The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (21 page)

28

R
ILEY IS SITTING BEHIND MY TABLE, EATING A CHILI CHEESE
dog out of a paper bowl. She’s got chili all over her face and some has dripped onto her jeans, but I’m immeasurably cheered anyway. “You know you should eat those with a fork and knife,” I say.

“Oh.” She glances at her mess. “Ew.”

I reach into my purse for tissue since she doesn’t seem to have taken any napkins with her. “Here.” I mop up the beans from her lap, wipe her mouth. She takes a swig of cola from the bottle on the table.

The lady next door shakes her head exaggeratedly. I smile.

I decide to take out my rose. Forget Byron and his odd ways. Naming a rose after me without asking. What if I wanted to name a rose after myself? That might be considered unspeakably egotistical. I decide to be flattered. It will do me no good to be mad, will it?

I grin at Riley. “Do you know there’s a rose named after me?”

“There is?” Riley hoots. “Hot dog. No pun intended. You’re famous!”

I shrug. What was it going to say on the tag? “Named after Gal Garner, a quasi-good rose breeder who couldn’t get this done herself so I did it for her”? I remind myself to be grateful again.

“People will be buying your rose at Valentine’s Day.”

“Probably not. Red roses are the most popular Valentine’s roses, and they’re usually shipped from South America.”

Riley stops. “You don’t have to work so hard at deflating me, you know.”

“I didn’t mean to deflate you.” I clap. “Hooray for me! I only meant it’s not the biggest deal on earth. On the other hand, if it were a rose that I’d bred, I’d be doing a cartwheel down this aisle.”

“You can do a cartwheel?”

Probably not. I could never do a cartwheel when I was a little kid. Couldn’t do the monkey bars, either. No upper-arm strength. “A metaphorical cartwheel, then.”

“Okay. How about if I metaphorically do the chores?” Riley wiggles an eyebrow.

“That
is
how you do the chores, isn’t it?” I grin. She laughs.

I spot Byron standing at his table and try to catch his eye, but he will not turn my way. Ms. Sourpuss at the next table glances at us instead, her brow furrowed as though we’re making merry in a library instead of in a noisy room.

I wave to her, Miss America–style, shooting her the most smug smile I’ve ever mustered. She looks away.

• • •

O
UR JUDGING
does not take place until after lunch. I indulge in a portion of a high-salt hot dog, as I am occasionally allowed to do, giving most to Riley, who eats it though she has already consumed the chili dog, a soft pretzel with cheese, fries, three cans of soda, and two apples that I insisted on.

“You must be going through a growth spurt,” I say. I am watching Ms. Lansing make her way down my aisle, stopping at the other displays, making notes on her clipboard.

“My mother says it will catch up with me. She works out like a maniac.” Riley considers her half-full can of soda with regret. “Says it’ll show up on my hips on my sixteenth birthday.”

I search for something remotely nice to say about Becky. “Your mother doesn’t know everything, Riley.”

She looks surprised. “I know that.” She turns the soda can over in her hands. “I got plenty of exercise by our house. Where we used to live. I walked everywhere.”

I try to picture where they lived. I can’t, because I haven’t seen it. My sister is essentially a stranger. She shouldn’t be.

“I wonder where we’ll live when she comes home?” Riley finishes her soda.

I do, too. I rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses, which suddenly pinch. “Take that to the recyclable trash, please.”

Riley has turned morose again. I put my arm around her. “Hey, kiddo, your mother’s doing the best she can. I’m sure of it. And all this is only going to make your college applications a lot more interesting than a kid who grew up in one house his whole life and never had to do anything.”

“I guess.” She rises, picks up her soda can, and heads in search of a trash can.

Three other judges follow Ms. Lansing, two men and one woman who all appear to be post-retirement age. These are the largest demographic, the folks who have the time and inclination and free income to devote to rose growing.

Ms. Lansing pauses at Byron’s table. Her peal of laughter cuts through the other chatter. I grimace.

Riley sits down. “That lady is loud,” she observes, following my gaze.

“She’s one of the judges. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” Riley crosses her ankle over her knee with a grin.

“Extra nice. Like meeting the queen nice.” I am on hyper-alert, full of energy.

“Sheesh. Should I curtsy?”

