The Line (3 page)

There hadn’t been a child on The Property since
Elizabeth
was that child, running in the yard, laughing at the sky. And being reminded daily that children even existed was not something Elizabeth really wanted to endure; it was painful. Yet turning away a grown woman who was capable of finding alternatives was a different thing than turning away a mother and child, who might not have a better option. Elizabeth had not wanted to be responsible for the possible consequences. So she had hired the woman, against her better judgment.

She wondered if she was going to pay for that now. Maybe whatever led the mother to trouble had been passed on to her daughter, causing her to seek out trouble as well. Elizabeth hoped that by keeping Rachel busy working in the greenhouse, she could steer her away from her interest in the Line. And it might solve other problems too. Jonathan had his hands full, and while Elizabeth was sure he would have tried to help, he didn’t have the touch. As her father always said, “Orchids aren’t potatoes.” What he meant, and what Elizabeth had always believed, was that to grow beautiful, healthy orchids, one could not view them as a crop. A part of you had to love them, be in love, to grow them well. Elizabeth had that feeling. She thought Rachel might have that feeling too, judging from how much time the girl had spent in the greenhouse over the years.

R
ACHEL WAS MORE than a little apprehensive about working for Ms. Moore. In all the years Vivian and Rachel had lived on The Property, the lady had never once relaxed her formality. She was always Ms. Moore—never Elizabeth—even to Jonathan, who had known her forever as far as Rachel could tell. She never asked about their lives outside the work they did for her, and she did not encourage questions about her own.

Vivian had told Rachel that when she first started working for Ms. Moore, she’d made the mistake of commenting on a framed digim she saw on the mantel in the main house, where she was dusting.

“Oh, Ms. Moore,” she had said, “is this a picture of your husband? He was a fine-looking man.”

Vivian said the silence had been stunning, like being doused with ice water. She turned to look at Ms. Moore, who was staring at her as though she had discovered a dead rat in her parlor.

“I,” said Ms. Moore, slowly and distinctly, “was never married.” She looked at Vivian for a moment more, as though she were trying to decide exactly how one would dispose of such an unpleasant object without actually having to touch it. Then she walked away.

On her way out, without turning her perfectly coiffed head, she said, “I prefer to keep my personal life
personal
, Ms. Quillen. Please start in the kitchen next.”

Vivian usually laughed when she told that story, but Rachel didn’t think it was so funny now that
she
was going to have to work for Ms. Moore.

 

 

AS IT TURNED out, Rachel learned most of the daily routine in the greenhouse from Jonathan. Ms. Moore was there the first morning, but she said little. She handed Rachel a thick, plastic-covered notebook filled with printouts and told her to study it. “There are specific ways to behave around orchids, Rachel, and you will need to learn them if you are to be allowed to work here. Jonathan will instruct you in the simpler tasks and inform me of your progress.” With that, she left.

Rachel’s expression must have been quite forlorn, because Jonathan smiled down at her and winked. “Now, child, she’s not so bad,” he said. “Just has no use for the pleasantries in life. At least not anymore.” He looked at the doorway Ms. Moore had disappeared through, far away for a moment.

“Did she used to be different?”

“Hmm?” Jonathan looked back down at Rachel.

“You said ‘not anymore.’ Like she used to be different.” Rachel thought about that. “My mother used to be different, before.”

“Before what?”

“Before my father died.”

Jonathan cocked his head at her. “How do you know, dear? You’ve been here since you were tiny. How would you remember she was different?”

“We have digims of him,” Rachel said. “When she looks at them . . . she shines. That’s how she must have been before.” Rachel searched Jonathan’s eyes, certain he wouldn’t know what she meant. She was surprised when he nodded.

“It takes something—important—away,” Jonathan said. He looked thoughtful.

“What does?” Rachel wasn’t certain what he meant.

“Losing love.” Jonathan smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “Especially that kind of love.”

“Do you know about that?” Rachel looked away as soon as she said it. It was a very personal thing to ask, and she thought she had a better chance of getting an answer if she wasn’t watching Jonathan’s face. She kept her eyes on the notebook Ms. Moore had given her.

