The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (29 page)

43

T
HE NEXT DAY, MY HEAD IS CLOGGED WORSE THAN A SINK AT
a beauty school, but I go to work anyway.

I stop by the doctor’s on the way home to get antibiotics. Dr. Blankenship shakes her head as she takes my blood, a task she used to leave for the nurse. “You need to take it easier, Gal.”

“If I took it any easier I’d have to give up living, Doc,” I say.

At home, I find Riley sitting at the dining table, doing homework. Becky reads a novel beside her, a Phillippa Gregory with a queen on it. “I didn’t know you liked to read, Becky.” I put my bags down beside the door.

“There’s a lot of downtime in my job.” Becky doesn’t look up. “I read two a week, at least. More when I was in Hong Kong.” She closes her book, smiles at her daughter. “I was lonely.”

I make no comment. Becky saying she is lonely is like the Earth saying it’s lonely when there are all those stars orbiting around it. But maybe that is apt, I think. Maybe she does drift, unconnected from anyone, everyone close but not touching her.

I take the first of my antibiotics with a glass of milk and a piece of bread, watching Riley and Becky from the kitchen.

If Riley leaves, I will be alone again. The thought does not cheer me. I go in the bedroom to lie down.

A bit later, Riley knocks on the door. She comes in and sits on the bed beside me, her weight making me slide over. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I already told her I’m not going.”

I blink. The expected relief I should feel at her statement does not come. I can think only of my sister, and my niece, their foreheads touching. “Are you sure about that?”

“You need me more than she does.” Riley flashes me a smile. “You’ve done so much for me.”

I struggle to sit up. “Wait a minute. This is not a tit-for-tat relationship, Riley. You are not obligated to me in any way.”

“I want to stay here and help you, Aunt Gal.”

I shake my head. “No.”

What I have known on some deeper level for some time becomes clear. This should not be the role of a sixteen-year-old. Caretaking. She should not have to worry about me and my sinus infections, or how I’m doing at overnight dialysis. Be responsible for me if I should fall ill. Think it’s her fault if I get depressed. This is not a good role for her, either. Riley is not my mother. She needs to be a kid for a little bit longer, before she grows up for real.

Besides, I admit, I might not make it for much longer.

I think of Becky out there alone, the prodigal mother returned. In some ways, my sister has always been alone, more than I have been during my whole life.

Riley is Becky’s daughter. Not mine. I love her like a daughter, but I cannot take her away from my sister. I cannot keep punishing Becky forever, not when she’s finally done what I wanted her to do. She has taken responsibility. Even if it terrifies me, the thought that Becky’s responsibility could be temporary. There’s no way to know if it will stick, no way to know except to let it play out.

I take a minute to find the right words. I inhale. “Riley, I love you. But I don’t think it’s great for you to be here, taking care of me like you’re the grown-up. It’s not right.”

I watch her face. She is listening.

“If you want to stay because you like it here, you like the school, you like the people, then I would love to have you stay with me.” I smile at her, squeeze her forearm. “But I don’t want you thinking you have to stay because of me. I will be just fine. You will not be letting me down. Okay?”

She nods, once.

“Think about it, Riley.”

She nods again. “I’m going back out to my mother.”

I lie back on the pillows.

• • •

A
LL WEEK,
I can see Riley’s answer building. Her bonding again with her mother. When she is at home, an almost-grown-up young lady of driving and dating age, she will not release her mother’s hand.

I wonder if this is how foster parents feel, giving the child back to their real parents, hoping against hope that the biological parents will step up the way they’re supposed to.

“How can you let that woman waltz back in and take her? After she threw her in your lap?” Dara demands of me during lunch on Tuesday. Dara and George and I sit outside, away from the others, a motley trio on a bench under a tree in the still-hot October afternoon.

Dara is so irked that she can’t open her chocolate milk carton properly, ripping it nearly in half. “How can Riley want to go back?”

“Because Becky is her mother,” I answer.

“Is she even clean?”

I nod. “I haven’t given her a blood test, Dara, but she says she is. She seems like she is. She looks healthy. Different.” As I speak, doubt wells inside anew. What am I sending Riley back into? “Riley’s old enough to decide what to do. I can’t ban her from living with her own mother.”

Dara finishes off her milk and throws the empty carton away. “I still don’t like it.”

