The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  “It’s a Hulthemia.” Riley crosses her arms and draws herself up to her full height. I am proud of her. “A type of rose.”

  “I think it’s lovely,” says another female voice. It’s Ms. Lansing, the rose judge from those years ago when I’d met Byron. She is still wearing a lot of makeup, as she was on that day. In deference to the beachy setting, she wears open-toed sandals that show bright pink polish. She leans over and gives me a cheek air kiss. I cringe a little. “How are you, Galilee?”

  “I didn’t know you were coming to this little show.” I pump her hand and introduce her to Riley.

  “Darling, if my hotel gets paid, I’ll go anywhere.” She barely looks at my niece, her eyes still on the rose. “Fragrance?” She bends forward and takes a sniff. She makes no notes on the pad she carries. Her pencil remains in her pocket.

  “Not too much, but it is a repeat bloomer.”

  Ms. Lansing glances up. She then does something odd. She pats my shoulder. “Good for you, Gal.”

  “Thank you?” I am utterly confused.

  “I want you to know I put you in my prayer circle at church.” Her lipstick is bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth.

  “Thank you,” I repeat. Byron must have told her about my kidney. I certainly didn’t.

  She gives my shoulder another heavy, overly familiar pat, then heads away.

  “Was it just me, or was that weird?” I ask Riley.

  “Weird.” Riley is in agreement with me.

  There is nothing to do now but wait for the results.

  We tour the show. Byron, of course, is not here, and I am not friendly with anyone else, so there’s no one to greet. This is how I like it. No obligation.

  I explain the different roses to Riley, pointing out the best traits of each show rose under my breath. “Which one do you think will take Queen? Besides mine.” I explain that while there can be prizes in each category, the Queen can be from any of them; it’s the best rose overall.

  We walk up and down each aisle, each of us examining the roses at our leisure. I’m attracted to an orange miniature giving off a spicy-sweet fragrance. Each bloom seems to have a hundred petals.

  Eventually, Riley stops at a table in aisle four. “This one.” Riley points to a large white rose with pink tips and a pinker center. It is in a tall vase, long-stemmed, set apart from the contestant’s other blooms. Its fragrance has met us halfway up the aisle, no small feat considering how many roses are in the room. It’s a Moonstone rose, a beautiful name and a lovely specimen, even if it’s not a new kind of rose like mine.

  “And why?” I am quizzing her, to see if she has paid attention to anything I’ve done or lectured her on, when she appears to be doing everything except paying attention. I expect her to shrug and say she doesn’t know.

  She stops and cocks her head, circling around the rose. The grower, a man in his sixties, eyes her anxiously, as if she will pounce on the bloom and rip it apart. Which would be one way to stop the competition.

  Riley ticks off the attributes on her fingers. “Glossy green color. Excellent fragrance. No signs of any disease. It looks almost like a silk flower, only better.” She turns to the man. “How’d you do it?”

  “Secret compost tea.” He winks. “Let me write the recipe.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give it to my aunt here. She grows roses.”

  Wait. This man was going to just give me his secret recipe? I couldn’t believe it. I hoped it wasn’t sabotage, that it wouldn’t contain some variant of arsenic to kill off all my plants.

  “You’ll need coffee grounds and alfalfa,” he says, scratching out the supplies on an overturned cocktail napkin. “Been perfecting it for thirty years.”

  “Wow. That’s almost as old as my aunt.”

  “Thirty is a baby,” I said, thinking thirty wasn’t too old.

  “Oh yeah, it is. It’s so long.” Riley takes the napkin from the man and nods.

  “I can’t believe you’re sharing,” I blurted.

  He chuckles, snapping his pen closed and tucking it into his red-plaid shirt pocket. “What are you talking about? Rose growers always help each other. Don’t you belong to a rose society?”

  “Only in name.” I survey his other roses.

  “You’ve been reinventing the wheel, then.” He reaches out and shakes my hand. “Good luck to you. Winslow Blythe.”