I think she’s kidding, but not entirely sure. I’ll call her bluff. “If you must.”

Ms. Lansing reaches us. Riley settles on a slight bow from the waist with her hands pressed together, as though she’s Japanese. Ms. Lansing eyes her doubtfully.

“Dear! How are you?” She presses one cool cheek against mine. It feels like one of my old leather boots pressed against my face. I’m sure there will be powder and blush residue on me.

“Very well, Ms. Lansing.”

She clucks sympathetically. “All things considered, I expect. What a little trooper you are.” She turns to the other judges. “Poor thing needs a new kidney.”

I flush.

“I’d give you mine, but I only have one,” the dapper gentleman in the charcoal blazer pipes up.

“The rest of us are too old,” Ms. Lansing says.

I hate these over-majestic displays of sympathy. They make me feel about a zillion times worse than I do on my very worst day. When I say I’m fine, I wish people would reply, “Me too. Let’s get on with life,” because that is all I want to do. Get on with it.

Now Ms. Sourpuss is looking less sour and more like she wants to give me a hug. I want to slap her.

Ms. Lansing turns G42 around. “Same rose as San Luis Obispo, I see.” She glances around the table ostentatiously. “Did you happen to bring another rose, Gal?”

“No.” She can see that I didn’t. Riley sits upright.

Ms. Lansing blinks her false eyelashes rapidly. “The thing is, Gal, you can’t have this particular rose as a new breed.”

My head, already spinning somewhat, increases in velocity until it feels like I’ve stepped off a spinning carnival ride. “I don’t understand.”

Ms. Lansing leans forward. The other judges, who apparently all know what’s going on, shuffle to the next table. Her eyeballs are now only inches away from mine, so close I can see every red blood vessel and the blue and green irises. “Gal. Byron registered this rose last month. Didn’t you know?”

“What?” My voice is so low I barely hear it myself.

She stands up straight. “He registered it with the American Rose Society. It’s named the Gigi.”

“Gigi?” I repeat it as though I’ve been struck dumb.

Ms. Lansing turns the G42 around. “I thought you were friends. I thought he’d tell you.” She smiles regretfully. “I’m sorry this was a waste of your time, Gal.”

She continues, vanishing in a cloud of lavender scent and my own defeat.

“Aunt Gal? What was she talking about?” Riley is at my side.

I look toward Byron.

He stares back at me.

I feel the blue of his eyes like lightning arcing through my body to my feet. If this were a movie with special effects, there would be blue sparks shooting between us, like casting magical spells at our worst enemies.

He turns away. Strides away from his table, away from me.

Coward.

I head after him, following his blond halo of a head for a while, before he disappears into the crowd.

I stand panting. I brush my hair back.

This whole show is pointless. The whole weekend is pointless.

In college, one of my professors—I don’t remember which one, but it wasn’t science—talked about the gift of forgetting. How you can forget that you have a paper due so you feel no guilt about partying. Or, in my case, how I can forget I have kidney junk so I can keep doing whatever I’m doing, at least for a little while.

I remember this as I get buffeted by a couple of older folks. Elbow to the ribs. Ouch. Right now, I want to forget all this rose business. Just for a little while.

“Aunt Gal?” Riley’s shaking my shoulder. “Earth to Aunt Gal. What happened?”

I collect myself, reshuffle my thoughts into a semblance of order. “Pack up. We’re blowing this Popsicle stand.”

• • •

I
HAVEN’T BEEN TO
D
ISNEYLAND
since my parents took us there when Becky was in eighth grade and I was in sixth. Becky took a friend with her, a perky, wild Gidget type, and the two had disappeared for the day. Fine with me; I had my parents all to myself. It was a few months before my transplant, and my parents rented me a wheelchair so I wouldn’t have to walk. All in all, it was a pretty great trip. Until Becky and her friend got put in Disney jail for cutting too many lines. The trip home wasn’t so pleasant.

I told Riley the story as we wound our way through the greater Los Angeles/Orange County area. It takes about one hour, depending on the traffic. I’d managed to get a hotel refund, which I now planned on applying to one of the hotels by Disneyland, after a quick check of my coffers to make sure I could afford the trip.

