Short Story #010: The White Garden

 

The White Garden

“The problem is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil is interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else.”

-Ursula K Le Guin

 

“W

hy do you look so glum child?” asks Mrs White of me. “I’ve seen you go about the house. You walk around with a pall of gloom over your face as if you’re in habitual mourning. Have you suffered some great loss I know nothing about?”

“Oh it’s nothing,” I say and quietly resume sipping my tea. I’m surprised Aunt White noticed.

“You mustn’t go about with a glum face, Carol. You’ll attract all kinds of other glum thoughts floating in the air. One after another they’ll come to roost in your head and soon you’ll have a farm of sadness.”

I think she means that as a joke so I give her a half-smile.

“Tell me dearest,” she asks again kindly, “Is there something going on?”

“You needn’t worry aunt,” I say exasperated with all the sudden attention, “I’ll be all right.”

This is the first time Aunt Katherine and I are sitting down to have a chat. Mrs. White—my Aunt Katherine—has been very busy over the weekend to pay me any serious attention. Today’s the first day since my arrival at her large country house that she’s at a loose end, hence the lecturing.

“How old are you Carol?”

“Thirteen,” I say.

“That’s too young to be looking so morose. Is there anything weighing you down child? I can help if I’m told.”

“There isn’t anything weighing me down. Do stop,” I say as politely as I can without sounding annoyed.

I’ve just told her a whopping lie. It’s just that it’s not my habit to confide in semi-strangers. Mrs. Katherine White may be my godmother, but she is still a bit of a stranger to me. Also Aunt White’s known to be quite eccentric in the family circle, which is why I don’t know if it’s okay to make her a repository of my secret troubles.

 “Joy, real joy is what mankind was made for. Look at my garden Carol! Isn’t it a joy to behold?”

I’ll give her that. She owns the most fantastic garden you’ve ever seen. It’s completely white. By that I mean she grows only plants with white flowers and nothing else.

I turn in my seat and look at her garden as instructed.

“It’s all right,” I say to her. I’ve purposely said this to rile her. I want to see if she’ll have an outburst or something. She must be so used to people raving about her fantastic garden all the time, she’s probably not prepared for a negative response like mine.

“All right Carol?” she cries, eyes almost popping out of their sockets, “Have you a heart of stone? Whenever I look upon my garden my heart is in raptures. It’s such a fantastic sight to behold! And you say it’s ‘all right’?”

She drums her fingers on the table as if she’s displeased.

“Sullen child…”she murmurs, “It’s a sin to go around being displeased with things of beauty.”

“Is it?” I query.

“If you won’t dance when they play wedding music for you or cry when they lament what is the use of giving life to you? Have you never been delighted child? So very, very delighted that you spent the whole day smiling to yourself making people wonder at what could’ve possibly happened to put you in a cheerful mood? There’s something so mysterious about a woman who smiles, quite like the Mona Lisa…”

I snort in my head. Mysterious like the Mona Lisa! I don’t aspire to that benchmark.

“I saw that!” she cries in a loud accusatory voice and I jump in my seat. “Insolent child!”

It takes her a while to be mollified.

“You’re quite the typical teenager aren’t you? So full of pent-up angst,” she mutters. “Why are teenagers so full of pent-up angst, do you know Carol? Any guesses?”

“No, it’s just the way the world is. It’s fashioned to make and keep a person eternally displeased. I don’t work to get sorrowful aunt,” I mumble.

“You’re too grown-up for your age,” she says and sighs. “I was like that at your age. Why am I being hypocritical? I used to question every single thing under the sun.”

I lower my gaze and eat another cucumber sandwich. I don’t believe my eccentric aunt. Everybody loves to believe they can empathise with a teenager but in actuality very few can.

“Come on then, if you’ve finished your tea we’ll take a walk around my garden. It’s breath-taking this time of year.”

The time of year is summer. I roll my eyes when I know Aunt Katherine can’t see.

*

Aunt Katherine’s garden is vast, almost an acre I am told, and completely built from scratch. Mum said she built it herself, with the fountain at the centre and the summer house at the back, but I find that a little hard to believe. So I ask her.

“Mum said you built this place by yourself, is it true aunt?”

“Yes,” she says, “Excepting the summer house everything is put in its place and installed by me, the fountains included. Why, are you amazed at your old aunt?”

“Yes,” I say. It’s quite a feat. “How old were you when you started?”