“I have no choice, Dara.” I think my voice will break, but it holds. I take a deep breath from my abdomen. “I am far from liking it. But this decision isn’t mine.”

Dara shakes her head. “I have to go set up ceramics. I’ll see you later.” She strides away through the lunch crowd.

“You’d think she was the one with the problem,” I observe.

“She cares.” George chews ruminatively on his sandwich. I know he is thinking of his own daughter, how his wife should have done what was best rather than what she felt like doing.

“Am I doing the right thing, George?” I ask suddenly. “Should I tell Riley to stay here for her own good?”

George leans on his elbows and regards me gravely. In the shade, he takes off his sunglasses. “If you fight your sister and Riley wants to go, it’ll make things worse. Let her go. She can always come back. You are her safe haven.”

I sigh. “I wish I had a guarantee.”

He laughs gently, puts his arm around me. The gesture is friendly, I think. His arm is as warm as a blanket on my shoulders. “There are no guarantees for anything, Gal. I thought you, of all people, knew that best.”

I sigh, take a sip of water. George does not move his arm.

The only comfort I have is this. No matter how many organs fail in my body, or what works or doesn’t work with the roses or with my friends and family, this moment will be the hardest thing I have ever had to do. This giving up of Riley.

The warning bell sounds. George reclaims his arm. With his other hand, he gently tweaks my nose. “You okay?”

I nod. Such a brotherly gesture, this nose tweaking. I am disappointed, but this is all I ever expected from him. A brotherly touch.

But then he holds my gaze longer than he needs to. “Gal.”

“Yes?” I brace myself for his asking me about ordering Bunsen burners, or Science Olympiad.

He clears his throat. “There’s a play about Marie Curie. Do you want to see it with me?”

“I’d love to.” I bend my head to let my hair hide the flush on my cheeks. “How much are tickets?”

He will burn a hole into me with those eyes. “No. Nothing. I’m paying.”

“You’re paying?” I’m confused. “I can’t let you do that.”

He laughs now, taking up my hand between his two large ones. “You can if it’s a date.”

“Oh.” I let this sink in for a moment. “Oh!”

Almost all the students have gone inside. We scramble up. “Call me if you need anything,” he says. “Or, actually, I’ll call you to find out if you need anything.” He moves a piece of hair out of my face.

I am blushing again. I smile. “Thank you, George.”

I run to class as the tardy bell rings, late as any truant student.

• • •

O
N
F
RIDAY EVENING,
I’m in the greenhouse, talking on the phone to my mother. “I don’t like it,” she says. “Dad, what about you?” Tomorrow, Becky needs to return to the city. A broker has found her a nice apartment, with two bedrooms. The movers will take their things out of storage.

Dad is silent on his end. “Gal’s right. It’s up to Riley.”

Mom draws in a noisy breath. “I’d rather have Riley come here than back with Becky.”

“Aunt Gal.” Riley finds me.

“I have to go,” I tell my parents, and hang up. They’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.

I have the bright light on, the seed pod on the table, removing the pellets that I will plant next spring. A magnifier sits on my head. “Riley.” I have been expecting her. She has grown more and more quiet throughout the week, and though I do not know for certain, I have warned Dr. O’Malley about the potential release of one of his students.

“Aunt Gal?” I look up, putting my tweezers down. “Is it already seed time?”

“Yes, Riley.” I wave her in closer. “Would you like to see?”

She nods. I show her the hard red-orange pellet formed by the rose, and how I’ve cracked it open to reveal the seeds. “This is the one I pollinated right around the time you showed up,” I say. “I can’t wait to see what it will look like.”

Riley smiles. “Me, neither.” She is close to me, smelling of apples and shampoo, the same baby scent she had when she was small enough to sit in my lap. Tears prick my eyes. She will not see what it will look like, not right away.

I take off my glasses and wipe them. “Too much eye strain.” I smile at Riley through my haze. Tomorrow she will drive away with Becky. I will watch the car disappear, waving until I cannot see them anymore, until they are so far beyond sight they might as well be in space.

“Aunt Gal?” Riley sits on the stool next to me. I sort the seeds into a small labeled plastic container with the tweezers, then put a lid over it.

“Yes, Riley.” My heart is thumping.

“I’ve made a decision.” Riley puts her chin on her hand. I can feel the regret coming off her as surely as I can feel waves when standing in the ocean.

