The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  “Fine.” My throat caught on a piece of shell. I swallowed. “Don’t eat the tacos. I don’t care.” I would not offer again, not offer anything. Couldn’t she see that none of this was my fault? Why did Becky have to punish me?

  “There’s no need to be rude.” I thought Mom was speaking to me, but no, she was speaking up for me, to Becky, her tone even more cutting than my sister’s.

  I sat thinking of all this now as my sister’s daughter, playing a good-girl role, made popcorn. I had been unlucky in some ways, lucky in others. I wanted, more than anything, for Riley to be lucky in everything.

  • • •

  ON FRIDAY EVENING, Riley comes in, her chores discharged, wiping her brow dramatically as if I’d just asked her to complete the seven labors of Hercules instead of clean our common bathroom. “My restriction is up. May I go out?”

  So it was. Curiously, this week had felt less like a restriction week than a small vacation with my niece. For a moment the word “no” presents itself on my tongue. I flicked it away before I could say it aloud. “Where, with whom, and for how long?” I tick these off, feeling as if something has again slipped away from me before I can hold it. “With Samantha?”

  “Are you kidding? Not with her, probably ever again. With some kids from art class. You don’t know them.”

  “I know everyone.” The school is not that big.

  “It’s just to Rory’s Diner.” She names a popular hangout for the high school kids, a fifties-style joint with an old Corvette turned into a dining table. She slides what look like sleeves cut off an old T-shirt, with thumb holes in them, over her forearms. I realize that’s exactly what they are. “I’ll be back by ten.”

  My stomach clenches. I understand, suddenly, Samantha’s mother’s concerns. How much easier it would be for me if I kept Riley at hand, under my roof, in my sight, at all times. But I can’t do this during my dialysis and I cannot do it now. “All right.”

  She disappears into the bathroom, and as though on cue, a car pulls up and honks. Riley opens the door. Her black eyeliner is back in place, her hair is slicked down. She wears black jeans and oxblood Doc Marten boots, and a T-shirt with a lacy vest over it, along with those weird gloves. She looks like what I think a typical art student would look like, except with fewer piercings. “See you.”

  Her armor is back. I sit upright on the couch. “Wait. Who else will be there?”

  She leaps out the door, a gazelle escaping from a lion.

  I ponder how she made these plans without using her cell phone or computer. And how she would know I’d say yes.

  The phone rings. It’s Dara. I have spoken to her only in passing since I heard her gossiping with Dr. O’Malley.

  “Dara.” I try her name out gingerly, not sure how I feel about it.

  “Hi, Gal. I haven’t seen you around school this week.”

  “My class is still in the same place.”

  “So’s mine, oddly enough,” she says drily. “Listen, I’m sorry about the whole Riley and Samantha thing. I know you’re doing your best.”

  “I always do.” I consider whether or not to apologize. I decide to do a half apology. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  She hesitates. “How’d you like to go get some food?”

  “Love to,” I respond. I nearly wither with relief that my friend is free.

  We avoid the burger place with the kids, though Dara could own that joint, with her wide cream circle skirt and her ballerina flats. Her hair is up and out of her face, and she wears no makeup except for lip gloss. “You look classy,” I say to her.

  She tosses her hair back. “I am classy, Gal.”

  “Hey, classy is a compliment to some people.”

  After a discussion about what I can eat, we choose a soup and salad place, which has enough variety for the both of us.

  I pile a plate with soft French bread and pasta with white sauce, and another with Romaine, zucchini shavings, cucumber, and celery. I have to avoid high-phosphorus veggies, and I’m allowed just three half-cup servings of each permissible vegetable. However, I can eat as many bread products as I like, provided they are not whole-grain, because those contain too much phosphorus.

  Dara eyes my plate as she adds a high-bran muffin, no butter, to her plate of greens. “I wish I could have that pasta.”

