Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

17. the regret

Ever since that first morning, Geneva spent the next succeeding ones in the garden with her Aunt Deborah, much to the bafflement of Prudence and Barbara. They did try to dissuade their sister, claiming it might not be good for her health, but Deborah was insistent. She wanted the early morning warmth of the sunlight and the quiet sounds in the garden. Even when it rained, she would impatiently wait until the sky cleared and ask Geneva to take her outside.

They did not do much. Sometimes they talked, but most often they would just sit in silence and watch everything else. The trees entertained Geneva, while the clouds were her aunt's particular favorite. She would slump in her seat, which she never did, and rest her head back to watch the clouds move.

Rarely would they talk of anything Geneva was interested in. It was always about the bible if they did, but there were some moments when her aunt would let her ask questions. She could not bring herself to ask about the Vernons, but she would ask some questions that her aunt would take some time to answer. One in particular, took her days to address.

"Have you any regrets in your life, Aunt Deborah?"

She asked because she was genuinely curious. Even if her aunt answered at that moment, she did not know what to do with it.

Her aunt looked at her for a long time, and for a moment she thought the woman would say, "You," but she didn't. She just stared and looked away to close her eyes against the gentle blow of the wind.

And like the many questions she asked before since their mornings in the garden began, Geneva did not press for an answer. Her questions were just thoughts that she gave voice. She did not expect them to be answered. Perhaps because it was always on her mind whenever she was with older people. She wanted to know not just the regrets of her aunts', but that of others as well who had passed the prime of their youths.

Ten days later, since that first morning, however, Aunt Deborah got weaker.

It was time to go to Birth.

Suddenly, the garden mornings were gone, replaced by days of preparations and packing, of instructions both written and verbal; prayers and church' reminders of things to do once they were gone.

Of course, she tried asking again to come along. And like before, the answer was still the same. The household needed her. She could come and join them later.

The night before her aunts were due to leave for Birth, Geneva and Damon walked back to the Stratford Road, taking the opposite sides.

"I don't know what you see in me," she told him, stopping to face him from across the road. "I'm boring and the worst person there is to talk about things. I barely know what I want. Barely know anything, to be honest."

"You know, I ask myself the same question every night," he said, grinning at her from where he stood, spots of moonlight on his face and chest.

"Could it be just pity? You're confusing it with adoration."

"Woman," he said, resting his hands on his hips, "You dare insult my ability to discern my own thoughts and feelings?"

She laughed, and it echoed down the tunnel of trees. Turning to walk again, she said, "Sometimes I wonder how I should be."

"How you should be for what?"

"For you."

He crossed the road with a frown, his head tilted to the right. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I don't know. Sometimes—and only sometimes—I imagine myself free to do what I wish. That my aunts are different. And when I think of that, I wonder what I might be for you. Would I be like the fun ladies you meet in balls? Or the ones you dance with? Or mayhap someone like your cousins who could—"