The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  29

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I VISIT WALTERS IN THE HOSPITAL. He is looking pretty good for someone who just had an organ from a dead body implanted into him. I tell him as much.

  “You really know how to dish out a compliment, Gal.” He gives me a weak smile.

  I glance around his hospital room. Flowers, one of the standard arrangements from the grocery store, stand in a glass vase. I have my own tucked behind my back. Roses from my garden. “Have room for a bit more green?”

  His unkempt eyebrows leap. “Holy shit, Gal. Those are gorgeous.”

  “I didn’t know shit was holy.” I take the jar I’ve brought along, just in case, fill it with water and flower food, and arrange the roses. I’ve brought him Hot Cocoa, the hybrid tea, fourteen of them, so they form a solid cloud.

  “Bring them close. Let me smell.”

  I comply, taking care not to let the water spill.

  He takes a deep whiff. “Damn. Somehow everything smells better with this new kidney.”

  I quell my jealousy. “Apparently the new kidney makes you curse more, too.”

  “Sorry.” He raises his bed and winces. “I’m just really happy. And a bit out of my mind.”

  I nod slowly, looking everywhere but at his face.

  “Your turn will come, Gal. I know it.” He reaches out, maybe for my hand, but I pretend not to see and spin away.

  “How are your functions?” I look for his chart, but a doctor’s got it or it’s in the computer. They don’t hang it off the end of the bed like in the old days.

  “They’re impressed. Kidney’s working great. Peeing like mad.”

  “Great.” I am happy for him. I must be happy for him. Or I will be officially the Worst Person in the World, my face appearing on television on that news guy’s show. “I can’t believe I’m jealous of peeing,” I say at last.

  Walters lets out a mighty guffaw.

  “Speaking of which.” He nods toward a plastic container sitting bedside. “I’ll need privacy.”

  “I’m on my way out.” I pause again. “When do you go home?”

  “Next week, most likely.”

  “You have help?” Odd question for me to ask. It’s not like I’d have him stay over, sleeping on the couch while I nursed him to health. I don’t even really know the man.

  “Staying at my son’s.” He gestures to the other flowers. I assume his son brought them. “Imposing on them for a bit. Hate to do it. Makes more work for my daughter-in-law.”

  I like Walters more and more. I edge toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “How?” He smiles. Suddenly he looks pale, his older body tiny in the bed. “I don’t have your number.”

  I write it down on a scrap of paper I find in my purse. What if he does ask for something big, like staying with me? What will I do? “I mean, if you need a ride, or something.”

  “Scrabble game? This daytime television is rotting my brain.”

  I grin. “I prefer cards. Remember, I can’t spell.”

  “Cards it is.” He waves me off. “Hell, I’m a lot better at cards than I am at Scrabble, too.”

  “Cursing, cursing.” I make a tsking noise as I exit.

  • • •

  MY SOPHOMORE BIOLOGY STUDENTS listen to me go over what will be on the final. We’re at the urinary system, a quiz most did not do well on. “On the final, you’ll have to draw and label the system from memory,” I say. They look at me blankly. “Write it down.” They do.

  I go to the whiteboard and quickly draw the system. “I myself always want to draw the kidneys in the stomach, since that’s where mine are now.” I draw two kidneys, mirror images of each other.

  “Your kidneys are in your stomach?” The girl named Sarah is bewildered.

  “Duh,” says John. “Someone was paying attention all year.”

  I smile. “They put the kidney transplant in your stomach.”

  More students raise their hands. “When did you lose them?” “Why?” “How do you live?” “What happens?” The questions come faster and faster.

  I put down my marker. Who knew the key to holding their attention would be to couch science in personal drama? “Hold on, everyone. I’ll tell you.” I do, starting at the beginning, when I was small.

  Riley has her mouth open wide enough for a kitten to get inside. I realize I have not told her the whole story, either, figuring it was simply family lore, that my mother or Becky had told her. Apparently not. As the story progresses, her mouth closes, but she shrinks down, looking incrementally more miserable until I am sure she wishes she could melt away.

