The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (23 page)

I take this in. “When did all this happen?”

“Earlier this year. Before I came here.” He straightens. “My ex has tried to erase me. As if I never existed. She’s rewriting history.” He clenches his fists, then relaxes them.

“You’re still fighting for her, then? You won’t give up?” I wish I knew why this is so important. I need to hear something concrete from someone.

“I won’t give up,” he says, very quietly.

I believe him.

• • •

O
NCE THE LAST BELL RINGS
on the final day of school, I drive Riley home with a sense of dread. My mother will drive up the next day and retrieve Riley for a summer of grandparent spoilage. And then, then they want her to stay on, until such time as her mother decides to come back.

“I think the public school will be too big for her,” I told my mother on the phone.

“You went there. You made honor roll.”

“But I didn’t like it.”

The truth of the matter is, imagining my house empty frightens me. No strange cartoons playing, no loud music. No other presence. Only the quiet sounds of my own solitary existence.

I think of this as Riley sits in the car next to me, playing with the strap on her backpack. “It’s fraying,” she says.

“You’ll need a new one next year.”

She nodded, her fingers mindlessly pulling at the shredded material. I reach over and stop her. “You’ll rip it all the way.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then you won’t be able to use it at all.”

She tears it.

“Riley.” I skid to a halt in my drive.

“I don’t want to go.” Her voice is loud. Old Mrs. Allen, out watering next door, glances up, the spray of water hitting my plants on my side of the fence.

I remove the key. “Riley, I think it will be better if you go to Grandma’s.”

“I don’t want a new school. I want to stay here. With you.” She bends her chin down to her chest.

“Riley.” My heart pounds. “Of course I’d rather have you stay here. But I need to think of you.”

She crosses her arms. “I’ll be sixteen in August. I am old enough to decide. I could be emancipated if I want.”

“But you don’t want that. We want you to have friends, Riley. You don’t go out.”

“I have friends here.”

“Who?” I challenge her. She hasn’t hung out with anyone since Samantha.

“I know kids.”

“You never call anyone.”

“I will. This summer.” She lifts her chin. “I promise.”

I regard her in silence. Then I say, “Grandma will be here tomorrow.”

Riley lifts up a finger. “I have an interview tomorrow. At the nursery.”

This is news. I admire her entrepreneurial spirit. “Are you even old enough to work?”

“Yes. It’s assistant work. Sweeping and stuff.” She leans toward me. “Twenty percent discount, Aunt Gal. Think about it. All that potting soil you could buy.”

I’m not thinking about a discount.

I’m thinking about Riley and her grandparents. Could I make this work with Riley? Wouldn’t it be better if my mother and father took her? They would be strong and stable in ways I could not.

“Please, Aunt Gal?” Riley grins. “Please?”

I take a breath that I feel in my toes. “All right.”

“Yes! I knew that discount would push you over the edge.” She gets out of the car with a whoop, slams the door, pumps her fist in the air. Next door, Old Mrs. Allen is spraying her hose indiscriminately.

“Keep your water on your side!” I yell to her.

Winslow Blythe’s
Complete Rose Guide

(SoCal Edition)

July

Deadhead all the old and spent blooms. It’s important to note that not all blooms, when left alone, will turn into rose hips. Many will not. The only way to know is to watch, and wait.

Water roses daily. They need plenty of hydration. If you think you’ve watered enough, increase it by 15 percent. Unless you’re an old pro, in which case you might be right.

Feed the roses high-quality organics. Now is the time the composting you started in the spring will pay off. If you neglected to start composting, simply buy the good stuff at your local nursery, or ask a more forward-thinking friend for some.

31

S
CHOOL IS OUT AND THE
F
OURTH OF
J
ULY HAS JUST PASSED.
I
always think of the holiday as the midpoint of summer. This is the crux at which vacation begins going by too fast, days tumbling down like a toddler’s block tower.

This summer Riley is here.

It’s not even eight a.m., and already I’ve done more than most people do all day. I’ve risen early to putter in the rose garden before it gets too hot. Temps can reach into the one-hundred-degree mark during the season, and the outdoor roses need water every day.