  “Maybe so, but you probably don’t want the rest of the package.” I avoid the tomatoes and the soups, all of which seem to have some kind of potato in them, which are also banned.

  We sit at a wood table so heavily lacquered I can see up my nostrils when I glance down. I move my plates of food in front of me. I consider whether to tell her I heard her talking to Dr. O’Malley in the hallway about my stubbornness. The only reason I think I’m right, I want to point out, is because most of the time I am. I shouldn’t have to change my mind simply because someone else has a different (and wrong) opinion about a situation.

  Dara should know by now that I don’t avoid doing things because they are easier. It would have been easier for me not to involve Samantha’s mother, for me to cover up for her daughter. But then if something else happened later—say, Samantha went out again without her parents’ knowledge and got into serious trouble—surely I, as the adult involved and a teacher to boot, would bear responsibility. Samantha’s parents would say I should have told them at an early stage.

  I don’t want to get back into any unpleasantness with Dara. The sting of her words with Dr. O’Malley has worn off. I’ve heard worse about me. Sticking to a position, in my opinion, is a character virtue, not a flaw.

  “Excited about the rose show in Pasadena?” I ask.

  She nods, but grimaces. “I am.”

  I grin. “You know, Byron will be there.”

  “Byron the great and powerful?” She takes a small bite of bran muffin. “I can hardly wait. What am I supposed to do with a guy in another state?”

  I shrug. “Same thing you’d do with a guy here, probably. Not get serious about him.”

  She ignores this jab. “Gal. I’m still not sure I can go. It’s pretty tight for me right now. I’m saving for a house.” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Oh.” I can’t fault her for that. Still, I don’t want to think about the possibility she won’t go. “But you’ll probably come, right?”

  “I’ll have to see after our next paycheck. I have a lot of credit cards to pay off.” She changes the subject. “How’s the science team coming?”

  Dara just has to come with me. I wait until I swallow before responding. “Just fine.”

  “George says you need another alternate for the trebuchet.” She focuses on her plate.

  I put down my fork. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to put the pressure on, too. Riley is not coming on the team.”

  She holds up her hand. “One, chill out. Two, you are not the Grand Poobah. You don’t have final say in everything.”

  “I do in this.” Science Olympiad is my territory. “Why don’t you start an art team?”

  “There can be no art team. Art is too subjective.”

  “I thought you always said you know good and bad art when you see it.”

  “But that’s only me.” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Gal, has it occurred to you that if you do let Riley on the science team, she might be inspired to work harder in your class?”

  I waggle my finger. “That’s not the way it works. First she works hard, then gets rewarded. Not being lazy, and then getting special treatment.”

  “Who is it going to hurt?” Dara asks.

  I stare at her. She should let this go. The only answer for why she won’t is Mr. Morton. Mr. Morton is pillow-talking her, complaining about me. The thought of Mr. Morton and Dara pillow-talking is too much to bear, and I get up ab
ruptly, shaking the unsteady little table. “I’m going to get more pasta.”

  I take my time at the pasta station, watching the cook heat up the sauce and the rigatoni in the big wok pan, waiting for a fresh batch although more than half a bowl is still in the serving area. Whatever happened to people proving themselves first, then getting rewarded?

  I see Dara on her cell phone, talking away. Mr. Morton. How much do they see each other? Are they calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend yet? Dara hasn’t seemed to mention any of her other hangers-on these days. I get my fresh pasta plate and return to the table as she hangs up.

  “It’s like credit,” Dara begins.

  “What’s like credit?” I burn my tongue on the pasta and take a gulp of water, which uses up all my water for the day.

  “People get into trouble with credit. Maybe they lost a job and couldn’t pay a bill. Then the credit companies jack up the rate and make it harder to pay off. They can’t get credit because the rates are too high. But these are the people who need a break, so they can pay off their bills.” Dara looks pleased with herself.

  “People should live off what they make, not use credit cards,” I say piously, blowing on my pasta. I know she’s talking about herself.

