The Memory Garden Read Free

stupid questions. When he finally stopped laughing, they continued on their way—Eve waving her wand, Mavis taking broad, unghostlike steps, Nan and Ruthie walking on either side of Mr. Black—until Nan noticed that Ruthie looked like she might cry and crossed over to hold her small hand, which was sticky and warm.
    When they stopped in front of Nan’s house, Mavis pointed her ghost finger at the one next door, the porch covered in dried vines and dead flowers, the carved pumpkins on every step flickering candlelight grins.
    “She lives there,” Mavis said.
    Mr. Black bent until his face was so close Nan could smell his breath, which was surprisingly cotton candy. He lifted his hand in front of Ruthie’s nose, his bony finger pointed straight up.
    Nan followed the line from crooked nail to the moon. “You get your power from here,” he said. She looked down just in time to see him touch Ruthie’s lips with the tip of his finger, which made Nan feel funny, like she’d seen something bad.
    Nan suspects her little-kid mind, full of Halloween excitement, makes her remember it like this, but she always pictures him standing and turning away, losing his human proportions like a figure drawn in black crayon on the silver night. She remembers watching him walk up the stairs to Miss Winter’s house, almost disappeared sideways; the great door creaking open, a cackle of laughter from the other side, the enchantment broken by her mother’s voice.
    “Nan, what are you doing? Where have you girls been? Do you know how late it is?”
    Nan was distracted for only a moment, but by the time she turned, Miss Winter’s door was closing, creating a draft, which blew out every pumpkin grin, and splashes pumpkin wine on Nan’s hand, startling her back to the present, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, blinking at the dark.
    Nan inhales deeply, steeling herself against the pain of moving stiff bones to set the glass gently on the floor beside the open bottle. At seventy-eight, she is too old for sleeping in chairs, too old for raising a teenager, and certainly too old to be afraid of ghosts. But what can be done, she asks herself, as she has so many times before; what else can the guilty do but fear the retribution?

PINE Pine, slow to decay, is a symbol of immortality. It is used to treat despondency, despair, and self-condemnation.
    The worst day is her birthday. Seventy-nine years , Nan thinks on that cold December morning. Not much time left.
    “What are you doing?” she mumbles, staring at her bedroom ceiling. “Get a hold of yourself.” She glances at the digital clock’s red numbers glowing through the clutter on her bedside table. Six fifteen. She needs to get up. Make sure Bay doesn’t miss the bus.
    Nan shivers against the cold as she throws off the blankets and quilts, awakening Nicholas in the process. Only as she slides her legs across the flannel sheets and sits up does she realize she smells something wonderful, which is most unusual for her birthday. A knock on the bedroom door, situated strangely low, as though made with the fist of a tiny creature, or perhaps someone’s foot, startles her; she is sitting with her hand over her heart when the door swings open and Bay enters, carrying a tray of pancakes and coffee.
    “Happy birthday, Nana,” Bay says, grinning broadly.
    Nan makes a big deal of clapping her hands in delight, though it is mostly pantomime and doesn’t make any sound at all. Bay doesn’t seem to notice. She walks slowly across the room. Nan moves to sit with her pillows against the cold, hard wall, pulling the blankets up around her lap. Nicholas, clearly annoyed by this break in routine, jumps to the floor and scurries out of the room, a flash of white.
    “I hope you’re hungry.” Bay sets the tray on Nan’s lap, then turns to flick on the bedside lamp, knocking over an empty mug in the process.
    “Oh, I am,” Nan lies, blinking against the bright. “This smells wonderful,” she says,