The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  I pocket it. “There’s no way I’m giving Becky any access to my account.”

  “Dad will wire the next one from our account into yours.” Mom finishes cleaning the pan, puts it on the drying rack.

  “If it comes,” I mutter darkly.

  “It will. It will.” Mom kisses me on the cheek. “Have a little faith, Gal.”

  • • •

  ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Dr. Blankenship wants to see me. We meet in her regular office, with her leather chairs and computer and desk, instead of the exam room. She never sees me in there unless she’s handing out news. I clutch my tote bag nervously.

  Dr. Blankenship sits behind a great big cherrywood desk with an L-shaped return against a wall overlooking a parking lot. She has a Chinese money plant, lucky bamboo in a vase, and a miniature Zen sand garden with a tiny wooden rake all set up along the return. There’s a red lantern hanging in one corner of the room, and a mirror opposite her entry door. There are so many of these things I wonder for a second if she’s part Chinese.

  She sees me looking at her collection. “Feng shui,” she says. “Good health and wealth. Helps energy flow.”

  I purse my lips. She believes in energy flow, but she won’t believe in IVP dye allergy? She must see my surprise, because she shrugs. “Hey, I have a lucky rabbit’s foot I rub before surgery. I have some superstitions. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  “I suppose not.” I regard her warily. Today she’s wearing a bit of makeup, blush to make her white skin glow a bit healthier, better concealer over the dark under-eye circles, mascara on her light-colored lashes.

  “Mark Walters sent me something interesting.” She throws down a printout of the medical journal article. The pages fan out across the desk.

  I gulp, bracing myself. “Let me guess. You read it. You disagree.”

  “Nope. I read it and met with my surgery board, and now,” she takes a breath, “now I’m thinking all we need to do is put the stinking kidney on the right side instead of the left, and blood flow won’t be an issue.”

  I swear at that moment all my bodily functions cease. I am suspended in the air. I hope it won’t hurt when I fall.

  She continues as if this is an entirely normal and everyday conversation. “I’m not one who can’t admit that there are other ways of doing things, that she might be wrong. It’s all in there.”

  I stare at her, uncomprehending.

  She shuffles the report back together in a neater pile. “You’re back on the transplant list, Gal.”

  Somehow my brain revives. “You’re serious?”

  She nods, giving me what I think is the first genuine smile ever. “You have Mr. Walters to thank, Gal. And the review board.”

  Of course. When you can no longer come up with reasons not to do something, you have to do it or get the pants sued off you. I don’t ask her why she wasn’t keeping up with the research, why she needed another patient, for heaven’s sake, to tell her. The only thing I have to hold on to is that Dr. Blankenship’s surgery skills are actually pretty damn good, with high survival rates. “Thank you. What’s my priority number?”

  “Top ten. You know, we go down the list and whoever is the best match gets it.”

  I nod. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten how it works.

  Dr. Blankenship stands. “The kidney transplant coordinator will be in touch with you later today. She’ll go over any questions you have and also make sure the match is right for you.” It sounds like she’s talking about a matchmaking operation, not a kidney surgery. I smile.

  I hold out my hand. “Thank you.”

  She hesitates before taking it. “Gal. You’re the most challenging patient I’ve ever had.”

  I laugh drily, because what else can I do? “Thanks.”

  “That can be bad. And good.” She takes a breath. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m going to do my best for you, no matter what. Okay?”

  “I appreciate it.” I grin.

  She waves me off. “Have a good session. Go call your mother.”

  • • •

  MR. WALTERS is in the waiting room, alternating between humming and chatting up the various old and young ladies around him. He wears white shorts today, with a white long-sleeved button-down shirt and brown leather sandals. I walk right up to him.

  “Thank you.” I extend my hand.

  He takes it. “So she did agree.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I sit down next to him. The awful truth is I’m not sure I would have done the same for him. “I could get a transplant before you.”

  His chipper attitude is unabated. “It’s out of our hands. The best match gets it. You and I do not require the same kidney, Gal. It’s all up to fate now.”

  “I hate fate.” I cross my arms.

  “Fate’s a bitch.” He grins, then slaps me on my arm. “Tell you what. As long as we’ve got to be strapped to these machines, how about a game of Scrabble?”

  Would the nurse move one of us out when it was time for sleep? “Can’t spell worth a darn.”

  “Then it will be even more fun.” He grins.

  I pat my tote bag. “I’ve got lessons to plan.” This is only partly true. I’ve had my lessons planned for weeks, because I decide on the plan at the beginning of the semester. It’s basically the one from last year. “Maybe next time.”

  He nods. Do I detect a note of disappointment? Does he like me? He can’t. He’s old enough to be my father. But maybe he thinks I’m his age.

  “I’m thirty-six, you know,” I blurt. Everyone in the room, young and old, snaps their attention to me.

  Mark smiles slyly. “Congratulations. I’m fifty-nine.”

  I sit straight up in my chair. “I just thought you might like to know that.”

  “I will remember. Thirty-seven candles for your next birthday cake. When is that?” His eyes twinkle. They remind me of how I try to hold in my laughter when a student does something especially funny while they’re trying for utmost seriousness.