“Around forty. The land belonged to my father, your grandfather. He left it to me to take care of and I wondered to myself—what shall I do with it? Strangely, Carol, the idea to build a white garden came to me when you were born. I saw you in your tiny white clothes at the hospital and I suddenly thought of what your wedding bouquet might look like. I don’t know why I thought that, but that’s what I thought—this little mite will get married one day, what will she do for flowers? She should have her pick of white flowers to choose from. That’s when I decided to set this place up. And now I’m the supplier of flowers for marriages all over the country.”

I’m mildly touched by her story but I act like I don’t care. To think it was my birth that started her off. Capital!

“It’s a pity you hardly come to visit me,” she mutters under her breath.

We begin our walk down from the porch on a pebble-covered path. Both sides of the path are lined with white periwinkles and large white gerbera daisies.

“Periwinkles and gerbera daisies,” says Aunt Katherine pointing them out with her walking stick, “Plants that require the least care.”

The path is narrow. There isn’t enough room for the two of us to walk abreast so Aunt Katherine walks ahead while I follow behind.

Beyond an arched gateway covered with profuse white bougainvillea there is the bulb garden. Gangly white spider lilies and starched stiff white tulips flutter in the morning breeze. Surrounding them are delicate calla lilies and singular peace lilies. My aunt has categorized her garden well.

“I don’t know why teenagers go through this “teenagey” period, Carol. It’s like a rite of passage I think. You want to do certain things a particular way, nobody understands why, nobody understands your way of thinking, nobody understands you. Or that’s what you like to think. I think I learnt early on in my life, Carol that it pays to be happy about everything. Don’t make me beg you to tell me what’s wrong with you. Go on! Spit it out!”

“There’s nothing to say,” I protest. I don’t want her to label me as “typically teenage”. I don’t know why but I just don’t like the term.

“If you say so,” says Aunt Katherine, “Remember, dear, I offered to help. I can sense things others can’t. And I sense you’re full of rage. Only I can’t understand at what.”

I feel like I’ve been a little exposed so I steal a quick glance at her face. She looks very serious.

We walk on.

*

Beneath a canopy of frangipani trees we continue our garden tour. White magnolia and hydrangea bushes line the winding path. I like hydrangeas for their sheer volume. My mom compared them to the size of my head once.  

“Next up is the rose garden,” says Aunt Katherine.

I lag behind a little.

“When I was a little girl I used to be very protective of your mother. She’s ten years younger than me. I would never allow our mother to grow roses in our garden at home in case your Mom pricked herself.”

“And fell into a deep sleep?” I ask and laugh a deeply cynical laugh.

“Full of sunshine aren’t we?” mutters Aunt Katherine and later, “I’m trying to get you to talk to me Carol.”

“I don’t want to talk! Don’t push me,” I shout back with sudden force. Big mistake. Aunt Katherine turns around and gives me a stare.

“Oh,” she says. And then silence.

We keep walking through her white garden without saying a word to each other. Aunt Katherine pets her plants and talks to them in a lovey-dovey voice. I hang back a little and glare at her. I know I shouldn’t have yelled, but I wish she would stop snooping. I made it quite clear to her as politely as I could that I didn’t want to talk. She should’ve taken the hint.

In the rose garden Aunt Katherine cuts a bunch of roses to take back to the house in perfect studied silence. I offer her no help.

Here’s the thing about me. I’ve become very cynical about the world lately. I don’t believe, and I’m too scared to say it out loud, but I don’t believe there is a God, a good and a kind God at least, one who watches over our troubles and wants to help us out of it.  

I don’t believe He exists because I prayed really hard, like crazy, about something, and my prayers weren’t answered.

And no, I didn’t ask for a doll.

So I figured either God doesn’t like me very much or He doesn’t exist. How do I tell her that?

She’s a staunch Christian. She’ll be sure to give me the same old platitudes—‘God’s ways are higher than our ways’—‘Even though you don’t understand it now, you will later’—‘Don’t question God as if He’s your playmate!’.

And I don’t want to hear stuff like that.

*

When we get to another section of the garden I see some very beautiful flowers. “What roses are these, Aunt?” I ask pointing to the flower that looks very much like a rose.

“They aren’t roses. They’re ranunculi. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Ranunculus singular?”

“Yes, dear. Ranunculus.”

That sounds like a spell from Harry Potter.

“Ranunculus?”

“Yes, ranunculus. Aren’t they pretty?”

I quite like the flowers so I nod assent. Aunt Katherine whacks her cane against some myrtle bushes. She needs the cane because of the arthritis in her knees. I look at her in wonderment. Why would she do something so unlike her usual plant-loving self?