“It’s all right, Riley. I understand.”

“Can I talk?” She shows a flash of her old anger.

“I’m sorry.” Chastened, I put down all my tools again. It hurts to look her in the eyes.

“I want to stay here.” It’s Riley’s turn to avoid my gaze. “If that’s all right.”

“Stay here? With me? Are you sure?” I lean forward.

She nods.

“What about your mother?”

“I’ll spend next summer with her.” Riley picks up the plastic seed container and shakes it around. “It doesn’t feel right to leave now, Aunt Gal. I know you’re worried about me taking care of you, but I can handle it. Grandma says it’s good for me.” Riley grins slyly.

“She would,” I say. I grip her hand to stop mine from shaking. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Riley nods again. She blinks tears back. “Aunt Gal, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’ve learned so much here. Tons about roses and gardening. Art. I’ve even learned to like science.” She spreads her hands apart and inhales. “I guess, most of all, I’ve figured out how to be a person. I mean, a real person. A person who messes stuff up and fixes it. A person who keeps on going.” She smiles a little. “Like you.”

Like me? Tears spring to my own eyes. I smile back, overwhelmed, thinking of what to say. All I want to say. It’s all mixed up inside of me, and I can’t get anything out.

Riley waits for me to speak, her eyes now downcast. I take a shuddering breat
h. At last, I cup her face as I would have when she was small. “Riley, I’m proud of you. I’m so happy I’ve gotten to know you. It’s meant more to me than anything.” I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I am honored if I’ve had any influence.”

Riley nods quickly. “My mother says if I change my mind, I can go up there anytime.” She blushes. “I just want to see if this new ‘mothering responsibly’ thing sticks with her, you know?”

“I know.” I release her face and pat her head.

Tears fall down her cheeks. “That’s not bad, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s very wise, Riley.” I stand up. I will not give up, I think. I will keep on going for Riley. “Come here.” Finally I hug her to me, her bones no longer tiny and fragile, but strong like they ought to be. I give her a kiss on the forehead, wishing it would protect her like Glenda the Good Witch’s kiss to Dorothy. “You are going to be just fine, young lady.” We stand and go inside the house, where Becky is alone.

Winslow Blythe’s
Complete Rose Guide

(SoCal Edition)

November

The final blooms of the year are here. Cut them, give them away, make potpourri—you might as well enjoy them while you can. If you leave roses on the bush, pull off the petals instead of cutting them to see if they will form rose hips, which are full of vitamins and make a great tea (of course, these are edible only if you haven’t been spraying poisons all over the place all season).

This month, check your potted roses. The root-bound ones should be repotted into larger pots, or else they will die in their small pots. If the roses aren’t root-bound yet, then you can wait until next year to change their pots.

44

O
N
T
HANKSGIVING MORNING,
I
AWAKE EARLY TO THE SMELL
of pumpkin and apple pies and coffee. My parents are here, their motor home parked in front of the house, where Dad will drive it around the block once every forty-eight hours so that Old Mrs. Allen does not call in a parking violation.

I yawn. There is still no kidney for me, but I’m hoping there will be better luck soon. By spring, I tell myself, I will have a new kidney. Dr. Blankenship says I’m a difficult match, my body so worn out from its previous infections and kidneys. Dara is still working on her double kidney trade idea with the doctor. Mr. Walters’s penguin winks at me from the top of my dresser, reminding me. Anything is possible. Or keep dreaming until you can’t dream anymore. I haven’t decided which precisely. Maybe both.

I stretch, listening. I’ve forgotten to shut my blinds, making my room brighter than I’m used to this morning. Mom and Dad’s voices and coffee cups clink from the kitchen. From the living room, behind another wall, Riley and Becky’s higher voices chatter away.

I throw on my robe and push my feet into my fuzzy boot slippers and go out into the living room.

Becky regards me with an eyebrow raised. “Go get dressed!” she stage whispers. “George is here.”

“George is here?” I look around. His voice wasn’t one I heard. Becky points outside. There he is, tramping in from the front yard, apparently admiring the sea garden and rearranging some rocks.

He pauses at the front door. “I thought you’d be up watching the Macy’s parade by now.”

“Ahem.” I point at his dirty boots. He bends over and quickly unlaces them, placing them outside. “Why don’t you come have some coffee?”

