It really does help, making things grow.
I thought it was just an exercise at first, something she'd given me to do because she was out of ideas and I wasn't any better. I'd lied to her at first, telling her I'd done it and it hadn't helped, but she knew I was lying, and told me to go back and do what she'd said, or she'd make me come in five times a week instead of three. I did, and the first thing I bought was a set of four potted flowers. All you had to do, the instructions assured me, was stick them in the ground deep enough so they didn't fall over. And water them.
So I did.
The change was drastic and a bit frightening, to be honest. I thought I would just water them and forget about them, but I didn't. The moment they were in the ground, set in a small brown patch of plain dirt where I'd dug away the grass, I knew things were different, that I was
moving
,
doing
. The very next session, I told her what I'd seen, what I'd really seen, and she hugged me at the end, and told me I was going to make it, now, she was sure of it.
The potted flowers had grown into bushes after a few months, but died after an especially nasty frost. I bought tomatoes after that, then green onions, and then something called Swiss chard, that looked like lettuce but tasted strange. Soon I had three rows of corn and had planted pumpkin seeds. They still haven't come to anything, but the man at the nursery told me they can sometimes lay there for years before they sprout. So I haven't given up on them, slow as they are.
There's a bench in the garden and I'm sitting on it, watching my tomatoes. There's a garter snake winding itself around one of the stems. He's lived here for a few months now, but I don't mind him. He doesn't bother the plants, and since he's been here, neither does anything else.
I look at my watch. It's nine seventeen. At nine twenty, I'll get up from the bench and go inside. I'll lock the door behind me and set the alarm, and I'll sit down at my kitchen table. My apple tart is waiting there for me now, cooling after being in the oven this morning. I'll use my blue fork - my Sunday fork - to eat it, chewing slow, so the taste lasts longer. When I'm done, I'll put the plate in the dishwasher beside the others, and I'll wash the fork by hand and put it in the drawer beside my Tuesday morning fork.
I'll walk to the living room window and look out. My neighbor's bird feeder will be alive with movement and noise, and I'll smile and remind myself that I'm grateful to see such a beautiful thing. At nine forty, I'll leave the window and walk upstairs and shower, using the foam green scrub brush and the Old Spice body wash. I'll get out and dry off, humming the True Blood theme song. I'll toss the towel into the laundry basket under the sink and walk naked into my bedroom.
I'll wear the green shirt. It's a polo, and it's nice without being dressy. I'll wear dark wash jeans, the ones with the fake Levi tag, and my black sneakers. I'll walk to the garage and get into my sedan, fastening my seatbelt before I start it. The door will rise behind me, and I'll ease out, careful not to scrape my SUV. I'll close the door and back into the street. The flower shop is around the corner, and I'll go there, picking up the usual.
The flowers will rest on the back seat as I ride on the highway at sixty to seventy three miles per hour. After ninety minutes or eighty nine miles, whichever comes first, I'll take the Wilmington exit. I'll pull into the Sweet Park Cemetery and park in the lot. Sundays are busy days for cemeteries, so I'll be a great distance from Michael and Tisha and Ronald F. Willard and Marianne. But I won't mind. Because it's a beautiful day and a beautiful time to be alive and I'm lucky and I'm grateful.
Their headstones will look lovely and polished and I'll tell them so, chuckling a time or two at a private joke between us. They'll take my flowers and I'll tell them how things have been since they've retired, and they'll laugh, and tell me one day I'll get out of the rat race, too, and how we'll golf together. I'll chuckle again, and tell them I look forward to it.
The sun will set and I'll walk back to my car, which will be alone in the lot by this time. The highway will be clear of traffic, so I know that ninety minutes will come first. I'll pull into the garage carefully, so I don't scrape my SUV, and turn off the engine.
I'll sit for a minute, thinking, and before I can think too hard I'll get out and lock the car and go inside. I'll put the shirt back into the closet and put the jeans back, too, though I'll know I ought to wash them. I'll think about finding pajamas, but I'll decide against it, like always, and I'll climb into bed, pulling the covers to my chest. I'll take a pill and a glass of water behind it, and I'll turn off the light and lay down, closing my eyes. My sleep will be dreamless and restful, and tomorrow morning I'll wake and walk downstairs, popping a tart into the microwave and pulling out my Monday fork; it's red. I'll start coffee, and brew it extra bold. I'll lean against the counter, my mind clear and empty, listening to the water drip into the pot. I'll smile, thinking of how lucky I am to be there, in that moment. How grateful.
