The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (4 page)

I take a sip of my tea. My mother sent it, though it’s central California, not outer Siberia. Mom reads up on herbal remedies and sends me crates of vitamins and supplements that have no scientific research to back them up. I used to tell her it was a waste of money, but now I set the boxes in the teachers’ lounge and write
“
Free
”
on them. They’re always gone by noon. No one ever thanks me.

At my desk, my MacBook, purchased at a sizable discount through the school, tells me I have a new e-mail. My heart pounds a little bit harder. It’s probably only an alert from the online rose forum I belong to, telling me I have a new message on my Hulthemia discussion thread, but I’m hoping it’s something else. I feel my face cracking into a broad smile, so big and out of the ordinary that it almost hurts. It is. It’s Byron.

Byron Madaffer, known in the rose breeding circles as Lord Byron. He lives in Texas, on a many-acre ranch with its own airport. His people were cattle ranchers, but also real estate investors. Now Byron’s so wealthy, he doesn’t have to bother with cattle. He never has to bother with anything he doesn’t feel like bothering with. Instead, he grows roses.

He has already won several Queens of Show, sending rose companies into frenzies to acquire his roses and test them out. The most successful is a pale pink rose with orange tips, called Byron’s Flame. It’s a delicious-smelling tea rose with long stems. If you’ve ever gotten a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day, you’ll notice that they hardly ever smell good, or like anything at all. They might as well be silk. Not Byron’s.

It has not, of course, escaped my attention that Byron, with his assistants, has resources I do not. But he has made me believe I, too, can achieve what he has.

I met him at my first big rose show in Texas six years ago. That year, I competed in an amateur category with what I thought would be a winner: a pink hybrid tea rose with white stripes. I called it Peppermint Candy. The previous year, this rose had won a blue ribbon (though not Queen of Show) at the local rose society show. At the time, I thought I was hot stuff, sure to win every competition I entered. I’d saved up my money to travel to this larger competition. I called a dialysis center to make sure I could attend one day during my three-day trip. Then my little rose and I went to the ballroom at a Hyatt in Dallas and waited for the competition.

Everyone talked to each other and not to me. Nor did I try to talk. I simply sat at my designated table, the number 24 taped to my shirt, and waited for the judges to come around.

Of course, what I didn’t know was that dozens of different takes on my rose already existed, most of them a thousand times more refined than mine.

One of the judges took it upon himself to inform me of this fact, his casual cruelty made all the worse by his lack of eye contact and his turning away. “You know there’s already a rose with this name?” he said. “Come back when you’re ready to compete.”

If I had belonged to a rose club, like most rose breeders, chances are I would have known. Someone would have pointed it out.

But the truth is, I don’t belong to any rose clubs because I don’t want anyone telling me I’m not good enough. The questions I ask in the online rose forum are general; I don’t show anyone photos of my flowers. I don’t want to hear any negative comments. Besides, I’m a loner with already limited time. At that moment, however, I saw the drawbacks of this choice, and hunched down, wishing the floor would open and swallow me.

Byron, almost hidden behind his big rose display a mere two tables down, stood and stared after the judge. I didn’t know who Byron was before that day, but everyone talked about him during the show. His cold reputation preceded him like a nor’easter.

He strode over to me, his blue eyes bright like two flying lights coming at me. The color was all I saw. People did the Red Sea thing to let him through. He stood straighter than anyone I had ever seen. He was James Bond. Only handsomer.

He stood in front of my table. “I heard.” He sounded more like he was from England than from Texas.

“You want to get your licks in, too?” I did not bother to stand, playing with the yellow ribbon I’d tied around my poor plastic rose pot. It looked limp and pitiful compared to the giant bows everyone else used.

“I’ve been looking at your rose all day.” His blond eyebrows raised into two pyramids. “The petals are ragged. Is this intentional?”

“I wanted it to be frilly.” I glanced up at him. “I like frills.”

He was silent, turning the rose around. He sniffed it. “Creative.”

I heard the grudging praise in his voice. His smile, when he turned it on, was kind. “Since you appear to be finished for the day, why don’t you come to my table? We can talk shop.”

