My impulses should be muffled, like distant voices—I’m on medication and took a second dose this afternoon in preparation for socializing—but they conspire anyway in corners, under my breath.
My fists tighten, and tension grows as I force myself in the opposite direction, toward the greenhouse.
It’s illogical to think he’s out there, at his childhood home.It’s even more illogical to think he’d want to see me, even if he were.If he thinks of me at all, he must hate me.
Hateme.
I push into the greenhouse, sloshing my drink on my hand.I’m greeted by the soft trickle of water moving gently through Dad’s carnivorous bog.The twinkling lights outside shine through the greenhouse’s recycled window panes and the circular stained-glass window over the door, creating amber and green flecks of light that dance around my boots.It’s a heavenly place, warm and full of memories.
Through the tall pitcher plants and low, but ominous flytraps, I make my way to our garden, mine and Henry’s—a raised bed in the corner that Dad gave us to do whatever we so desired.Every summer, we planned what we’d grow and harvested everything from cucumbers and tomatoes to blueberries, strawberries, and sunflowers (though the bed was too small to accommodate the giant flowers).
Among the diverse, lush greenery, our bed lies empty and dry.
The door thwacks after Dad wanders in, promptly stuffing his hands in his pockets when he sees me hovering over the dirt pile.
“I told you to use this space,” I remind him, “the last time I was here and many times before that.”
“Hmm, I didn’t need it, but since you’re here for the summer, you’re welcome to?—”
“No, I’m not starting a garden.I’ll take care of yours, but that’s it.”
He nods, edges closer, and tugs a weed from the base of his container plants.He flicks the unwanted invader into a compost bin on his cluttered workstation.“Venus, my remarks about romantic love were taken out of context.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, stepping toward the door.
“Wait.Take a breath.Hear me out.Remember what I always say.Listening is loving.”
I stop, huff, and face him.
“You were eleven, remember?And frustrated, over your peers’ fascinations with boy bands, princess movies, and pop culture-isms that you weren’t interested in.You felt left out.I explained why they were drawn to such things to help you understand—hormones, social constructs, and yes, romantic love.Strengthening your independence felt more important than humoring ideas that, frankly, you were too young to entertain.I thought undermining those notions would make you feel better about your situation.”
“Make me feel better about being alone, that is,” I conclude for him.
“I was wrong.I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.It’s for the best.”I force a weak smile.
“It must be strange for you,” he says after a breath, “coming home to all of this change.”
“Change is life’s most-kept promise.That’s what you used to say.”
“It’s true,” he chuckles.“I’m fifty-six years old.Twice in my life, change has rescued me from my dormancy and pushed me, once by design and then by accident, into my best seasons—first, when I became a father, and second, when I found love.I’m sorry I ever called it a burden.Love is freedom, Venus.To be yourself without compromise, to discover your passion, tobelong.This is what I hope for you.”
“I know where I belong—away from here,” I say, with numb resignation.“My hope for me is to be an adequate replacement for you and get through this summer as quickly as possible.Goodnight.”
I leave him, once again desperate to be alone.
CHAPTER5
Henry
The Blakes’greenhouse door had a very distinctive snap.Too much tension in the coil, Dr.Blake explained once.I almost hear it in the distance, but I know it can’t be.Surely, the noise would be muffled by the trees and everything else that’s grown wild without our disturbance over the years.
I’m imagining her.Imagining us.
My stepdad Fred and I settle into our after-dinner food comas as we watch Olly play with lackluster excitement over the newesttoyMom invented for Olly.She turned an old tackle box into a first aid kit containing the followingfunitems: ointments for sunburn, bug bites, cuts, sore muscles, and rashes; antibacterial wipes; gauze and superhero bandages; small scissors, tweezers, and typed cards explaining what to do for each injury or situation.Her gift is topped off with an exterior card that reads “Olly’s Ouchy Kit,” featuring a sad, teary face, and is followed by an oversized “9-1-1” so he’ll remember.
She also handed him a stuffed bunny with extra-long legs and ears, and said, “Have fun treating Bun-Bun’s injuries, Olly.It’s good practice.”
