Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  Unfortunately I had missed the joke, taken captive by a daydream.

  At the word “challenge” I had begun to think about Music, of the impending assignment, and what would be required of me—a partnership. This was not a challenge I desired facing. I would have much rather fallen ill with some disease that climbed aboard the cargo ship with the palm tree.

  This was a coward’s way out, I recognized, and felt shamed; but I was not born fearless like my mother. Many things frightened me, none more so than myself foisted on another human being. I couldn’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t give in return for being spared this assignment. Because there was no disappearing in a partnership. Invisibility lost its effect when your eyes became one of two pairs.

  I felt something touching my hand and realized I was not in Mr. Balfy’s classroom, but with my mother, inside the greenhouse. She asked, “Would you mind helping me move this?”

  I nodded, waiting for her to ask me questions, wanting to know where I had been, but for whatever reason she didn’t. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  I grabbed one side of the pot with both hands and lifted. Miraculously I didn’t trip over anything, and we were able to move the plant into a patch of direct sunlight.

  I sat down on a stool, a bit winded and growing increasingly nervous. I laid my hands on my knees and stared at them, as though they were the most interesting hands anyone had ever been given.

  “Foster?” Her voice was soft, provoking.

  I inhaled. “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just tell me?”

  “Tell you?” I repeated, offering myself one last, completely futile attempt. Because all my mother did was smile at me as I met her sagacious eyes and I knew I had lost. “Okay,” I capitulated. I waited until she had taken a stool and placed herself on it, resting her boots on the lowest bar. “Tomorrow I will be assigned my partner for the Senior Piece.”

  There was about two feet between us. I thought it could have been two miles and it wouldn’t have made much difference.

  She said, “You’re worried your partner isn’t going to like you.”

  I took a breath and nodded. “Yes.”

  When I was young, I would beg my mother to tell me how she could always know when I was fibbing, or when I was upset. Then she would squat down so we were nose to nose and say, “Because when you love someone as much as I love you, the face recognizes that love, and it reveals its secrets.” Then I would attempt to blank my face of its emotions, wanting to prove I could find the chink in her armor. My mother found this amusing and endearing, and she would take me into her arms, bring me even closer than we already were and whisper, “It’s a very good try, my love, but I see you, Foster, and I know what you’re doing.”

  These words she recited now, not with her lips, but with her eyes. And so there was no point in editing my fear.

  Still, I hated to see my mother worrying herself over me.

  “I’m overreacting,” I said, and a breath I did not know I was holding whooshed from my lungs. “I’m sure I am. Maybe I’ll be surprised.” I gave her a wan smile, then sought a distraction by removing a crinkled brown leaf from my skirt. “I should let you get back to work. Or,” I looked around, “help Dad. I haven’t heard him in awhile.”

  We laughed and rose from our stools at the same time.

  “I’ll be in my room doing homework, if you need me.” I turned to go, but slender fingers clasped me gently around my wrist.

  “Homework can wait. I want to show you something.”

  That look I knew extremely well—it was back. And this time it was the other meaning. I swallowed deeply and followed behind my mother, watching the ends of her disheveled braid swish back and forth at the middle of her back.

  “James!”

  “Yes?” My father’s voice rang out from somewhere undetectable.

  “Nothing. Just making sure you’re still alive. Any luck?”

  “Ah . . . no.”

  She snickered to herself and shouted back, “Oh, darling, don’t sound so blue about it.”

  Complete silence.

  Still walking, my mother peeked over her shoulder and grinned, eyes squinted in laughter; I couldn’t help but join in, hoping my father wasn’t listening too hard.

  In three quick maneuvers I watched her hop up two steps, bend down to grab a pot, and reclaim my hand.

  Coming around the bend, I realized where we were headed. Of all the wonders the greenhouse boasted, the gazebo had taken longest to build.

  We took the cobblestone path sandwiched between two long meadows, toward the pastel yellow structure looming up in front of us. Overhead, a tree dropped its flowers, turning the scene into a storybook’s fairytale. Where the bark scaled, discarding rough patches of crispy hide, the skin beneath glowed silvery white. My eyes wandered upward, to the tenuous branches sprouting ashen leaves thin as tissue-paper, blooms like pink dollops of whipped cream. I thought it looked as though a giant bag of mini marshmallows had exploded.

  Inside the gazebo I sat down on a yellow cushion. I tucked my legs under me, fidgety, wondering what my mother wanted to show me here.

  Pausing for a breath, she looked at me and smiled. “I love sitting in here. It’s my favorite spot, which is the only reason why I walked us all the way over here. What I want to show you, Foster, is this poppy.” I noticed the small amber pot in her hands, resting in her lap. “If you were to look at it from a distance,” she said, cocking her head to one side, “would you say there was anything special about it?

  “It’s pretty,” I said, scanning her eyes for understanding.

  “Yes, of course it’s pretty,” she agreed heartily. “But flowers generally are, yes? What I am asking is, do you notice anything stand-out? Anything at all?” She jostled the potted flower so that its petals trembled.