At that, he picked up my rose and strode back to his table, me following behind in his wake, still feeling more lackey than queen.

He pointed to a woman with tiny feet and disproportionately large hips teetering toward us. She looked as though she had been beautiful once, her blond hair artificially shiny, but her jaw was beginning to jowl. She had on a bit too much makeup, the foundation several shades lighter than her neck, which made her look like a circus clown. I wondered if Byron had the same internal judgments going on. “This judge is Ms. Lansing. Theoretically married, insists on being called Miz. Husband and wedding ring never seen. She is always nicer to the men than to women.” He inhaled. “Sorry fact of life.”

I looked around the hall at the numerous men. More men than women take on this hobby. Lots of scientists and engineers. You have to have a certain kind of personality, and patience for the long-term results. “So she spends a lot of time being nice.” I suspected she was especially nice to Byron and his broad shoulders. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you need to know.”

Ms. Lansing arrived at our table with a brief disapproving smile directed at me, her face melting as she shook Byron’s hand. “My goodness, Byron, your roses are looking well. And so are you, I might add.” A creamy chuckle sounded at the back of her throat.

“Not as well as you. A true Texas rose.” Byron’s formal inflections softened to a Southern drawl. I winced at how thick he was laying it on, but Ms. Lansing blushed. She had it bad for him. I couldn’t stifle a laugh, which made her look toward me. “This is Gal,” Byron said, with a sweep of his arm.

“New assistant?” Her eyes were back on him. Of course. I was as much competition for a man as an armchair was.

“New competitor. Watch out for her.” He stepped back with a little nod as she walked on, his accent changing back. “Schmoozing with judges. Most exhausting part of the day.”

After we spent the afternoon discussing my Hulthemia lines, how I postulated I would achieve the perfect Hulthemia and which crosses would be ideal, Byron turned to me. “You’re very intuitive.”

I blushed from my feet to my scalp. Compliments are rare.

His assistants packed up his roses. He shook my hand and slipped his card into my palm, magicianlike. “Please keep in contact.”

I expected he was merely being polite. But he e-mailed me first, finding my contact information on the Internet. There aren’t too many people named Galilee.

Now we are e-mail buddies, asking questions of each other, sharing information about our roses. Byron, in another state, did not require regular meetings and socialization of me. He is the one networking contact in the world of roses I’ve met in person.

He sends me seed specimens of interest, “to grow my collection.” I reciprocate. Though I of course always keep my best roses secret, as I am sure he keeps his.

His advice about the judges had paid off. At the next show I attended, I knew to compliment Ms. Lansing on her hideous teal suit. While I didn’t win that show, she invited me to listen to a special discussion panel of rose breeders for free.

I open Byron’s e-mail. Perhaps he’s offering me a job at his ranch, finally opening the full-time official rose business he can well afford.

Got a speckled rose. Want to keep the speckling. Any suggestions?

He has attached a photo of a magenta Hulthemia with small white speckles all over its petals. Its center is a deeper magenta. I frown. It is obvious. Byron has an undergraduate degree in botany; he’s no dummy. He will simply have to try out another cross and see if the speckling holds; some people think that speckling is due to a virus rather than genetics. He also knows I have several speckled roses, none of which will reappear consistently for me.

Nonetheless, I do not respond at this time. I want to double-check myself to be sure I hadn’t missed something obvious. Sometimes I get the impression that he asks me these questions as a test. With Byron, I am loath to make any mistakes. If he ever made his operation professional, maybe he’d hire me.

It’s time to go to the greenhouse. I must prepare for today’s class, but since I’ve taught these classes for several years, I can wing it. Just give me a dry erase marker and a roomful of students and I’m good to go. I get up from the desk and immediately feel woozy. Just low blood pressure from dialysis. Nothing to worry about, unless, of course, I pass out and hit my head. In which case there’s nothing I can do. I go into the bedroom and get dressed. I won’t remember I haven’t eaten breakfast until noon.

4

I
WRITE MY QUIZ PREP ON THE WHITEBOARD.
M
Y STUDENTS,
all fifteen sophomores in this fourth-period biology class, are being deliberately obtuse. The hormones are affecting their brains. You really might as well give up education from age twelve to twenty.

