Missy’s Garden

The mammogram image stared back at us like a fortune teller eager to share the future.

“Is it just me?” Missy said. “Or does that look like a dog smiling?”

Dr. Liu frowned and ignored the question. He waved his pen at the computer screen.

“That mass is not a joke, Mrs. Robinson. We’re going to need more tests and set up a treatment plan.”

“Nah.” Missy shook her head. “It’s just scar tissue shaped like a smiling dog. Lowell here,” she patted my hand, “was born in ‘46. Year of the Dog. You’re familiar with the Chinese zodiac, right, Doc?”

But that was Missy. Irreverent to the end, which came ten months later, three days after Christmas.

#

It’s February, and I think about the song, Old Friends and how Simon and Garfunkel were right. It is terribly strange to be seventy without my best, oldest friend in the world. Only I’m the ghost—carrying memories I can’t share anymore.

But I have one lifeline left. Our daughter, and our weekly phone calls.

“You need to get out, Dad,” Kayah says. “Meet some new people. Move away from Cloverdell.”

“But your mom loved the Oregon coast,” I say. “And besides, there’s her garden. It needs tending. If her artichokes die, I’ll never forgive myself, Case.”

“Um-hm. Keep rationalizing, Dad.“

“Kayah.”

“Well, stop isolating, Dad. Listen, I’m asking for a few weeks of time off. I’ll bring Miri. She misses her grandpa. Don’t fight it.”

Kayah has Missy’s stubborn streak; I don’t argue.

“Okay, kiddo. You sure?”

“I’ve got loads of personal time. Leave it to me, Dad. See you soon, okay?”

Later, wrapped in Missy’s worn-out electric blanket, I laze on the recliner, pop the cork on a bottle of Syrah, and nestle into the warmth.

I wake up later shivering—the blanket’s dead—and I stumble up the stairs. The bed’s colder than a tomb, yet I drift back into a dreamless sleep.

Morning comes, bringing a hoary frost that sugarcoats the artichoke plants—silvery propeller heads on the frozen ground. Missy nags me from beyond the grave.

“What about that cold frame, Lowell? My poor artichokes.”

I groan.

“I know, Missy. I’ll hit the Tillamook Reclamation Center and repurpose an old door for your frame.”

Peeking out the front window, I spy the driveway—it’s an ice-skating rink.

Driving’s not an option, but I need exercise. We used to hike together on the old dirt path before Missy started radiation. Maybe Kayah’s right. I need to get out.

Avoiding the driveway, I shuffle towards the forest and reach the path running between bare blackberry shrubs wielding sharp thorns. Far below, the stream burbles; the sound reminds me of Missy’s laugh.

Setting my boots on autopilot, I tramp down the path and soon reach a clearing where the old, decommissioned irrigation tank lies rusting. There’s a red, weatherbeaten door with two glass inserts leaning against a tree.

“You’re kidding,” I say.

I reach out, caress the beveled rectangles carved in the frame and admire the oversized windowpanes.

“No cracks. Nice. But that wood. Hope it doesn’t disintegrate.”

The clouds part; the sun cheers me on as I lug the door down the path. Ten minutes later, I’m in the garden, huffing and puffing.

With the door propped against Missy’s beloved cherry tree, I watch the sun’s rays illuminate the glass, then ease the door over the raised bed. It’s a perfect fit.

I turn to leave, but stop when I glimpse something flickering on the stunted artichoke leaves.

“What in the world?”

I examine the glass, now visible in sunlight, and discover tiny lines etched into a pattern on the windowpane. The sun plays hide-and-seek, and the image fades, but I’ve seen enough.

“Hmm. Native American symbols.”

Later, at the kitchen table, I sit and draw the pattern from memory. It’s a hand, palm up; at the center an eye stares out—an oval mouth-like shape surrounds the hand. I tap the table with the pencil and think.

Where have I seen this before?

I realize I need help. I shoot an email—including a picture of the sketch—to Savanna Hopewell, an old colleague at the University of Portland in the Indigenous Nations Studies Program.

Later, when nightfall drags the temperature down, I sip Syrah and doze under the electric blanket. With the sketch in my lap I dream of a stream; it whispers its secrets as icy fingers caress my neck.

