Susannah's Garden

“School’s almost out,” Joe reminded her. “That should cheer you up.”



He was right; it should. Today was the last day of classes and her fifth-grade students had been overjoyed at the prospect of summer vacation. Susannah was equally ready for a break. Maybe for more than a break—a change. What kind of change, she didn’t know. She supposed she could think about it over the summer—after tomorrow, anyway, when she’d be finishing her paperwork.



“You’ve been restless since your father died,” Joe commented in a mild voice. He glanced at her across the family room. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”



“You’re saying I should talk to a counselor?” She hated to think it had come to this. Yes, her father’s death had been a shock, but at the time her grief had seemed…formal. Almost abstract. As though she’d mourned the idea of losing a father more than the man himself. She’d never gotten along with him. They’d tolerated each other, at best. As far as Susannah was concerned, her father was dictatorial, overbearing and arrogant. The moment she turned eighteen, she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.



“He was your father, Susannah,” Joe reminded her gently. “I know the two of you weren’t close, but he was still your father.” He removed his glasses. “In fact, maybe that’s why you’re feeling like this. Now that he’s dead, there’s no opportunity to settle your differences—to work things out.”



Susannah shook her head, dismissing the suggestion. Her relationship with her father had been difficult. Complicated. But she’d accepted that reality years ago. “This has nothing to do with him.”



Joe looked as if he wanted to argue, but she didn’t let him. “Yes, his death was unexpected, but he was eighty-three and no one lives forever.” The truth of the matter was that while they weren’t completely estranged, they rarely spoke. That didn’t seem to bother him any. Over the years, Susannah had made occasional efforts to bridge the gap between them, but her father seemed incapable of deepening their relationship.



Whenever she’d phoned or visited, Susannah talked to her mother. George Leary was a decent grandfather; she’d say that for him. Both Chrissie and Brian thought the world of her father. As for her—well, it was better to not think about the way he’d interfered with her life, especially during her teenage years. Yes, she was sorry he’d died, especially so suddenly, but she discounted the possibility that his death was the cause of this discontent she felt. If she was going to blame anyone, it would be Jake. But it wasn’t as though she could mention this to Joe, her husband, her wonderful husband. Hey, honey, I’ve been thinking about another man lately. That wouldn’t go over too well, no matter how understanding Joe was.



Her husband continued to study her. “Even though you don’t agree,” he said slowly, “I suspect your father’s death had a strong impact on you. Don’t you remember what it was like when my parents died?”



She did remember and was embarrassed to admit that she’d grieved for her father-in-law more than she had her own dad. When Joe’s mother died ten months later, they’d both been devastated. It had been a rough time for them as a family. Susannah had envied Joe’s close relationship with his parents when her own, particularly with her father, was so distant.



“Of course it was a shock to lose my dad,” Susannah went on, “but I don’t think this mood—”



“Depression,” Joe inserted. “Low-grade, garden variety depression.”



“I am not depressed.” Even while she denied it, she knew Joe was right.



Her husband raised his eyebrows. “If you aren’t depressed, then what is it?”



Joe was a solid, strong, self-assured man. Honorable. After twenty-four years together they’d grown accustomed to each other, so alike that they often ordered the same thing from a menu, read the same books, voted for the same candidates. She didn’t understand how she could lie beside him in the same bed night after night and dream about another man. This wasn’t like her. Not once in her entire marriage had she even considered looking at another man.



She’d be crazy to risk her marriage by searching for a high school fling. The episode with Jake was long over. She hadn’t seen or talked to him since she was seventeen, and that was…oh, more than thirty-three years ago now.



Joe replaced his glasses after polishing the lenses on his shirt. “You’ve had a lot going on in the last six months. Your father’s death, your fiftieth birthday, a demanding year at work and everything else.”



He wasn’t telling Susannah anything she didn’t know. Perhaps those were the reasons for this discontent, this need to find out about Jake, but she doubted it. Even gardening, her passion, didn’t soothe her—or distract her. While she was quick to deny that anything was wrong, Susannah felt certain it all went back to her high school boyfriend and the way their relationship had ended. What she needed was closure—that irritating, overused word. And yet nothing else quite explained it. Jake was an unfinished part of her life, a thread left hanging, a path not taken.



In that sense, her father’s death had triggered her unease, her recurring memories of Jake, since George was the one responsible for breaking them up. As always, he’d been so sure he knew best. The problem was that he sat on his high and mighty judgment seat in court during the day and didn’t step down from it when he came home to his family at night.



