Page 10 of The Lost Hours
With a heavy sigh of resignation, I went downstairs to my bedroom and made a quick phone call to George from Mr. Morton’s office, telling him only that I needed his help to move a heavy piece of furniture. Then I went down to the foyer and waited on the bottom step for the doorbell to ring before slowly answering the door.
Without preamble, I led George up to the attic and walked straight to the armoire. “Here’s that piece of furniture I told you about. There’s nothing in it but I still can’t get it to budge. I was thinking that maybe with the two of us pushing on one side, we could slide it.”
George eyed the massive piece of furniture speculatively before taking off his seersucker jacket and hanging it on an old hat rack that jutted out of a pile of packing boxes. “I think I can do this by myself, Earlene. I wouldn’t want you to strain your back.”
I bit the inside of my lip to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. “Humor me, okay? I’m pretty sure it’s going to take both of us.”
With a furrowed brow he placed his shoulders next to mine so that we were standing next to each other with our backs against the armoire, George’s frown changing to a smile as soon as he realized that he was standing closer to me than I’d ever allowed him.
Digging in our heels, I counted to three and then we both pushed as hard as we could and succeeded in budging the armoire about an inch. My back and knee protested but I felt encouraged by our progress. Turning to George I said, “Let’s try it again. It shouldn’t take too long.”
With renewed energy, we continued to push an inch at a time until we’d completely uncovered a door that matched the rest of the doors in the house.
George raised his eyebrows. “Did you know this was here?”
“Not until about four hours ago,” I said as I dug the key out of my pocket and fit it into the lock. It was old and unused and I had to use my whole hand to turn the key but finally I heard the click of the locking mechanism. I paused and put my hand flat against the door, then faced George. “Whatever we find in this room stays between you and me—do you understand?”
He pretended to zip his lips and throw away a key. I turned back to the door and pulled it open, the unused hinges complaining loudly.
The room was cramped, with a sloped ceiling and only enough space for a single bed, washstand and a small chest of drawers. I moved to the center of the room, slowly turning around and taking it all in, trying to get the four walls to give up their secrets. A basket by the lone window held faded and rumpled magazines. I peered at the one on top, aGood Housekeepingmagazine dated June 1939.
George moved to close the door to make more room for both of us to stand inside. “There’s no knob on the inside of the door.”
I looked at him, feeling sick. “Don’t shut it all the . . .” My voice trailed away as I spotted the small bassinet that had been behind the door. I approached in small steps, holding my breath.
“It’s empty, Earlene.”
I let my breath go as I stood looking down at the white whicker of the bassinet, tiny dots swimming in front of my eyes. Inside the baby’s bed, folded neatly and with care at the bottom, lay a small knitted blanket made of pale blue yarn.
CHAPTER 5
That night, I dreamed of the accident again for the first time in months. I was transported back as Fitz and I tackled the cross-country course and approached fence five, the flower basket. Officially, they said it was a misjudgment in striding that didn’t allow Fitz to get his legs out of the way. To me, though, the reason why didn’t matter. Because in the end, I had still lost everything.
In reality, my accident had been over in a matter of seconds, but my dream always progressed in slow and hellish detail, and I saw things I couldn’t have. In the dream we’re heading toward the obstacle, a jump through the basket handle, not considered one of the more challenging jumps on the course, and I sense something’s not right. But Fitz is heading forward and I still think we can do it, that we’ll catch up and everything will work out. When it’s too late I realize Fitz is going too fast, his body is not up as high as it should be, he can’t clear the jump. His body starts to rotate and I’m flying off in front of him. For a brief second I see he is now perfectly vertical in the air and when he falls it’s clear that he’s going to fall on me. But I can’t move; I’m broken into a million little pieces and I wait there for what seems forever with my beautiful horse poised above me in a grotesque dance. I’m consumed with the absolute astonishment and disbelief that the worst thing that could happen to me could happen twice.
But this time in the dream I feel the sweat under my helmet, hear the sweet creak of the leather as I lean forward in the saddle, smell the reassuring scents of horse and grass and anticipation as I move toward the jump. And when Fitz clips the top of the obstacle I’m seeing everything from an impossibly high vantage point, not recognizing the doll lying in the grass is me. He lands on the doll, then rolls off and hits the ground, then bounces up three feet, coming back down. He struggles to stand and takes a few steps before staggering to the right and collapsing. Both horse and rider are eerily still but I feel nothing.
