The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  “I convinced her you were stable, so she’s driving. She should be here this evening, depending on traffic.” Dara pats my ankle.

  I nod, putting my head all the way back on the pillow. I press the button for my bed to lower. “I’m getting sleepy, girls.”

  “Let’s hit the road, Riley.” Dara stands and exits.

  Riley hesitates. “Do you need anything else, Aunt Gal?”

  “No, Riley. I’m covered.” I’m already drifting to sleep.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t need to make a sea garden.”

  I laugh. “So that wasn’t a dream.”

  She grips my hand. “I won’t do it.”

  I shake my head. “Riley, quit thinking everything is your fault.” I manage to open my eyes to deliver this. “Nothing to do with me is your fault, okay?” She stares at me, at the IV in my neck. I probably look kind of horrible.

  “Repeat it.” I squeeze her back.

  “Nothing to do with you is my fault.”

  I drop her hand. “Good. Now let Dara get you some chow.” I turn my head away and listen. It is several moments before I hear her rubber soles squeaking across the room.

  • • •

  IN THE MIDDLE of the night, I awaken to my mother sleeping next to me, upright in the chair, only one thin thermal blanket over her. Her hair is so very gray now, her jawline softer and jowlier than I remember. She’s getting too old for this. I say another quick prayer for a kidney transplant.

  As if she can feel my wakefulness, Mom sits up. “Gal? What do you need?”

  “Nothing.” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the person in the other part of the room.

  Mom gets up, feeling my hands, my forehead, looking at the blood pressure readings with the expertise of a registered nurse. Which she practically could be, after all this experience. “You’re cold.” She puts her blanket over me.

  “No, Mom, that’s your blanket.” I try to give it back, but she pushes it down.

  “I’ll get another from the nurses’ station.” She smoothes my hair back, her eyes crinkling. “Feeling better, love?”

  “What about Riley?”

  “Dara’s with her.”

  “You should be with Riley, Mom. I’m fine here.”

  “You need me more. Riley’s just sleeping.”

  I close my eyes, waiting to hear Mom walk to the nurses’ station. Instead, the recliner squeaks. She will sit there cold all night, unwilling to take her eyes off me.

  My mother marks time waiting for me, painting and traveling with my father, but really all she wants is for me to come home so her life can begin again. I am her main concern.

  This is why I moved away, I think. I fall asleep.

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, my mother leaves to pick up Riley from art class. Dr. Blankenship wants me to do a lap or three around the floor to prove I won’t keel over again. Then, I might be released.

  I wheel my IV around past the nurses’ station, down the hall past various people either doing the same thing or being pushed in chairs, and back to the station again. “Good job, Gal,” one nurse says. I thank her. I’ve never seen her before. If I go into the hospital again, I’ll get to know them all.

  The whiteboard behind her catches my eye. GARNER RM 314, it reads. WALTERS RM 320.

  “Mark Walters?” I say involuntarily.

  She nods.

  I doubt she’ll tell me why he’s here, and I don’t want her stopping me, so I wheel my contraption over to room 320 as quickly as I can go.

  “Ms. Garner!” the nurse calls after me. “You can go ahead and rest now.”

  “One more lap.” I pause by room 320. The door is open, the curtains closed over both beds.

  I shuffle cautiously in. “Mark?” I call.

  A pause, then a grunt. “Who’s there?”

  “Gal. Where are you?”

  “Door number one.” He coughs. I part the curtains.

  He looks terrible. He is swollen with fluid, puffy nearly beyond recognition. Like a balloon someone has drawn features on with a marker. Only his hair and mustache give him away. “Shit, Mark, what happened?” I don’t bother closing the curtain behind me.

  “And you tell me to watch my mouth.” He manages a weak grin. “Liver infection.”

  “Oh.” I sit down.

  “I’ll be okay in a few days.” He pats the side of his bed. “You bring cards?”