  “Not everyone has parents to help them out, Gal,” she says, her tone hard. “That’s not the point.”

  “Yeah. I get it. Riley needs a break because she’s so far behind. I get it. Did Mr. Morton just tell you to say that?” I jerk my head toward her cell, lying on the table.

  “No.” She eats her salad quickly. “You know what, Gal, you’re impossible sometimes.” She gets up. “I’m going to get more bread. You want anything?”

  I reply in the negative. Impossible. Yes, I am impossible. Everything about my life seems to be one grand impossibility after another.

  I play with the pasta, thinking about Dara. I never did tell her about the rose show results. Nor has she asked. It would be like Dara getting married and me not asking her how the wedding was. Sure, I could just tell her, but shouldn’t she ask if she really cared?

  For the first time, I get that my friend has a different agenda than I do. Different opinions. We are possibly two people that should not converge so much any longer. I want to weep.

  I do not. Instead, I wait for Dara to return, then tell her I’m not feeling well. I leave the restaurant before she can voice a protest or a concern.

  • • •

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I’m in bed reading the Winslow Blythe rose book, waiting for Riley to return home. I’ve left on the porch light and two lamps in the living room, plus the light in her bedroom. Now I skim the words over and over; I already know them nearly by heart, and the book only serves as company. The paper rustles comfortingly under my fingers as I listen for a car to slow. All I hear is the refrigerator, my old companion.

  At last, at precisely ten, the front porch creaks and the front door clicks shut. “Riley?” I call.

  She closes her bedroom door without answering. Uh-oh. I get up, shoving my feet into slippers.

  “Riley?” I knock, then enter. She’s lying on the bed, facing the wall, her back to me. “Everything okay? Did you have a good time?”

  She does not answer. Her breathing is ragged. Crying. I sit on the bed next to her, touch her back. “What happened? Talk to me.”

  She turns over. Her makeup is smeared all over her face in garish streaks, her eyes streaked with red. It reminds me of finding her outside, gripping that golden retriever’s fur, when she was a toddler. “Nothing. I’m just sad.”

  I lean into her. “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” A sob chokes her.

  A smell like sweetly rotting fruit comes off her breath. Alcohol. I lean in and smell her jacket. Cigarette smoke and pot. I fight the growing panic rising inside. “Riley. Tell me where you where and what happened. You were drinking and smoking.”

  “I didn’t smoke anything. Other people were.” She covers her eyes with her hands, not denying the drinking.

  Fear tumbles my stomach. I put my hand on her. “Did someone do something to you?” A million possibilities rush through my head. Someone giving her booze on the sly. Rape. Roofies. Who knows?

  “No. No one did.” She takes her hands off her eyes and blinks at me. “We were out in the field behind the old Schaeffer place. A bunch of us. Samantha, Brad, pretty much half the school.” Tears fall again. “I only had a few sips, Aunt Gal. I swear. I . . .” She trails off, turns away again, covers her head with the pillow.

  I want to smack her. “Don’t you know the trouble you could have gotten into?” She’s turning into Becky. Who knows what she and Becky did together. Maybe she already is like Becky. Frustration gets the better of me. I hit her wall with my palm. “This is unacceptable. You know that.”

  Her shoulders shake. She’s hyperventilating.

  I rub her back. “Riley. Take deep breaths.”

  She tries to say something, but she’s hiccupping now. She turns over to face me again, taking one giant breath to steady her diaphragm. “I’m sorry, Aunt Gal.” She is so sorrowful, my heart breaks.

  I exhale. “I’m going to have to punish you again, Riley.”

  She nods, her eyes squeezing shut. “Aunt Gal. Why did my mother send me away?”

  My heart catches. This is why she’s done this. “She didn’t want to, sweetheart.” I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s what she needs to hear.

  Her face crumples again. “I was good. And she didn’t want me.”

  “She does want you.” I stroke her hair. I am close to crying, too.

