The Violets of March (18 page)

I tucked my knees into my body and clasped my arms around them tightly. “My mother is so—”

“She’s had a more difficult life than you know, Emily,” she interrupted.

The statement took me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

Bee stood up. “Here, let me show you something.”

She began walking down the hallway, so I followed her. Two doors past the guest room where I was staying, she stopped in front of another door. She reached for the knob and then her pocket, from which she pulled out a key ring and selected a small gold key that she then inserted into the door.

The door creaked open and we stepped inside. I batted away a cobweb from my face. “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been in this room in a very long time.”

Next to the small white dresser there was a child’s table, set with two pink teacups on saucers, and a Victorian dollhouse. I bent down to pick up a porcelain doll from the floor. Her face was smudged and her brown hair matted. She looked as if some little girl had left her there, just like that.

“What is this room?” I asked, confused.

“It was your mother’s room,” she said. “She lived here with me for a time when she was very young.”

“Why? What about Grandpa and Grandma?”

“Something happened,” she said simply. “Your grandparents . . . they were going through a rough patch, so I offered to have your mother come stay with me for a while.” Bee sighed, smiling to herself. “She was such a dear little girl. We had the most fun together, your mother and I.”

As Bee opened the closet door, I thought of my grandparents and wondered what could have precipitated them leaving their child with her. She reached to the top shelf and retrieved a shoe box. She blew a layer of dust off the lid before handing it to me. “Here,” she said. “Maybe this will give some insight into your mother.”

Bee pulled the keys from her pocket and they jingled in her hands, which was my cue to walk back to the hallway.

“Thank you,” I said, looking at the box in anticipation.

Bee turned toward her room and said, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

In my room, I set the box down on the bed.
What could be inside? Would my mother approve of me riffling through her things?

I lifted the lid and peered inside. On top were three dried roses tied together with a shiny red ribbon. When I picked up the little bunch, three delicate petals fell to the floor. Next I pulled out a child’s picture book; a long gray feather, which looked like a seagull’s; a barrette; a pair of tiny white gloves; and a small, leather-bound volume. It wasn’t until I moved it into the light that I could see what it was: a scrapbook. I opened it and waves of emotion flooded my body. On the first page the word
Mother
was handwritten, surrounded by tiny flowers. I blinked hard, and turned the page to find a collage of sorts. There were clippings from magazines, of women with perfectly coiffed hair and pressed dresses. There were dried flowers and black-and-white photos—one of a baby, and one of a house, simple and small with an old car parked in front.
What is this? Why did my mother create this scrapbook, and why did Bee want me to see it?

Bee’s silence at dinner told me that she didn’t want to discuss the mysterious room or the box of hidden treasures, so I didn’t press my luck. I cleared the dishes, and just before I started to load them into the dishwasher, the phone rang.

“Get that, dear, please,” Bee said from the hallway. “I’m afraid it’s lights out for me. I’m exhausted.”

“Sure,” I said, picking it up. “Hello?”

“Emily?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Evelyn.”

“Oh, hi, Ev—”

“No, no, dear, Bee must not know that I’m calling you.”

“OK,” I said cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“I need your help,” she said.

“With what? Are you OK?”

“Yes—well, no. I need to speak to you. In person.”

I paused for a second. “Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m just up the beach, honey. The big house with the wisteria arbor in front, about six houses past Henry’s. It’s a bit chilly out, dear, so wear a coat.”

I didn’t tell Bee I was going out, a decision I regretted once I got to the beach. The tide was coming in, which made the water seem menacing, as though it was stalking me, extending its frothy hooks onto the shore and making eyes at my feet. I imagined that bats were flying overhead, even though they were probably just seagulls nestling into the treetops for the night. I zipped my coat up and told myself to look straight ahead. I passed Henry’s house, which was dark, then started counting.
One, two, three.
The homes looked cozy nestled up against the hillside.
Four, five, six, seven.
I wondered if I had misinterpreted her directions.
Eight, nine.
I looked up and saw Evelyn’s home in the distance. The wisteria looked bare and vulnerable clinging to the arbor, but somewhere deep inside its branches was the promise of spring, and when I looked closely, I saw a few pale green shoots emerging from the trunk. I turned to walk up the steps, and when I did, I saw Evelyn on the front porch, sitting in a rocking chair. I could see that she was in a nightgown. Her hair, usually carefully styled, looked matted and messy.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, reaching for my hand.

“Of course,” I replied, squeezing in response.

Her face looked ashen. She appeared weaker, more frail than she had only days ago.

“It’s the cancer,” I said. “You’re—”

“Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

I nodded.

She pointed to a rocking chair next to hers, and I sat down.

“I’m going to miss this island.” Her voice was distant, far away.

I swallowed hard.

She looked out to the shore. “Did you know that your aunt Bee and I used to go skinny-dipping out there? We’d strip right down and just dive in.” She turned to me. “You should try it. There’s absolutely nothing like feeling Old Man Puget Sound on every inch of your skin.”

