The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  “Oh.” I let this sink in for a moment. “Oh!”

  Almost all the students have gone inside. We scramble up. “Call me if you need anything,” he says. “Or, actually, I’ll call you to find out if you need anything.” He moves a piece of hair out of my face.

  I am blushing again. I smile. “Thank you, George.”

  I run to class as the tardy bell rings, late as any truant student.

  • • •

  ON FRIDAY EVENING, I’m in the greenhouse, talking on the phone to my mother. “I don’t like it,” she says. “Dad, what about you?” Tomorrow, Becky needs to return to the city. A broker has found her a nice apartment, with two bedrooms. The movers will take their things out of storage.

  Dad is silent on his end. “Gal’s right. It’s up to Riley.”

  Mom draws in a noisy breath. “I’d rather have Riley come here than back with Becky.”

  “Aunt Gal.” Riley finds me.

  “I have to go,” I tell my parents, and hang up. They’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.

  I have the bright light on, the seed pod on the table, removing the pellets that I will plant next spring. A magnifier sits on my head. “Riley.” I have been expecting her. She has grown more and more quiet throughout the week, and though I do not know for certain, I have warned Dr. O’Malley about the potential release of one of his students.

  “Aunt Gal?” I look up, putting my tweezers down. “Is it already seed time?”

  “Yes, Riley.” I wave her in closer. “Would you like to see?”

  She nods. I show her the hard red-orange pellet formed by the rose, and how I’ve cracked it open to reveal the seeds. “This is the one I pollinated right around the time you showed up,” I say. “I can’t wait to see what it will look like.”

  Riley smiles. “Me, neither.” She is close to me, smelling of apples and shampoo, the same baby scent she had when she was small enough to sit in my lap. Tears prick my eyes. She will not see what it will look like, not right away.

  I take off my glasses and wipe them. “Too much eye strain.” I smile at Riley through my haze. Tomorrow she will drive away with Becky. I will watch the car disappear, waving until I cannot see them anymore, until they are so far beyond sight they might as well be in space.

  “Aunt Gal?” Riley sits on the stool next to me. I sort the seeds into a small labeled plastic container with the tweezers, then put a lid over it.

  “Yes, Riley.” My heart is thumping.

  “I’ve made a decision.” Riley puts her chin on her hand. I can feel the regret coming off her as surely as I can feel waves when standing in the ocean.

  “It’s all right, Riley. I understand.”

  “Can I talk?” She shows a flash of her old anger.

  “I’m sorry.” Chastened, I put down all my tools again. It hurts to look her in the eyes.

  “I want to stay here.” It’s Riley’s turn to avoid my gaze. “If that’s all right.”

  “Stay here? With me? Are you sure?” I lean forward.

  She nods.

  “What about your mother?”

  “I’ll spend next summer with her.” Riley picks up the plastic seed container and shakes it around. “It doesn’t feel right to leave now, Aunt Gal. I know you’re worried about me taking care of you, but I can handle it. Grandma says it’s good for me.” Riley grins slyly.

  “She would,” I say. I grip her hand to stop mine from shaking. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  Riley nods again. She blinks tears back. “Aunt Gal, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’ve learned so much here. Tons about roses and gardening. Art. I’ve even learned to like science.” She spreads her hands apart and inhales. “I guess, most of all, I’ve figured out how to be a person. I mean, a real person. A person who messes stuff up and fixes it. A person who keeps on going.” She smiles a little. “Like you.”

  Like me? Tears spring to my own eyes. I smile back, overwhelmed, thinking of what to say. All I want to say. It’s all mixed up inside of me, and I can’t get anything out.

  Riley waits for me to speak, her eyes now downcast. I take a shuddering breath. At last, I cup her face as I would have when she was small. “Riley, I’m proud of you. I’m so happy I’ve gotten to know you. It’s meant more to me than anything.” I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I am honored if I’ve had any influence.”

  Riley nods quickly. “My mother says if I change my mind, I can go up there anytime.” She blushes. “I just want to see if this new ‘mothering responsibly’ thing sticks with her, you know?”