  “I’m in the hospital, too.” I point to my IV.

  “I didn’t catch that. I’m not too swift at the moment.” His eyes, bleary with drugs, peer at me. “You’re okay, walking around.”

  “I am.” I nod. Especially compared to him, I want to say.

  “Next time, bring cards. I can still beat you even if half my brain’s clogged.” He laughs.

  “I will.” My mother has cards in her purse. Always does when she comes to the hospital. “We’ll play.”

  But he is asleep.

  The nurse pokes her head in. “There you are. Your mother’s looking for you.” She shakes her head.

  I get up. “Is he going to be all right?”

  She doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m sure he will be.” A nonanswer designed to protect privacy. I get it.

  “Help me with the IV, please.” We walk into the hall, where my mother and Riley are waiting.

  32

  BEFORE I LEAVE THE HOSPITAL THE NEXT MORNING, I CHECK in on Walters. He’s asleep. I promise myself I’ll call him in the next few days.

  On the weekend, I awaken to sounds of digging outside. Mr. Morton, my father, Riley, and Zoe have my father’s truck backed up to the front yard. It’s full of dirt. They are busily digging out the patch of grass.

  “What’s all this?” I wave to Mr. Morton.

  “How are you feeling?” He shades his eyes with a hand and looks up at me. He’s wearing a tank top, the hairs of his chest poking above the collar line. I blush. My body betrays in so many ways.

  “The undersea garden, of course.” Riley doesn’t stop digging. “Sheesh, Aunt Gal, this is pretty cruddy earth you have out here.”

  “I know. I had to amend the entire backyard. Remember, Dad?”

  Dad, in his big straw hat, doesn’t stop digging, either. “I remember. We rented that little backhoe. Should have done that with this project.”

  “We’ll get it done. It’s not that big. Seven by twenty.” Mr. Morton spreads out his hands. “It’s going to look fantastic. People will be driving by your house to take pictures.”

  “Just what I wanted.” I pull my bathrobe tighter.

  Mom sticks her head out the door. “Gal, what are you doing up?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, Mom. That’s why I got to come home.”

  “Come eat your breakfast.” She addresses the little crew. “I made coffee, too. Take a break and have some.”

  Dad and Riley and Zoe wave her off. But Mr. Morton abandons his shovel and leaps up to us.

  I am acutely aware of my hair sticking out at all angles. “How’d you get roped into this?”

  We follow my mother slowly into the kitchen. Mr. Morton wrinkles his forehead. “I was buying plants yesterday and Riley told me. So here I am. Your resident free labor.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You forget. I have the summer off. I am acutely bored. I need a distraction.” He smiles tightly and I know he’s talking about his custody battle. George sits at the table, kicking his legs out at an angle. His boots are dirty. He sees where I’m looking. “Sorry. I’ll take them off.”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. Dirt’s already in here.” Mom puts a mug of black coffee in front of him, tea for me, a
nd a little white cow-shaped pitcher full of cream. He pours about a teaspoon in. “You mean you aren’t enjoying your summer of leisure? It’s why I became a teacher.” Mom sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. Mr. Morton waves off her food offer.

  He grins. “I’m not one for sleeping in. I’ve been landscaping my yard. Maybe I’ll grow roses next year.”

  “Find your own flower.” I laugh.

  He laces his fingers. “I’m building a chicken coop. Room for twenty chickens.”

  I brighten. “Chickens? I’ve always been interested in chickens.”

  “I’ll bring you some eggs.”

  “Forget the eggs. I want the poop. It’s incredible fertilizer.” I take a sip of tea. Mom has already sweetened it the way I like. I smile at her gratefully. She stands at the sink, washing the breakfast pans.

  “Maybe Dad can build you a coop next time,” Mom says.

  I shake my head. “No more room.”