  “Will you die without one?” Sarah asks.

  “Sarah! Shut up.” Riley at last raises her head. “That is the stupidest question I’ve ever heard.”

  The classmates murmur in agreement. No one wants to talk about the possibility of death.

  I think about heart attacks. Infections. Other organs shutting down. My nose is running today; who knows if it will blossom into a new sinus infection, enter my bloodstream, and land me in the hospital? “Maybe.” I am shaking a bit as I pick up my marker and finish labeling. “There will be one point for drawing each part correctly, one point for each label. Total of ten. Memorize this, if you haven’t already.”

  The bell rings, and I dismiss the class. Riley remains in her seat, gathering her papers in an overly slow manner. I walk over to her. “Riley, I’m going to be perfectly fine. Don’t you worry.” As I speak these words of optimism, as I have so often, I believe them. I will believe them for now, until something else happens to make me doubt their truth. Though I try to be an optimist, I am only a half-assed one.

  She nods, standing with her backpack bowing her crookedly over. “But you don’t know that, do you?”

  I blink, stalling for time. Riley waits, her face guarded, all her vulnerability evaporated. Instead, she is as calm as a secretary of state receiving news of a war, her eyebrows drawn together in an expectant, intelligent frown. The next class is coming in and I walk Riley to the door. “No one knows anything, Riley. Ever. A steel beam could fall out of the ceiling while I’m teaching and crush me.”

  She draws in a long, shuddering breath then, and I know she is thinking about me and Becky and about how the adults in her life have failed her in ways big and small. “That’s what I thought.” Then she walks away to her next class, taking strides so long I know I can never catch up, even if I run.

  30

  AT OUR SCHOOL, WE HAVE A TRADITION OF A GRADUATE BANQUET the week before commencement. Never mind that by the time grad-uation rolls around, the last thing any kid wants to do is sit around with his tired-out teachers talking about the good old days of high school as we gnaw on the dried-out prime rib provided by the parent-teacher association.

  Nonetheless, all the other teachers and especially Dr. O’Malley are very into the occasion. They dress up in their good clothes, they get out crystal goblets culled from various people’s collections, and they rent some tables for the library. Crisp white tablecloths and bowls of flowers complete the look.

  It’s also the day when we give out awards, one last enticement for the students to show.

  Dara and I are in the cafeteria working on the food. There are supposed to be other teachers showing up to help, but of course, no good deed goes unpunished, so we are the only ones making tiny canapés on toast with fresh mozzarella, a slice of cherry tomato, and basil on top, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. This will be followed by a salad. Parent volunteers are bringing the prime rib and the desserts.

  I’ve missed my friend.

  I’m in a good mood. Finals are over, and I graded Riley’s before I came. A solid B. She will pass my class. I couldn’t resist telling her.

  My ears still ring from h
er screams of joy.

  I smile at the memory as I cut the tomatoes. “Whoever thought of slicing cherry tomatoes was wrong,” I say. There are tomato innards all over the stainless countertops, not to mention my hands and forearms.

  “Whoever thought of this idea in the first place should have the decency to show up and make the dish.” Dara slides a pan of toast out of the oven. “Darn it. These burnt.”

  “Use less time.”

  “Obviously.” She grins. She wears a fuchsia halter dress with white polka dots all over it. The halter part is wide enough to cover most of her shoulders. She has a little white jacket hung up over a chair, and a big white apron on. I’m wearing navy slacks and a pink sweater. I don’t bother with an apron.

  Dara steps back and surveys the tray we’ve completed. “Looks good.”

  “Lot of work for something that will be gone in sixty seconds.”

  She laughs. “Now that I’m done with the senior show, I finally feel like I can breathe.”

  “Is that why you were hiding?” I’m only half serious.

  “No.” She sits on a stool. “No, that’s not why. And you were hiding from me, too.”

