“Of course I’m making them,” I told her.
“Oh, good. I just wanted to be sure,” she said, and smiled. “So will Chris be joining us, too?”
“Mom,” I protested.
“Okay, sorry, sorry,” she said, and continued to unpack the supplies she’d brought home from the craft store and the drugstore and wherever else she’d shopped so we could begin.
Dad’s job was to count the contents of each lunch bag—the crayons, the pencils, the construction-paper stars, among other things. Jim organized the assembly line, and I helped Mom make all the labor-intensive items. Since she was the head nursery school teacher at Lewis Elementary, most people from my school had either had Mom as their teacher or knew someone who did, and just about every parent in Lewis had some connection to her because of their children. Because of this, everyone knew about her Survival Kits, too—she was famous for them. Mom came up with the idea when she noticed that parents had a tougher time handling their children’s first day of nursery school than the kids did, and every September she would be left with a bunch of inconsolable mothers and fathers. The Survival Kits were meant to help them cope, and Mom filled them with objects that were symbolic of the various things parents needed to think about or do to make it through this transition year. The most important item of all, and certainly my favorite, was a tiny, diamond-shaped piece of construction paper, a white line of string attached to one corner with little ribbon bows tied along its length at the bottom.
A kite.
It symbolized the obvious: being able to let your children go, while at the same time hanging on to them, being there as they discovered their way in the world but being willing to let out more and more line when necessary, too.
I loved making those kites.
I tipped the paper bag upside down and shook it to make sure it was empty, and one last item fell out onto the bed. It was a note folded neatly into fours with scalloped edges. Nervous to read her last words to me, I opened it, my breath coming in uneven gasps.
My beautiful Rose,
I remember when my own mother died how it seemed the whole world went dark. Everyone is different, of course, but I hope I can offer you some wisdom as you get used to life after I’m gone.
The word gone went straight to that raw part of me that I didn’t think would ever heal. Through blurry eyes I forced myself to continue.
There is no order to this. Just a collection of things I want you to consider, to think about, that I never want you to lose, my daughter, my Rose. Do your best to humor your mother one last time. My one and only piece of advice: use your imagination! Always. It’s such a gift. I love you heart and soul.
MOM
That was it. No goodbye or always or yours.
Just MOM in swirling capital letters.
Right then my cell vibrated on the bedside table, startling me, and I wiped my eyes with my sleeve before leaning over to see who it was. Chris’s face had popped up on the screen but I didn’t pick up. Instead, I lay there, stretched across my bed with my mother’s dress pulled close against me, my mind going over each item in my Survival Kit again and again, wondering which one I should deal with first. The directive to use my imagination was daunting, and I wished Mom had left me a clue or just told me where to start. These questions about what and how and why went around and around in my mind until the sky grew dark, and eventually I fell asleep.
That night I dreamed of peonies.
When I woke the next morning, I had my answer.
I was ready to begin.
6
ALL AT SEA
“‘Peonies can be floriferous,’” I read out loud from a thick book that lay open across my arms. The sun was out, bright above, and I was standing barefoot in the front yard. “Floriferous? Is that even a real word?” I murmured. “‘A single stem often produces multiple buds, the top one blooming first, the second highest next, and so on.’” A few steps to my left a spot where a line of shade darkened the grass caught my eye, but I shook my head. “Not enough light.”
September was flying by and more and more I was spending time with my head buried in one of the gardening manuals I’d checked out from the library—beginner’s guides, general guides, guides specifically on how to care for seasonal flowers. A pile of large, heavy hardcover books rose up on the desk in my room, and every afternoon after school I studied tips for planting peonies as if they would be on a test the next morning. Then I would wander about outside testing various locations in the yard for a new peony bed, squinting toward the sun, at the grass, then back at the sun again, hoping for some insight. Sometimes Will Doniger was working nearby in one of the gardens, and I wondered if he overheard my muttering or was curious about what in the world I was doing. But mostly I didn’t worry about anything other than the job my mother had left me, and in truth, the more I learned the more daunting this task became. Any number of things could go wrong. Research was one thing, but actually getting started was another, and I hadn’t inherited my mother’s green thumb.
I was scared I would fail.
One Saturday late in September I woke to bright sunshine and jumped out of bed, trading my pajamas for a pair of ratty old jean shorts and a tank top. However much I demurred, the promise of peonies in the spring was drawing me out of the house regularly for the first time in months. In the bathroom I leaned closer to the mirror, applying lip gloss, wondering if this had been my mother’s plan all along when she assembled my Survival Kit; that she knew I’d wallow indoors forever if she wasn’t there to remind me how a day of sunshine could transform moodiness to hope like magic, so she’d left me a reason to bask under blue skies when she wasn’t there to do it herself. I tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound—on weekends Dad slept late. We had yet to talk about his last drinking binge, and if I had to bet, we would probably never discuss it.
