The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  7

  IT IS SATURDAY. THE DAY IS COOL. ONLY A LITTLE WIND. MY house has its porch light on, despite it being mid-morning. My car alarm beeps, and I wonder if it woke Riley. I squeak the door open. Being a guardian is so difficult. Who knew I’d go from zero to sixty in parental anxiety? If I’d had her all these fifteen years, I would have had time to get used to this raw worry, not have it blossom all at once.

  I used to long for a normal life, a life like the one Becky had. I used to sit in front of the big mirror on my mother’s dresser, thinking I could step through it, like Alice, to a parallel life. One where my kidney reflux was discovered and fixed early on. Where I had gotten married fairly young, and begun having babies with some decent man. I used to want six. Three boys, three girls. I had names picked out for them, all from Greek myth. Cassandra, Alexandra, Penelope. Ulysses, Jason, Hector. I would have needed an accommodating husband with a short last name.

  But now, I’m thinking maybe it’s better that I didn’t become a parent. Maybe I could never have handled it in the first place, based on how I am handling Riley. Not that I have done anything bad.

  It’s just that I’m used to being alone, doing what I want, not thinking about kids, other than my students. When my students went home, they were no longer my worry. I could think about roses, piddle around in my greenhouse as much as I wanted.

  Riley is up and talking on the phone. The television is on. So is the radio in the kitchen, to some rock music with bass I can feel in my bowels. It sounds like pure noise more than music. I turn off the radio and study my niece.

  She looks healthy. No signs of partying or illness are in the room. In fact, she appears to have straightened up. She has on thick socks with pictures of roses on them that I recognize as mine. What else has she looked through while I was gone? She turns her head away from me.

  I go into the bedroom to give her privacy and shut the door, hearing her say, “I love you too, Mom,” before she hangs up.

  I reappear, wondering what my sister had to say for herself. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s great. She loves Hong Kong. Nonstop, like she is.” Riley says this without a trace of bitterness. “She’s going to bring me some cool souvenirs.”

  “She ought to just bring you herself, not junk.” I sit on the chair opposite my niece and put my feet on the coffee table.

  “She needed to take the job.” Riley chews on a hangnail, stares out the window. “When she comes back, she says we’re going to buy a house. They pay her housing, so she’s saving up.”

  I somehow doubt my sister has a real plan to save money, but I don’t say anything to Riley. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “She doesn’t know yet. The Hong Kong assignment might be longer than she thought.” Riley gets up. “She said it might be through the summer.” She rubs the heel of her hand into her eyes to stave off tears. “It’s a good opportunity for her, isn’t it?”

  I see it all then. Becky is no good for her. Riley would be better off if she cut ties with her mother, said good-bye to all these years of disappointment, stopped calling her on the phone. But she won’t. She can’t, yet. Maybe being here, with me, will let Riley see the shell that is her mother. This abandonment should not be what Riley thinks is normal.

  I want to tell Riley all this, but know she’s not ready to hear it.

  “It is a good opportunity,” is what I say instead. I nearly choke on these words.

  Riley turns back to me. “It was really quiet here.”

  “Quiet is good. But you can come with me, if you want.”

  “I got so bored, I cleaned up the greenhouse after I watered.”

  I freeze. “You cleaned up the greenhouse?”

  She waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I didn’t throw away any plants.”

  I force myself to take deep breaths. Training Brad to clean up had taken a few weeks, and here Riley has done it in one evening? I have everything in a particular space, a particular order. If I could have painted a grid system over the entire greenhouse with spots for everything, I would have. I do not like this to be messed with. I realize I am clutching the back of the sofa rather hard, and relax my grip.

  “Aunt Gal?” Riley says.

  “Riley, it’s good to want to help.” I struggle for polite words, when cursing is all that comes to mind. “But how would you like it if I went into your computer and decided to poke around and clean stuff up?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Exactly.”

  Her face falls. I feel terrible. But really, it’s my stuff.