The roses in the greenhouse are thriving, as if they don’t know it’s really too hot for their delicate beauty. G42, I’ve decided, will become a mother plant next year. It’s too late in the season to hybridize. I wish I had bred it in the spring, when I had the chance. It would have been better than wasting my time at rose shows.

I wipe my hands on my pants and take a drink out of the hose, though that’s supposed to be bad for you. Riley is at the nursery. I head over to buy some fish emulsion and compost.

It used to be that after the roses, I could take a nap, work on some craft or rose research, and then work in the garden again as the day cooled down. Sometimes, Dara and I would hit a movie or play cards or go to the air-conditioned mall, where I’d sit on a bench and wait for Dara to flit in and out of the stores.

This summer, Dara is teaching an art class and seeing her accountant Chad, who is now, I suppose, her official boyfriend. Not that she will admit it.

And I’m chauffeur to Riley. Three days a week, Riley drives to the nursery to work. I drive with her, allowing the extra practice. I’ve promised she can take the driver’s test on her birthday, August 5. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Riley takes Dara’s art class.

The nursery where Riley works, Cranston Farms, feels hot and sleepy. It’s built on a few acres of land. There is a green shade cloth over the more sun-intolerant plants, which are kept closest to the central building. The cacti and other succulents are set out in vast rows that shoppers walk through in the blazing sun.

I go into the air-conditioned building, where they sell houseplants and orchids and furniture. I wonder who around here could possibly buy orchids; they’re so difficult to grow outside of the tropics. I would never attempt it. I eye a tiger-striped bloom as a teenaged girl calls up Riley over the loudspeaker.

“You’re Riley’s aunt?” The girl’s name tag reads
ZOE
. She’s got two red Pippi Longstocking braids and a wide grin with a gap between her front teeth.

I cock my head. “You’re the famous Zoe.” Zoe is a senior at the public high school, has her own vehicle, and she and Riley are becoming inseparable this summer.

Riley rushes in, sweat stained. She takes off her big straw hat and wipes her forehead. “Aunt Gal! You here for the fertilizer? I’ll get the guys to load it in your car.”

“Thanks.” It’s good to see her so animated. Healthy-looking.

She takes a small Moleskine notebook from her back pocket. “We have a cool new flower. I drew it.” She shows it to me. It looks like a sea star, five petals, with exposed stamen and buds in the center.

“Wow. That is really cool. What’s it called?”

“Stapelia flavorpurpea.”
She looks to Zoe, who nods. “I got it right.”

“The weird thing about the
Stapelia
is that most of them smell like rotting meat.” Zoe sits on the counter by the register. “To attract flies.”

“Lovely.”

“Not this one, though. It smells like sugar.” Riley beams. “And it’s all shades of pink.”

“Interesting.” My heart pounds as it does when I look at a rose. I want to get one of these. “Are they easy to grow?”

“I have an idea.” She snaps her notebook closed. “I want to make a garden. A garden that looks like it’s under the sea. All succulents, real water-tolerant. What do you think?”

I’m taken aback. “Where? There’s no room in the rose garden.” Does she want to remove some of my roses?

“No, no, no. In the front yard. There’s only some deadish grass patches there.” She opens the notebook again, shows me a sketch. Flowers that look like sea stars, plants that look like a kelp forest, sand for the ocean floor, all composed prettily in front of the porch. “I wrote down everything we need.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How much will it cost?”

“I get a discount.” Riley deflates.

“Give me a price total and I’ll consider it.”

“I’ll buy the plants. I’m working.”

“I want you to save your money, Riley.” Her face is streaked with brown dirt. I wipe it away.

“It’s okay, Aunt Gal.” She moves away. “I can do it.”

Sudden agitation flows through me. “It is not okay, Riley. Save your money.”

A wave of sudden nausea hits me. My head pounds. I need to sit.

She holds up her hands. “Okay, okay, Aunt Gal.” She and Zoe exchange a look.

“What are you looking at?” I am mad, and I don’t make sense. I am not afraid, for some reason, though I probably should be. There’s a white chair behind me. I sit.