Jonathan said nothing for a time. Rachel was certain he wasn’t going to reply, when he finally did.

“I think we all know a bit about that, here on The Property. All of us but you, my dear. And I hope you never learn.” He cleared his throat, as though something was stuck in it. “Let’s get started with the misting, shall we? I know how to do most of the regular chores the flowers need done, though I’m sure
she
might not agree. The rest you’re to learn from those notes.” Jonathan patted her shoulder and began to show her the morning routine.

 

 

THREE HOURS LATER the misting and feeding were done, and Jonathan had left her to go take care of some of his own work. Rachel was sitting on a stool in front of one of the workbenches, staring at a particularly beautiful, garnet-colored bloom without seeing it. She had been thinking about what Jonathan had said about love. About how losing it took something away.

She was glad she didn’t have to worry about it. A few times lately, Vivian had tried to talk with her about “adult” love. Rachel giggled, thinking of it. That was what she had called it—
adult love
. Vivian couldn’t figure out why Rachel giggled so much every time she brought it up. Rachel didn’t tell her there was a stream show called
Adult Love
. She had accidentally seen a brief glimpse of a scene before clicking away from it out of sheer embarrassment. She was pretty certain what she had seen was not the same thing Vivian meant. Vivian never got too far with whatever it was that she
did
mean, because Rachel just scoffed.

“Mom,” she had said. “Look around. Do you see any people besides you and me and Ms. Moore and Jonathan? Who exactly am I in danger of falling in love with? Besides, I’m just not interested.”

“Someday you will be, Rachel.” Vivian had looked worried.

Rachel had just shrugged. “Well, we can talk about it then, okay?”

 

 

RACHEL STUDIED THE printouts Ms. Moore had given her every evening after her regular schoolwork was done, and quickly became captivated by what she was learning. Of course, she had always appreciated the orchids’ strange beauty. She was mesmerized by the butterfly blooms of the phalaenopsis, the spray of delicate wings arching skyward. She was drawn in every time by the heavy, spicy richness of the cattleya, with its drooping, jewel-toned petals. Even the odd, almost ugly flowers of some of the catasetum fascinated her.

But orchids had secrets, too, and Rachel was learning them. As she studied each evening, she found herself fascinated by their oddities. Some orchids could live in almost any circumstances, while others required such particular conditions in order to propagate, it seemed impossible that they survived at all. Some fed from the very air; others trapped their food or fooled insects into pollinating them. Many were breathtakingly gorgeous, but there were orchids that looked more like creatures than flowers. There was one orchid—
Dracula tubeana—
that looked exactly like a bat.

Ms. Moore checked on Rachel’s progress once a week, watching while Rachel carried out the daily tasks required to keep the orchids growing and healthy. She commented on what Rachel was doing, quizzed her about the particular variety she was misting or feeding.

“Why are you giving the phals that mix?” Ms. Moore, perched on a stool, watched Rachel as she worked.

“It’s to help with bloom strength,” said Rachel. “This fertilizer has a higher phosphorus content, and that helps the flowering process.”

Ms. Moore looked pleased. “Correct. Now, let’s move on to how one would repot those dendrobiums.” Ms. Moore indicated several pots of orchids sitting on the workbench. Their roots were creeping up over the lips of the pots, seeking out new territory to conquer. “Tell me the steps.”

“First, I would carefully remove the plant and medium from the pot. Then I would very gently get all of the old potting medium off the plant’s roots.” Rachel looked at Ms. Moore to see if she was right so far.

“Go on.”

“Then I would check the roots for any damage or disease. I would check the leaves too.”

“And what are you looking for when you check the roots?”

Rachel thought about the notes she had studied the night before. “Soft spots. Or roots that are all dried up?”

“And if you find that?”

“I would remove those roots from the plant.” Rachel bit her lip. There was something more . . . and then she remembered. “I have to sterilize the scissors. Because orchids can get infections and so all the cuts have to be sterile.”

Ms. Moore nodded. “Very good, Rachel. You’ve got a lot more to learn, but you are doing well.”