Susannah refused to dwell on thoughts of her father, refused to let herself nurture these negative feelings toward him. But tonight, for reasons she didn’t understand, her memories of Jake wouldn’t leave her alone.



“It might be a good idea for you to spend a few weeks with your mother this summer. Perhaps then you’ll find some resolution concerning your father.”



“Maybe,” Susannah agreed, although she didn’t really believe it. They’d already decided she should visit Vivian once the summer holidays started, to check up on her and assess the situation.



The phone pealed in the distance, but neither Joe nor Susannah hurried to answer it. With a teenager in the house, there was no need.



Brian stuck his head out his bedroom door and shouted her name at an ear-splitting decibel. “Mom!”



Susannah wanted to ask him who it was, but he’d retreated into his bedroom so fast she didn’t have a chance. Walking over to the kitchen phone, she lifted the receiver and waited for him to hang up.



“Hello.”



“Susannah, is that you?”



The female voice was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it.



“It’s Martha West. I’m sorry to bother you.”



“Oh, that’s okay.” Susannah tensed. Martha had been the family housekeeper for years. The only reason she’d be calling was to tell her something had happened to her mother. “Is everything all right with Mom?” The last time Martha phoned had been with the news that Susannah’s father had dropped dead of a heart attack.



“She’s just fine,” Martha assured her. “I did want to talk to you, though, before you drove here. Vivian mentioned that you planned to visit soon and, well…” She hesitated. “There’s no easy way to say this.” Again she paused. “Susannah, your mother seems to think I’m…taking her things. I hope you know I’d never do anything like that. I swear I had nothing to do with those missing teaspoons.”



“Teaspoons?”



“Your mother accused me of taking four of her matching teaspoons when I was there to clean this afternoon.”



“Martha, I know you’d never do anything like that.” The woman was completely trustworthy.



“I would hope not,” she blurted. “And let me tell you that if I was going to steal, it wouldn’t be teaspoons.”



“Makes sense.”



“Then she said I hid her purse. I searched for an hour and found it tucked behind the sofa cushions. When I showed it to her, she said I was the one who’d put it there.”



Susannah groaned. “Oh, Martha, I’m so sorry.”



“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” the housekeeper said, sounding exasperated. “Nothing’s been the same since your father died. One day she’s her normal self and the next, well, I hardly know her anymore. She asked me why I’d take her things. I would never! You know that. Teaspoons? She believes I walked away with her teaspoons and God help me, even though I looked everywhere, I couldn’t find them. But I didn’t take them!”



“I’m sure you didn’t. I’ll talk to her,” Susannah promised.



“So she hasn’t said anything to you about me supposedly stealing her things?” Martha asked.



“No.” This was a half truth. In their last conversation, her mother had said she wanted to have a talk about Martha once Susannah arrived. Susannah had assumed that the housekeeper was planning to retire. As it was, Martha cleaned the house only twice a week now. She was getting on in years, too.



“I’ll talk to her,” Susannah said a second time—although she had no idea what she’d say.



“Please do, and if you can’t convince her that I’m an honest and loyal employee then…then maybe I should look for work elsewhere.”



“Don’t do that,” Susannah pleaded. “Give me a chance to get to the bottom of this.”



“Good.” Martha seemed somewhat appeased.



“I’ll be in touch when I get there,” Susannah said.



After a few words of farewell, Martha ended the conversation and Susannah replaced the phone.



“What was that all about?” Joe asked as he refolded the evening paper.



Susannah sighed deeply and told him.



“You did say your mother seems awfully forgetful these days.”



Susannah nodded. “I talk to her almost daily, but there’s only so much information I can get over the phone.” She sighed again. “Mom keeps telling me the same things over and over, but I thought that was simply old age. Maybe it’s more than that.” Many of her friends faced similar concerns with their aging parents.



“What about asking one of her friends?” Joe came into the kitchen and stood beside her. Gazing down at her, he clasped her shoulders, his eyes serious.



She looked up at him with a resigned smile. “I’ll give Mrs. Henderson a call. She’s been Mom’s neighbor for years.”



After finding the Hendersons’ phone number, Susannah reached for the phone again. When the initial greetings were dispensed with, she was quick to get to the reason for her call. “I’m worried about my mother, Mrs. Henderson. Have you talked to her lately?”



“Oh, yes,” Rachel Henderson told her, “she’s often out puttering in her garden—not that she gets much done.”



“How is she…mentally?” Susannah asked next.



“Well, to be honest, she just hasn’t been herself since she lost George,” the neighbor said thoughtfully. “I can’t say exactly what’s going on…but I’m afraid something isn’t right with Vivian.”