  She shakes her head. “Not enough.” Her breath shakes her body. “Can I . . . can I call her now?”

  “Sure.” I get up and leave, shutting her bedroom door.

  In the living room, I sit on the couch, putting my feet on the coffee table. Wondering how I can stop Riley from becoming Becky. Being with Becky has screwed her up. Becky leaving her has screwed her up, too. Riley is going to have problems either way. I take off my glasses, rub my eyes. Something hard is in my throat, something that won’t be swallowed away.

  Riley opens the door. “She didn’t answer.” She’s taken off her jacket, her posture slumped. She looks like the Little Match Girl.

  I am a little glad her mother didn’t answer. I’m not sure Becky would have helped. I pat the couch next to me. “How about some late news?”

  She sits next to me, close but not touching. Her makeup and tears have dried. I reach over and grab a tissue out of the box, wipe her face. She does not move.

  I turn on the television, and we watch until Riley’s eyes begin to close.

  18

  I TURN MY WATER WAND ON THE ROSES, LOOKING FOR SMALL reddish brown specks. It’s Monday of the second week of May and the spider mites have come out to play, as they always do this time of year. I call them red vampires. I’m supposed to be a biologist, interested in the circle of life and everything having its place, but I hate anything that will hurt my roses. If I were a true Darwinist, believer in survival of the fittest, I would leave them alone. Of course, if I were a true Darwinist, I also would have died a long time ago.

  A row of hybrid teas has a few mites, though their numbers are mitigated by my daily morning washing. It is exactly as annoying and time-consuming as it sounds. The early sun beats down on my unprotected brow. I will have to remember to wear a hat. The weather has heated up, and is now averaging in the mid-eighties by noon.

  Inside, Riley is getting ready for school. We hadn’t talked about the incident all weekend. Instead, we’d gone to the nursery, to a movie—some comedy I’ve already forgotten—and to church yesterday. Throughout, I’d watched her. For what, I didn’t know. Some sign that she needed to talk, or cry again.

  “I’m here if you want to talk,” I’d said
, clumsily.

  She had shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  I have decided not to punish her for drinking. I’m certain Riley had acted out only because of her mother’s leaving her. I mean, if my mother had sent me away abruptly, who’s to say I wouldn’t do something like that? I can’t imagine it.

  • • •

  I OPEN THE HOSE UP MORE, soaking my navy blue sweats through. Next door, the neighbor peers through her window. She drops back when I wave. The water spray must be powerful enough to wash away the mites, but not so powerful the roses are damaged. I bend and search under each bush, waving the wand until my arm aches. It’s a good workout. An insecticide would be easier, but I like to avoid spraying various chemicals on my roses, not because I’m particularly against poisons from an environmental standpoint. I’m against poisons from a hazardous-to-Gal standpoint. I simply believe that with all these other cards stacked against me, I certainly don’t need to add “exposure to hazardous chemicals” to the mix, even if they are supposed to be benign to human life. Do you know how many things throughout human history scientists have asserted would hold no harm against humans? I rest my case.

  At last I finish the rinsing and wind up the hose on the huge reel. I have a soaker system, but I also have this regular big green hose for tasks like this, requiring real water pressure. I am not used to the physical labor and begin huffing before a quarter of the hose is collected.

  This is the time when Brad normally comes, in the morning before school starts, so he can clean the roses and we can let them air-dry during the heat. With school and dialysis and getting ready for the next rose show, I have no time to do this.

  I have one major problem, though.

  Brad quit today.

  He simply texted me this morning, instead of showing up. Just like that. No warning. Nothing. Only words coming through a little tiny phone screen.

  It had to be because of the drinking. He thinks, rightly so, that I will be angry.

  Brad probably did not want to hear the hundred lectures I had planned for him about underage drinking and corruption of underclassmen. Nonetheless, I’d expected a bit more notice. I’d expected him to face me in person. I was wrong.