  • • •

  I GO INTO THE GREENHOUSE. Here, it is truly quiet. Only the sounds of the fans. I inhale once, twice. Soil and the spicy scent of the seedlings.

  It looks like she’s swept and taken out the trash. And dusted; the metal fans are clean once again. Not bad.

  I walk to my seedling bins and look over the rows of the Hulthemias. More have sprouted and bloomed. I handle a yellow Hulthemia I’ve tagged G8. It’s got a lot of blossoms and a bright orange center, but no scent. That’s too bad. I was sure it would have fragrance, like its cousin. Fragrance is elusive, I remind myself.

  I walk to seedling G42. This is the one I’m hoping will be the best of the bunch. It will look like a clean orange flame with a red center, reminding me of bonfires. One bud has opened. It’s beautiful, the splotch perfect in the petals like watercolor spilled by a skilled artist. No fragrance, though. Darn.

  I should wait another year, see if I can turn out a better rose.

  But what if there’s not another year?

  I refuse to let the thought settle. There will be another year, I tell myself sternly.

  The next bud might have fragrance. It might smell more strongly in a couple of days. I am vacillating. This rose has unique coloring that I might not get again. Though I know it could be better.

  Every time I look at the bloom, my heart accelerates and I feel giddy. That’s got to count for something. Besides, the entry fee for the show I’ll enter is only twenty dollars, and it’s just over in San Luis Obispo. It’s worth it, even if I lose. “Oh, Gal. You’re so stubborn,” I say, then laugh to myself. I sound like my doctor. Or my mother. I go back into the house and fill out my rose entry form.

  8

  OVER THE NEXT WEEK OR SO, I PUT THE ROSE SHOW OUT OF my mind. There’s really nothing else to do about it, unless a better rose blooms in the meantime, which would always be nice. Riley, it is decided, will make the drive to San Luis Obispo with me for the show.

  Riley gets up on time, without the complaining I’d braced myself for, gets in her uniform, and rides to school with me early. I like to get in an hour before school in case a student needs help. Riley usually goes over to Dara’s class and draws.

  She really ought to be one of the students getting tutoring. Riley is in my sophomore biology class, and whatever she learned at her old school she either forgot or hasn’t yet studied. She stares at the slides and cannot make out the proper cells. A blood cell seems to look the same to her as a plant cell. I point out the differences, she agrees, and the next day, she forgets again. Nor can she remember the scientific names for anything.

  Originally, I thought she was a visual learner, because she’s so attracted to art. Now I think she’s a hands-on learner. Her main problem is she can’t think in the abstract very well. Anyway, the bottom line is, she could use as much help as she can get in the sciences, because it does not come naturally to her.

  “I study on my own,” Riley told me when I suggested she come in and get extra help. We haven’t had a quiz yet, so I can’t say how well she will do in my class. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about her.

  “Don’t be stubborn,” I said. “It’s not a crime to not be good at science. Maybe you’ll be better at phy
sical science.”

  I bring this up with Dara one day at lunch. “What does she draw?” Riley has not shown me any class artwork, and Dara keeps most of it until the end of the year, when she puts on a show for the parents.

  “Mainly people.” Dara chews on her spinach salad thoughtfully. “I always say that people usually like to draw either people or landscapes. She is definitely people. But I’m having her move away from representational drawing and experiment with different media.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “So you’re making her into a Picasso?”

  Dara gives me a quick smile. “Pretty much. Picasso knew how to draw realistically before he went into abstraction, too.”

  “It’s funny. She only got a C in art at her last school. And her citizenship grades weren’t so high.” I ponder what brought her citizenship down. Talking in class? Not turning in homework? These behavior-based marks, given in addition to letter grades, always seemed arbitrary to me, varying with each teacher. Some teachers even marked the kids down for not participating, for being too quiet. Silence, to me, was not a detriment to learning.

  “Maybe no one gave her a chance before, or maybe the smaller school helps.”

