After Roma’s, we visit the new nursery.Upon seeing epiphytic fertilizers and authentic sphagnum peat moss, as their website claimed, Dad excitedly fills a flatbed cart.Meandering down the rows of perennials, he explains that he’s agreed to a small carnivorous garden installation and asks me to help him remember everything he needs.I recite the list from memory, in the order of application.It’s not simply dirt in a pot for carnivorous plants.
“I’ve ordered the raised beds for the mini-bog, a filtration system, and a rain barrel and had them delivered to the site,” he says.“I’ll have these materials delivered as well.Now, all I need to do is gather the plants.”
“I can help with that.”Getting my hands dirty again fills me with unexpected excitement.
He smiles across the flatbed.“Sounds lovely.”
As he pays and makes delivery arrangements, I wander through the messy clearance racks where wilting and damaged herbs, annuals, and perennials are haphazardly shoved into metal shelves like canned vegetables at the back of a pantry, expired and unwanted.I stumble at a crack in the floor, nudging the rack as I do, and witness a marigold blossom fall off its stem.
The most beautiful part of it, lost in an instant.Losing Henry felt like that.
I imagine these imperfect, broken plants, destined for the garbage, never given the care and space to grow, never belonging anywhere.
Dad finds me at the racks, piling weedy, unsightly plants into a cart.When it’s clear that I mean to rescue them all, he helps, grabbing the ones on the highest shelves.I don’t leave a single plant behind, though some are probably already dead.They shall have a proper plant funeral, I decide, thinking of our composting bins—we have seven.
We load them into the Land Rover—this messy hodgepodge of mistreated and unwanted plants that make no sense together.It’s an impulse buy, for sure, but Dad doesn’t judge.Nor does he bring up my adamant refusal to plant a garden while I was here—words as impulsive as this act itself.
Instead, he declares, “The ones with the least expectations usually try the hardest.”
At home, it’s annoyingly obvious that I’ve overbought for the small, empty bed normally reserved for Henry and me.But I’ll get creative to ensure these unwanted plants have the space they need, somewhere in Dad’s perfect, overflowing garden.
Only, the next morning, Dad and Christie wake me with sounds of hammers hitting wood, and I discover that they’re constructing a new raised bed along the greenhouse’s exterior.Together, we fill the ten-foot bed with composted dirt and natural fertilizers.I don’t bother with gardening gloves.The cool, musty dirt feels good between my fingers.
I get lost in the work.Two days pass in planting, pruning, and watering, my skin sun-kissed and my clothes dirty.It’s the best I’ve felt in ages, especially when the plants show hints of revitalization, convincing me that there’s hope in even the most unlikely second chances.
On the third night, I sleep for a few hours in the loft bed and come downstairs to a mason jar of wildflowers perched next to my field journal with a note.
V —
Christie and I decided to take an earlier flight.Best of luck!
Love,
Dad
P.S.Please see to the museum’s garden installation this afternoon at the following address.
The house is eerily quiet in their absence.I recall Dr.Broderick’s most recent advice:“Find opportunities to connect.”That was after lecturing me for running away from Dad instead of practicing the techniques she taught me.I defended myself as usual.How can I think straight when I’m not thinking straight?And Dad’s admission of regret made calling up the STOP acronym or any other mindfulness technique feel like being asked to recite the alphabet backwards when the only letters I could conjure were F-U-C-K.
Dr.Broderick got a kick out of that analogy.I like amusing her.But connecting will prove more challenging with no one here.
Folding the note, I notice more handwriting on the back.
My artful and sweet new bestie,
I left my favorite romance novels by my chair for you.It might be nice to read something without footnotes or a bibliography, right?Help yourself to any of my scarves on the hall tree and enjoy the fruit salad I made for you in the fridge.
XO,
Christie
P.S.Maybe have some fun with your sister?I know she misses you.
I groan.I love my sister, but it seems unlikely that she would consider me fun.
Over Christie’s fruit salad, which is quite delicious, I read Dad’s class notes and revise my resume.I update my necessary profiles, hoping for opportunities to start filling my sparse inbox.
I shower and dress in my usual work clothes: a tank top under jean short overalls paired with high socks and my delightfully worn-in hiking boots.A red scarf with peonies tames my hair into a loose top knot.I stick my gardening gloves in my pocket along with the note and grab the keys from the hook in the kitchen.Behind the wheel of Dad’s Land Rover, I twiddle with my bracelets and rub my thumb over my pitch black mood ring.