“Should I repot these?” Rachel pointed to the dendrobiums.

“That’s why they’re here. I’ll observe.”

Rachel picked up the nearest pot and got to work. For a few minutes there was silence while she brushed dusty potting medium off the roots of the first plant. As she became less nervous about her task, Rachel decided to take a risk.

“Ms. Moore?” Rachel kept her eyes on her work.

“Yes, Rachel?”

“Um.” Rachel wasn’t sure how she should start. “How do you like, um, how do you like living here?”

“Careful with that leaf.” One of the leaves on the dendrobium was being bent too far because of the way Rachel was holding it.

“Oh.” Rachel adjusted her grip.

“By ‘here’ I assume you mean The Property?” Ms. Moore looked at Rachel quizzically. “Not
here
near the town of Bensen, or
here
in the Unified States?”

Rachel nodded.

“I like living here just fine.” Ms. Moore’s reply rang with a certain finality, as if there were nothing more to add to the subject.

“Why do we call it
The Property
?” Rachel realized as she asked the question that she had never wondered about it before. “They don’t call it that in Bensen.” She had heard a vendor ask her mother once, in a half whisper, how it was to work “out there on the Moore place.”

“We just always have.” Ms. Moore sounded quite piqued that Rachel was still asking questions, but she continued. “Long ago that’s all it was—a piece of property. There was no greenhouse, no business, no home. I imagine my grandfather had lots of conversations with my grandmother about ‘the property,’ about his dreams for it, his hopes.” For a moment Ms. Moore seemed as though she might share something more, but the moment passed.

“That one is done. On to the next.” Ms. Moore gestured to the row of pots waiting on the workbench.

Rachel untangled the roots of the next dendrobium from the drainage hole of its pot. It took her a few moments, but she gathered the courage to press on with her investigation.

“So, have you ever noticed anything . . . strange happening here?” She snuck a quick look at Ms. Moore. “Anything odd, or, um . . .” Rachel’s voice trailed off into nothingness. She risked another glance at Ms. Moore, and sure enough, the lady was regarding her with a quizzical look, head tilted to one side.

Ms. Moore kept looking at Rachel for what seemed like a very long time. Then she turned her attention to the dendrobium Rachel was holding.

“Do you see how that root is all dark and wilted? That one definitely needs to be trimmed.”

That was as far as Rachel progressed in her quest for information, at least on that day. She could tell by Ms. Moore’s demeanor that more questions would not be well received. She wasn’t going to give up though. After all, Ms. Moore couldn’t have lived so close to the Line for so many years without knowing
something
.

R
ACHEL AND HER mother had come to The Property after Rachel’s father was lost in the last war between the Unified States and Samarik. Rachel had researched it; she wanted to know what her father had died for. Vivian would never say much about it, but according to the net archives, Samarik claimed the U.S. was engaging in “cruel and inhuman” practices. Things like apprehending citizens and forcing them to work in government Labor Pools if they couldn’t pay random taxes. Samarik believed that citizens deserved public trials and reasonable sentences. The U.S. wanted Samarik to stay out of their affairs, and they sent troops to make sure the message was clear. The U.S. won, of course, but a lot of fathers died winning. When Rachel’s father was reported as a casualty, Vivian was left to figure out how to support the two of them.

Rachel was little then, so she didn’t have any memories of it, but Vivian had told her many times the story of how she found The Property. Vivian kept a printout of the ad that Ms. Moore had placed in the Domestics section of the daily classifieds—a torn scrap of yellowing paper—tucked in her brown leather portfolio. The portfolio was where she kept things that were important to her: things like birth certificates and letters, and digims of them—Vivian, Rachel, and Daniel—when they were still a family.

Rachel’s favorite digim was of the three of them standing in a room that looked about as big as Ms. Moore’s linen closet. Vivian was beaming, more carefree than Rachel had ever seen her look. Daniel was holding Rachel—a tiny baby at the time—and smiling. He had thick brown hair, which Vivian said was exactly like Rachel’s. He looked nice. Rachel didn’t remember him at all.