The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (16 page)

It feels impossibly light to contain so many books. I squint at the screen. “There’s glare from the overhead light.”

He repositions it in my hands, his arms brushing mine. I see that he, too, has a fistula in his arm, the plastic heaving under the skin like a long-forgotten parasite. “You’re imagining that. There’s no backlighting.” He adjusts the reader.

“I like paper books.” I hand it back to him, freeing myself of it.

He wags his finger at me. “Don’t be afraid of change, Gal.”

“I’m not. I simply have a preference. Is that a crime?” I consider telling him about all the ways I’m not afraid of change. Having Riley with me, for one. For another, breeding a whole new rose. I’m certainly not opposed to change there, am I?

He looks expectantly at me, as if he can see these thoughts forming on my tongue and is waiting to hear them in the air.

I bite them back. I leaf through a magazine, but don’t see the words.

He passes his hand over his mustache. “Gal,” he says finally. “There’s an article I found you might be interested in.”

“About what?” I expect him to say roses.

“About kidney transplants.” He touches his screen and hands the device over to me.

I take it from him with a frown, not knowing what he’s talking about.
The New England Journal of Medicine
. The article tells me that a kidney transplant can be done even if there is limited blood flow on one side; you simply transplant the kidney on the opposite side. So my problems are on my left, and the doctor needs to put the new kidney on the right.

A million thoughts rush through me and I say the first one, the most important one, the only one that will affect my outcome. “Dr. Blankenship won’t care.”

“She has to care.” He closes the screen. “Even she can’t ignore
all
the research.”

His emphasis on the word “all” makes me smile. “Tries her best though, doesn’t she?”

He folds the cover over his device. “I e-mailed this to her. Told her to take another look at your case.”

I pause, surprised. Why would he do that, after I’ve been so, well, rude to him all this time?

“You’re right. Me being on the list higher than you is unfair.” He shoots me a half smile, crooked and tired. “All of it’s unfair.”

I have no response. My throat tightens.

Walters lowers his voice to a whisper. “The chief of surgery here is an old friend of mine, Gal. We went to elementary school together.”

“No wonder everyone likes you,” I breathe.

He guffaws, slapping his knees. “That’s not why. They like me because I’m a nice guy.”

I grin.

He looks around, apparently content to do the talking for the both of us. “The people here are nice, your company no exception, but boy, I can’t wait until I never have to see this place again.”

I put my chin on my hand. I had never thought about it. “What do you think it will be like, when we don’t have to come here anymore?” I say so softly he has to lean forward. “When we don’t have to worry about who we leave at home and we can eat what we want?”

He moves across the aisle next to me. “Don’t you remember?”

“It’s been,” I squeeze my temples with my thumbs, “a very long time.” I move my head back. “How long has it been for you?”

He holds up six fingers.

“Six years? Nearly as long as me.” I am impressed for a second.

“Months.” He gives me an apologetic smile.

“Months?” I shake my head.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, Gal, it’s that you need patience.” He crosses his legs. “If you have patience and faith, good things will come. Back when I was a young man—”

I snort, interrupting him. I’ve had enough. Is this why he showed me the article, so he could have permission to lord his knowledge and pomp over me as I sit, a captive audience, in a waiting room? I don’t care if his patience story involves a war, or the Great Depression, or the gas crisis of the 1970s. I simply don’t give a damn. “Who are you to tell me about patience? I’ve got more patience in my . . .” I cast about for something small, “my earlobe than you have in your whole body. I’ve been on dialysis eight years, Mr. Walters. Eight years. Sick my whole life. Who are you,” I am standing now without realizing it, “to tell me?” I’m sobbing now, these tears coming more often, unbidden and uncontrollable.

He looks at me, shocked, as the nurse rushes in and takes me by the arm and leads me away.

I have to get in one more thought. “You don’t know a thing,” I say to him, my acrimony hanging in the air, visible as a shroud.

20

A
T HOME IN THE MORNING, VERY EARLY,
I
AM RINSING THE
roses when Riley comes outside. I didn’t bother to come inside, just shut down my car and went right over to the greenhouse.

The nurse who led me away said not one word about my altercation with Walters. She hooked me up to the machine as she always did, put a warmed blanket over me, and asked, “Do you need anything else?”

I shook my head no.

She closed the door and left.