The garter snake falls to the dirt and I look over at him. He takes no notice of me, slithering back up the main branch of the plant. I look down at my watch.
It's nine twenty.
*****
The office has been taken over by New People.
I knew this would happen - what else could? - but I'm still unsettled. Dr. Rondan gave me clearance to come back almost a year ago, if I wanted. I hadn't wanted, not until after the gardening had started, and now here I am, staring at my New Boss in my New Office in the New Building. I suppose corporate thought using the old building would be in bad taste. Perhaps they were right.
It still bothers me, though.
"We're glad to have you back, Jeremy." He's all smiles and handshakes and We're-Turning-Over-A-New-Leaf-ish. It's creepy and it's making me anxious.
"I'm glad to be back, Mr. Taylor." It's a lie. I'm not back, not really; I've never been
here
before.
"We gave you the corner. Thought you might like it." That's what his voice is saying. His eyes are saying
please don't go crazy, Jeremy, please. It was horrible, I know, but I'm new and this is a new day and the PR was terrible for the company so please don't go crazy. And if you absolutely must go crazy, do it in the corner office where the other New People and the cameras can't see you.
"Thanks," I say. "I'd like to get started right away, if it's okay with you."
"Sure!"
He says it too loud and we both know it, and now it's awkward. He looks lost for a moment, then shuffles some papers in his hands and hands five to me.
"Just, uh, do those for me by the end of the week." It's Wednesday. "Good to have you back." He pats me on the shoulder like I have something catching and awkwards his way down the hall to his own office. I go into mine, closing the door behind me.
It is a pretty nice office, I have to admit. There are big windows and a nice desk and it's on the twelfth floor. There are twenty five floors, so it's not the top, but it's not the basement either. I set about working, hoping I can finish my assignment early when a man opens my door and walks in and starts talking.
"I'm so glad you're here." He walks over and opens the blinds at the windows; light floods my office and I squint. "They said you might not be here until next week and Cherilyn wants the invoicing done by Friday, and I thought, oh, God, I'm gonna have to call Reese on nine and tell him. Reese is an asshole, a real douche nozzle, and nobody wants to go to nine to tell Reese anything." He starts stacking things on top of the file cabinet. My file cabinet. "They brought him in from Dallas after the last guy left, Williams, I think his name was, and now he thinks he's God's gift. But don't tell him I said that. He's a manager and I'm pretty new..."
They've sent me an assistant who's really a babysitter, I think. As he races around, talking and arranging things, I look at him. He's about my age and he's blonde. Real blonde, like princess blonde, and he's tall and looks pretty buff. His face is gorgeous; I think about how I've never seen someone so beautiful up close and I remind myself to be grateful for this moment, a moment of experiencing something I've never experienced before.
"...but she doesn't really think so, she's sweet on him, I can tell. But he's already promised the thing to Polanski, so she's wasting her time..."
He trails off, perhaps noticing for the first time that I haven't spoken.
"I'm sorry." He looks it. "I sometimes get talkative when I'm nervous, and this is a new job for me. A whole new life, really." He stops moving around and takes a deep breath and looks squarely at me, folding his hands. "I'm Lane," he says. "Lane Morgan. I'm your executive assistant."
He holds his hand out to me, and for a moment I don't know what to do. Then I remember and take his hand in mine.
"Jeremy Ryker," I say.
"Nice to meet you." His smile is scrubbed and so bright I want to shield my eyes. I chuckle at this, the thought of shielding my eyes from a smile, and cartoon images of blinding white teeth flood my mind.
His smile slips. "What?"
"Nothing," I say. A curious thing has happened; something funny has spontaneously occurred to me and I laughed. His smile made me laugh and I haven't laughed in years, not even a chuckle. "It's nothing." I'm confused by my feelings, my thoughts, and I can't concentrate right now, not on him or new people. I want to work and then I want to go home and do my Wednesday things and get my head back in order.