It’s the simplest thing in the world. I write everything that’s going to be on the test up here. Then they are supposed to study it. But somehow, some way, the test always surprises a lot of these kids.

“Please write this on your index cards and study them,” I intone to the class. Half of them ignore me. Another quarter break out their cards. The other quarter stare at the board, as though they believe they can memorize twenty pages’ worth of material without writing anything. “I promise you, if you know these items, you will get an A on the test.”

I sit heavily behind my desk. Already I can tell Dr. O’Malley, the headmaster, is going to want to talk to me again after this quiz. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. It is said that happiness is directly inverse to intelligence. The dumber you are, the happier you are. Doctors say that having a malfunctioning kidney takes away twenty IQ points. Today I should be pretty darn happy, because not only do both of my kidneys not work, I’m sporting a raging sinus infection, which I’m sure must take away at least ten more. The classroom is not exactly a sterile environment.

As if on early cue, the intercom buzzes from the office. A tinny female voice says, “Dr. O’Malley needs to see you, Ms. Garner.”

“Now? I’m in the middle of class.”

Dara knocks, then enters. Today she wears a cream dress that has a sweetheart neckline and full skirt with a crinoline, printed with crimson roses. Her hair is curled and pinned back. She’s in 1950s pinup mode. I actually see one of the boys blush, his pronounced Adam’s apple moving up and down in a gulp. In my opinion, a high school teacher would be better off wearing a burlap sack. Or, at the very least, skirts down to the ankles, and no makeup. “They sent me to cover for you.”

I throw up my hands. “This better be important.”

“They didn’t tell me a thing.”

“It’s probably a grouchy parent,” I say under my breath. I think I’m being quiet, but the entire back row swivels their heads around. Yes, I’m talking about you, Sean McAllister, I think at the first boy. His mother throws a fit when he gets less than an A minus. The boy never turns in half his homework. He doesn’t even have the decency to look away.

Dara shushes me. “Gal.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” I pick up my purse and my water bottle. I salute Dara. “Good luck. Carry on, kids.”

I close the classroom door with a click.

Last winter, the school’s headmaster called me into his office one bright Monday morning after the report cards went home. This happened every Monday morning after the parents got the first-semester report cards in the mail on Saturday. I think Dr. O’Malley must have written it into my contract.

Dr. O’Malley had chewed on his yellow pencil, staring out blankly to the parking lot, where students sped off in cars that cost more than my annual salary. “You’re too hard,” Dr. O’Malley said. “We’ve had complaints. From parents.”

I figured these complainers were the same kids who did not write down all the test topics I posted on the whiteboard before the test, failed the test, then had their parents complain to the principal that I was too hard.

“Too hard?” I asked him. “I wrote down what the final was going to be on! How could that be too hard? It’s AP Biology, for crying out loud. Why don’t I make all the tests open book?” I did not raise my voice. I hardly ever do, channeling my frustration instead into the hard tone Dara said could pierce metal. “These parents want their kids to learn, don’t they? That’s why they pay tuition. I don’t put anyone through unless they earn it.”

Dr. O’Malley ran his hand through his still-thick gray hair. The only Irishman I’d ever seen with a full head of hair after age sixty. His naturally fair skin was a mottled red and brown, the result of his spending his youth on the water. “You can’t fail two-thirds of the class.”

“I can, if they deserve to fail.” I put my hands on my hips and became very quiet. At that first interview, Dr. O’Malley had assured me I would not be beholden to helicopter parents who want to give their kids the world in return for nothing, so when they go to Penn or Wesleyan or all the second-tier Ivy League schools our students usually get into, they will not fail out and come back home because nobody ever made them really work. Unfortunately, Dr. O’Malley had begun to capitulate to parental demands more over the years, as the economy worsened and competition for students became stiffer.

Dr. O’Malley sighed and sat on his desk. Even here, he was a head taller than I. I knew he, and the parents, and the board, all regretted my tenure here. But now there was no way to fire me, not without it looking incredibly bad. Not with me and my bad kidney. The only time this disease has been worth anything, I guess.

