Connections

I can’t help but stare. I know I’m being ridiculous but I have never seen eyes quite that piercing and in such a deep green shade. I’m supposed to be paying attention to his description of my new job and so he startles me with his question.

“Anya, did you hear me? Do you have any experience with gardening?” he asks.

“Oh...um...a little, I guess. I’ve helped one of my teachers with his classroom plants and helped gather some wild herbs for the cook at the Home.”

“Good, so then that settles it. You’ll help tend the plants in the greenhouse when needed and the rest of the time, you’ll be helping the cleaning staff inside.” He smiles at me, which catches me off guard. I was expecting the usual derisive expression I’d become used to when interacting with adults in Arcadia. “And Anya, I know you’d probably rather still be in school with your friends for another year but we’re glad you’re here to work for us. My belief is that it shouldn’t matter what your family has done in the past as long as you’re doing your best and trying to do the right thing. I know it’s probably pretty difficult for those of you who have grown up in the Home. I never did like that they called it a home for abandoned children.”

“Thanks, Adam - I’m glad the Necessary Support department was able to get me a position here.”

I walk back to the Home feeling better than I had in days. I am still reeling from the photos of my parents someone had snuck into my room a few days back, showing they were in Arcadia just three months ago. I had just been starting to bring up positive memories of them from my childhood and had been anxious about their well-being after finding out my dad and possibly my mom had been kept secretly in some sort of prison by the Arcadian council for the last ten years. But I had assumed if they were free, they would have come to get me from the Home. I asked Mrs. Shelley when we were next alone in the kitchen together but she claims she doesn’t know anything about my parents being out of the prison nor who gave me those photos. Since I don’t have anyone else I can trust, I’ve just been letting my questions and doubts consume me. All these years of letting those around me fill me with fear and lies have left me feeling stripped of all power.

Adam was right in that I want to be in school, as mind-numbing as my classes were, given that I wasn’t allowed to take any advanced classes. I certainly hadn’t been looking forward to jobs in the NecSup department for the rest of my life, but perhaps it won’t be so terrible working at the retirement center. Adam seems nice and maybe some of the elderly residents will be interesting to talk to, especially since many of them would have been around from before Arcadia was formed and before the uprisings changed things here even more. And maybe having to go back and forth to work at different times will allow me some freedom to sneak off to the old barn where I left the important documents about my parents and others held by the Council. The possibility of reducing the control the Caretakers at the Home had over my daily life seems reason enough to look forward to working, now that I think about it. And being around different people may help me piece together more of my past.

When I get to work the next day, Adam asks me to deliver a vase of flowers to a Mrs. Burns in room 12. “Mrs. Burns has been with us a while but I know she misses her own garden, so we try to keep her room full of flowers and plants.” Adams says. “But Anya, just be careful of upsetting her - her memory isn’t so great and she gets easily confused.”

Mrs. Burns is sitting in an armchair facing her window that overlooks the greenhouse. She must not have heard me come in and startles when I set the vase down on her table. When she sees the flowers, her smile widens, and then she looks at me and she falters for just a moment. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. And you brought me your favorite flowers! I remember how much you loved your marigolds.”

Clearly she’s confused since I have never met her. This must be what Adam was referring to. I just smile and say, “It’s so good to see you too. How are you doing today Mrs. Burns?”

“Oh, Melissa, no need to stand on ceremony. You know you can call me Barbara. And how is that charming husband of yours?”

Is it just a coincidence that she is calling me by my mother’s name? While I don’t remember much about what she looked like when I last saw her in person at the age of 6, I can definitely see the resemblance in the recent photos of her someone left for me. As I am struggling with how to respond, I hear Adam’s voice from the doorway.

“Mrs. Burns, this is our new assistant Anya, not Melissa.” He glances at me but I’m not sure how to read his expression. He must know who my parents are from my file, but does he know what they were accused of and where they are now? And why wouldn’t he tell Barbara I am Melissa’s daughter?

“Oh, but you look just like my friend Melissa. How odd…” stammers Barbara. “Well, thank you for the marigolds, Anya. Melissa always grew the most beautiful ones in her garden.”