  “Good luck to you, too.” I shake his back, then his name registers. “Wait. You’re the Winslow Blythe? Winning Roses?”

  “That’s the one.” He nods. “Do you have volume six? It has this recipe in it.”

  “No. I have volume four. I figured they didn’t change much.” Also, I am too frugal to buy a new guide every year.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Lots of new material.”

  Riley shoves the napkin into her jeans pocket. I hold out my hand. “Oh, please, otherwise it will end up in the laundry.”

  “Fine. I’ll fix it.” She smooths it out.

  12 cups alfalfa pellets

  ¾ cup Epsom salts

  ¼ cup chelated iron

  1½ cups organic compost

  Water (use the hose)

  Large container with lid (at least 32 gallons)

  I recommend putting the container near the roses before you begin; it will be too heavy to move, and it will stink to high heaven.

  Fill a large container with water; a plastic trash can works fine. Add all the ingredients and give it a good stir (I use an old broom handle just for this purpose).

  Put a lid on it and let it sit for between four days and two weeks. If the weather is hot, or your container’s in the sun, it will likely be done faster.

  Take the lid off. With a bucket, skim some of the “tea” water off the top. Each mature bush gets 1 gallon every other week. Mini roses get a half gallon. Don’t give this to newly planted roses; it’ll burn them.

  “Well, what to my wondering eyes should appear?” I put the recipe into my fanny pack, another fashion don’t for Dara, but extremely convenient nonetheless.

  “You’ve never heard of compost tea?” Blythe grins at me. He’s supposed to be over eighty, but he looks more like he’s sixty. He has twinkling blue eyes and a mop of silvery hair that is only in faint strands over the top of his head. “Much less stinky than fish emulsion.”

  I think of my neighbor. “Maybe I like stinky.”

  Blythe waves us off. “We’ll see you later. What was your name?”

  “Gal,” I tell him.

  Riley and I move on. “See, I am useful.” Riley grins, her cheeks dimpling, her cheeks almost filled out. The shadow of her former baby self transposes on her face. With a pang, I remember her chubby little hands and legs, never to be seen again.

  I gulp. “Riley, I want to tell you something.”

  “What?” She spins on one Converse high-topped foot, a white sneaker covered in Sharpie graffiti.

  I say it fast, before I can stop myself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more when you were little.”

  Her good mood vanishes, blown away quicker than pollen on the wind. “Why are you saying that now?”

  I reach out, touch her arm. “I just thought of it.”

  She steps backward, focusing out the nearby window. Riley props her forehead against the glass. Her voice is small. “You just thought of it. ‘Just.’ Hmmm. After how many years?” She scratches at her nose, then faces me, her eyes taking in all the reflected light through the ocean-facing window and throwing it outward. “Listen. Don’t even worry about it.”

  I’m startled at the flat, dark edge in her tone. “Riley.”

  “I mean it. I’m not worried about it. No one’s worried about it.” She scans the room. “I’m going to find something to eat, okay?”

  “I b
rought you a peanut butter and jelly.” I dig out the baggie from my fanny pack. It’s a bit squished, the jam visible through the bread. “I probably should have put it in the cooler.”

  She takes the messy baggie without comment. “I think I’ll eat outside.” And off she goes.

  13

  I RETURN TO MY TABLE.

  Riley’s mood swings—how she can seem like a perfectly rational semi-adult one minute and a screaming three-year-old the next—frighten me. They remind me of her mother. As a teenager, hell, even as an adult, Becky would be soft one minute, ready to cut you during her next exhale. As long as she was getting her way, she was okay.

  Once, right before I’d gotten my new kidney, not long before I turned thirteen, Becky was supposed to go on a class trip to Washington, D.C. And then came my kidney transplant, bills were piling up, and Mom broke it to my sister that she couldn’t go.