After making myself some coffee, I took the mug in one hand, grabbed a pair of flip-flops with the other, and padded through the front door to sit on the porch. Ages had passed since I’d lounged out here. The gray slate of the stone floor was cool against my bare feet and the pale blue cushions of a patio chair beckoned so I sank into them, putting my feet up and admiring the way my red toenails caught the sun’s glare. Steam from my coffee rose in pale white wisps, made visible against all the colors of the yard. Planters were scattered everywhere, big ones filled with geraniums and smaller ones brimming with purple violets. Fuchsia and tiny white petunias dripped down from their hanging pots. The gardens throughout the front yard flowed like streams, forming vivid ponds across the lawn, and individual blades of grass shone silver in the sun. The ancient beech trees yawned across the sky, the weeping beech with its glossy, thick leaves that cascaded in jagged lines all the way to the ground like a green waterfall. Everything seemed alive, as if Mom were still here taking care of it all.
Was she really and truly gone forever? The sound of rushing water filled the air and reminded me who was actually doing all the work and Will Doniger appeared, dragging a garden hose across the grass. He glanced my way and nodded hello.
I nodded back.
I used to think Will must be a snob, the way he never said anything, not even hello, though we went to school together at Lewis—he was a year ahead of me, and a senior like Chris—but lately I wondered if Will was just sad a lot of the time. His father had died of cancer, too, a couple of years ago, and I’d never said a word to him about it. Suddenly, this lack of acknowledgment on my part seemed horrible, and I was tempted to stand up right then, walk over to Will, and say how sorry I was about his dad even though I knew from experience that those words were poor condolences. But then, he hadn’t said anything to me about Mom either, so I stayed put and drank more coffee instead.
A black SUV turned down the street and parked along the edge of the yard. Chris got out, Tony with him. They waved and I waved back as I got up from my chair and slipped my feet into my flip-flops, which made a satisfying thwacking noise as I headed t
oward them to say hello.
“Hey, babe,” Chris said when I got close. He smiled.
“Hey, yourself,” I said, and smiled back, realizing that for once I was in a good mood. “Hey, Tony,” I said.
“Nice to see you, Rose. As always.”
“So, can I have a hug or what?” I asked Chris, looking him in the eyes—something I didn’t do much anymore—and feeling unexpectedly shy.
His face lit up and before I could say another word his arms wrapped around me so tight he lifted me off the ground, and one by one, my flip-flops fell from my feet. He held me against him like he would never let me go. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered in my ear, and I leaned into his chest, listening to his heart pound. “It’s so nice to see that smile of yours again,” he added, and suddenly I felt the distance between us disappear.
Maybe Chris and I were headed back to that place where we’d been happy for so long, that time in our relationship when my pulse raced every moment I was near him. Despite all of the walls I’d put up, Chris had stayed with me, and this meant a lot. Maybe out of the blue everything could become, I don’t know, fixed.
“Um, hello … third wheel present,” Tony said after a while, chuckling.
“Sorry, man,” Chris said, and put me down, the grass tickling my feet. I recovered my flip-flops and went to stand next to Tony.
“You’re not a third wheel,” I said, nudging him. “Shouldn’t you guys be at practice right now?”
“Coach canceled today,” Chris explained, eyeing me. “If you came to our games, you’d know that we won big last night so we earned a Saturday off.”
I blushed. I was such a terrible girlfriend. “That’s great,” I said, and tried to look away, but my eyes met Tony’s instead.
He crossed his arms. “Your boy threw three touchdown passes and rushed the goal line for another. You should’ve been there.”
I stared hard at the ground. A ladybug crawled up an individual blade of grass and I was tempted to pick it up. “Maybe next time,” I said, but knew this was probably a lie because if I had my choice I wasn’t stepping inside the football stadium again. Ever.
“So what’s the plan today?” Chris asked, changing the subject, and my heart swelled with gratitude. “We’re heading to the diner for burgers. Why don’t you come?”
“That’s a nice offer, but I’ve got work to do around here today,” I said, gesturing toward the yard. I hadn’t told Chris about my Survival Kit, or anyone else for that matter. Not even Krupa. “You know, stuff in the gardens.”
Chris laughed like I was joking. “Since when do you garden?”
“I don’t know. Since today?”
Tony brightened. “Listen, the yard will be here when you get back. And we could swing by and pick up your friend.”
I gave him a look. “Krupa’s a vegetarian.”
“They have pasta on the menu,” Tony said. “Come on. Take a break. Hang out with us. It’ll be just like old times.”
Old times. Two little words and the weight of the world came rushing down on me again. No matter how I tried or pretended, things would never go back to the way they used to be. “I wish,” I whispered.
Tony screwed up his face when he realized what I must be thinking. “Rose, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Tony, it’s okay. Really,” I said. “It’s fine. Maybe I’ll go with you guys another time.”
Chris reached out, pulling me close again, his hand grasping my waist, his fingers finding the bare skin between my tank top and shorts, and my whole body stiffened—I couldn’t help it—and he felt it. I felt like a bottle of soda that had been shaken and gone suddenly, completely flat. Chris sighed but he didn’t let go, and I stood there, rooted to the spot, determined to make things right again, to feel like it was normal to have my boyfriend touching me whenever he wanted to, because it was normal, when all the while my heart was sinking. If I kept this up—inexplicably warm one moment, cold the next—Chris was going to break up with me. Why is it that when we lose something big, we begin to lose everything else along with it?