  “I know.” I release her face and pat her head.

  Tears fall down her cheeks. “That’s not bad, is it?”

  “Of course not. It’s very wise, Riley.” I stand up. I will not give up, I think. I will keep on going for Riley. “Come here.” Finally I hug her to me, her bones no longer tiny and fragile, but strong like they ought to be. I give her a kiss on the forehead, wishing it would protect her like Glenda the Good Witch’s kiss to Dorothy. “You are going to be just fine, young lady.” We stand and go inside the house, where Becky is alone.

  Winslow Blythe’s Complete Rose Guide

  (SoCal Edition)

  November

  The final blooms of the year are here. Cut them, give them away, make potpourri—you might as well enjoy them while you can. If you leave roses on the bush, pull off the petals instead of cutting them to see if they will form rose hips, which are full of vitamins and make a great tea (of course, these are edible only if you haven’t been spraying poisons all over the place all season).

  This month, check your potted roses. The root-bound ones should be repotted into larger pots, or else they will die in their small pots. If the roses aren’t root-bound yet, then you can wait until next year to change their pots.

  44

  ON THANKSGIVING MORNING, I AWAKE EARLY TO THE SMELL of pumpkin and apple pies and coffee. My parents are here, their motor home parked in front of the house, where Dad will drive it around the block once every forty-eight hours so that Old Mrs. Allen does not call in a parking violation.

  I yawn. There is still no kidney for me, but I’m hoping there will be better luck soon. By spring, I tell myself, I will have a new kidney. Dr. Blankenship says I’m a difficult match, my body so worn out from its previous infections and kidneys. Dara is still working on her double kidney trade idea with the doctor. Mr. Walters’s penguin winks at me from the top of my dresser, reminding me. Anything is possible. Or keep dreaming until you can’t dream anymore. I haven’t decided which precisely. Maybe both.

  I stretch, listening. I’ve forgotten to shut my blinds, making my room brighter than I’m used to this morning. Mom and Dad’s voices and coffee cups clink from the kitchen. From the living room, behind another wall, Riley and Becky’s higher voices chatter away.

  I throw on my robe and push my feet into my fuzzy boot slippers and go out into the living room.

  Becky regards me with an eyebrow raised. “Go get dressed!” she stage whispers. “George is here.”

  “George is here?” I look around. His voice wasn’t one I heard. Becky points outside. There he is, tramping in from the front yard, apparently admiring the sea garden and rearranging some rocks.

  He pauses at the front door. “I thought you’d be up watching the Macy’s parade by now.”

  “Ahem.” I point at his dirty boots. He bends over and quickly unlaces them, placing them outside. “Why don’t you come have some coffee?”

  He can’t stop grinning. “I got her. I got her for Christmas. And every weekend after that.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me who he’s talking about. I let out a whoop and reach out my hand for a high five. He doesn’t connect. “Don’t leave me hanging, Morton!”

  Instead
, he picks me up and swings me around, fast, like I weigh nothing, until I’m dizzy, as if I’m on an amusement park ride, and I laugh.

  • • •

  IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, everyone has gathered on the front porch, spilling out of the small interior to the extended living space. Dara is here now, in a brown shiny cotton dress with white polka dots all over it and saddle shoes, with her genial accountant boyfriend, Chad. I’ll have to get to know him. He seems to be sticking around. Mom and Dad sit on the porch railing, sipping their wine and arguing about how long to let the turkey rest. “Twenty minutes!” Mom says. “An hour!” Dad counters. Becky tips her sparkling cider toward me. And George Morton salutes from his perch on the white Adirondack chair, another mug of coffee in his hands. Still in his stocking feet.

  “Too much caffeine is bad for you, you know,” I say.

  He takes a sip. “But it goes so well with the pie.”

  “You let him have pie already?” I ask Mom. “You never let us have pie before dinner.”

  She shrugs. “He asked very politely.”

