyes.

“You underestimate her—” Tess said.

“Tess?”

“I just mean, she's more flexible than you realize. Do you think maybe, just maybe, you're overprotective? Just a little? Just a teensy little bit? It's only natural, but—”

“Would you like some tea, Dr. Tess, Medicine Woman?” Iris turned and went to the kitchen. Tess smiled and followed.

“So?”

“So?”

“Yes … So? Why did you disappear without a word? To America?”

Iris didn't look up but poured the tea.

“Exciting undercover garden assignment?”

Iris looked at Tess, her eyes betraying her and welling up.

“Oh God. What? Iris? What's wrong?”

When Iris finally told her story, the words burst like a sudden rain shower. “I made a promise to Luke. If anything happened to me I'd find Rose's birth mother. I promised Luke. What if something bad happens? That's why I went to Dublin. Then Boston. She was there, but—”

“She was there?”

“Yes. No … I mean she
was
there, but she's not. She's dead.”

“Easy, pet. Hold on.”

Iris explained about Hilary and how she'd taken the envelope at the Adoption Board and two days later flown to Boston. She told about 99 St. Botolph Street and the waiter. And the Mapparium. And Becket. “It was all for nothing. A big, fat, horrible, stupid mistake.”