  “Um . . .” I looked again, but came away at a complete loss. “I guess not, no.”

  “Mm-hm.” Getting to her feet, she took three long paces away from me and turned back around. Her mouth was calm, but her eyes smiled. “Tell me, what color is the flower?”

  Yes, this was indeed a game; a game in which I had neither the rules nor the wit of its creator.

  I studied the flower. “It’s pink.”

  “Okay.” She took one step forward. “Now what color is it?”

  Hoping detail was what she was after, I lifted my shoulders, offering, “Magenta?”

  “And now?” She smiled, coming to stand directly in front of me.

  Immediately I realized it was not pink at all, but red and white—the colors smeared and swirled together like a strawberry Crème Savor. I felt silly for not recognizing that sooner.

  “My point in all of this,” she began, sitting back down beside me, “wasn’t to torture you, but to show you just how easy it is to overlook something at first—and sometimes even second or third glances. Foster, being your mother, when I look at you, I see all of you.” She took my cheek with her free hand. “I see you’re beautiful. I see you’re intelligent. I see you’re compassionate, sensitive, creative, generous, and uncannily perceptive. Many of these being the reasons why I married your father.” A tender look washed over her expression. “And the more I am allowed to get to know you: the child you were, the teenager you are now, and the woman you’ll eventually become, the more I am aware of how special, so, so special, you are. I am fortunate. With the gifts I’ve been given I’ve created some wondrous phenomena, some alarmingly unique beauties. I am blessed. Some days I come in here and take a look around, and I have trouble believing this place belongs to us; that we did this.” Her eyes, which had traveled to take in the scope of foliage and fauna, drifted back to me. They shone, dark and brown, like polished stones. “None of this, my baby, not even remotely, compares with that of your beauty. You are, and you always will be, my greatest creation, Foster. I need you to know that, to believe that. Because I’m afraid—”

  “Marie?” My father came around th
e corner, glancing left and right, patting his trousers. “Marie, have you seen my clippers? Darn it, I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t—” He looked up and grimaced. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You know what, never mind. I think I, ah . . . I think I can find them on my own . . . maybe,” he mumbled, scratching his head. He turned on his heel and strode off the way he had come.

  My mother and I continued to sit where we were, frozen with shock. I was trying to find words, but they wouldn’t come. She was the first to find her voice.

  “Can we continue this in a little bit?” she asked. “I think I should probably be there when he sees himself.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Do you think it’s possible . . . possible he knows?”

  “That his clippers are hanging around his neck, or that he’s turned green like the Swamp Thing?”

  “Swamp Thing.”

  We winced together at what sounded like a ceramic pot shattering on the ground.

  “I think,” my mother said, “it’s safe to say he knows.”

  ~

  I was standing in the kitchen prepping dinner when my father called over the intercom.

  “Can you come back out to the greenhouse?”

  I heard the note of avidity in his voice, which told me either he was in trouble or excited. “I’m coming now.” I put down the red bell pepper and knife and flew out the door.

  He was waiting for me as I approached, a grin like Christmas morning stretched across his face. It wasn’t green anymore. About to comment on this, my father urged, “Follow me,” and took off, neglecting to explain further.

  I had to jog to keep up with his long stride, narrowly missing a stair as we traveled to the highest level of the greenhouse. Nothing grew from the ground up here. It was used for storing tools and supplies, fertilizer and hoses.

  We passed my mother, huddled over an alien flower with a syringe in her hand containing flaming orange liquid. “Oh, are you showing her—”

  “Yes!” my father answered before she could finish. Finally, after another flight of stairs—and tripping up them—we arrived. “Here we are,” he exclaimed.

  I crouched beside him, watching his gloved fingers untangle the roots of a flower splayed on a plastic sheet. “This is a Cattelya Schilleriana, a semi-dwarf bifoliate.”

  “Um, Dad?”

  “Ya-huh?” He peered over, and seeing me, all his features bunched toward the middle. “Right, yes, sorry. This is an orchid.”

  My vision freshly educated, I noted the flower was a shade somewhere between magenta and violet; spotted and splotchy like the coat of a leopard. A thin lavender line snaked up the middle of each waxy petal, like a vein.

  “Did you . . . do something to it?” I asked. This was usually the right question.

  “I did, yes, but you wouldn’t be able to see that here.” Gingerly, he scooped up the orchid and darted away, leaving me squatting on the ground.

  Three minutes later he reappeared, blushing. “Did I not tell you to follow me?”

  I searched for an excuse, but couldn’t find one. “It’s okay, Dad. I had a chance to look around a bit.”

  My father shook his head, still cradling the flower. “I’m sorry, Fost. In my head, I distinctly remember telling you to follow me.”

  I sensed his discomfort and made the terrible mistake of making a joke.

  “It’s not as though you took me somewhere and forgot to—” I couldn’t help it; I actually slapped my hand over my mouth. In the silence that ensued upon my misspoken blunder, I thought I could hear the sound of plants growing. Our complexions brightened and we both looked to the ceiling, mutually agreeing on not making eye contact.

  I cleared my throat and said, “It was only that one time, Dad.”