Laughing would have been the appropriate response, but I couldn’t summon anything but a half smile. What do you say to someone who is reminiscing about her life for perhaps the final time?

“You will take care of her, won’t you, Emily?”

“Of course I will,” I said, looking into her eyes. “I promise.”

She nodded. “Bee isn’t an easy person to get along with, you know. But she’s as much my home as this island is.”

I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “She told me, after my husband died, that I wasn’t alone—that I’d never be alone. And as long as Bee has been in my life, that has been true.”

I nodded.

“It’s not right that I’m leaving her. It’s just not right.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, throwing her feeble fists into the cold air as if threatening the island, challenging it.

I jumped up and put my arms around her, and she turned and buried her face in my shoulder.

She wiped away the tears on her cheek and sat down. “I can hardly bear the thought of leaving her.”

I leaned in so she could see my face better. “I will look out for her. Don’t you worry.”

She sighed. “Good. Will you come in for a moment? I have something to give you.”

I nodded, following Evelyn through the front door. The warm air inside felt good on my face.

Evelyn’s living room looked like the quarters of a sick woman, as it should have. Magazines, books, mail, and piles of paper covered the coffee table alongside a collection of water glasses and dishes encrusted with old food.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” she said quietly.

I shook my head. “Please, don’t apologize.”

“I think I left it in the other room,” she said. “It will be just be a minute.”

I wasn’t sure what
it
was, but Evelyn looked as though her life depended on finding it.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

I knew I didn’t have much time, so I worked fast, first collecting the dirty dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. I threw away the tissues that had been piled high in a heap, and after I’d moved a mound of mail to the kitchen table to be sorted, I gave the table a quick wipe down.
There.
Then I sat down on the couch near the window. My eyes found their way to a nearby bookcase, where shelves displayed trinkets and framed photos.

Next to a glass vase filled with sand dollars, there was a photo of Evelyn on her wedding day—so beautiful and elegant with her tall husband standing by her side. I wondered what he was like, and why they’d never had children. There were photos of dogs—a Jack Russell and a dachshund that looked as if he had been fed pie for dinner every night. But then I saw a portrait of a woman, and I recognized her instantly. She was the same woman in the photo at Henry’s house. In this shot she was smiling, standing next to someone else. I squinted to get a better look. She was standing next to Bee.

I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see Evelyn. I hadn’t heard her enter the room.

“Who is she, Evelyn?” I asked, pointing to the photo. “I saw her in a photo at Henry’s house. Bee wouldn’t tell me. I have to know.”

Evelyn sat down, clasping something in her hands. “She was once Henry’s fiancée,” she said.

“And your friend?”

“Yes,” she said. “A very dear friend.”

She sighed and walked toward me, and when she did, I could see the deep fatigue—the finality—in her face.

“Here,” she said, handing me an envelope that had been carefully folded in half. “I want you to give this to Bee.”

“Now?”

“No,” she said. “When I’m gone.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Emily,” she said, squeezing my hand again. “You are special, you know. All of this”—she paused and swept her hand out toward the sound—“all of this was meant to be. You were meant to be here. You have such purpose, my dear. Such purpose.”

I hugged her, wondering if it might be the last time.

“Are you going to go through with it?” Rose asked me when I returned to the table and told her the two paths Elliot’s letter had laid out: Meet tonight and start a new life together or say good-bye to him forever.

We both knew that the stakes were high. I clutched the envelope as if it were his hand. I could see the whites of my knuckles, and my nails were digging into my palm. It was as if I had somehow believed that if I let go, I’d let go of Elliot, and I couldn’t bear to see him go. Not again. Not another time.

“I don’t know,” I said, and I truly didn’t. How would I sneak out? The baby didn’t fall asleep until after eight, and how would I explain to Bobby that I needed to leave? Stores weren’t open that late, so I couldn’t lie and say I needed eggs or milk. Plus, even if I found a way, what would I say when I got there, when I faced Elliot? And what would I do? This is the part that scared me most. What in the dear Lord’s name would I do?

“Esther,” Rose said in a practical voice. “I want you to know that I will support you in whatever choice you make.”

Bobby caught an early ferry home and surprised me at five with a bouquet of daffodils from the Pike Place Market. “I thought you’d like these,” he said. “I remembered that daffodils were your favorite.”

I didn’t tell him that he’d gotten it wrong, that my favorite flowers were tulips. Instead, I hugged him and thanked him for the gift.

“I bet you’ve forgotten,” he said, “being so busy with the baby and all, but I haven’t.”

I gave him a puzzled look. It wasn’t my birthday, or Mother’s Day.

“Forgotten what, Bobby?”

“Happy anniversary!” he said. “Well, I mean, happy anniversary a day early. I got so excited I couldn’t wait. I’m taking you out tonight so we can celebrate properly.”