“I heard from your mother that you were sick, Carol. She told me to make sure you took your pills. What are the pills for?”

I don’t believe Mummy. She was the one to tell me not to tell anybody.

“Tuberculosis,” I say.

“Oh dear,” she says and a furrow forms on her brow, “that’s terrible news. Where do you have it? In the lungs?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, “they couldn’t find it anywhere in my body though they are medicating me for it. That’s why I had to go to Vellore. To get tested.”

My aunt looks at me puzzled. “Is that why they had to drill your spine? To test your bone marrow? To rule out cancer?”

“Yes,” I say and suddenly it’s too much to hold in. I burst out crying.

*

I don’t believe Aunt Katherine.

I expected her to tell me to get over my pain and not be a wuss, but she comes over to me and gives me a hug.

“That must have been the most painful thing you’ve ever endured, wasn’t it?”

I don’t say anything.

“Honey,” she says when I’ve finished sobbing, “Is that why you’ve been so under the weather?”

“Yes! You don’t know how painful it was! The pain was enough to drive me out of my mind. I think I’m going to die because they can’t find out what’s wrong with me. Nothing makes sense, Aunt. I prayed so hard. I thought if God really loved me He wouldn’t let me go through that kind of pain but Aunt, He did! Why did He do that?”

Aunt Katherine’s grip on me is tight.

“I heard your mother couldn’t stand to hear you screaming when they were drilling your spine so she left the OT. She told me all about it, Carol.”

This is something I didn’t know. I thought Mummy was outside the whole time.

“You didn’t answer my question. Am I going to die?”

Aunt Katherine doesn’t answer me immediately.

“No,” she says after some time, “You’re not going to die. When will the test results come out?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Carol, are you holding onto that pain and not letting go?”

I gape at her without answering.

“That’s a wrong thing to do. I have arthritis in my left knee and I go through excruciating pain every day. I don’t blame God for it. I believe God lets these things happen to us for various reasons. He does it to get us to call out to Him, to seek Him, to understand that Jesus died in the same painful manner to free us from the power of eternal Death.

That’s why, no matter how much pain you face, Carol, you should always be joyful. Because the eternal life God has purchased for you is worth letting go of all the pain. It is joy that mankind was created for.

Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

*

Meekly I follow Aunt Katherine as she hobbles through her garden to a gate in the wall.

Taking a key out from beneath a rock she opens the gate and invites me to enter.

“There’s a dance I do this time of year. Come in. I’ll let you see me.”

I enter through the gate in the wall and the sight I see is astounding.

In a vast field, thousands of kash flowers are beating against each other, swaying gently in the soft breeze. Wave upon wave of silvery white flowers and green grass are bent and made upright.

Aunt Katherine plunges into their midst.

“Come on, Carol. When God created the world the sons of God shouted for joy! Shout for joy because you have the gift of eternal life.”

I look woodenly at her as she jumps and shouts in the field of kash. She prances and dances a curious dance with deft movements of her hands, as if she’s a bird and her arms are her wings. She mimics a stork in the way she walks through the field of kash blossoms. Over all, I wasn’t expecting her to be so comical.

I look at her and a weak smile breaks out on the corners of my mouth.

Aunt Katherine is very amusing, to be sure.

“Why are you standing there, Carol? Come and dance with me!”

I obey the command and plunge after her into the sea of silvery white. She takes hold of both my hands and gets me to dance with her.

“I can’t dance!” I protest but she hears none of it.

“I’ve got a secret to share with you Carol.”

I limply follow my Aunt Katherine’s movements.

“Do you know why Christ thought nothing of the pain He felt when He was being crucified? I’ll tell you why. The joy of being with His Bride was nothing in comparison to the pain He endured on the cross, which is why He could endure it. He knew that the joy that awaited Him would last a lifetime.”

Her words sink in to my soul.

“And you and I are that Bride Carol. Don’t hold on to the pain as if God betrayed you. Let it go and be free in the knowledge that you are loved.”

I don’t know whether I should believe her and be so easy. I was planning on giving God a rough time for putting me so much pain. I didn’t think that Jesus had endured similar pain on my behalf—without giving me a rough time about it.

“Come on, what do you say?”

I think about it and nod. It’s easy to become bitter at God for the things He makes us endure without realising that Jesus endured the same kind of pain to set us free from the grasp of Death.

I grab onto Aunt Katherine’s hands and together we dance our funny stork dance in the field of kash.