Page 44 of Meet Me in the Garden

“Right, of course,” I say. “She misses you. We love her so much—all of us. We’re taking good care of her. I promise. I have a son. Clément. He’s just half a year younger than Nathalie. And Adele has three children now. Nathalie’s surrounded by cousins.”

“I can’t keep her.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“It makes me want to die.”

I don’t trust myself to speak. “I’d feel the same,” I finally say.

“I tried to starve myself, but they forced food down my throat.”

“Delphine,” I say, but I can’t finish the sentence.

“You need to tell her I’m dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean:Tell her I died.”

Thunder in my ears. Blood rushing. “There’s no way I’d ever do that.”

She’s holding perfectly still, so passive I’m certain she hasn’t heard me, until she says, “It’s the only way I can survive.” She stands, raises her arm. “Nurse,” she calls, and she’s ushered through a door.

Barrenness, on the drive home. Away from Camarillo, through mile after mile of nothing, holding my breath until I reach the edge of Los Angeles.

“We’re having a surprise guest for dinner,” Claire says when I walk into the house.

Adele’s apologetic. “I know it isn’t the best timing, given your day, but he called and asked to stop by. I couldn’t say no.”

I’m unstrung, exhausted. I want a whiskey and my bed, Clément and a storybook, illustrations to look at so I don’t keep seeing Delphine. “Just tell me who it is.”

“Felix. He’s in town for the next couple of days.”

“He’s had a standing invitation for a year now,” I say, taking off my shoes. “You’d think he’d give us a little notice.”

“So,” Adele says. “How was she?”

“Not well,” I say. “It was awful. She said to tell Nathalie she’s dead.” Claire and Adele stand very still, their eyes meeting. “We could never do that,” I say. “Tell such a horrible lie.”

And then Rudy bursts in from the yard and Claire and Adele go back to what they were doing—arranging fruits and nuts and cheeses on a plate, mixing a batch of Manhattans, taking the crackers from the cupboard. Felix is soon at the door, an autumn bouquet in his arm, orange flowers and magnolia leaves. Despite my resistance, seeing him warms me.

Adele takes the flowers. “Oh, these are so lovely. You shouldn’t have. Look at you, Felix. How has it been so many years and now you’re here?”

My sisters and I embrace him. The men come in from the yard, shake his hand, pull him in for hugs. We lead him to the living room and the children descend. Clément stands tall and says, “This is Uncle Felix. We know each other from the train station.”

“You remember that?” Felix asks, touching his hand to his heart. “It was some time ago.”

“It isn’t just any day that a boy gets to go see a train come in with a bird on it,” I say. “Let alone gets a handshake with a real porter.”

“Wanna to play Jacks, Uncle Felix?” Titter asks.

“You don’t have to,” Adele tells him.

“I sure do want to play Jacks,” he says. “As long as you don’t mind teaching me.”

He sits on the floor with the children, and they show him how to bounce the ball and scoop the metal pieces between bounces. He fumbles the ball the first time and the children cackle. Clément speaks over them. “I used to do that, too. It’s okay. You’ll get it next time.”

Over dinner, Al says, “Now, Felix, remind me. Who was the man who organized the movement for the Pullman porters, back when we were children?”