“That’s fair,” he says.“I regret the times I didn’t interfere on her behalf.Or I interfered incorrectly, based on the advice of those who called her difficult and unteachable.I tried but failed to stop them from using words like that.It’s quite startling how one word makes a difference, for good or ill.”
Certain words followed Venus throughout her education.Difficult, distracted,andbelligerentwere common amongst teachers.But students had their own vocabulary for her, too, one that changed as we grew older.Dirty, mean, fairy girleventually morphed intocrazy, annoying, know-it-alluntil high school, when the words took a sharp turn, thanks to me.
“Now, I’m realizing that there were times when she needed my interference and didn’t ask for it… or couldn’t.I wish I could’ve helped her more,” he says, his voice laced with regret.“This may be my last chance to interfere, Henry.There’s already talk amongst our circles—a reforestation project in New Zealand is keen to have her on their team.She doesn’t know that yet, but there she’d be practically cut off from us?—”
“If that’s what she wants, Dr.Blake…” I cut in, though my words lack conviction, considering the eight thousand miles and two oceans that would be between us.
“She doesn’t know what she wants, Henry, and I say that with the deepest respect for her and her capabilities.She believeswedon’twanther, you see.If my interference quells that faulty belief, then I will barge right in.Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, remembering her racing away this morning.“We devastated each other once.We don’t want that to happen again.Besides, neither of us can… change.”
“Change is life’s best-kept promise.Would you be content to lose her forever?”
I stumble over his question, unable to answer.
“Test her, then,” he says after a long pause.“If there’s any hope, you’ll see it.Try some normal couple things.She doesn’t think she’s capable of normal things, but we know she is.Don’t we?”He takes a long breath while I say nothing.“At the very least, let her install the garden.She’ll do whatever you ask of her, Henry.You know that.”
Would she?Still?
Her sobbing silently against my chest fills my thoughts, but is quickly snuffed out by Dr.Blake clearing his throat.“Thanks for listening, Henry.Whatever happens, you’re a good egg.”
His odd compliment makes me chuckle.“So, are you, Dr.Blake.”
The call soon ends, and I try to put it out of my mind.
I don’t have the time or energy to lose myself in thoughts of Venus.
But, I do anyway.
I can’t stop.
And maybe, I don’t want to.
CHAPTER21
Venus
My clearance rackrescue mission has produced mixed results.I pick off the yellowed, brittle ends of a drooping tomato plant, hoping its energy will redirect to the healthier leaves.The yellow squash and cucumber plants face similar challenges, having been denied the nutrients needed for proper growth.Now embedded in nutrient-rich, composted soil, it may be too late.Still, I pluck the dried and withering parts, smiling as I remember young Henry calling thembaby pickles, which I found amusing because, yes, they could’ve become pickles, one day, but only after they were cucumbers first.Not these, I decide, dropping the dead bits into the canvas tote hooked to my waist for scraps.The pepper plants slump, but there’s hope in their tiny flowers.Their plastic identifiers claimed they were sweet green peppers (Capsicum annuum), but the dark center of the white flowers suggests otherwise—these are most certainly a spicier variety (Capsicum chinense).With my father’s endless supply of extra-large popsicle sticks, I have labeled them correctly, hoping that restoring their proper variety will encourage them to become their true selves.
Thunder rumbles in the gray skies overhead.The humidity thickens as the pressure drops.I lift my chin, expecting raindrops to hit my face.
“It’s going to rain.We should go home, Venus,”Henry’s young voice echoes in my head.He usually played the unofficial weatherman of our friendship.It’s hot.It’s cold.It’s chilly.It’s going to rain.And I countered with reason.“It’s just a little rain.It won’t hurt us, Henry.”
The weather proved me wrong.We were forced to crouch inside our newly constructed lean-to as the sky opened and lightning struck the ground so close that we screamed at the searing crack in the air and felt the jolt through the earth.He latched on to me, and I said,“Tighter.”
The storm had been like many others in the summer—fierce and fast.By the time it drifted away, a tree had been splintered to dark spikes not twenty yards from our lean-to, and Henry was panting.
Two days later, he was diagnosed with bronchitis, likely brought on by the overexcitement, dampness, and the bloom of allergens that occur in the rain.Maggie blamed me.I blamed myself, too.The ten-page report I assigned myself on Henry’s asthma did little to alleviate my guilt, but I like studying how things work.Or don’t work.
Henry liked it, though.He said it taught him more about his condition than his pulmonologist.I wonder if he still has it.Tucked in a box or drawer.Another piece of me.
Now, I close my eyes to the heavy air, breathing it in.The breeze catches my hair, sending it around my face, and I still smell him on me.I imagine he’s the breeze, sweeping over me, touching me.
The thunder rumbles again.I finish my work and deliver my scraps to the compost bin.I harvest a bulbously ripe beefsteak tomato, basil, and a green pepper from his overflowing beds, and retreat inside just as rain starts pelting the deck.
Ivy texts to confirm plans tomorrow—I try to look forward to shopping with my sister, rather than getting lost in thoughts of Henry.Tonight will be the hardest—I’m alone, fresh from Henry’s arms with little to do.
Ivy will distract me tomorrow, and Dad’s classes will engage me throughout the week.