I float over the spectators behind the ropes and see my grandfather. He’s not screaming or rushing toward me. Instead, he’s frowning with disappointment and saying something to the woman beside him. When I fly closer, I see that the woman is my grandmother and that next to her are my mother and father. Their faces are blurry but I still recognize them. They’re wearing the same Christmas sweatshirts that they’d been wearing the last time I’d seen them alive. I continue to fly over the course, staring at the rag doll and motionless horse on the ground, so calm it appears both are sleeping. The noise of an approaching helicopter blocks out all sound, pulsing in my ears.
Then I look down and see my grandmother is alone, and that strikes me as odd because my grandmother hadn’t been there in real life, hadn’t even been to an event for a long time before it. But she’s there now and she’s moving her lips but no words are coming out. I float down slowly to get closer, and just as I’m near enough to hear what she’s saying, I spot the blue baby blanket clutched in her hands. Her lips are still moving, and when I finally hear the words, they sound like gibberish or another language and I’m overcome with frustration that I can’t understand anything my grandmother is trying to tell me. And then I’m back in my body on the ground, feeling again the agony, and I’m screaming, screaming, screaming.
My throat felt raw as my eyes opened in the bedroom of my grandparents’ house, the sound of my screams still settling into the four walls like ghosts. I sat up in bed, shivering despite the warmth of the summer night. I stayed like that in the dark room for a long time, listening to the occasional car and tracing the headlights against the far wall. It was only as I was drifting off to sleep again that I realized what my grandmother had been saying to me in the dream.Dum vita est, spes est.And by the time the sun began to poke holes in the morning, I had almost come to believe that maybe my life wasn’t over yet and that it might be time to finally listen to what my grandmother had to tell me.
By mid-June, the asphodels in Lillian’s garden had shot through the earth and were pointing at the sky like bright yellow spears. They’d never been her favorite flower but she’d felt obliged to cultivate them in a nod to her ancestors, who’d named their plantation for the flower and for the Greek mythological meadow where indifferent and ordinary souls were sent to live out eternity after death.
The heat of the day simmered up from the soil in waves as she squinted under the large straw brim of her hat at the sound of tires on gravel. She watched as Tucker’s Jeep approached through the alley of two-hundred-year-old oaks, and straightened as he pulled up into the circular drive, stopping in front of the large Roman sundial that had marked the time at Asphodel Meadows since 1817. Lucy and Sara, in identical eyelet sundresses, scrambled out of the backseat. The older of the two, Lucy, wore her somber expression like an accessory and held tightly to her little sister’s hand.
Sara jumped up and down, creating a cloud of dust around her anklet socks and white patent leather Mary Jane’s. “Malily! Daddy said we could have supper with you and Aunt Helen tonight.”
Lillian smiled at the girls, then rubbed her lower back as Tucker approached. It was getting harder and harder to move anymore and she’d known since the beginning of that spring that these would be her last gardens. Even with Helen’s help, it was beyond her physical limitations now. Her twisted and curled fingers couldn’t hold a clipper any better than she could kneel or squat for any length of time and she grieved for her garden like the moon mourned the night sky at sunrise. But grief, she’d learned in her ninety years, was as much a part of life as breathing, and disappointment and regret its eager companions. So was guilt, which she tried not to think about anymore. Especially now, after receiving Piper Mills’ letter. If only she’d been able to throw away the guilt with the letter. But guilt, she’d also learned, was a lot like tree sap: it stuck to everything and after a long time it hardened to stone, trapping unsuspecting creatures inside of it.
Tucker stopped in front of her, looking at her solicitously. “You shouldn’t be out in this heat. Women half your age would have had heat stroke by now.”
She smiled up at him, seeing the dark smudges under his eyes and noticing that his hair needed cutting. “We’re from hardy stock. It would take a lot more than heat to knock me over.” She ran a curled knuckle over his cheek, trying to erase the lines that had no business being on the face of a man just past his thirty-second year. Quietly, she said, “You know I love having the girls, Tuck. It would just be nice to have a little advance warning, that’s all.”
He glanced away. “Yeah, sorry. I just . . . Well, the new nanny—Emily—takes classes at night and couldn’t stay. I figured you and Helen could keep them entertained.”
Lillian looked toward the row of sweet-smelling English lavender she’d coaxed into growing along the short fence lining the drive. “What the girls need is more time with their father.” She sensed his shoulders tightening. “You’re welcome to join us, you know.”
