“Excuse me!”the woman calls, speedwalking toward me.“Excuse me!”
Her second declaration forces me to stop, as I imagine Dad imploring me not to be rude.
“Excuse me,” she says, softer this time as they hurry over.“We’re trying to find the Venus flytraps, but we’re having trouble.Has something happened to them?”
My heavy backpack nearly knocks me over when I lean down to the moss near my hiking boots and point to the tiny plants nestled into the underbrush.
“They’re so small,” she muses.
“I’ll get a stick.Let’s see if we can get it to?—”
“No!Don’t.Instigating the trap expends an exorbitant amount of energy for them,” I say.“Doing so could mean they go hungry.You’ll hurt the plant.”
He scoffs and shakes his head.“I’m sure it’s fine.”
My narrowed, stern gaze diminishes his easy-going smile.
“We’ll behave,” the woman promises, as her dog lifts his leg and pees against a tuft of pitcher plants.
My grip strangles the suitcase handle as I leave them without another word.Engaging them further might lead me to do something regrettable, like calling themeco-hostilesor peeing on their discarded bikes to markmyterritory.
Humans are the worst invasive species.
Across the garden, I climb the short embankment, pass our sign, and roll over the small dirt lane.The absence of my father’s ancient Land Rover tells me he must be out.It’s a Friday afternoon, and he could be anywhere—in his office at the university or the lab, meeting with colleagues, in a swamp hunting for more specimens, or playing chess with strangers at Greenfield Park.He has diverse interests.
Movement catches my eye on the extended deck, where a man I don’t recognize waters the potted plants and flower boxes along the railing.He twirls around as if dancing to an inaudible tune, swishing the floral smock he wears and splashing water from his purple watering can.What looks like a paperback sticks out from the rear pocket of his worn blue jeans.His gray hair is kept away from his face by a red bandana, endearing me to him.I am rarely without a scarf tied to my head or dangling from my hair, as I find them useful and convenient, especially in the field.With a spin and flick of his hips, his eyes land on me, and he goes still.
Is he Dad’s housekeeper?Renter?Is he trespassing?
His long face flashes into an unnaturally wide smile.It stretches all the way to his ears and eyes.“Venus!You’re here!”
He plops the watering can down, claps his hands, and nearly tumbles down the deck stairs.For a moment, I fear he might embrace me.Instead, he takes my suitcase and eases the heavy backpack off my shoulders, swinging it around his.“It’s absolutely thrilling to meet you.We wondered when you might get in.”
“Who are you?”
He waves a hand in the air.His fingernails are painted neon green.“Oh, forgive me.Richard told me he hadn’t mentioned me yet.You must be completely confused.I’m Christie.Ed Christie, but I go by Christie.”
He extends his hand while balancing my bags and leading me up the deck stairs.I engage in a light handshake and ask again, “Who are you?And how do you identify?”
His broad shoulders lower as he beams with appreciation.“What a thoughtful question.I’m gender non-conforming.My pronoun is he, but they is fine, too.”He takes a steeling breath.“I’m your father’s partner.”
I stop on the top step and stare at him quizzically.“Partner?Business, academic, bridge?Could you be more specific?”
“Romantic,” he says with a smile before opening the front door to usher me inside.
“But my father doesn’t have romantic partners,” I say, utterly confused now.
“Believe me, it surprised us both,” he beams.“But the heart wants what the heart wants, as they say.”
I resist the urge to argue that the heart is an organ that pumps blood through our bodies—it doesn’t have wants, so to speak.But something tells me the conversation would be futile.“Is he here?”
“He’s grocery shopping for tonight’s dinner.Don’t worry.I gave him a specific list, so he doesn’t wander aimlessly.You know how he is.”
“Um, I do.”The fact that my father wanders in grocery stores feels like intimate knowledge, strengthening Christie’s claim of a romantic partnership.Still, this information stumps me.
Christie rolls my suitcase to a stop in the open living room.He sets my bag down beside it, takes a deep breath, and rests his hands on his hips.“It’s so perfect that you’re here for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