  “I wasn’t trying to.” I’m not being completely truthful. I slice more cherry tomatoes and put down my knife, wiping my hands on a paper towel. Why pussyfoot around anymore? “Dara, what’s really going on?”

  The oven pings. She takes out the new toast, plops the baking sheet onto the counter, then faces me. “Gal, do you know why I didn’t just come right out and tell you I couldn’t go to the show?”

  I slice the mozzarella. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

  She gives a little laugh. “Sometimes you don’t listen to me. You get so mad when people don’t do what you want.” She looks down. “I was scared of how you’d react.”

  She may as well have burned me with that tray. “I don’t get mad.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “After I told you I couldn’t go, you never called me again.”

  I put down the cheese knife. “I was waiting for you to call me!”

  “I thought you were still mad.” Dara tears up. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but you only call when you want me to do something for you, Gal. I’m the one who takes you to your appointments, helps you when you’re sick. And I don’t mind doing it, because you’re the closest thing I have to a sister.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “But I felt like I gave and gave, and the more I gave, the more you wanted. I want you to give a little bit, too.”

  I take a step back. I feel as though I’m choking. “I need to get some air.”

  “Don’t run away from conflict. You always run away.” She gets louder.

  “I don’t.” I sit on another stool. Dara is crying now, weeping into her toast. I want to tell her it’s all right, but it’s not.

  I take from her. What do I give? A hard time? My wit?

  When was the last time I had done a favor for Dara?

  I cannot remember.

  “I’m sorry, Dara.” I am sincere. I take a breath so deep it hurts my ribs. “I’ll be a better friend.”

  She smiles. “I know, Gal.” She wipes her hair off her forehead. She blows out a sigh of air. “Whew.”

  At last I know what to do. I reach out and hug her, awkwardly. She hugs me back, her tears warm on my shoulder.

  I admit. I was scared to confront her. I wanted Dara to step up, not me. But look how little time it took for a wrong to be corrected. I am grateful that Dara thinks enough of me to tell me the problem and give me the opportunity to fix it, instead of simply walking away. Ignoring it, like I try to do.

  I break free. “You better go blow your nose and wash up before we finish making these. It’s a biological hazard.”

  She laughs, going to the sink and splashing water on her face. “Good thing I wore the waterproof mascara.”

  I watch her for a moment, thinking of what Mr. Morton said after Science Olympiad. “Are you and George not dating anymore?”

  She shrugs. “Nope. It just didn’t work.”

  I drizzle a little too much oil over the toast. I should tell her anyway. “It’s not because of his daughter, is it?”

  She dries her hands and face on brown paper towels. “No, that wasn’t it.”

  The oil drips over my hands. I put the bottle down. “His having a daughter didn’t bother you? Did he tell you what happened?”

  “We didn’t get that serious, Gal. He didn’t tell me what happened. I’m still seeing Chad.” She throws away the paper towel.

  “Am I supposed to know who Chad is?”

  “The accountant.” She grins, and her cheeks bloom. “Turns out he loves art.”

  “Sounds like the perfect man.” I slice more cheese.

  “George is really nice.” She chops some celery into small pieces. “Boring, but nice.”

  “Boring?” I hadn’t thought of him as boring.

  “Fall asleep boring.” She giggles. “All he wanted to talk about was science.”

  I am offended. “That’s all I ever talk about.”

  She shrugs. “He does like music. Opera.”

  “Really?” I’m intrigued.

  “Why are you so interested?” She moves the celery and cucumbers into separate bowls.

  “I’m not. I just . . .” I shrug. I have no answer. Maybe the guy isn’t a jerk.

  She chops up two carrots expertly quick, putting them into yet another bowl.

  “Just put everything in the salad bowl and we’ll toss it.”

  “Not everyone likes the same thing. That way, everyone can add what they want.”