I smiled up at him without warmth. “Look, Doc, we go through this every first semester. And every year you seem to forget. By quarter three, the kids are used to me. They buck up. Or their folks hire tutors.”

He blew air out through his pursed lips.

“You’re slipping,” I said. “You’re lowering the bar.”

“I am not.”

“Then let me teach my way. My students graduate, and they go to college and they know how to work. They ought to be thanking me. In fact, many of them have.” Every year, I get at least two cards from students off at college, telling me that I saved them from flunking out.

O’Malley closed his eyes. “Let’s table this discussion for now, Gal.”

Finally. “We always do.” I left his office without waiting for him to dismiss me.

• • •

T
ODAY, THROUGH THE
headmaster’s glass windows, I see a dark head sitting in his guest chair. The blinds are partially closed. Even so, his expression of concern is clear. My heart begins hammering. I immediately think of my sister, my parents. Something must have happened to one of them. My worst fear.

He leaps up and opens his office door. “We have a situation.”

So it’s not a family emergency. I take a deep breath. It must be a different emergency. I go through all the possible kids who could have complained. There are too many, so I give up. I shuffle inside.

Someone sits in the guest chair opposite O’Malley’s desk. It is not a parent out for blood. It’s a kid, a teenaged girl, with long dyed black hair and too-white makeup on. Raccoon eyeshadow. She wears a polo shirt, orange with a big pink horse on the chest, the collar turned up like it’s 1985, with torn and safety-pinned black jeans, flocked pink Doc Martens, and a black overcoat. She looks like the lead singer of the Cure, by way of Ralph Lauren. I’m reminded of the judge from the rose show for a second, in a weird way. Someone wearing a mask, someone who doesn’t want us to see who she really is.

“Who’s this? What’s going on?”

The headmaster sits down and nods at her.

She lifts a hand covered in silver skull rings and spikes. “Hi, Aunt Gal.”

My mouth drops open and I can’t close it. Riley? My niece, Riley? A thousand jumbled thoughts go through my head. My voice is calm and emotionless when I speak, though.

“Where’s your mother?”

“New York, right now. She’s on a business trip. Then they’re sending her to Hong Kong for a couple of months.” Riley meets my eyes and I expect to see fear, or sadness. Her expression is blank. I imagine she’s telling herself that everything is all right, that she is in her happy place. Or perhaps she has simply taught herself to be numb to the aftereffects of her tornado of a mother, like I have for my sister. Anger at her mother blooms anew. How dare she? What was Becky thinking? She wasn’t, is the answer. There is no point in asking.

“She took the bus here.” Dr. O’Malley runs his hand through his hair. This time I actually see three hairs fall out and feel sorry for him. “From San Francisco.”

“That’s not too far,” I say. This must be a dream. I touch Riley’s shoulder and the bony knob feels real. I note the fact that my niece is resourceful under pressure. Good for her.

The headmaster looks at me funny. What I said was odd, I realize. Am I trying to pretend that it’s normal for a mother to send her only child across the state alone, without telling the person expecting her?

“I’ll call her mother immediately.” My voice sounds distant. I wonder if I am in shock, or if it’s this sinus infection fog.

I walk around the front of the chair so I can face her. Even when she’s seated and I’m standing, she’s not that much shorter than I am. The last time I saw her, she was a little girl. Now she’s nearly unrecognizable. She used to have dark blond hair that looked exactly like Becky’s, and dressed in the ladylike clothes Becky bought for her. Every trace of that innocent has been stamped away.

If I had had a daughter, if Riley had been mine, she would be different. She would not be wearing black clothes and she certainly wouldn’t be thousands of miles away from me.

I realize I can’t remember Riley’s birthday without my calendar. It shames me.

“Riley?” I whisper, unnecessarily.

“Yeah?” She angles her face away from mine.

“It’s good to see you.” I mean it. I think about hugging her and bend over awkwardly, but she twists away, her head back.

Her eyes, purposefully blank, the same hazel as my sister’s, darken into a yellowish green as she lifts her head. “Mom said you knew.”

“Knew what?” I am racking my brain.

“She talked to Grandma and set it up.” Riley clutches the gray-on-gray Hello Kitty tote bag on her lap.

