And now, this stupid plant not only refused to flower, but its leaves were so fucking sad. She was tired of them. If they were so damn unhappy with her, then they might as well leave.
Vivian grabbed the plant and got in her car. She plugged “plant store” into her GPS and was pulling up to a Coral Gables florist fifteen minutes later. She burst through the door of the shop that smelled like a thousand fresh flowers and slammed the small pot on the sales counter.
“I need you to take this,” she said to the middle-aged clerk and turned away.
“Um, excuse me!” the woman called before Vivian reached the front door. “I think you have the wrong place.”
Vivian turned around.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, full cheeks red. “We don’t sell these.”
“But you’re a plant shop,” Vivian countered.
“A florist, actually,” she corrected, cringing as if the act was akin to stubbing her toe. “We used to sell the occasional fern, but now we only focus on floral arrangements.”
Vivian stared at her. “Do you not know how to care for a plant?”
The woman blinked. “Well, yes, but I can’t refund you for something you didn’t buy here.”
“I don’t want a refund. I just don’t want the plant,” she said, when what she really meant was that the plant didn’t want her. That it would rather die, slowly and dramatically, than bloom in her care.
“So… you know you didn’t buy it here?” She tipped her head to the side like Vivian was an abstract painting.
“Obviously,” she replied. “I can’t keep it alive, but I don’t wish it any harm, and so there you go. A free plant to a suitable home. Better than throwing it in the garbage.” She ignored the stabbing pain in her stomach.
“It’s not dying,” the woman said instead of calling Vivian an absolute maniac to her face.
“Look at it.” Vivian gestured at the pathetic, drooping leaves. “It is teetering on the edge. No matter what I do, it simply refuses to be happy.”
The clerk smiled, dried her hands on her apron, and picked up the plant. Like a medical doctor, she gave the thing a thorough exam. Inspecting the leaves, the soil, and even sniffing the damn thing. “Do you want the truth?”
“No. I want you to take custody of this thing and make it flower again.”
She looked at Vivian expectantly.
With a sigh, Vivian rolled her eyes. “Sure,” she replied, so eager to know how she’d failed another living thing.
“You’re smothering it.”
“What?” Vivian crossed her arms.
“Wilting leaves, mushy stems, muddy soil, and a funky odor.” She listed the evidence to support her diagnosis. “You’re probably just over-watering it, and this extra pot is interfering with drainage.” She pulled the plant out of the ceramic to reveal the original black plastic.
She wanted to defend herself against the allegations. Iris was the one who’d found the ornate pot somewhere.
“Not everyone would go to these lengths to rescue a plant,” the clerk said, expression softening. “Most people would have thrown it away or given up,” she decided. “Let me repot it for you. With pruning, new soil, and a proper pot, she can recover.”
Stunned, Vivian found herself nodding. Found herself unable to walk out of the store without the damn thing.
The clerk, named Natalie, talked while she performed surgery. She educated Vivian on the dangers of root rot and gave her a recovery plan that included warm, bright, airy conditions to promote healing. Apparently, it could take months. Months of nursing to bring her back.
“I’ll give you my secret to happy plants,” Natalie said when she handed back the violets in a squat clay pot twice the size of the original. After she’d sheared the thing to death, the few leaves that were left looked so small. “Talk to her. Sing to her. Whatever you’re comfortable with. You can even play some classical music.” She smiled.
“Thank you for your help,” Vivian replied, surprised to find she meant it.
Back in the car, she put the plant in the passenger seat.
“Now I’m supposed to talk to you.” She threw the car into reverse. “You’re supposed to be low maintenance, you know?” She turned onto the busy street. “Needing music doesn’t sound low maintenance to me.”