  “I think it’s the uniforms.” Riley sits at a lunch table with Sam and her cronies. Her black hair has begun to grow out, showing lighter roots. I’m not sure what it will take to bleach it back down, but it’s sure to be expensive and time-consuming, so I figure growing it out works just as well. “Uniforms solve everything.” I raise an eyebrow at Dara’s getup, a hot pink blouse with black pants and a black-and-white-striped scarf.

  She waves her hand at me dismissively.

  I rest my head on my hand. “Am I not motherly enough?”

  “You mean nurturing? Warm and fuzzy?” Dara takes a dainty bite of her carrot stick. “Not at all.”

  “I can’t be what I’m not.”

  “Everyone can change their behavior, Gal. That’s what we ask the kids to do.”

  “I’m too old to change,” I say.

  Dara brushes off her hands and gets a grin. I look to where she’s looking. Mr. Morton.

  He is wearing a purple button-down with small checks and a purple and black argyle sweater vest with his khaki pants. I am not used to seeing men in purple, but he carries it off nicely. I notice all the girls giggling as he walks by, but he is thankfully oblivious. He sits down at our table. “I was thinking we should build a trebuchet for Science Olympiad.”

  “What’s a trebuchet?” Dara cuts in.

  “Catapult, basically.” I drink my allotted water in one sip. Drat. Still thirsty. I bite into my apple to get some juice. “It’s for an event called ‘Storming the Castle.’” I nod at Mr. Morton. “I’ve never done it, but if you want to, then I’m all for it.”

  Dara looks excited. “‘Storming the Castle’? Now that sounds like fun. Shall I make you some medieval costumes?”

  Mr. Morton and I giggle and exchange a glance. His eyes are merry. Dancing, even. He says, “I suppose we could, but it’s more for the physics applications.”

  “We’ll talk about it at Science Olympiad practice. Are you handy at building? No one around here is. That’s why we haven’t built one.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I can put together IKEA furniture.”

  “That’s better than most. We’ll have to get a real builder, maybe a parent volunteer so we don’t hit anyone in the head.” He and I laugh again.

  I glance at the clock. “Time for my meds. See you guys later.” I get up to clear my sack lunch, feeling a peculiar flutter in my stomach. Is it caused by Mr. Morton? It can’t be. I joke with everyone. I throw my trash away and glance back toward the table, just in time to see Dara lean in, her hand on his forearm, and Mr. Morton laugh at something she says. I had thought he wasn’t her type. But then, when did Dara ever have a type? He’s better for her than most of those yahoos she dates, I think. Something like anger, or frustration, knots hotly inside. I slam open the cafeteria door a bit harder than necessary as I leave.

  Winslow Blythe’s Complete Rose Guide

  (SoCal Edition)

  Happy April! Happy Spring!

  Happy Critter Month! Remember to keep washing those rose bottoms every single day. If you do use pesticides, use it at half strength for the new blooms, so they won’t burn up.

  Weekly fish emulsion will make your roses sing (and make your dogs go crazy! Woo, it is stinky). One time this month, give the roses a big old Super Feed of zinc, iron, and Epsom salts.

  9

  RILEY AND I BEGIN TO DEVELOP A ROUTINE. GENERALLY, WE go home in the late afternoon, after all our school duties are done. I handle the roses, Riley does homework. I make dinner, she does homework. We do laundry as needed. It’s a fairly normal life, except for the dialysis. It’s kind of nice to have someone around.

  On Mondays, we stop at the grocery store after school. I let Riley plan the dinners, considering how she complains so much about them. The first week, she spent two hours on the Internet, looking up gourmet recipes. I take one look at her list (baby arugula, New Zealand lamb shanks, wild Alaskan salmon) and laugh so hard I lean on the shopping cart for support, drawing the stares of the other shoppers. “Riley, dear, we are not the Rockefellers.”

  “Who are the Rockefellers?” Riley flushes all the way down into her shirt collar.

  “We’re not the Hiltons,” I clarify for her benefit. I hand her the list back. It’s written on one of those free notepads that realtors hand out; Riley has adorned the man’s grinning face with horns and a mustache. “Please. Teacher budget.”