“Brr.”

I awaken in a cold room. Yawning, I trudge to bed and burrow under the covers, my legs aching. Throwing off the blankets, my gaze snaps down to my feet. I’m wearing boots covered in mud; the bed is a soiled mess.

“What the—”

Exhausted and confused, I pull my boots off, strip the bed—then toss everything in a corner. Cursing old age and wine, I pull a fresh blanket from the closet.

When morning arrives, gray and frosty, I peer out the bedroom window.

The red door’s windowpanes are wide open.

Racing downstairs in bare feet, I dance over ice-cold pebbles to the raised bed, and glare at the door. I lower the glass panes, remember something, and hike back to the house; up the stairs where I confront the soiled bedding and muddy boots.

“Okay, Lowell. No more wine.”

That evening I avoid the Syrah like it’s labeled with the skull and crossbones. But I dream anyway.

I’m in the forest with Missy; we’re in our youthful summer skins, lying on the soft, warm soil—brown leaves a bed for our naked flesh. Missy’s head rests on my chest; her silky brown hair tickles my nose. She points to the twinkling river of light above us.

“Pick a star, Lowell,” she says.

I’m not stupid. I know I’m dreaming, but so what? Missy’s here and I’m not alone tonight.

“How about that blue one?” I say, my finger tracing circles around the brightest star.

“Of course you’d pick that one.” Missy laughs. “It’s Sirius. My lucky star.”

Then her lips are on mine. The Milky Way winks out as laughter sifts through the trees; I awaken to find another muddy mess.

Humming, I pull off my boots, bundle up the soiled bedding and stretch out fresh sheets. I glance at my watch. It’s two-thirty in the morning.

Still humming, I skip down to the garden and close the panes over Missy’s artichokes. They’re tall—sporting long, full serrated leaves. I should be surprised, but I’m not. Whatever this is, I’ll take it.

I lower the glass, then head up to bed—stars in my eyes as I fall into a peaceful sleep.

When morning comes, I long for a beach walk and scan the weather on my laptop. But the Mail App flashing on the screen diverts my attention. It’s Savanna.

Hey, Lowell.

How’s retirement? So sorry to hear about Missy. I’m here if you need to talk.

Interesting picture you sent. Definitely Native American. You’re part Alsea, right? Anyway, the Hand and Eye motif suggests a cave. Or a door. How did you come across it?

Take care,

Savana

“The Hand and Eye,” I whisper. “Of course.”

The doorbell chime startles me; I climb the stairs to the front door, open it, and get caught in a whirling tornado shaped like a seven-year-old girl.

“Grandpa!”

“Miri!”

She jumps into my arms and hugs my neck.

“Surprise, Dad,” Kayah says, standing on the porch, suitcases at her side. “We made it.”

“Momma says you’re sad,” Miri whispers in my ear.

“Not anymore,” I say. “Now that you’re here.”

After they settle in and Miri naps, Kayah and I talk.

“Catch any sleep on the flight?”

Kayah shakes her head.

“With a wiggle-worm in the seat next to me? Right.”

She puckers her lips and frowns.

“You look different, Dad. You seeing someone?”

Missy’s naked body next to mine flashes in my head. I chuckle.

“In Cloverdell? Come on, Case.”

“I don’t know.” She tugs a lock of brown hair. “Something’s different.”

A sudden, shrill scream pierces the air; Kayah jumps up, then sprints down the stairs. I stumble after her.

When I get there, Miri—her cheeks wet with tears—is in Kayah’s lap.

“It’s alright, peanut,” Kayah says, rocking her. “You had a bad dream.”

“No, Momma,” Miri sobs. “It wasn’t a dream. She was there.” Miri points at the window.

“Who?” I say, fearing the answer. “Who was there?”

There’s a strange light in Miri’s eyes.

“Grandma.”

I glance out the window at Missy’s garden where the cold frame is open and something shimmers beneath the glass.

The Hand and Eye.

The light fades as soft laughter bounces off the hills.

Supper, followed by an early bedtime for all, allows me time to think about the symbol. The Syrah bites my tongue as I stare at my sketch, but no answers appear there.

Mentally exhausted, I give up, go to bed, and slowly drop off.