Did she? I know I’ve always liked marigolds and I have had small snatches of memories popping up over the last few months, things that had been pushed down to the recesses of my mind for years, but I don’t have a vivid picture of our garden in my childhood home. I remember my mother’s eyes and her smile, her favorite locket, my father’s voice, his impassioned discussions with friends around the campfire, the hushed conversations in the old barn that I know now must have been secret, before the last uprising. And of course, I remember the night my parents were dragged away, when I was told to run away to the neighbor’s house. But other things are still locked away, waiting for me to remember.

I leave Barbara’s room, vowing to visit her again soon, and head out to the greenhouse for my first shift out there. I don’t see Adam on my way, so I will just have to ask him about Barbara later, about whether she was really talking about my mom or had confused me with some other Melissa. The greenhouse looks a little neglected, with weeds starting to choke some of the other plants. I don’t really know much about plants except recognizing what should stay and what should be yanked out. I see some little pops of orange peeping out among the tangles...marigolds, of course. Even if Barbara was talking about another Melissa, seeing them makes me happy.

I kneel down and start pulling out the noxious interlopers, finding a calming rhythm as I work. So much has happened lately, so many conflicting emotions. I want to believe that my parents are good people and not the traitors the Caretakers had said they were. I want to believe that they are alive and well and not still in some secret Arcadian prison being tortured with others who rebelled during the uprising. And I want to believe that they must have a good reason for not coming back for me now. That the Caretakers’ constant reminders all these years that my parents abandoned me were lies, though what purpose that served I still don’t know. I want to believe all these things, but there’s still so much doubt and confusion crowding out the pieces of courage and strength I occasionally feel. I know Mrs. Shelley back at the Home knows something and is willing to help me to a certain extent, albeit for her own financial gain, it seems, rather than any desire to change what’s going on around her. I know Glen was arrested after talking to me about my parents and leading me back to that old barn where the secret prison documents were hidden. But I don’t know who else is involved and there seem to be all these little coincidences popping up...either that or I’m becoming paranoid and grasping for connections.

The next several days pass with no new revelations about my past. I haven’t had the opportunity to sneak away to my buried boxes of documents hidden in the barn either. Apparently the Caretakers have been made aware of my schedule and know exactly when to expect me back at the Home each day. The head Caretaker, Mrs. Lambeth, has been with us in the kitchen frequently, so my private conversations with Mrs. Shelley have halted as well. I’m stuck in this holding pattern and it’s enough to drive me out of my mind. I just want to do something, figure out some next step to this huge puzzle that my life has become. While I’m no longer content to keep my head and follow the rules, I have no idea how to proceed or who to trust.

I’m working in the greenhouse again when Barbara appears at my side. I know her nurse has her take walks around the property, but I haven’t seen her in here before. “Good morning, Anya.” At least she seems more lucid today. “Can I help you?”

“If you’re sure you’re up to it, Barbara, I would love the help.”

She kneels down next to me, surprisingly agile. “You do look like her, you know,” she whispers. “Your mother, I mean. We were good friends before she and your dad were taken away.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“I’ve only heard bits and pieces. The official word was that they left Arcadia after killing several people during the last uprising, but unofficially we knew they had been taken to a prison somewhere, one that’s not in the public records. Our friend Glen...yes, the janitor from your school...told me he had heard they were out. But we haven’t heard from them, and it never made sense that the Council would release them, especially considering all of the propaganda surrounding their disappearance.”

“So why haven’t they contacted me? Do you think the Council turned them while in prison? Or is it just true that they didn’t want to take me with them anyway?”

“Anya, your parents loved you very much. They were working for a better future for you when they were taken. But as for their allegiances getting turned over the years? I just don’t know. I’d like to think not, but years of the torture it sounds like they endured can eat away at your ideals. I think you can probably relate to that. I know you haven’t experienced the physical harm they have, but the emotional toil you’ve put up with all this time, that must have been very difficult. I would imagine you’ve felt powerless and small and alone at times, and I wish I could have found a way to help you.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Barbara didn’t answer immediately, seemingly lost in her thoughts. “I wanted to. The only reason I didn’t share Brian and Melissa’s fate was because I have a powerful brother on the Council. So instead, they’ve kept me quite medicated for a long time.”

She looked at me, resolve in her eyes. “But that stops now. We’re going to do this together.”

I take her hand, tears in my eyes, grateful for the connection.