  Instead of being glad I was alive, alive for her to torture another day, Becky turned from where she was putting away dishes and dropped Mom’s big platter on the floor. Not just any platter. The platter my mother’s mother had gotten on her wedding day from her mother, the one Grandma had brought over from Italy when she emigrated. The platter with yellow and blue flowers cascading over it, the one my mother had said I could have when I got married.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table, bundled up in blankets, still fresh from the incision on my back. “Becky!” I heard my mother say.

  Becky simply walked out.

  “Is it bad to say I’m relieved for the break?” my mother whispered to my father.

  “I’m sure she’s going to Annie’s.” My father hugged my mother. Annie was Becky’s best friend. “She’ll be back.”

  She didn’t return for two days, walking back in when she was ready. My parents never mentioned it again.

  I don’t want the same thing for Riley. Which is why I’d tried to talk to her like I just had, let her know that yes, I am sorry I wasn’t there. I am sorry I didn’t fight her mother and her father for custody, which I surely would have lost.

  A hollowness sinks into my torso. It’s unlike anything I have felt before. I feel no battle cry, as I do when I have to deal with my doctor or my rebelling body. I am not even too annoyed, as I am when my students misbehave. It’s a surprising and overwhelming sense that I have failed.

  I cross my arms, thinking hard about how to reach out to Riley. If my mother’s way wasn’t quite right, and my way wasn’t quite right, what should I do? Of course, Riley is not her mother. I am not my mother. A conundrum.

  When rose enthusiasts come by and ask me questions about my Hulthemia, I respond with one-word answers. I make no eye contact. Eventually, they leave me alone.

  Finally I remember my cell phone. I dial Riley, the first number I have programmed. No response. Of course. I let it ring again, and again, starting over each time it reaches voice mail.

  I almost miss the announcement for the winner’s circle gathering over the P.A. system. Only the mass exodus of all the contestants toward the stage area tells me there’s something afoot. I pocket the phone and join the small crowd.

  Due to my size, no one much minds when I shoulder my way to the very front. Next to me stand two elementary school–aged kids, one of whom is taller than I am. I am confident I’m not in anyone’s sight line.

  Ms. Lansing stands on a low, shallow stage behind a worn wooden podium with a tinny microphone that goes into feedback shrieks every time she speaks too loudly, which is often, as she doesn’t seem to understand the electronics. From this vantage point, I can see the blue-green veins crisscrossing her legs like roads on a highway atlas. She grimaces at me as if she has read my mind, rocking back on her pink heels. “It’s been an honor to be your judge,” she says, lapsing into the standard spiel about how great everyone is, how wonderful our roses are, how difficult it was to choose winners in each category. Yawn. I have heard this before. I wish they would just print out a list and let everyone look at it and claim their medals on the way out.

  It is interminable. Everyone is compelled to clap after each winner’s announcement, even for fourth place and honorable mention. I scan the crowd for Riley’s shock of black hair and light roots, the white peasant blouse. She should be easy to spot in this otherwise mature crowd.

  Finally I see her, not by the stage, but on the far wall under a hand-lettered sign reading SNACK BAR. She stands, one foot behind her on the wall, her arms crossed. She will not make eye contact with me. She is eating a package of Cheetos, her fingers orange.

  I call her again, though it’s rude to do so during the announcements. She glances at her phone, then puts it away. “Ah.” I push back through the crowd to her, reaching her just as she throws the empty bag into a big gray trash can.

  “Riley.” I block her from the exit.

  “I have to use the bathroom.” She dodges around me.

  I follow. There’s no reason for her to cut me out, to try to punish me. I haven’t done anything wrong. “Riley. There’s no reason to be so upset.”

  She points. “They’re doing your category, Aunt Gal.”

  I turn. I see Ms. Lansing’s lips moving. I step back into the conference space.

  Ms. Lansing is gesturing to me. I climb up the stairs on the stage side. Someone thrusts a scratchy ribbon around my neck and propels me into a lineup beside Ms. Lansing. I look down at the medal. Honorable Mention. Pshaw. My first urge is to take it off, pocket it, and get out of here, but I stand and nod my head at the applause, clapping my hands until they hurt for the third-, second-, and first-place winners.