I dream of the forest. We’re on the old irrigation tank beneath a starry sky, the stream burbling below us.

“I know that look, Lowell,” Missy says.

“Why, Missy?”

Her body stiffens.

“Because I miss them.”

“No, this—whatever this is. It’s not for them.”

“Really? You enjoy keeping your one-night stands with your dead wife a secret from our daughter?”

“That’s not what I… Jeez, Missy, I forgot how exasperating—“

“Don’t you dare, Lowell.”

A cool breeze carries laughter up from the stream.

“Who is that, Missy? I thought it was you.”

Missy sighs, rests her head on my shoulder.

“Some things are better left alone, Lowell. Just kiss me. I’ll stay away from the girls. Promise.”

She pulls my hand to her silky knee, and the dark clouds between us disappear.

#

Kayah leans against the laundry room doorway, coffee cup in hand.

“What’s with all the muddy bedsheets, Dad?”

I close the washer door and punch the heavy cycle button.

“Just an issue with the plumbing. How’s our little girl this morning, Case?”

“She’s fine, Dad. Just a little jet-lagged.”

“Too jet-lagged for the beach?”

That morning, we take advantage of ice-free roads and drive to the beach where Miri chases seagulls; hunts for sand dollars amongst rubbery seaweed wreaths in Missy’s favorite spot—a large, wet cave.

We grab takeout for lunch on the way back, and that evening—after supper and an animated movie—we say goodnight around nine. I drink a glass of wine and crawl into bed. I’m dozing when there’s a gentle tap at the door.

“Dad?”

“Come in.”

Kayah, wearing pink PJs, sits down on the edge of the bed.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“Hate to pry, but what’s going on with you? Anything I should know?”

“Nope. Just coming out the other side.”

The other side of what? I think.

“That’s good,” Kayah says, brightening. “So, you haven’t met anyone then?”

“I can honestly say I’ve met no one new.”

She smiles; reaches for my hand, then freezes at the strange sound coming from downstairs.

Strange laughter.

Kayah’s face goes white; she bolts from the bedroom as I swear.

“Dammit! You promised, Missy!”

“Miri! Miri! Where are you?” Kayah’s panicked voice echoes up from Miri’s bedroom as I fly down the stairs two at a time.

When I reach the bedroom, Kayah’s standing in the empty bedroom

Miri is gone.

From the window, I spy the cold frame—open again.

“Get your shoes—and a light!”

“Where are we going?” Kayah’s eyes are wide; her hands are shaking.

I grab a flashlight and my boots from the downstairs closet.

“The forest.”

“What?”

“No time to explain!” I’m on my feet, my heart racing. “Follow me!”

We rush out the front door, skim the edge of the icy driveway, and reach the forest in seconds. Blackberry brambles flash by as we barrel down the dark path. We call out Miri’s name, our lights strobe-lighting the trees. When we pause to listen, the night is dead silent.

Kayah presses her phone to her face.

“Dammit! There’s no service! How do I call 911?”

She jogs up the path, then disappears. Instantly, Missy appears before me.

“Lowell.”

“Why, Missy? You promised me.”

“And I kept that promise.” Her voice is pinched, pleading. “But she’s a devil—a liar. I’m so sorry, Lowell.”

“Who’s a liar?”

“The old woman.“

Old woman?

“The Asin,” I whisper, suddenly recalling a foggy childhood memory that comes flooding back.

I’m at my grandparents’ house down in Alsea, near the Siuslaw Forest. Grandfather is telling me stories from our ancestors, the Alsea People.

“The Asin, Grandson,” he says. “The ogre that feasts on children. Her mortal foe is the dog.”

“She’s drawn to you, Lowell,” Missy says. “You’re a quarter Alsea, but it’s enough to attract that demon. She promised to bring us together. How could I know she wanted Miri? But Lowell—she also fears you, my lucky star.” Missy points to Sirius above, and I understand.

The Asin cackles nearby, raising the hackles on my back. Instinct kicks in; I plunge through blackberry branches, thorns raking my sides.

I’m numb to the pain; I fly down the grade towards the hissing stream without my flashlight. But I don’t need it—my eyes easily pierce the darkness.

When I arrive at the stream, laughter greets me; it’s a whirling dust devil buffeting me from every direction.