  “They’d eat the bugs, too.” Mr. Morton stares out the window thoughtfully, picturing, no doubt, where he’d place such a coop and how it would work. I recognize the look. A look of dreaming. He turns back to me. “Anyway, I’ll have Rhode Island Reds and Araucanas. Those lay blue eggs. Great for Easter.”

  “I bet your daughter will like that,” I say without thinking, only picturing the delight of a young girl discovering a blue egg.

  Mom stops her dishwashing, listening. Mr. Morton takes a very big gulp of coffee and sets his mug down. He gets up. “Back to the grind, then.” He smiles, but his eyes aren’t in it anymore. He goes outside.

  “What was that about? He has a daughter?” Mom wipes her soapy hands on a dishtowel.

  “He does. It’s complicated.” I sigh. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”

  “He can’t not mention her,” Mom says reasonably. “It’d be like people not mentioning your kidney condition. It’s worse when they ignore it, believe me.”

  I pick up my mug of tea and go to the front room, sitting by the window. I watch them work outside, wondering why I can’t control my mouth better.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to him through the pane of glass.

  He laughs at something my father says. Only I can see, from my angle, the sad slump of his shoulders.

  • • •

  IN THE AFTERNOON, they are finished digging and are ready for plants.

  My parents take Riley out for pizza. I need to stay home and rest some more.

  My computer pings with a notice from the school. The AP test results. Only three students who took the test got less than a three, the minimum passing score. “Yes!” I whoop. This ought to show Dr. O’Malley that my teaching methods are up to snuff. Another year, another burden of proof.

  Samantha got a five, the highest possible score. Smart girl. Brad got a three.

  I double-check. Brad got a three?

  I frown. Based on his grades, not to mention his science project, I would have had him pegged as a four or five. Perhaps he slacked off in his prep because it was senior year.

  I shut my computer down.

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, I PONDER the dug-up soil for the new garden plot. They have amended it with plenty of black earthy soil, from the smell of it fish manure, too. The neighborhood dogs will be over here shortly. The ripe scent doesn’t bother me as it does most people (I fervently hope Old Mrs. Allen will be downwind of it). It smells of fertility, of good things to come.

  Something blue sits on the white picket, near the sidewalk. It’s Mr. Morton’s sweatshirt. I pick it up. It’s old, softened through a thousand washings. Faded letters say “Cal” in yellow cursive. Without thought, I wad it to my face. Some cologne I can’t identify, something green and citrusy, wafts up. And musky sweat. Man sweat. Much, much different than my father’s smell. I inhale involuntarily.

  Embarrassed, I put it down. I glance about to make sure no one saw me. The street is empty except for a few far-off neighbors taking their big trash cans out to the curb.

  I pick it up and take it to my car. Before I know it, I am backing out onto the street. I don’t remember grabbing my keys.

  33

  THE LIGHT IS ON IN THE LIVING ROOM OF MR. MORTON’S bungalow. His is a Craftsman style, with stone-graced pillars and abstract stained glass over his window tops, the kind of house I could only imagine owning.

  Apparently I really am quite a natural stalker.

  In the dimming sun, I see he has been hard at work in his yard. He’s planted lilac bushes at either end of the porch, with a bedding of greenery that hasn’t budded yet. I can’t tell what kind of flowers they will have.

  His silhouette gets up. No curtains. A flat-screen television is on, playing some movie. He looks out, seeing me standing on the flagstone path. He opens his big oaken door. “Gal!”

  “What kind of sprinkler system you using?” I gesture to the plants with his sweatshirt.

  “Underground.”

  I nod. “I like drip myself.” I hold up the sweatshirt as though I’ve forgotten it. As though it’s not burning my hands as if it’s possessed. “You left this.”

  He holds the door open. “Come on in.”

  I enter, wiping my feet ostentatiously on the welcome mat.

  He points to a small ceramic plaque with a picture of flip-flops on it. ALOHA. PLEASE TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES, it reads. I slip off my Crocs. “Now why couldn’t you remember that at my house if you do it at yours?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Too excited about the coffee, I guess.”