  “January thirty-first.” I flush.

  He bends his head in a nod. “And what is your favorite cake?”

  “Depends on what I’m allowed to eat.”

  “Let’s be optimistic. By your next birthday, you shall have a new kidney.” Walters crosses his legs. “Pick a cake, any cake at all.”

  I consider, scrolling through all the cakes I’ve ever tried in my mind’s eye. I settle on one. A complicated concoction. “Baked Alaska. Over a chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream.”

  One eyebrow shoots toward the ceiling. “Impressive. And shall it be a flaming baked Alaska?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Had it before?” He actually takes out his BlackBerry and types something in.

  “My mother made one for me after I got my first kidney, when I was twelve.” I smile. “Twelve egg whites for the meringue. She couldn’t bear to throw out the yolks, so she made a custard the next day. She put on five pounds from that event alone.” Worth every pound, Mom had said. Would have been worth twenty.

  He laughs so hard he dissolves into a cough, a hacking, choking one, turning his face into the color of a beet, little white lines appearing around his eyes.

  “Can you breathe?”

  Walters holds up a hand, a wheezing noise emitting out of his mouth. Nurse Sonya rushes over with a Dixie cup of water. He gulps it. I see how skinny his neck looks as the water goes down. I wonder what he looked like when he was healthy.

  He thanks the Sonya for the water, then continues talking to me as if he hadn’t just nearly choked to death. “I think the candles might sink into the meringue.”

  “Use bigger candles.”

  He laughs again. “You’re a problem-solver.”

  Sonya calls my name. I get up. “Se
e you in the morning, probably.”

  “See you.” His BlackBerry is out again. I hesitate. Maybe I could play one game. I could suggest Sequence or cards instead of Scrabble. But now the nurse is calling my name, insistently, and I don’t want to make trouble by rearranging rooms and pushing around beds. I leave Mr. Walters, bent over his little black phone, his big lean fingers mashing down the keys.

  26

  THE SCIENCE OLYMPIAD IS HELD IN PASO ROBLES, BECAUSE we’re too small-time to host a shindig like this. On the next Saturday, the last weekend in May, Riley and I awake at five and drive in. I turn off the car stereo. “It’s too early for that noise.”

  She yawns big. “Is anyone sick, do you think?”

  “You shouldn’t wish people sick.”

  “I’m not. I’m just wondering if Mr. Morton called you this morning.”

  “No.” I haven’t spoken to Mr. Morton since that day in front of Bub’s.

  Riley gives me a sidelong glance. “I know how to use the tape measure now.”

  “That is good.”

  “So even if I don’t get to do anything else, I did that.” She fidgets with the zipper on her hoodie, zipping it up and down, slowly and quickly, until I’m afraid she’ll catch her skin.

  “Did you know that I didn’t know how to read time until I was in seventh grade?”

  “What on earth do you mean?” I think of the digital displays on the oven and computers and microwaves.

  “A regular clock, with hands. I didn’t know how to read it. We never went over it in school. I guess each teacher thought the last teacher had told us. I don’t know.” She smiles down toward her feet. “I’ve never been too good at this kind of stuff.”

  A little cloud lifts and bursts from somewhere above my head. I’m simultaneously happy and sad. “I should have taught you how to read the tape measure, even if you weren’t on the team.”

  She shrugs. “I like shooting the trebuchet.”

  “It is pretty fun.” I pull into the parking lot at the high school, where the meet will occur.

  Mr. Morton stands near his car, carrying a clipboard and looking very official. His hair looks like errant brambles in the wind. “You’re late.” His tone is crisp.

  “Then why are you standing outside?” I glance at my watch, a Swatch imprinted with geckos. It’s eight. True, he had said seven-fifty, but eight is close enough considering the event actually begins at eight-thirty. “We’re perfectly on time.”

  “Brad and Samantha are sick.” He makes some kind of mark on a piece of paper. “Riley, you’re covering for trebuchet.”

  “What?” Riley and I say at the same time.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.

  “I did.”

  I whip out my phone. “Oh. You did. But I was driving! I couldn’t answer.”

  The flu season’s over. Both kids were fine yesterday. I just cannot believe Brad would miss this, or Samantha, with their concern for grades and the extracurricular. Maybe Brad; he’s a senior and doesn’t give a flying fig anymore. But Samantha, the junior? Is she having a mid-high-school rebellion?

  “Aunt Gal?” Riley’s at my side. She blinks rapidly. “I’m nervous.”

  I put my hands up on her shoulders. “You will be just fine, Riley.”

  • • •

  THE HIGH SCHOOL AUDITORIUM is really more like a gym, built for basketball games, with hoops at either side and hardwood floors and bleachers. It’s impossibly noisy, everyone’s voices echoing. I pull out my little red-foam earplugs from my fanny pack, take a stadium cushion out of my bag, and perch on the bottom row.

  The trebuchets are already set up in a row along one end of the room. Some are made out of metal, but most are wood, like ours. Our whole team wears dark blue T-shirts emblazoned with our mascot and team name, St. Mark’s Lions. The back features a white lion rearing up on its hind legs toward the competitors.