Riley grabs me. “Aunt Gal, what are you doing?”

I am flat on the ground. “Who moved the chair?” I feel around for it.

“You’re super hot.” Riley kneels, her dirty face worried.

“Your boss is too cheap to turn on the air.” Darkness is closing in at the corners of my eyes. How very strange.

I listen for my heart in my ears. Nothing. No pounding. Just cool darkness closing in, like a microscope out of focus.

“It’s quiet,” I yell, but I hear silence.

“What should we do?” Zoe sounds far away.

“Call 911.” Riley’s hands, cool as ice packs, soothe my forehead. The darkness finishes expanding. I tumble down.

• • •

I
AM IN THE HOSPITAL,
in a room that looks like any other of the dozens of hospital rooms I’ve been in. Pastel-patterned curtain hanging on a curlicued rod from the ceiling, around my bed. Another patient, unseen, groaning indistinctly next to me. Blankets piled high, still hot from the warmer. An IV and blood pressure cuff on me. At least I’m near the window, though all I can see is the blank wall of the building next to this one.

“Gal?” A dark shadow appears before my uninspiring view.

“Doc?” I squint. Light comes in around her, like a halo. Ironic.

“Do you know where you are?”

I glance around, holding up my bound arm pointedly. “Hmmm, I don’t know. Is this some kind of trick question?”

She makes a note on her electronic pad. “Knows where she is.”

“What happened?”

“Dehydration. Heat stroke.”

That makes sense. Dialysis involves getting all the liquid sucked out of you, the same amount on hot days as on regular days. The last thing I remember is talking about sea plants. Or did I imagine that? It seems like an odd thing, an undersea garden. I watch the cold saline flow through the IV into my neck, where I feel it pulse down toward my pumping heart. I’ll need a few bags of this.

“On hot days when you’re out and about, you have my permission to drink more water.” Dr. Blankenship fusses with the coverings at my feet, tucking them under. I don’t like having my feet trapped.

“I hadn’t even thought about it,” I admit. “I didn’t think I was doing much physical work.”

“You gardened, you drove, you walked around in the heat. That’s plenty for someone like you.” Dr. Blankenship stops her tucking, thank goodness, and walks to my other side where I can see her clearly. Her wavy bob is crazy frizzy. In this daylight, the fine lines all over her face are visible, and I think irrelevantly she could use some hydrating lotion.

“How much more?” I hate her unspecificity. Does she expect me to read her mind?

“An extra cup. You’ll sweat it out in this weather.” She puts her hand on my bed railing. I stare at the short filed nails on long fingers, her impeccable cuticles.

“Write that down for me.” I hope my memory is working fine again, but I can’t be sure. Dr. Blankenship writes it down on a yellow Post-it and sticks it to my nightstand.

“I’ll put it in your discharge instructions, too. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget.” I pull the blankets up to my armpits.

“I won’t.” She backs up toward the curtain exit. “You rest.”

“It would be easier to rest if you guys didn’t wake me up every half hour to see whether or not I’m dead.” I point to the machines. “Or turned off this cuff.”

“Necessary evils.” Dr. Blankenship smiles at me. I can’t muster a return smile.

Footsteps approach, high heels and sneakers, from the sounds of it. In the next second, Riley’s and Dara’s heads poke through the curtains. “Can we see her now?” Dara asks.

Dr. Blankenship nods, waves good-bye. I lift my fingers in return.

Dara swishes in, kitten-heeled sandals and a full navy blue skirt, and sits on the hard guest chair. Riley follows, sitting on the vinyl-coated recliner. She still has streaks of dirt on her face, so at least I know I haven’t been in here too long. “Haven’t you made her wash yet?” I say to Dara.

“We were too worried to think of appearances.” Dara puts the emphasis on appearances.

I look pointedly at her clothes.

“I was dressed for a date.” She crosses her ankles primly.

Riley smiles timidly. Her face is sunburned. I point my finger at her. “You need to wear sunblock, miss, not just a hat.”

“I did.”

“Did you reapply after an hour?”

She shakes her head.

I spread my hands. “I rest my case. You sweated it off.”