  “It’s a sit-down dinner, not a salad bar. They will deal. They’re all adults now.” I dump the ingredients into the lettuce before she can protest.

  She sighs. “Guess some things don’t change.”

  • • •

  THE LIBRARY-CUM-BANQUET-ROOM is candlelit, the warm yellow flames throwing attractive light over the faces of the metal bookcases, the laminated posters with grinning celebrities holding books, and the seniors and teachers. They’re already seated at the long tables when Dara and I bring in the appetizers. Besides the mozzarella and tomato canape’s, which Dara informs me is caprese, we have mini premade quiches and crab cakes. Salad, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and prime rib sit in chafing dishes. One table holds a dozen different kinds of desserts, artfully arranged by a parent into tiers. It’s not five-star gourmet, but these kids will be filled up at the end.

  I’m glad our school is small, with only fifty seniors. “Just what a library needs. Flames and food crumbs,” I murmur.

  Dara raises her eyebrows.

  Mr. Morton is seated near the table’s head, to Dr. O’Malley’s left. He has his head low, listening to Ms. Schilling the math teacher talk. She’s wearing a scandalously low-cut green dress, way too much cleavage for a student event. She looks more like she’s going to the Grammy awards.

  “Hey.” I poke Dara. “How is Schilling’s dress not flying all the way open?”

  Dara, taking a sip of water, chokes. I pound her back. “Taped,” she manages to gasp.

  For an instant, I imagine how I would look in such a dress. I giggle. Ridiculous.

  Mr. Morton glances up at me. The corners of his eyes wrinkle in a smile. He is much more appropriately dressed in a white shirt, a dark blue tie, and a dark blazer.

  “Is he going to date his way through the teaching staff, do you think?” I take a bite of caprese. This cheese will be my phosphorus intake for the day. It’s delicious, creamy and sharp with the balsamic. I nod at Dara. “This is good.”

  “I told you.” She eats one herself, quickly. I take one more small bite, chewing as slowly as I can, before putting it down.

  Dr. O’Malley get
s up and pings his water glass with a fork. The prime rib sits in front of him, with a big carving knife and serving fork. I wish we would hire a caterer and let someone else do all the carving and cooking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to the last student-teacher event of your glorious tenure at St. Mark’s.”

  “Has he been drinking?” I whisper to Dara. She shushes me.

  Dr. O’Malley winks. Actually winks at me. The students snicker. “And our own Miss Garner. Come up here and do the honors.” He waves up me up. The students clap uncertainly.

  I pick up the knife and fork. Slowly I begin carving small, thin pieces. The meat is surprisingly moist and pink. Steam wafts up. “Everyone pass their plates down,” I say.

  Dr. O’Malley puts his hand over mine. “Miss Garner. The awards, not the meat. We’re doing all the awards first.”

  “Oh. I thought people were hungry.” I raise my hands up to the students. Heck, if I’m going to be quasi in charge, I’ll be in charge all the way. “Get some food on their plates, and we’ll yak while they eat. Don’t want the food getting cold and dry.”

  “Yeah!” Brad pumps his fist in the air. The other students cheer.

  I pump my fist, too. “Eat eat eat.”

  Dr. O’Malley looks at me helplessly. I begin cutting again, bigger pieces this time, slapping them on the plates. I grin. “Relax, Doc. It’s all under control.”

  He hands me a plate. “I’m going to need two pieces tonight.”

  “You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, you know.” I put two thick, fatty pieces on his plate. “Hope you took your cholesterol meds.”

  He begins to laugh. The most genuine laugh I’ve heard out of him. Around me, anyway. “You better pass this one down to one of the young men.”

  • • •

  AFTER THE DESSERTS have been picked apart and the coffee drunk to the dregs, the students begin filtering out. It is only us old fogeys who, with nothing better to do on a Friday night, linger and chat.

  Brad comes over to where I sit in one of the comfy padded armchairs under a window. “Ms. Garner.” He extends his hand. I shake it. “Thank you for everything.”