  The judge hands out the weights and launchers. They’re beanbags, probably filled with metal BBs. I hope none of them land in the audience. They should have done this outside. The students have to calculate how far those things will fly, based on their previous tests.

  Riley, armed with a calculator and a notebook of graphs and tables, searches the stands. Who is she looking for? Oh. Me. I wave. She waves back. I give her a thumbs-up. “You can do it,” I say, though she will never hear me from this distance. She nods like she’s reading my lips.

  It’s odd. I see the other parents around me, waving to their children. I’ve cheered kids on in a teacherly role, sure, but this is the first time I have felt so rawly nervous for a student.

  Because she’s mine.

  I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “Come on, Riley. Come on.”

  She scratches her head with her pencil, then crouches down and writes furiously. She adjusts the trebuchet, places the beanbag, and holds the string. When she pulls the string, the catapult will release and fire the beanbag.

  “Fire one!” the judge calls.

  The first team fires. The beanbag flies nearly to the other basketball pole.

  “Fire two!”

  That’s us. Her teammate Jim releases the trebuchet. It flies a little further. Riley raises her hands in victory.

  Once all the teams have launched, they each send a member with the tape measure. A judge will double-check that they measured accurately. If the student didn’t, points will be deducted.

  I pray Riley remembers her metric system.

  “Riley, Riley, Riley.” I am chanting loud without realizing it. The other parents look over at me. I am the only one chanting. Oh Lord. I’ve turned into one of those annoying parents I hate, the ones who stand up and clap at graduation after we’ve asked everyone to hold their applause until the end, the ones who yell at the soccer coaches from the sidelines. How easy that transformation was.

  She measures, looks at the tape. She straightens and gives me a thumbs-up and the biggest smile I’ve seen on her.

  I can’t help it. I stand up and cheer.

  She is not embarrassed. She gives a little jump and claps. Second place. It doesn’t matter. I hoot as loudly as I can. Everyone stares, surprised at the noise coming out of the short lady.

  Mr. Morton, looking on from the other side, shakes his head with a smile.

  • • •

  BACK AT ST. MARK’S that afternoon, the parents who didn’t drive come pick up their kids. I leave Riley chatting with Jim, and go over to Mr. Morton.

  He sits alone under a Chinese flame tree. It’s a young one, the trunk still studded with thorns, yellow flowers barely starting to show. As it matures, the thorns will smooth out into green bark.

  Mr. Morton’s hair, so wild in the parking lot, has been combed down to an unrecognizable Ken-doll helmet. Even his beard is unnaturally still. His face is drawn and tight, as though he’s been sitting there grinding his teeth and clenching his fists.

  I sit down beside him. “That went well, considering. I’ve never needed an alternate in all the years I’ve been doing this.” We acquitted ourselves well in Disease Detectives and the other events.

  Mr. Morton squints out at the quad, his face bare of sunglasses. “We should probably name alternates from now on.”

  “Probably.” I think of Dara, and I want to ask him how the movie date went. I fear it will be taken wrong, as jealousy or prying. “Sometimes we make mistakes. We’re human, aren’t we?”

  He gives me a sideways, puzzled glance.

  I take a breath, decide I might as well ask. “Why did you leave your company? And your wife and child?”

  Mr. Morton shifts away as if I’ve developed symptoms of the Ebola virus. “Please, don’t be so indirect.”

  I tap my foot. “No. Really. Does Dara know? Does she know about all this?”


  “Maybe you should tell her, since you seem to know so much.” He sets his mouth back into a firm line. “Hell, you probably know more about it than I do.”

  “I’m watching out for her. Someone has to.” I think of Dara, our new coolness, and tears prick my eyes. I haven’t even told her about my new kidney transplant status yet.

  “I haven’t talked to Dara since the movie last week, if you must know.” He shakes his head. He stands. “I make it a point not to discuss my love life, past or present, with anyone except the parties involved.”

  I spread my hands apart. “Hey, I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re a jerk or not.”

  He laughs. Sticks his hands into his front pockets, stares at his brown loafers. “I am not.”

  I picture his little girl, alone with her mother in another city. Riley and Becky and her father all over again. “Do you ever see her?” I ask. “Are they still in San Luis Obispo? That’s not far.”

  He gulps. “I don’t see her as much as I’d like.”

  I want to ask him why. Did he abandon them? Use drugs? Before I can think of a more socially appropriate way to pose the question, he asks me one.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” I crumple my lunch bag.

  “You. Are you a jerk, or not?”

  I blink at him. No one’s ever accused me of being a jerk. At least, not openly.

  He nods toward the Chinese flame. “You’re as prickly as this tree. You take pleasure in it. But underneath,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know yet.”

  I don’t think of myself as prickly. “Correct” is a better term. Protective. “Maybe you never will.” I remember the day he came over to make a trebuchet, how well we’d gotten along then. I sort of wish it could go back to that. But ever since he crossed me with Riley, I have only been looking for the worst in him. Perhaps I’m missing something. I know he’s missing something with me.

  “Listen. I’m sorry I brought that up,” I say in a low voice. “It’s between you and Dara, and you and your ex. Not me.”