  “But how can I change my menu? We’re at the store already.” She crosses her arms and looks like I just told her there’s an asteroid plummeting to Earth.

  I take a grocery store circular, pushing the cart over to the side so I don’t block the strawberry display. “Buy what’s on sale. Plan from there. Things I know how to cook, preferably.”

  We go through the store, choosing dry spaghetti and cans of sauce and pork chops on sale. “This actually isn’t so bad,” Riley says, putting a half pound of hickory-smoked bacon, wrapped in white paper, into the cart.

  “Yep. No one got hurt.” I pick up a cantaloupe and have her smell it for ripeness. We check the expiration dates on the dairy, we look on the bottom shelves for the bargain brands, we decide what to freeze for later. I hadn’t realized how much grocery knowledge I had, just waiting to be passed on.

  I grin at her as we go through checkout.

  “What?” Riley says, putting back the copy of National Enquirer.

  “Nothing,” I say, still grinning. “Just happy. Is that a crime?”

  “Nooo.” She laughs, widens her eyes. “It’s just weird.”

  During the second week of April, my parents come home from their trip, find out about Riley, and drive up even though they should be resting from jet lag. They arrive mid-morning on a Saturday, which means they left at dawn. Riley and I hear them and go into the driveway as they pull up. Mom opens the sedan door first, of course. She braces herself on the passenger door to get out and moves slowly toward me. Her right hip is arthritic and will need replacement soon. She’s dressed in one of her flowing maxis, her hair all over the place. “Gal,” she says, crushing me in a hug. She smells of something spicy, and I sneeze.

  “Sorry, Mom. It’s your perfume.”

  “Oh dear.” She steps back and looks more concerned than I meant her to. “I’ll take a shower right away.”

  “No, no. It’s fine, Mom.”

  “You look good.” She turns next to Riley. “Look at how big you’ve gotten, my granddaughter!”

  “Hi, Gram.” Riley submits to a hug and rolls her eyes over Mom’s shoulder.

  Dad steps out and puts his big arm around me. “Hey, Squirt. Got any projects th
is weekend that need doing?” Dad always fixes stuff for me while he’s here: leaky faucets, crooked pictures, drafty windows. He hates sitting still, for one thing, and for another, I’m hopeless at handyman tasks. I save them all up for him.

  I think about it for a second. “There is one thing you could do. A project for the school.”

  • • •

  MR. MORTON ARRIVES in an hour, dressed in jeans and a clean Lacoste shirt even though he’s here to work on the trebuchet with Dad. Today they’ll build a sample, cut the parts for a second, and then Mr. Morton will have the kids build another one during the club. He drives a black Audi convertible, too nice a car for a teacher to own. The trebuchet wood is strapped to the rack on top, a rack meant for skis. He sits in the car for a moment, as if he’s listening to the end of some song. Or maybe he’s hesitating. I imagine he didn’t think I’d make good on my trebuchet project so soon.

  Riley bangs open the screen door and leaps down the two front steps. “Mr. Morton!”

  “Riley.” He smiles easily at her. “You going to help out?”

  “I don’t want her getting any fingers cut off.” I come outside and squint in the sun.

  “That’s more likely to happen to me.” Mr. Morton grins and holds up a scratched-up fire-engine red tool box. It means he uses it. He and Riley undo the wood.

  We go around the back to the garage, where Dad has set up a workstation across two sawhorses.

  “Dad, this is Mr. Morton. Mr. Morton, my father. Tom.”

  “Call me George.” Mr. Morton shakes my father’s hand firmly.

  “By George, you’re George.” At Dad’s corny joke, I glance at Riley to see if she’s groaning, but she ignores it. I bet if I’d said it, she would have run screaming down the street. Dad takes the wood from him and sets it up on the worktable. “Gal says you’ve got plans for this thing?”

  “Printed this morning.” He spreads the sheets on the table. I examine the diagrams. It’s a small catapult designed to launch beanbags into a bucket. Whoever can do this with the most accuracy wins the competition. He glances up at me with a raised eyebrow. “We should have made the students come over and help.”