  “You from Hawaii?”

  “No. California. But I like to visit the islands. Warm water.” He glances back at me. “Have you ever been?”

  I shake my head.

  “You should go.”

  “There are lots of things I should do.” I don’t have to explain the difficulty of doing things. He gives a quick nod.

  I follow him into the living room, sitting in a chocolate-colored leather armchair. He sits on a rust-colored couch and flips off the TV. His hands are bandaged.

  “What happened?” I indicate his bandages, wrapped up several times around his palms like a mummy.

  He holds them up. “Blood blisters. From the shovel.”

  I wince. “Did you ice them?”

  He shakes his head.

  I shake mine. “Don’t tell me you’re a typical stubborn man.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being typical.” He puts his hands in his lap.

  I move over to the couch next to him. “Let me see.” I pick up one hand. It is clearly swollen. I cluck, unwinding the bandage. Sure enough, there are two blood blisters per palm, right below his fingers. “You should have worn gloves.”

  “I left them at home.”

  “I’ll get you ice.” I go into his kitchen. He follows me.

  “You don’t know where anything is.”

  “Um. Could it be? Ice in the freezer?” I open it. He has one of those French door models, no automatic ice maker. I take out an ice tray. “Ah, elementary, my dear Watson.”

  “Indeed.” He sits on a stool at an island.

  His kitchen is spacious for a bachelor, with a five-burner gas stove and double oven. The Craftsman theme has been carried out here, too, with honeyed wood cabinets and shiny golden hardware. I glance around. “Do you not have a microwave?”

  He gets up and presses a paneled wall. It slides open, revealing a microwave and food pantry.

  “Oooh. What’d you do, buy out the home show?” I scoop some ice out of the tray. He hands me a small plastic baggie.

  “The house came like this.”

  I glance at the stove. “Are you a good cook, at least? It’d be a waste to microwave everything.”

  “All these questions suddenly.” He
crosses his arms, resuming his perch. “Fair, I’d say. Out of necessity.”

  “Did your wife cook?”

  His face darkens. Oops. “No.”

  I sit opposite him. The light from above makes his eyebrows cast shadows on his face. It doesn’t help that he is staring down the countertop. “Hey. I’m sorry I keep bringing them up. But you can’t pretend they don’t exist. It’d be like me pretending I didn’t have,” I gesture to myself, up and down, “this disease. It’s there, in your face.”

  “I don’t think of you as a person with a disease.” He folds his hands. “You’re Gal to me.”

  “And I don’t think of you as a jerk who ran away from his family.” I put my head on my hand, elbow on the counter. “Not anymore.”

  “I’m still getting used to it. Telling people.”

  “Openness is best.”

  He shoots a sidelong look at me. Then he starts laughing.

  “What?”

  “You’re not exactly the most open person I ever met, Gal.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m a darn open book.” I laugh, too. “You know, there are degrees of openness and closedness. I’m about midway for me.”

  “Me too.” He grins.

  We sit for a minute.

  “How’re your hands?”

  He picks up the ice pack. “Better.”

  “Don’t they teach you chemistry teachers anything?” I stand up. “Basic first aid. Seriously.”

  “Chemistry teachers are barely human,” he says with a straight face.

  I walk to the door.

  “Thanks. It’s my favorite sweatshirt.”

  “I could tell.” I smelled it, I think, and I blush all over again.

  “You all right?” He is next to me.

  “Fine.” I grip the door, open it. “See you around.”

  “See you.” He watches me get into the car, watches me turn over the engine. Doesn’t move back inside until I’m pulling out of the driveway.

  I put the car into gear. He raises his hand. I raise mine. “Good night, George,” I say. The name feels comfortable in my mouth.

  • • •

  ON TUESDAY, I am sitting in a lawn chair looking at the new sea garden. It looks, as Riley would say, totally awesome.