It took me a long time to go to sleep last night, and when I did, I awoke every hour on the dot, jolted to high alert by some invisible force, surprised continually that I was not at home in bed.

The sun is barely up, orange in the distance. I didn’t think Riley would be, either. I always have to go into her room and awaken her. She has an alarm clock, a Hello Kitty one that appeared one day, but she hits snooze over and over.

She is already dressed in her school uniform, pants this time, which the girls usually avoid because they think pants aren’t cute, with sensible-looking athletic shoes and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a navy blue hoodie, emblazoned with the St. Mark’s logo of a lion standing over a book. Her hair is combed and tied back at the crown with a navy blue ribbon.

The morning light slants across the left side of her face, casting her right side into shadow. For a second, she looks undeniably like her mother, and also, to my surprise, my mother, as if they are one unbroken line of female clones.

“I didn’t think you’d be up.” I close the brass spray nozzle, wiping my hands on my pants.

“There was a cat fight that woke me up at five.” She pulls the hoodie tighter around herself.

“Zip that. You’ll get a chill.” I drag the hose to the next row of roses.

“I can do that.” She is beside me, her hoodie already zipped, taking the hose out of my hand. She gives it a gentle tug. “Let me.”

“Go eat breakfast.” I won’t release it.

“I did.” She gives it a harder tug. My dirt-stained hands give way.

“Don’t get muddy.” I relent, only because my stomach lets out a gurgle so loud Riley hears it and grins. I open the nozzle so that a medium-hard stream of water sprays out. “Not too much of a hard spray, or it could damage the leaves. We don’t want to power-wash the roses, only knock the spores off. Wash the undersides. Then go to the next row and do it again.”

“Got it.” She looks pleased with herself, like a toddler helping a grown-up with an important chore.

I walk slowly to the house, my clogs catching on the mud I’ve created, cool on my toes, my socks soaked.

Inside, her biology textbook and notes are scattered on the coffee table. A plastic mixing bowl full of popcorn kernels sits on the floor, next to the television remote. I pick up the remote; it’s greasy. I hope she’s ready for the test today, at least. I pull off my socks and put them into the small laundry room at the end of the kitchen. Piles of laundry await there, dirty and clean baskets, and I can’t tell which is which. The clean ones are supposed to go into the living room for distribution, not left to sit and get more dirty clothes thrown carelessly on top. I throw a load in, not bothering to sort, washing everything on cold.

I go into the bathroom to wash my hands, flipping on the overhead light. My skin looks as pallid and gray as the mourning doves who nest in my springtime garden. I slap some cold water on my face, hoping to wake it up.

The off-white Formica counter, run through with veins of false gold, is still dirty, rivulets of dust and water and who knows what making rivers of nastiness. I grit my teeth, get the wipes out from under the sink, and wipe down everything.

I change my clothes and finally get to the kitchen, pouring myself three-quarters of a cup of puffed plain brown rice cereal. I pour one-half cup of fat-free milk over it and sit down with a big clunk at the table.

The newspaper is already spread out before me, turned not to the comics section but to the business section. The classified ads, to be exact. Riley’s circled some jobs. Office clerks, work from home scams, and, for some reason, dental assistant jobs all bear a heavy black mark around them. I smile at her ambition and naiveté.

Riley comes in through the back door, letting it slam. Though her pants are dark blue, I can see the dirt on them. I glance at the clock. We have to leave in ten minutes. “Riley, get changed.”

“I was about to.” She kicks off her shoes, returning in a few minutes (she can surely be quick if she wants) and tossing her dirty clothes into the laundry room. “Do you know where my P.E. uniform is, Aunt Gal?”

I eat the last bit of cereal. “I’m not in charge of your uniform. Why didn’t you wash it last night?”

“I put it in the washroom two days ago.” She picks at the newspaper, shredding a corner.

“So what have you been wearing to class?” I frown. Students get marked down for not having uniforms.

She shrugs.

“A shrug isn’t an answer.”

“Regular clothes.”

“Unacceptable. Your grade is going down.”

She puts her chin in her hand. “Are you ready to go yet?”

“Are you ready to go?” I nod toward the coffee table. “Your books are not in your backpack.”

“Whoops.” She gives me an angelic grin, sloping off to gather her things and thumping the bag on the table.