  George grins at me. I grin back. Are we dating? I’m afraid to call it that. But it’s something. Something is happening.

  “Do you want to cut the roses for the centerpiece?” Dara gets up from her seat. “I can do it.”

  “I’ll do it. You don’t know which ones to get.” I climb down the porch steps.

  “Whichever ones are left?” she calls after me.

  “You relax,” I shout back.

  First, I tend to a few of the roses in the greenhouse. I find the potted roses whose roots begin to peek out of the bottom of the pots. These root-bound plants must be moved to larger pots. There are only three of these, all thriving miniatures. I wonder how Byron’s Gal rose is doing. If anyone has purchased the rose and is pondering who this Gal person is.

  I put on my rose gloves and loosen the first mini, a pink one, and lift it out of the pot by its top. The roots curl at the sides like mangled, coiled spaghetti. Contrary to popular belief, this doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong. It means the plants love your care so much, they’ve thrived, getting bigger and bigger. But you have to remember to move them only when necessary; it’s stressful for the plant, and they need recovery time. That’s why November is a good month to repot. They have all winter to hang out, not trying to do anything new.

  Riley appears, running in from the house in bare feet. “Dara wants to know if you have the roses for cutting. Grandma says the turkey will be done in ten minutes.”

  “Cutting is next.” I finish tamping the new soil into the larger pot. “Help me with these two and I’ll finish faster.”

  She pulls on her own gloves and we get to work on the other two minis. She works silently and efficiently, just like me, pulling out the plant and gently teasing the roots loose, then cutting off the wildest tendrils. “Is this good?” She shows me her handiwork. I nod.

  I don’t know how long Riley will stay with me, if she will finish high school at St. Mark’s or move back to be with Becky next year. I can enjoy her only while she is here. She will spend Christmas with Becky, their relationship still moving forward. Tentative, but growing steadily. Like so many other things.

  Finished with the repotting, I move on to the rose cutting. Riley hands me my rose cutters from their peg on the wall. I pick up my rose basket. Outside, I bend and cut orange and yellow and red, a combination of hybrid teas, the Hulthemia, and English roses in fall colors. Dara and Riley will assemble these into a grand arrangement for our harvest table.

  These are the last blooms of the year, the final gasps before the roses turn into ugly thorny sticks. Ugly to people like Old Mrs. Allen. Their bare, forlorn branches give me something to look forward to all winter, something to hang my daydreams on like ornaments on a Christmas tree. In the spring, they will bloom again.

  Riley and I cut a basket each full of roses, until their blooms threaten to be crushed by one another. “Enough?” I ask, lifting up mine.

  Riley screws up her mouth in thought. “One more,” she says, stepping through the nearly naked rows of plants to the climbing rose arbor. A pink old-fashioned rose, the Abraham Darby, of pinky apricot and golden tones. It is ostentatiously pretty and overblown, with more than one hundred petals in a full head.

  “That doesn’t match the others,” I say.

  She puts it in her basket without hesitation. “It’s the last on the vine. I can’t leave it alone. It would be wrong.”

  “It’s your centerpiece.” I smile.

  We head back to the house, where everyone waits for us patiently.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without my sister-in-law, Deborah Dilloway, a three-time kidney transplant recipient. If you don’t think a dialysis patient can do as much as Gal does in this book, then you should have met Deborah. She who held down a full-time job, ushered for the Royals baseball team, and earned a master’s, all while undergoing dialysis. Deborah patiently explained (and re-explained) every detail of her experiences with dialysis, IVP dye allergy, and transplants. Unfortunately, Deborah lost her battle just before Christmas 2011. Please consider becoming an organ donor to help people like her.

  Thanks must also go to Jim Sproul of Sproul Roses by Design, for introducing me to Hulthemia roses, and answering myriad questions about rose breeding. Any errors made are mine alone. If you’re interested in hybridization, Sproul’s website is a good place to start; he provides many essays on the subject.