“I’ll stay with Riley until your mother gets here.” Dara untucks the blankets from my feet. I wiggle them gratefully.

“My mother is coming?” I don’t know why this is surprising. Maybe because I feel like everything is handled. Dara is here and I’ll be out tomorrow, I bet.

“Did you really think Grandma wouldn’t?” Riley asks rhetorically.

“I convinced her you were stable, so she’s driving. She should be here this evening, depending on traffic.” Dara pats my ankle.

I nod, putting my head all the way back on the pillow. I press the button for my bed to lower. “I’m getting sleepy, girls.”

“Let’s hit the road, Riley.” Dara stands and exits.

Riley hesitates. “Do you need anything else, Aunt Gal?”

“No, Riley. I’m covered.” I’m already drifting to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“I don’t need to make a sea garden.”

I laugh. “So that wasn’t a dream.”

She grips my hand. “I won’t do it.”

I shake my head. “Riley, quit thinking everything is your fault.” I manage to open my eyes to deliver this. “Nothing to do with me is your fault, okay?” She stares at me, at the IV in my neck. I probably look kind of horrible.

“Repeat it.” I squeeze her back.

“Nothing to do with you is my fault.”

I drop her hand. “Good. Now let Dara get you some chow.” I turn my head away and listen. It is several moments before I hear her rubber soles squeaking across the room.

• • •

I
N THE MIDDLE
of the night, I awaken to my mother sleeping next to me, upright in the chair, only one thin thermal blanket over her. Her hair is so very gray now, her jawline softer and jowlier than I remember. She’s getting too old for this. I say another quick prayer for a kidney transplant.

As if she can feel my wakefulness, Mom sits up. “Gal? What do you need?”

“Nothing.” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the person in the other part of the room.

Mom gets up, feeling my hands, my forehead, looking at the blood pressure readings with the expertise of a registered nurse. Which she practically could be, after all this experience. “You’re cold.” She puts her blanket over me.

“No, Mom, that’s your blanket.” I try to give it back, but she pushes it down.

“I’ll get another from the nurses’ station.” She smoothes my hair back, her eyes crinkling. “Feeling better, love?”

“What about Riley?”

“Dara’s with her.”

“You should be with Riley, Mom. I’m fine here.”

“You need me more. Riley’s just sleeping.”

I close my eyes, waiting to hear Mom walk to the nurses’ station. Instead, the recliner squeaks. She will sit there cold all night, unwilling to take her eyes off me.

My mother marks time waiting for me, painting and traveling with my father, but really all she wants is for me to come home so her life can begin again. I am her main concern.

This is why I moved away, I think. I fall asleep.

• • •

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
my mother leaves to pick up Riley from art class. Dr. Blankenship wants me to do a lap or three around the floor to prove I won’t keel over again. Then, I might be released.

I wheel my IV around past the nurses’ station, down the hall past various people either doing the same thing or being pushed in chairs, and back to the station again. “Good job, Gal,” one nurse says. I thank her. I’ve never seen her before. If I go into the hospital again, I’ll get to know them all.

The whiteboard behind her catches my eye.
GARNER RM
314
, it reads.
WALTERS
RM
320
.

“Mark Walters?” I say involuntarily.

She nods.

I doubt she’ll tell me why he’s here, and I don’t want her stopping me, so I wheel my contraption over to room 320 as quickly as I can go.

“Ms. Garner!” the nurse calls after me. “You can go ahead and rest now.”

“One more lap.” I pause by room 320. The door is open, the curtains closed over both beds.

I shuffle cautiously in. “Mark?” I call.

A pause, then a grunt. “Who’s there?”

“Gal. Where are you?”

“Door number one.” He coughs. I part the curtains.

He looks terrible. He is swollen with fluid, puffy nearly beyond recognition. Like a balloon someone has drawn features on with a marker. Only his hair and mustache give him away. “Shit, Mark, what happened?” I don’t bother closing the curtain behind me.

“And you tell me to watch my mouth.” He manages a weak grin. “Liver infection.”

“Oh.” I sit down.

“I’ll be okay in a few days.” He pats the side of his bed. “You bring cards?”