“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman says. “It’s been a long time.”
I study her more closely. She’s in her seventies, attractive with silver hair and a nice tan. I see kindness in her brown eyes and hear it in her voice. I admit, “I can’t place you, but I have the strangest feeling I once knew you very well.”
She extends her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Hudson. Doctor Elizabeth Hudson. Your father was one of the good guys. I got to know him pretty well while you were under my care. I’m a child psychiatrist. You were once my patient.”
Suddenly lightheaded, I grip the porch railing for support. “Are you sure you don’t have me confused with my twin sister?” I ask, even though Layla is the last person who would ever need to see a shrink.
“No, sweetheart. I’m positive it was you. I helped you sort through your emotions after your mother’s death. At least, I tried. Your mind had a mighty powerful lock on your memories from that day.”
I know her answer before I ask the question. “What day?”
“The day she died.”
I get a whiff of the gardenias wafting through the open doors, and a wave of nausea engulfs me. My vision blurs red and I drop my wine glass. Fragments of glass scatter across the wooden floor and wine splashes on my black suede pumps.
Fingers on lips, she says, “Oh dear. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I need to clean this up before someone cuts themselves.” Pressing my hand against the woman’s back, I hustle her off the piazza, closing the door behind us. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Hudson. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Let me give you my card in case you ever want to talk.” She digs in her bag, but I don’t wait for her to find her card.
I go to the laundry room for the broom and dustpan. The silence there is a welcome relief. I lean against the closed door and slide to the floor, landing with a soft thud on my bottom. The harder I try to wrap my mind around my loss, the more overwhelmed I feel. I keep telling myself to take one day at a time. This one’s almost over. If I can get through the meeting with the lawyers tomorrow and see Layla off to Atlanta on Friday, I can begin to cope with my grief.
I remain on the laundry room floor for a long while. When I finally drag myself back to the drawing room, Dr. Hudson is gone, along with all the other guests. Trudy is in another part of the house, and Roger and Layla are nowhere in sight. I clean up the mess from my shattered glass and stretch out on the sofa. When I close my eyes, the gardenia fragrance assaults my nose, and the backs of my eyelids burn red, the same bloodred from before when I was out on the porch with Dr. Hudson. There’s something beyond the red, but it’s too dim to tell whether it’s a person or a thing. Am I having some sort of premonition? Or am I remembering something from the distant past? Dr. Hudson’s words come back to me. Your mind had a mighty powerful lock on your memories from that day. Is it possible that seeing her again released one of those memories? Or did the gardenias trigger the vision?
A voice startles me out of my reverie. When I open my eyes, a strange woman is standing over me. I spring to my feet. “I thought everyone was gone.”
“Most everyone is. I’ve been outside in the courtyard talking with Trudy for over an hour. It was good to catch up with her after all these years.” The woman pauses, as if waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, she says, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Ugh. The ghosts are coming out of the woodwork today. Are all funerals like this?
This woman isn’t even vaguely familiar. Her appearance is unremarkable. Auburn hair streaked with gray. Hazel eyes that look at me but don’t see me. “I’m sorry. I’ve met a lot of people today.”
“I’m Alice. Alice Browder. I’m your godmother, yours and Layla’s. Your mother was my best friend.”
My mother’s best friend? I’m intrigued. But I don’t believe her. Something is sketchy about her. “If that’s so, why don’t I know you?”
“You knew me once,” she says. “When you were a little girl. I moved to the West Coast twenty-seven years ago, right after your mother died. Did your father never talk about me? I sent you birthday and Christmas cards every year. Didn’t you get them?”
“I did not.” I’m certain of this. I would’ve remembered receiving greeting cards from my godmother, my mother’s best friend.
“I can’t say I blame your father for keeping you from me. But I loved you girls like my own. I was never able to have children. In many ways, I thought of you as my own.”
“If that’s the case, why didn’t you ever call or come for a visit?” My tone is accusatory, even though I don’t mean for it to be. It’s been a long day.
“That’s a fair question. Unfortunately, the answer is complicated. May I?” She gestures at the sofa and sits without waiting for my answer.
Once upon a time, I would’ve relished having a godmother, a female figure I could relate to, my mother’s best friend who could tell me girly secrets about her. But that time has passed. If this woman cared about me, she would’ve done more to stay in touch than send a Hallmark card twice a year.
“Honestly, now is not the best time for a heart to heart.”
Seemingly surprised at my rudeness, she rises slowly to her feet. “I have an early flight out tomorrow morning.” She hands me a business card. “Call me sometime. We’ll have a nice long chat.”
I look down at the card that states she’s an attorney at law and lists the contact information for her firm in San Francisco. I pocket the card, but I don’t agree to call her, because I’m not sure I will. “Thank you for coming to the funeral,” I say in a softer voice.
After showing Alice Browder to the door, I return to the drawing room for the gardenia plant. I walk it down the hall, through the kitchen, and outside to the trash can. For the purpose of writing thank you notes, I remove the white envelope from the plastic holder and read the card inside. In deepest sympathy, Alice Browder.
Is there a hidden meaning behind the gardenias? Is Alice sending some sort of message? Or am I delirious from exhaustion and reading too much into everything?
Back inside the kitchen, I retrieve an unopened bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and retreat to my bedroom. Despite the early hour, I’m in for the night. I aim to drink until I forget about Marcus Mullaly and Alice Browder and Dr. Hudson.
After changing out of my funeral dress and into my shorty pajamas, I take the wine out to the piazza and cozy up in my hanging rattan chair. My bedroom is on the back corner of the original house with a view from the piazza overlooking the courtyard below. Three hinged wooden shutters separate my little corner from the rest of the porch. I finish one glass of wine and I’m pouring another when I hear a door on the other side of the screen open and angry voices spill out.
“You’re drunk, Roger.”
“Damn right! Being drunk is the only way I can tolerate being with you.”
Ouch, I think. That’s harsh. Especially coming from Roger. He’s by far their better half. True what they say about opposites attracting. Dad and I were thrilled when Roger entered Layla’s life. His calm demeanor has always provided a stabilizing influence for her erratic personality. His tolerance has run its course. I must say, he lasted longer than I thought he would.