My parents are in France for the next two weeks. I remember the conversation I had with my mother after my procedure. She had said something about Riley leaving her mom—to stay with her, not me. After their trip to France. Not right now.

Had I agreed to something I didn’t remember? I might have been medicated when I spoke with my mother, but she’d never have suggested this. Not with my illness.

“Mom said you said I could come here. Free tuition.” She breathes in deeply. Under her overcoat, I see she is painfully thin. Her pale fingers tremble. “I guess Mom got it wrong, huh?”

Free tuition. Yes, there was free tuition for faculty offspring. Or legal wards. Had I mentioned this to Becky, ever? If so, it was in passing. Maybe during a long-ago Christmas conversation, yes, I had said casually, “Too bad she’s not mine. She could go to St. Mark’s for free.” And this was considered an open invitation? Assuming things, as she always did. Taking what she could.

I put my hand on Riley’s wrist. God, it’s so small I could snap it like a piece of chalk. She’s more fragile than I am. What has my sister done to her? She should be growing bone mass to guard against osteoporosis. She needs calcium and vitamin D. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of it.”

“You better go on home for the day.” Dr. O’Malley stands. “Gal, do you need anything?” I can tell what he’s thinking. Gal’s family is completely messed up. Should I call the police? Is Gal able to handle this? His face is all sad basset-hound sympathy. I can’t stand it.

Riley stands and she’s tall, taller than her mother, at least five-ten. She looks like some kind of preppy vampire hunter in those clothes and that hair. “Thank you very much for your assistance, sir.” She holds her hand out to the headmaster and pumps his up and down firmly. She straightens her posture and sets her lips, with their faded dark-red lipstick, firmly in a line. “Thank you, Aunt Gal.”

“You’re welcome.” I’m surprised at her politeness. When you see a kid dressed like her, you expect her to be withdrawn and surly. Maybe I should be the one dressing like that. Get me some tattoos. I wonder briefly if she has any, and decide it’s not the right time to inquire.

I wait until we’re at my house to call Becky. I hope this is sufficient time to calm my nerves enough to do more than shout at my sister. I am so mad I can feel the wax melting in my ears. I decide to make a list of points I will make to her so I don’t leave anything out.

Riley flicks her gaze around my small living room. It’s shabbier than what she’s used to, I know. “The guest room has a queen-sized bed.” I hang my keys on their hook by the door. “Make yourself at home.”

She nods, still folded into herself, and curls up on the living room couch.

I go into my bedroom and shut the door, hitting Becky’s number. It rings twice before she answers. “Hey, did my girl get there all right?”

For a moment I think I’ve lost my mind, my sister’s voice is so confident and casual. “Becky, what in the name of all that is good and holy is Riley doing here alone?” There. Not exactly a shout, but not meek either.

“Becca. It’s Becca now.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t understand.”

I ignore this. “Becky, I was not expecting Riley. We never talked about it.”

“Mom said . . .”

“I don’t care what Mom said. Mom’s not our go-between. Pick up the phone and call me directly if you want to talk to me.” I don’t believe for a second our mother agreed to this. It would be entirely out of character. The only thing I can think of is, my mother was distracted by her packing when Becky talked to her, and Becky, as usual, made some very grand assumptions about what I’d do.

The very sound of her breathing hurts my ears. “There’s only one little problem. I’m about to board a flight for Hong Kong.”

I throw my hands up. “She’s your daughter, for crying out loud. You can’t dump her someplace.”

“I’m not trying to dump her. If I don’t go to Hong Kong, I have no job at all.” Becky takes a breath. “Listen, if you want, call Mom. I’m sure she’ll come home from France and get her.”

“Don’t make Mom solve all your crap. It’s not fair.”

“She sure solves yours.” Her voice rises again. “She’ll be at your side at the drop of a hat if you need her. Not mine.”

I take a deep breath of my own. I think of Riley out there on the couch, probably listening to all this. How no one wants her. That can’t be good for a kid. “Did you talk to her father?”

She snorts. “Now that is funny. That would do no good. Besides, living with you in California is a lot better than shipping her off to her wicked stepmother in Boston.”