A child screams, and I’m off—my feet barely touching the ground, hurtling towards the sound; a low growl rumbles in my chest.

“No! Leave me alone!” Miri cries out.

I skitter to a stop—pebbles peppering the ground as a chilling howl splits the night.

Someone shrieks; the scent of copper fills my nose, and I head east—ears to the ground—as my senses pull me towards a whimpering sound. Finally, I reach a bend in the stream where a tiny, shivering figure stands.

“Grandpa.”

Miri’s pajamas have tears and stains from something slick and black.

Blood.

I scoop Miri up; check her trembling body for wounds. She’s uninjured, and I cradle her while I examine a motionless figure in brown buckskins sprawled near us on the ground.

“Asin,” I whisper. “Missy’s devil.”

Her head tilts at a sickening angle, revealing the jagged gash that severed her throat. A long, silvery ponytail—thick as rope—snakes out from behind her head. Long, razor-sharp teeth fill her mouth. There’s a tattoo in the center of her leathery forehead matching the symbol on the red door’s windowpane.

The Hand and Eye—the portal between the garden and the forest.

Missy appears at my side.

“Lowell.”

I say what I should’ve said from the start. “How are you here, Missy?”

“We’re like the old friends,” she sobs, “from the song. And you were grieving. The old woman pulled me to you. But she was different then. Kind. Beautiful. We watched you. Sad—all alone. Then, she made those promises; you found her door, and we were together. Young. Alive.”

“She’s a cannibal,” I whisper. “She eats children!”

I clutch my chest at the sudden stab of pain, then glance at my hand. An old man’s hand, lined and spotted.

I find Missy’s face; it’s wrinkled, hollow-looking.

“Shhh, Lowell.” She grabs my hand. “You’re my lucky star. The Dog Star, and your ancestors, guided you tonight. Changed you when Miri needed you. But it’s over now—the spell died with the old woman.”

A fist squeezes my chest. I close my eyes.

“I’m dying.”

She chuckles, the way she did a year ago in Dr. Liu’s office.

“Not yet.”

Missy pulls me close, kisses me, and it helps—the tightness eases, and I shudder.

“ I love you,” she whispers. “Until we meet again, my lovely man.”

When I open my eyes, Missy—and the Asin—are gone.

“Dad?” Kayah’s face hovers over me; she’s holding Miri, asleep in her arms. Kayah’s eyes are wide at the sight of blood everywhere. “What happened?”

I rise on shaking legs.

“Later,” I say, holding up a hand. “Miri’s fine, but I’m freezing. Let’s go home.”

Casey shoots me a look, telling me I’m in for an interrogation later. But for now, she turns and heads down the path.

Hiking back, my mind stays busy fitting together puzzle pieces.

If I didn’t kill the Asin, who did?

As I watch Miri’s head bouncing on Kayah’s shoulder—her hair caked in blood—something clicks.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper. “It was Miri.”

The Asin had another enemy—one who ripped out her throat. My blood—my people’s blood—runs through Miri’s veins.

Morning comes; despite aching muscles, I rise early. I have work to do before the girls wake up and pepper me with questions.

The sky is clear; I’m standing over the raised bed as the sun peeks over the forest. I watch it rise—crowbar in hand.

Stooping, I pry the windowpanes free, set them aside, then smash the red door into pieces.

I drag the pieces it to the fire pit in a tarp, and ignite it. Eventually, the wood burns to ash and the fire dies.

Next is the glass panes resting against the cherry tree; the Hand and Eye symbol shimmers on the frozen ground.

I set the windowpanes over the pit, raise the crowbar, and pause.

Is the Asin really gone? What if I could see Missy again?

Missy’s voice whispers in my ears.

Until we meet again, my lovely man…

“You’re right. Until then, Missy,” I say. “No more portals.”

I swing the crowbar down into the glass. At first, nothing happens. Then, dozens of tiny lines form, radiating out like a spider’s web. The pane shatters; crumbles into the pit. The fire whooshes to life, cackling like laughter.

Moving to the raised bed, I stop to admire a dozen healthy green artichoke globes swaying in the frigid breeze and think about the song.

How terribly strange it is indeed, I think, to be seventy.