He’sgotme. Fuck, it feels good to hear someone say that.
As much as I want to stay here with him, my curiosity wins out. “I have questions,” I say, pushing back enough to look up at him. “Who the hell is Ethel? Is she dead too? And this Thomas person, why does she think I’m sleeping with him?”
He sighs as he lets go and starts walking deeper into the woods. I follow along, eager to hear the tale he’s about to tell. “Ethel lived here for about four years in the fifties. She and her husband, Thomas. They were newlyweds.”
Winston shoves his hands into his pockets, his head hanging low as he continues. “I heard them talk about the kids they wanted to have, and what their names would be. They seemed incredibly happy, until he went off to war. That was about a year after they moved in, and suddenly, Ethel was all alone. No one ever came to visit. No family, or friends. I don’t know. Maybe they were new to the area and didn’t have anyone close by.
“Loneliness took hold of her and didn’t let go. She started to drink. I’m pretty sure she had a sickness of the mind. A doctor would’ve written it off as female hysteria at the time, I’m sure. She didn’t have the care or support she needed. Thomas would write her letters, but they were few and far between. Since she didn’t have anyone else to talk to, there wasn’t much keeping her away from the bottle. Gardening was the only thing that brought her joy.”
I nod, understanding. “So she died here?”
“Yeah,” he replies in a solemn tone. “One night, she mixed alcohol with pain medication her doctor prescribed her for migraines. She came outside to check on her garden. It was coldthat night. Almost winter, if I recall. She laid down next to her marigolds and never woke up.”
I don’t know what to say. “That’s awful.”
“I could’ve intervened,” he starts, his voice cracking with emotion. “I was nervous, about how she would react to my presence. I could’ve done…something, though.”
Maybe that’s true, but he’ll never actually know if it would’ve helped, and given the haunted look in his eyes, he’s still beating himself up about it, seventy-five years later. No one should hold on to guilt for that long. “You’re doing something now,” I tell him. “She may not have Thomas here, but she has you.”
Something flashes across his gaze. Something that looks like yearning, but it’s gone just as quickly. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up in a way that has me biting my lip.
“The worst part is, she died before Thomas returned.” Winston stops and has a distant look in his eyes as he shakes his head. “I have no idea what happened to him. Because Ethel was gone, she was no longer his next of kin, so if he died in battle, they would’ve contacted his parents, or maybe his siblings to let them know. No one ever came here, and the house was sold less than a year after she died.”
“Is that why she’s so confused?” I ask.
Winston starts walking again, and I can hear the faint babble of water flowing over rocks in the distance. We must be getting close to the lake.
“That’s a bit more complicated,” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “When you die, it’s important to have a link to who you were when you were alive. Not only do I have this house, but I have some of my belongings in the attic. I can look at them and remember.”
“Ethel has her garden,” I point out. “Is that not enough?”
“Not always. See, Ethel’s memories from right before she died are clouded with booze and whatever it was that wasplaguing her thoughts. She became paranoid near the end and had multiple theories as to why Thomas hadn’t come home. There were days she was certain Thomas fell in love with someone else, or that he was being kept prisoner and couldn’t write to her to let her know. There was even a brief time when she thought he wasn’t really drafted and used the war as a cover to travel the world and accrue a string of mistresses.
“Most of the time, the garden is her sanctuary, and as long as she can tend it, she’s happy and calm, but on the days she forgets she’s even dead, or gets confused and locks onto one of those paranoid memories, there’s nothing you can say to reason with her.
“I kept her photographs for her. Tucked them away in the attic before her belongings were cleaned out. I’ve tried showing them to her, you know, to strengthen that link between her life and death. She never wants to see them. It upsets her, I think, even considering that she and Thomas will never be reunited.”
“That’s so sad.” I try to see this whole thing from Winston’s point of view. It would be difficult to explain Ethel’s situation to someone you don’t know who’s just moved in. That, I understand, but given how angry she was today, if he hadn’t shown up when he did, what would’ve happened to me? Or Lindsay, if she were staying here instead? As much as my heart breaks for Ethel’s story, I’m frustrated Winston didn’t prepare me for what she’s going through. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He scrubs a hand down his face, shame tightening his features. “I should’ve told you, and I’m sorry I didn’t.” He chuckles, startling me, as he says, “Truthfully, I didn’t think it would be an issue, given how rarely you go outside.”
My immediate instinct is to smack his arm, which I do. “That’s not true!”
He gives me wicked side-eye. “Exclude the times you’re walking from the house to the car.”
Shit. I can’t argue with him. “In my defense…” I begin, trying to come up with something reasonable. I land on, “the heat has been brutal, and you know, bugs.”
He barks out a laugh, throwing his head back. The creases in his smile are so long they almost reach the crinkles of his eyes. And there’s that dimple again. That heart-stopping dimple. “Excellent point. Bugs.”
I laugh with him, even if just to release some of the tension from earlier.
“Ah, here we are,” Winston says, speeding up toward the clearing. When we reach it, he turns to face me. “Now that that’s behind us. Care for a swim? I need a reset.”
“A reset?”
“Yeah, you don’t feel like a new person after a bath or shower?”
“I do, it’s just…I’m not wearing a bathing suit,” I say, waving my hands in a polite decline.