I slip my loafers on. “Riley, I’d rather have you do the chores I listed for you than my roses.”

“I’d rather do the roses.”

I angle my neck, feeling it crack. Hospital beds, even the adjustable ones, are not the most comfortable things ever invented. “Riley. Can you do what I ask?”

Her nostrils flare and her face flushes. “No problem.” She shoulders her backpack. “Can I drive?”

“After school you may. I’m too tired to supervise at the moment.” This isn’t exactly true, she requires little supervision, but the driving feels like a reward to me she hasn’t earned today, despite her help with the roses.

She holds the door open for me, her back pressed against it to prevent it from automatically closing. As I pass her, I look at her downcast face, her pale arms, the way she always stands with one foot ahead of the other. I realize she does not look so much like Becky, she looks like me. Or what I would look like, had I not been stunted.

I press the car keys into her hands. Our cold fingertips touch momentarily. “Go ahead.”

• • •

A
LL DAY,
I search for Dara. She does not come to the lunch room. Mr. Morton eats with the physics and math teachers. He avoids eye contact with me. So this is how it’s going to be. It’s as though he knows that I know all about him, suddenly. I take my lunch back into my empty classroom and eat alone, my Internet browser open to the Pasadena rose show and convention.

I am excited, because not only will it be a larger show and farther away so it will be a mini-vacation, but Byron will be there. Dara will finally get to meet him.

I pore over the categories, though I have them memorized and already sent in my entry forms. Perhaps I should try to do more than one category, not just the new breed of roses. I have a few good mini-roses coming in, or maybe one of my hybrid teas will be ready. There’s also the hotel to consider, with discounted rooms available. I’ll have to check with Dara.

A knock sounds, soft, at my locked classroom door. “I’m closed!” I yell back around a mouthful of salad greens (one cup of lettuce with an ounce of tuna).

Dara’s painted face peers through the glass transom and I unlock the door. “I didn’t see you in the cafeteria.” She sips from a can of Diet Coke through a straw. She wears a full brown skirt and matching blazer with a nipped waist.

“Nor I you.” I wipe my hands on my slacks.

She sits in the guest chair by my desk, crossing her ankles as delicate-ly as royalty. “What’s new and exciting? I saw you called.”

I want to blurt out the whole story of Mr. Morton, but something is holding me back. Dara leans back in her chair, her eyes scanning the desk, the room, her lap. She looks everywhere except right at me. “I sent in my entry for Pasadena.” I point to the screen. “Where do you want to stay?”

Her last sip of soda is a loud slurp. She crumples the can and tosses it into the blue recycling trash. “About that.”

I wait. Her throat moves in a swallow. She laces her fingers. At last she continues. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I blink. I feel strangely calm. “Why’s that?”

She furrows her brow. “Remember? I said I was a maybe. I’m going to make an extra payment on my credit cards instead. Gal, I’m sorry.” She hasn’t moved her hands off her lap, where they appear to be holding each other for comfort. “Are you mad? You’re mad.”

I search for my lost voice, willing it to show itself from the bottom of some kind of deep pit where it fell. She
had
told me she was a maybe, at dinner. But surely she
knew
she wouldn’t be able to make it. Why didn’t she just say no? Then I wouldn’t have made these plans. My brain freezes. “I’m not angry,” I say at last. “I just wish you had been clearer.”

Dara’s body already fidgets toward the door like a bad student. “I really did want to go, Gal.” She opens her mouth as though she wants to say something else, her eyes wide circles, but doesn’t. She looks at a crumpled piece of paper on the floor, throws it in the trash.

“I’m glad you’re being responsible,” I say, sounding exactly like my mother. “Maybe Riley can go with me.”

She relaxes, her shoulders slumping in the chair. “I bet she’d love that.”

I nod, once.

The bell rings. Dara springs up. “Have a good afternoon, Gal.”

“You as well.” We sound like a bank teller talking to a customer, interchangeable and shallowly polite.

She leaves the classroom as my AP Bio students trickle in.

I still haven’t told her about Mr. Morton. “Wait, Dara.” I go to the doorway but she’s gone, down the hall, talking to Mr. Morton. She nods and he glances toward me. I step back into the classroom before she can turn around.

Perhaps it’s not my place to tell her anyway. I shut the door to my room as the last bell rings.