Riley appears mortified. More mortified than I’d intended. “I didn’t know my mom would do something like that.”

I had meant it to be humorous. “It was a little shocking at the time. But it’s funny now, don’t you think? Your mother was a typical teen.” More or less.

“That’s typical?” Riley’s brow wrinkles. “You think that’s typical? You teach at a Catholic school. Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to do that kind of thing?”

“I wasn’t telling you to do it. I was only telling you about your mom.” We exit on Disneyland Drive. It’s changed since I was last here. We’re routed through a mile or so of side streets, past the hotels, until we emerge at a gigantic parking structure. “My goodness. You used to be able to walk in. Now you have to take this tram.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it.” Riley crosses her arms. “I would never do something like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was more than twenty years ago.” I wish I had never brought up the subject. “Let’s have some fun. It’s open until midnight.”

Disneyland is filled with teens on date night. Of course. Saturday night, and if you live in Anaheim, what better thing is there to do? I’d buy passes if I lived here. We get in line for the Matterhorn ride, a bobsled roller coaster that climbs a giant fake snowy mountain past a robotic Yeti. I can’t help but wonder how many of them met moments earlier and now have their hands in each other’s back pockets, like the young couple in front of us. I can see Riley’s got the same thing on her mind. “You’re right. Becky wasn’t a typical teen.” We inch forward. “She had a lot of problems.”

“I know. You don’t have to pretend she didn’t.” Riley hugs herself. “Or that she doesn’t. I’m not a little kid.”

She defends her mother to others, points out Becky’s weaknesses herself. It’s all right for you to pick on your family member, but not for someone else to. I personally never objected when others pointed out Becky’s problems, when our high school teachers asked in hushed tones how Becky was getting along, knowing full well she skipped class regularly. It was all true. I can’t change the truth.

• • •

O
VERHEAD, A
P
ETER
P
AN DOLL
flies as we go on what is apparently a never-ending journey on “It’s a Small World.” It feels more like the journey to the center of the Earth, given the cavernous setting. Riley tugs my arm and points. The dancing marionette-like dolls sing in stereo. “Creepy!”

“Cute!” says Riley.

“This is going to give me nightmares for a year. They’re as bad as clowns.” I settle back and close my eyes. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow, we will sleep in, hit the parks for a little bit, then drive back in time for my dialysis. “Can you imagine being the worker who has to clean up in here alone? What if they all come to life?”

“Aunt Gal. I thought I was the one with the overactive imagination.” Riley giggles.

My phone buzzes. I feel sufficiently secure that we won’t tip over into the drink and answer without looking at the number.

“Gal.”

I’d recognize the voice anywhere, and especially his delivery. “What do you want, Byron?”

“You left.”

“Of course I did. There’s no reason for me to stay.” I raise my voice, thanking the ride gods we’re alone in this boat. “You ran away.”

He ignores this. “You left before they announced the results.”

I ignore that. I don’t care who won what. “Did you hear me? You ran away.”

“I didn’t
run
away.” He clears his throat. “I had other business at the time. Then I looked for you.”

I make a harrumphing noise. “If I were going to screw you over, mister, I’d do it to your face.”

At last, he sounds humbled. “I’m sorry, Gal. You’re right. I didn’t want a scene.”

I wished he was here so I could shove him off the boat into the water. I hate modern life sometimes. “Do you have fragrance, at least? Did you get that much?”

He gets louder. “Are you at Disneyland?”

“I’m surprised you recognize the song. You who have no soul.”

He sighs. “You know we talked about the parent roses for breeding two years ago. I just happened to get to the end product first.”

“You could have warned me.” I shut my eyes, thinking of G42. Of course Byron beat me. He of the endless resources.

“I never talk about which roses I’m going to register before I do it. Neither would you. We’re not partners.”

Heat rises to the surface of my skin. “I would tell you if I knew you had almost exactly the same rose.” I would. Wouldn’t I?

I think of all the things I purposely didn’t tell him. The seeds and cuttings I didn’t send.

“I don’t think you would. You’re too competitive. Like me.”

I would like to think he’s wrong. If I were in his shoes, with his capabilities and money, would I not be more generous? I don’t know. I’m not sure he
is
wrong.

“It’s not personal, Gal.”