“Babe, I guess we’re going to take off. Gotta eat something soon,” Chris said, kissing me on the cheek and walking away without another glance.
Tony shrugged apologetically. “See you later, Rose.”
“Bye,” I said, raising my hand to wave, the grass and sky and street becoming one big blur as tears filled my eyes. I waited as they got in the car and sped off, all the promise of the day disappearing with them, like a fog burned away in the sun’s heat, leaving everything bare again.
Later on I was in the kitchen fixing a sandwich when I heard Dad’s car pull up. He’d left the house around three and stayed out a long time so I braced myself, listening for signs that he had been drinking. The car door slammed and I heard the heavy but sure sound of his shoes coming through the garage. This told me he was sober and I wondered whether he was becoming stable again.
“Rose, I’m home,” he said when he came through the door and into the kitchen.
“Hey, Dad. Want a sandwich?”
“That would be great,” he said, and turned on the old radio in the kitchen to a baseball game. The Red Sox were playing. He sat down and went through the mail as the announcer shouted the play-by-play of what was happening on the field.
I walked over and kissed him on the cheek, which made him look up at me and smile. My father hadn’t worn a happy expression in a long time and seeing it made me realize how much I missed the Dad he used to be, the Dad who would take care of me and not the other way around.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.” He lowered the radio. “So how are things with you and Chris?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Though he’s on the front page of the sports section every week.”
“Everything’s fine. He’s having a good season. You know, the same, I guess.”
“You guess?”
Talking about boyfriends was Mom territory, and I wasn’t about to tell my father about the rocky state of my relationship with Chris. “So, Dad,” I said, changing the topic and opening the packages of turkey and cheddar to make his sandwich. “Remember when you took Mom to pick out flowers at one of the farms?” His eyes shifted away from me to the letter in front of him and he didn’t say anything. While I waited for his response, I piled the meat and cheese onto one slice of bread and spread mustard evenly across the other, doing my best to be patient.
Back when I was in eighth grade, when Mom was first diagnosed with cancer and was sick from chemo, Dad, who hadn’t gardened a day in his life, offered to plant anything and everything Mom wanted that spring. They came home one Saturday with a car full of flowers and seedlings. Dad set Mom up outside in a chair and got down on his hands and knees and, armed with her gloves and tools, weeded and planted all weekend according to Mom’s directions. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen him do.
My father picked up another piece of mail and slid the letter opener across the top of an envelope with a long, loud rip. “Of course I remember. Why do you ask?”
After placing the sandwich in front of him, I sat down to finish mine. “I was thinking of putting in some new flowers. Peonies, actually. Mom never … I mean, I just thought—” I stopped, backtracking. “I was wondering if you remembered any good pointers.”
“I wish I did, sweetheart. But I’m afraid I didn’t absorb her talent that one weekend.” My father stood up and stared out the sliding glass door into the backyard. There was still enough light to see the outline of Mom’s rosebushes.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” I finished my sandwich and took my empty plate over to the sink to rinse it.
“I’m sorry, Rose. I wish I could be more help.” His voice was sad.
“It’s all right, Dad. Thanks anyway.” I opened the dishwasher, and as I unloaded glasses into the cabinets I tried to manag
e my disappointment that Dad didn’t have the magic answer, or at least a better memory of that time.
“I do know someone else who can help, though,” Dad said suddenly. “Why don’t you ask the Doniger boy? He’s probably the only person other than your mother who knows those gardens. He’s done a wonderful job.”
I almost laughed at this suggestion. How had I not thought of Will myself? All this time, every single day, I saw him, I walked right by him, I watched him take care of Mom’s gardens. The answer to my problem had been standing in front of my face—it was obvious now that Dad suggested it.
“Of course,” I said finally. “I’ll do that, Dad. I’ll ask Will for help. It’s a good idea.”
“He has a green thumb, that kid, just like your mom,” he said. I was about to go to my room when Dad called after me, “I’m glad, Rose.”
I stopped and turned, curious what he meant. “Glad about what?”
“That you’re going to plant some flowers. It would make Mom happy. It makes me happy, I can say that much,” he said, and disappeared again behind a letter.
7
NICE GUY
The moment the bell rang to end school the following Thursday, I was on my way to the parking lot. Dad’s suggestion that I ask Will for help had been rattling around in my mind since the weekend. Originally I had planned to do it on Monday, and then on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday, too, but I soon found out that approaching quiet, shy, stoic, and maybe a little intimidating Will wasn’t an easy prospect. He never showed any emotion or betrayed what he was thinking, and for some reason I couldn’t bear the thought of his eyes on me, like he might immediately know my secrets without having to ask. Each time I geared up to approach him, rehearsing my opening words in my head, the moment I saw him I did a one-eighty and hurried in the other direction, and I’m pretty sure he noticed me do this at least once. But then I reminded myself: Will was just the landscaping guy, someone I saw every day at my house, not a clairvoyant or a magician, and I truly doubted he would be mean to me.
SURVIVAL KIT Page 3