He can’t stop grinning. “I got her. I got her for Christmas. And every weekend after that.”

He doesn’t have to tell me who he’s talking about. I let out a whoop and reach out my hand for a high five. He doesn’t connect. “Don’t leave me hanging, Morton!”

Instead, he picks me up and swings me around, fast, like I weigh nothing, until I’m dizzy, as if I’m on an amusement park ride, and I laugh.

• • •

I
N THE EARLY AFTERNOON,
everyone has gathered on the front porch, spilling out of the small interior to the extended living space. Dara is here now, in a brown shiny cotton dress with white polka dots all over it and saddle shoes, with her genial accountant boyfriend, Chad. I’ll have to get to know him. He seems to be sticking around. Mom and Dad sit on the porch railing, sipping their wine and arguing about how long to let the turkey rest. “Twenty minutes!” Mom says. “An hour!” Dad counters. Becky tips her sparkling cider toward me. And George Morton salutes from his perch on the white Adirondack chair, another mug of coffee in his hands. Still in his stocking feet.

“Too much caffeine is bad for you, you know,” I say.

He takes a sip. “But it goes so well with the pie.”

“You let him have pie already?” I ask Mom. “You never let us have pie before dinner.”

She shrugs. “He asked very politely.”

George grins at me. I grin back. Are we dating? I’m afraid to call it that. But it’s something. Something is happening.

“Do you want to cut the roses for the centerpiece?” Dara gets up from her seat. “I can do it.”

“I’ll do it. You don’t know which ones to get.” I climb down the porch steps.

“Whichever ones are left?” she calls after me.

“You relax,” I shout back.

First, I tend to a few of the roses in the greenhouse. I find the potted roses whose roots begin to peek out of the bottom of the pots. These root-bound plants must be moved to larger pots. There are only three of these, all thriving miniatures. I wonder how Byron’s Gal rose is doing. If anyone has purchased the rose and is pondering who this Gal person is.

I put on my rose gloves and loosen the first mini, a pink one, and lift it out of the pot by its top. The roots curl at the sides like mangled, coiled spaghetti. Contrary to popular belief, this doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong. It means the plants love your care so much, they’ve thrived, getting bigger and bigger. But you have to remember to move them only when necessary; it’s stressful for the plant, and they need recovery time. That’s why November is a good month to repot. They have all winter to hang out, not trying to do anything new.

Riley appears, running in from the house in bare feet. “Dara wants to know if you have the roses for cutting. Grandma says the turkey will be done in ten minutes.”

“Cutting is next.” I finish tamping the new soil into the larger pot. “Help me with these two and I’ll finish faster.”

She pulls on her own gloves and we get to work on the other two minis. She works silently and efficiently, just like me, pulling out the plant and gently teasing the roots loose, then cutting off the wildest tendrils. “Is this good?” She shows me her handiwork. I nod.

I don’t know how long Riley will stay with me, if she will finish high school at St. Mark’s or move back to be with Becky next year. I can enjoy her only while she is here. She will spend Christmas with Becky, their relationship still moving forward. Tentative, but growing steadily. Like so many other things.

Finished with the repotting, I move on to the rose cutting. Riley hands me my rose cutters from their peg on the wall. I pick up my rose basket. Outside, I bend and cut orange and yellow and red, a combination of hybrid teas, the Hulthemia, and English roses in fall colors. Dara and Riley will assemble these into a grand arrangement for our harvest table.

These are the last blooms of the year, the final gasps before the roses turn into ugly thorny sticks. Ugly to people like Old Mrs. Allen. Their bare, forlorn branches give me something to look forward to all winter, something to hang my daydreams on like ornaments on a Christmas tree. In the spring, they will bloom again.

Riley and I cut a basket each full of roses, until their blooms threaten to be crushed by one another. “Enough?” I ask, lifting up mine.

Riley screws up her mouth in thought. “One more,” she says, stepping through the nearly naked rows of plants to the climbing rose arbor. A pink old-fashioned rose, the Abraham Darby, of pinky apricot and golden tones. It is ostentatiously pretty and overblown, with more than one hundred petals in a full head.

“That doesn’t match the others,” I say.

She puts it in her basket without hesitation. “It’s the last on the vine. I can’t leave it alone. It would be wrong.”

“It’s your centerpiece.” I smile.

We head back to the house, where everyone waits for us patiently.