Ginger Fox

“You needed to see him, Mom.” I switch the phone to my other ear, walking slowly while kicking some pebbles in the garden. “Jon was so happy; he’s a good boy…”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Gim, can you tell me something? Did you see the photos I sent about the party hall decorations?” My mother cuts off my excitement, bringing the wedding topic back up. “You know, Stefi’s daughter said peach for the chair covers looks divine…”
My breath comes out painfully, as if I were drowning again, just listening to her talk nonstop. I stand still, watching the distant sea while she chatters.
“Did you call Tom? I still think you should have gone to California to be with your fiancé.” I rub my forehead quickly, trying to dispel the anxiety.
“Yes, he’s fine. But go on, do you think peach is the best choice?” I respond quickly to change the subject.
Tom and I had exchanged few words. I had called him before calling my parents, but he didn’t answer the video call when I called. A few seconds later, he returned the call as a normal voice call, with a slow voice and rapid breathing. He told me he was swamped with work and thought it better to postpone the video call for another day, apologizing for not meeting Jon. Even without seeing him, I could picture exactly how he was from the way he spoke. Tom, with his messy hair, flushed cheeks, dragged voice, and interrupted breathing, exactly as he is after we’ve been intimate. Tom wasn’t at the office, and in my heart, I knew the truth.
“Mom, is Dad around?” I put an end to the doubts about peach or salmon, causing her to choke and let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.
The line goes silent for a moment before I hear my father’s calm voice, which always has the power to soothe me and show me a path when I can’t see it myself.
“Hi, my love. How’s it going? Have you seen any kangaroos?” I laugh with his cheerful voice, feeling the nervousness from my mother’s conversation dissipate.
“Dad, I’m on an island. I see a lot of saltwater, but kangaroos are pretty unlikely.” He bursts into his loud laugh. “Dad, do you think I made a mistake by not going to California?” He falls silent, letting the laughter fade away, and there’s a brief moment of quiet.
“Do you want me to be honest or euphoric, like your mother?” The sound of a door closing tells me he’s moved away from her to talk with me.
“I just want you to be you, Dad.” I look up at the sky, seeing each twinkling star.
“Gim, when you were nine, you asked me for a globe map for your birthday, not a doll or a new dress,” he sighs softly, and I can remember the big globe I got from him. “When I asked why you wanted a globe map, you looked at me with your big eyes and said you wanted to mark all the places you dreamed of visiting.”
My face turns toward the mansion, watching its lights from afar.
“Tom is a good guy, and I’m glad you met him. But maybe this time apart from each other could be good for you both.”
I understand what Dad means. Tom and I played together, laughed together, and cried together. We went from childhood to adolescence and puberty side by side, into adulthood. There came a time when my thoughts were the same as his, and his the same as mine.

“I just want you to be happy, my love.” My father’s voice whispers as if he were right beside me.
“I love you, Dad. Thank you for being you.”
“I’ll always be here for you. Now hang up, because your mom wants to keep talking about peach.”
I laugh, saying goodbye to him and ending the call. I swing the phone between my fingers, breathing calmly. My steps lead me toward the mansion, thinking about what to do to pass the time since Jon isn’t here. Maybe I could visit the library and pick out a book to keep me company. I try not to think too much about the enthusiastic kiss I received from Baby. I had never kissed a woman before, and I know that, in a way, it’s just her way of expressing herself. Baby is free in a way that doesn’t involve issues or shame about her sexuality, and that makes me like her. The mansion’s silence is immense, giving it the feel of a cold, lifeless mausoleum, yet still beautiful in its egocentricity. Since Jon isn’t here, I know there’s no need to join them for dinner, and following my only plan, I head toward the library. To my surprise, I find the first edition of *The Secret Garden*, from 1911, among the books. The aged and worn cover holds yellowed pages still in perfect condition, despite its age. I remember spending two days locked in my room, reading this book when Dad gave it to me for my eighth birthday.
Mary Lennox was a girl raised by a nanny in India, getting everything she wanted from her servants. However, an epidemic of cholera struck, and her parents and nanny ended up dying. Mary was then brought to England to live with her uncle, Archibald Craven, who became her guardian. One day, Mary discovered the Secret Garden, which had been locked for ten years. Everyone was forbidden to enter the Garden, but Mary, being very curious, decided to go in. On a stormy night, she found Colin, her cousin, Mr. Craven’s son. Since everyone believed he would soon die, all his wishes and desires were granted. However, Mary felt no pity for him; on the contrary, when he got angry, she clearly told him what she thought of his behavior.
It was already three-thirty in the morning when I closed the book, realizing that I had been stretched out on the couch in the corner near the shelves for hours, lost and inert to everything, absorbed in the book. I had a completely different understanding of the story than I did fifteen years ago when I first read it. Mary was simply a child and acted like one. And it was as a child that she managed to help her cousin, Colin, changing his way of thinking so that he could finally heal. She showed that with a small change in attitude, we can alter an entire situation. Perhaps Colin was indeed sick, perhaps he was going to die, but she refused to accept that, and made Colin refuse to accept his condition as well. I rub my eyes, getting up to stretch my body and twist my neck to relieve the pain from lying in an awkward position. I put the book back in its place and leave the library. If I find this mansion morbid during the day, at night, when it is completely dark, it feels twice as bad. I’m lifting my foot to go up the first step of the stairs when a sound from the east wing catches my attention. Always too curious, and disregarding everything I learned from horror movies about the tragic ends of nosy girls, instead of quickly climbing the stairs and running to my room, I simply lower my feet, heading toward the sound and letting my curiosity outweigh my fear.
Maybe that’s why I relate so much to Mary. Both she and I have immense curiosity, always being nosy and inconvenient. The low sound grows, almost like a caged animal’s whine, alternating between rough and sharp. I walk quietly in the dark and notice that the noises come from the conservatory. I’m certain when I get closer, seeing the light on inside the room. With feline steps and ears tuned to the increasing sounds, I bring my fingers to my mouth to stifle a laugh. No, it’s definitely not a serial killer who will kill me with a chainsaw, nor an animal choking. The sound I hear is of a woman moaning uncontrollably, as if she’s suffering from some intestinal upset.