Especially when there’s no possibility of permanence.
My dad makes the two-hour drive to Danbury, New York in an hour and forty-five minutes. I’m not sure if his harsh attitude toward the accelerator is because he’s eager to spend as little time with me as possible or he is eager to get this visit over with as quickly as he can.
Either way, we arrive ahead of schedule.
Danbury is a small town. It reminds me of Alleghany, a little. There’s a brief downtown section that encompasses all the usual necessities—library, post office, bank, gas station. Then we’re back amidst the lush greenery that made up the scenery for most of the drive here. Grass and leafy trees rush by in a blur of green, until I feel the car start to decelerate.
My dad turns up a gravel driveway lined with trees and heads straight toward a three-story, white clapboard building. It looks the approximate size of an English estate or a billionaire’s summer oasis.
“This is nice,” I comment, partly because the entire drive here was spent in silence, and I’m worried my vocal cords may no longer be working.
“For what they charge, I sure hope so.” My father scoffs.
I roll my eyes, not caring if he sees.
He does. “Don’t be difficult, Natalie. The last thing your mother needs is more stress.”
“Right. BecauseIwas the one stressing her out.”
He huffs as he parks. “We’re supposed to go to the gardens,” he tells me, as we climb out of the car.
There’s a man with two small children walking on the gravel path that leads from the parking area to behind the building. My dad and I follow them.
The gardens are an explosion of color. It’s a dazzling display that screams cheerful, which I realize is exactly what they’re meant to do. The flowers and the trees are an oasis, located in a place people rarely choose to come voluntarily.
White picnic tables are spread throughout the grass. I spot my mom’s blonde hair at one of the farthest tables, located right next to a row of hydrangeas. I start her way, assuming my father will follow. He does, sighing dramatically as we pass a koi pond and then a patch of lilies. You’d think he was personally paying for each installment.
“Hi, Mom.”
My mother’s shoulders stiffen. Then relax, as I round the corner of the table and take a seat across from her.
“Hello, Natalie.”
She ignores my father—who’s hovering awkwardly at the end of the table—completely, which surprises me. I’m used to them pretending to be a happy couple around me.
“You look good,” I offer.
She does. The dark circles under her eyes have disappeared. Her hair has a natural wave to it, and her skin has a slight glow from the sun.
“Thank you,” she replies. “Everything has been all right, at home? The maid has been coming on time? And the gardeners?” For the first time, she looks at my father, and I know she’s not asking about the hired help at all.
“Yes. Everything is fine,” I assure her.
“Good. That’s good.”
We lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s noticeable.
“This is a nice spot,” I finally say.
My mother nods. “Yes. It is.” After a beat, she adds, “They let us help out in the gardens, if we want.”
“Have you been?”
“Yes. I’ve also been doing some painting out here.”
“You have?” I have hazy memories of making art with my mother when I was younger, but I haven’t seen her so much as pick up a pencil in years.
“Yes. I’m rusty.” She laughs, and it’s the first time I’ve heard the sound in a while. “But that’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? You can make it whatever you’d like, and no one will know the difference unless you tell them.”