Page 21 of Meet Me in the Garden

“So will you tell me?” she asks.

I tried to, once before, when we were newly in LA, but she changed the subject, didn’t want to hear it. I say, “It has to do with Papa.”

“I’m ready.”

So I explain the difference between the hospital cemetery and the sanctuary. The small white cross marking the first grave of row thirty-four. I tell her that as soon as I was hired at the plant, I called the hospital long-distance. Terry was still there. She said it had never been done before but she didn’t see why we couldn’t replace the cross with a tombstone, and she gave me the number of a man who made them. I told him I wanted a stone worthy of Papa’s discerning taste, not only his name and the dates of his birth and death engraved, but alsobeloved father and grandfather, and a bird like the ones in his favorite painting from the foyer. It took most of two paychecks for the marble and two more for the engraving. Hundreds of hours stationed on the Finishing line, and then I sent the money away.

“And it’s done now?” Adele asks.

“I called the hospital to confirm it.”

“I swear,” she says. “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you. It’s like you have a secret life.”

My heart seizes, and then I remember: I don’t anymore. “I went to see him at the hospital once,” I tell her.

Her face turns from disbelief to confusion to something like awe. She leans in close. “You saw him?”

“I did. Delphine came with me.”

“How was he?” Adele asks.

“He was exactly himself. Pulled chairs out for us to sit. Asked about how all of you were doing. Asked about Delphine and me and what books we were reading. He wanted to know whose art was on the covers of the magazines that month. He said he liked getting our letters and wished he could write us back, but he didn’t want Maman to find out and put a stop to us sending them.” Adele’s brows are furrowed, her thumb rubbing the seam of the sofa cushion. “He didn’t seem insane,” I say. “That might have been the worst part of all. Maybe a little tired. Definitely sad. But there was no reason, that I could see, for him to be locked away.”

“I wanted to go,” Adele says. “But I thought Maman knew more than we did and we had to trust that she was right.”

“Do you think Claire ever went?”

“I know that she didn’t.”

It’s the answer I expected, but I’m still sick at the thought of him alone at every visiting hour except for one, that entire long year until it was over. I say, “I wish I knew where Delphine is. And if she’s okay.”

Adele bites her lip. Grimaces. “There’s something I should tell you. Once, Claire and I were out shopping together on Miracle Mile. You were home with Rudy and Clément. I was pregnant with the twins.” My life before working at the plant. Wiping small fingers. Mashing bananas for Clément’s baby food. Keeping Rudy from climbing the furniture and drawing on the walls. My sisters returning home with shopping bags. “Claire and I went into Robinson’s. Delphine was there.”

The words hover outside my body. “Go on,” I say.

“There isn’t much to the story. We were in the shoe section. She called to us and waved. She was pushing a pram. It took us both a second to place her—she looked different and she was all out of context. And that was all.”

“What do you mean that was all?”

“Claire took my arm and steered me away. I barely had time to think and then we were outside on the street again and it was over. We argued all the way home over whether we should tell you. Finally, we decided not to. We thought it would just stir up old hurts. We didn’t see a reason to do that.”

A ringing in my ears. “But all these years, I’ve been wondering.”

“We made the wrong choice. I see that now. With Delphine and with you. It’s all wrapped up with this thing with Maman somehow. Theseruleswe’re supposed to follow. The idea that there’s a right way and a wrong way to be. That the wrong things can’t even be looked at. Aren’t allowed to exist. I acted likeDelphinedidn’t exist. I wish I’d stayed and talked to her. But I didn’t. I wish I’d gone straight home and told you.” She pulls her robe tighter. “But I didn’t do that either,” she says.

The whole next day there’s a tightness in my chest, an anger that intensifies as the hours go on. We come home from work and it’s time to have dinner but I can’t sit still. I leave without explanation, walk the three doors over to Claire’s house, pound on her door so hard I hurt my knuckles, draw my fist back in pain.

She swings the door open, pale. “Why aren’t you at dinner? Bernard’s there. I wasn’t feeling well so I stayed home.”

“Adele told me. About Delphine in Robinson’s,” I say.

“Oh.” I storm past her into their living room. “Can we sit while we talk?” she asks. “I’m not feeling right today.”

“She isn’t worthy of a hello? You hate her that much?”

“I don’t hate her,” Claire says. “She made achoice. It hurt me, and I was angry, especially because of you. All your lives, you two were inseparable. You don’t just abandon people. Forgive me if I won’t tolerate small talk in a department store when she chose to cut us out.”

“But she didn’twantto,” I say. “She didn’t want the laws to be what they are. That’s not her fault. Bill choosing to live in the neighborhood he wanted isn’t her fault.”