  I heard him sigh. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t even cry.” At least that was what the police officer told my father when he returned for me, after remembering he had left his fourteen month-old child strapped inside a grocery cart. Apparently, I was an incredibly quiet infant.

  We reached the green and white shed. He told me to wait outside, and a few moments later I heard him call to me. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, finding my dad grinning and sitting in the dark. Light flooded the darkness, illuminating shiny tools on the walls.

  “Close the door,” he instructed. “It needs to be completely dark in here for this to work.”

  I had little time to memorize the layout of the shed before rendering myself blind. “Can you direct me to a chair? I can’t see anything.” I remained frozen in place, not trusting myself in the darkened room full of sharp and serrated objects.

  “Come straight forward and then a little to your left.” What I thought were the legs of his stool, scraped the floor. “Here, I’ll help—” The ground shook as something heavy fell upon it.

  “Dad?” I called out, worried. “What was that? Are you okay?” I moved my arms in windshield wiper fashion, searching for something solid to grab onto.

  “I’m all right,” he replied from below me. “I probably should have thought this through a little better. Taken a flashlight or something. Here, take my hand. I’ll lead you to a stool.”

  Although this registered as the worst thing I could do at this point, there was no way I could refuse him without hurting his feelings. I reached out and found him; his hand gripped my forearm, hard.

  “I got you,” he informed me, which was precisely what I was most afraid of.

  We shuffled toward the table in millimeters. I breathed an infinite sigh of relief when something chest-high and stable rose up in front of me. I took a seat, and waited for my father to make it safely back to his.

  My eyes started to adjust. I could almost make out the shape of my dad’s silhouette. For the next few minutes he didn’t say a word.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we waiting for someone?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry, no.” I saw his pale hands come to rest on the cool, metal surface of the table, the uprooted flower laid out between them. “Not someone, something.”

  I decided it would be best to ask few questions as possible and let whatever happen, happen. “Okay.”

  Over the next hundred and twenty seconds my vision improved considerably; I saw a hose on the floor, giant scissors and three-pronged tools hanging over nails that jutted out from the wall. I could also now clearly see my father, whose curls were brushing against his eyebrows, his glasses slowing making their way to the tip of his nose.

  Then the something did happen.

  I gasped. I leaned forward, gripping the edges of the table, and blinked several times to be certain I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. “How is it doing that?”

  The orchid was glowing. Glowing! A faint, glittering neon green. Our voices dropped to a reverent whisper.

  “Have you heard of something called bioluminescence.”

  I nodded. In fact, I had heard my parents speak of it before, and also in Biology.

  “So you know then that it begins with a method called particle bombardment,” he began, “where biologically active DNA is delivered into orchid tissues. The cells are then transformed and easily identified by their bioluminescence trait. These altered tissues were propagated and used to generate transgenic plants.” He glanced at me, pausing for a breath and catching the I don’t speak plant expression contorting my features. “English,” he said to himself, head bobbing up and down. “I, ah . . . I gave the orchid firefly genes,” he said mildly, shrugging his shoulders.

  This somehow perplexed me even more than the previous explanation. “How is that possible? Wait.” I held up a hand before the abuse started all over again. “In words I’ll understand, please.” I laughed, giving him a beseeching look.

  He chuckled, taking the flower in a latex-gloved hand. “Well, first it was necessary to isolate the gene. It’s called the firefly luciferase gene.” He looked up to make sure I was following so far
. “Once I did that, the process of implementing the gene—by way of injection—into the roots over several periods of time, ensured the gene would become prevalent. And there you have it. A glowing orchid.”

  “How long will it stay that way, before it begins to fade?”

  “That depends on the amount of light intensity the flower is emitting, but normally somewhere around five hours.”

  “Wow.” It felt like such an infinitesimal conclusion to the miracle I was beholding.

  But my father chuckled. “That’s what I said. Your mother couldn’t stop talking. She wanted to start experimenting right away. We’re learning that plant manipulation isn’t the elusive mystery we once thought it to be. The potential for enhancements and modifications are becoming more and more in the realms of probable, rather than possible.”

  This information sparked a hungry question. I wondered . . . if something this complex could be done with a plant, was it possible to assume that, one day in the not-so-distant future it might be safe to conduct this sort of experiment on a human? The idea didn’t seem that farfetched. Not here. Not sitting inside a shed, looking at a glowing orchid. With my mother present I never would have been able to voice my thoughts candidly, but my father was less focused on me and very much enthralled with his creation.

  “Could the same be done with people?”

  “You’re referring to human genetic engineering, are you?

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated, and I could see the cogs working behind his eyes before he answered me as my father the scientist. “Well, yes; however, on a very limited scale. It’s . . . delicate. Any time you’re working with a live host this is true, but even more so when the subject is human. I’ve read case studies involving infertile women with genetic defects in their mitochondria. By adding healthy eggs from a second mother, changes are made in the germline, which produces a permanent change in the genome. There’s also promising evidence that shows we may be able to cure genetic diseases such as cystic fibrosis and increase the immunity of people to viruses.”