  I am appreciative of the San Diego Rose Society and its president, Bob Martin, for letting me attend and bend the ears of its members. Member Linda Clark came up with the Queen of Show soil mix, made by Hanson A-1 soils.

  Thanks also to Fara Shimbo, who told me about her roses with spotting and striping. I am also indebted to the Rose Hybridizers Association, whose online forum allowed me to get in touch with Jim Sproul and Shimbo. The “rose tea” recipe is a variation of the one created by famed rosarian Howard Walters.

  My editor, Marysue Rucci, thrilled me with small suggestions that made huge differences. Thanks for making me a better writer. Diana Lulek, your invaluable assistance made everything easier. Thanks also to Dan Lazar, for looking out for me. I am also grateful to Elaine Markson and Gary Johnson.

  Last but not least, thank you to my children, for making everything worthwhile; and to Keith, for your bottomless patience and pep talks. A writer (or anyone else, for that matter) couldn’t ask for a better family.

  ALSO BY MARGARET DILLOWAY

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  SISTERS OF HEART

  AND SNOW

  Tomoe held the round bronze mirror with steady hands, fighting her nervous pulse. A warrior stared back at her, in full battle dress. The close-fitting wrapped jacket and ankle-length pants worn under her armor, her hitatare, were fuchsia silk, embroidered in a repeating light pink depiction of the Minamoto crest, bamboo leaves fanning above a gentian flower. Over this she wore her armor, a crimson damask cover hiding the sturdy bamboo plates.

  A bronze crown of intricate scrollwork served as her helmet, with long red tassels dangling near each high cheekbone. Her full lower lip and pronounced Cupid’s-bow mouth stood out crimson in her pale face.

  Behind her, Yamabuki’s dark eyes shone like wet pearls. If Tomoe’s skin could be called pale, then Yamabuki’s was white, luminescent as sea life in the deepest waters. Yamabuki’s hair was black, too, but shot through with silver and white strands.

  Yamabuki worked through Tomoe’s thick long hair with a tortoiseshell comb and fragrant camellia oil, her small hands working quickly to undo the knots. “There. You are ready, my captain. Your hair is so well oiled, a typhoon cannot disturb it.”

 
Tomoe’s throat went dry. Yamabuki had begun as her rival, but soon she found that she needed Yamabuki as much as Yamabuki needed her. Tomoe the warrior, Yamabuki the poet. The strong and the gentle. Two sides of one coin. Now she could no more imagine her world without Yamabuki than she could imagine cutting off her own arm.

  Yamabuki blinked rapidly and Tomoe grasped the other woman’s hand. “And you? Are you prepared?”

  “As ready as I need to be. What can I do? Offer the enemy some tea? Play him some music?” Yamabuki stood and retrieved Tomoe’s short sword from the corner. The tiny woman staggered under its weight. Tomoe watched her, knowing Yamabuki would refuse any offers of help. “I do not understand how you can carry this, much less fight with it.”

  Tomoe took the sword. Their fingers touched. Tomoe’s insides seized, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. “I should stay here and protect you.”

  “No.” Yamabuki retrieved the quiver of arrows and bow next. “You must go.” For a moment, she looked again like the girl she had been on her arrival. A wobbly newborn chick finding its way among piebald eagles. “I will be all right.”

  There was a saying for a dear female friend you held as close as a relative. Sister of heart.

  Unlike Yamabuki, Tomoe had never been good at putting what she felt into words. Instead, she retrieved her naginata, a small sword attached to a long pole, from its place in the corner of the room. With a bow, she presented it to Yamabuki. The woman didn’t move. “Take it.” How Tomoe wished Yamabuki would heft up the naginata and arc it through the air with a shout. Stab at something. But the woman could barely wrap her tiny fingers around the pole.

  “Arigato.” Yamabuki inclined her head toward Tomoe, and laid the naginata carefully on the floor. “And I have something for you,” Yamabuki added, reaching into her pocket. It was a piece of braided red cord, hung on bright blue fabric. A good-luck amulet. “An omamori. To protect you.”