  “Congratulations.” Ms. Lansing squeezes my shoulders with her talons. I wince.

  “Thanks.”

  “You keep on working, you hear?”

  I nod and file offstage.

  “And the Queen of Show goes to Winslow Blythe, for his Moonstone.” The audience interrupts into applause. Winslow walks slowly but steadily onto the stage. Well, at least it’s someone I sort of know.

  I return to the snack bar, but Riley’s not there.

  Where could she have gone? Surely she knew to stay around. I head into the restrooms. “Riley?” I call.

  No response.

  Now I feel like someone has knocked a big heavy brown ball into my stomach, which happened once in second grade. I can’t breathe. I lean against the bathroom tile wall.

  “Are you all right?” a woman using a walker asks. “You want me to call someone?”

  “No. I’m fine,” I gasp. I straighten and leave the restroom without a backward glance.

  No one is at the snack bar, really just a folding table with a cash box and some food. I don’t see her in the audience, or at my table. I grab my rose, stick it back into the cooler, and head out to the car.

  There she is, leaning against the maroon Toyota Tercel, examining her nails as though they contain the secret to life. “Hey, Aunt Gal.”

  “I was looking for you in there.” I huff with the effort of having pulled the cooler. The parking lot is on an incline.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t find you. I figured you’d come back to the car.”

  “That’s why you have a cell phone.” I pop the trunk open.

  “I called you.”

  I take out my phone and look at it. Two missed calls. “Oh. I must not have felt it in my pocket.”

  “It’s easy to miss a call.” She picks up the cooler and hefts it in. Though she is young and healthy, she struggles with the weight of lifting. It was easier to get the thing out. I resolve to give her more lean protein, build some muscle on her. When my sister sees her again, Riley will be unrecognizable.

  In the car, Riley snaps her seat belt. “I take it you didn’t win.”

  “Honorable Mention.” I start the engine. I don’t want to talk about it. I haven’t ev
en had time to process the rose show results. Byron was correct. When isn’t he correct? I should listen to him. He knows what he’s doing. And I, what am I? I’m an overly optimistic dreamer.

  Not only a dreamer about roses, but about my kidney, too. Who am I kidding?

  Something I’ve been holding at bay washes over me. I do not move the car. I sit and stare at the ocean, at its fuzzy blue flat horizon. All my blood flow tests have been inconclusive. I am never going to get a new kidney. Not ever.

  I am too dehydrated to even squeeze out a single tear for relief. But sobs threaten to escape. Occasionally, throughout my life, I have suffered what Mom calls a Blues Day, when the despair of having this chronic disease gets the best of me and I’d retreat into my room and cry for twenty-four hours or so.

  I need to stave this off as best I can, until we get home and I can crawl safely into bed. If I am aware of my irrationality, I wonder, does this make me rational? The waves move back and forth on the water. I imagine the ocean is a pool of my tears instead, visualizing my sadness getting washed away from my body. I breathe in and out slowly twenty-five times. All right, I tell myself on each exhale. I’m all right.

  Riley turns up the radio to a rock station. Lady Gaga drowns out all. Clearly Riley doesn’t know what is really bothering me, or particularly cares. I should not expect her to. She’s only a kid, not my confidante, and certainly not my caretaker. I feel more alone than ever.

  “Honorable Mention is better than a kick in the face, as Grandpa would say.” Riley’s voice snaps me out of my meditation. She’s correct. That is what my father would say. I can imagine his dry tone saying it, too. I smile in spite of myself.

  She’s right. Who cares if Winslow Blythe won? He’s been breeding roses for, what, sixty years? I am a mere pup compared to him. There had to be another chance for me. I am already planning to go to the Pasadena rose show in June. Dara said she could probably go with me, said she always wanted to go to the Rose Bowl swap meet. I was going to go whether or not I had a good rose for show, just so we could have an excuse to get down there. I turn off the radio and step out of the car. “Why don’t you have the first turn, Riley?”