"Bad Sunflowers"

Clifford hadn’t signed up to stay at The Institution of his own accord, although the doctor did point out that his well-intentioned-but poorly-executed-attempt at self-harm with a blunted potato-peeler could well have been construed as a sign up of sorts. 

“But I wasn’t even trying to kill myself,” he explained. “It was only curiosity.”

‘About what?’ asked the doctor, genuinely curious for herself.

“As to whether it is actually possible to peel human skin.”

“And …?”

“No, I suppose not…but…” Clifford glanced down at his bandaged wrist. Really, all things considered,  he hadn’t done a bad job; managing to peel away the top layer of epidermis into one long, delicate ribbon before passing out from all the blood and the flap flap of loosened skin.

“But?” echoed the doctor, nervously jotting down potential serial killer in her new spiral notebook. “Tell me, Clifford, did you have plans to peel other folk too?”

“Goodness me, no. That would be terrible. Just curiosity, like I said. Dad was a chef. Potato-peeling’s in our blood.”

      The doctor typed up her report and recommended admission. Whether it was intentional or merely experimental, the potato-peeling of one’s own skin did seem sufficient enough to warrant a short stay. She handed him the paperwork and a copy to his sister who had been asked to co-sign.

“But who will take care of my garden?”

His sister rolled her eyes. She was a concrete sort of soul.

“Ted can pop in, if you want?”

Clifford sighed.

Ted was nothing more than a local pothead with an oblique interest in gardening.

“Can’t you find someone else?”

His sister shrugged her shoulders and he knew he had no choice; The Institution would make sure of that.

‘Except for dinner,’ volunteered the doctor. ‘You get a choice for dinner. Potatoes or carrots.”

But Clifford had gone off potatoes.

He had gone off carrots, too.

*

“Do you think Ted has tended the garden today?” Clifford asked during rounds the following morning.

“Tend to yourself first, Clifford,” said the doctor kindly.

“But I won’t rest until I know.”

 “I’ll make some enquiries. Would that help?”

“Photographic evidence would be better. Any verbal assurance from Ted will really only amount to him shaping sounds out of air.”

The doctor nodded. She felt sorry for Clifford and decided she would go and visit for herself. Perhaps if he knew his garden was fine, he would relax and move on, and eventually move out. A man with a potato-peeler only warranted a short stay.

*

           Clifford’s home was little more than a shack, bundled between two idle hills that had never quite mustered enough energy to make mountains out of themselves. A peaceful sort of place, verdant and aromatic. The doctor parked her car outside the front gate. There was no sign of Ted, apart from a few extinguished cigarettes on a wooden post, so she edged the gate open with her elbows (doctor’s hands after all).

           What she saw truly stunned her. Clifford’s garden was magnificent. Handsome and roguish, flirtatious with butterflies and serpents, alike. Swooping vines and broad-hipped trees, dandelions with legs as fine as any ballerina. She took photographs of everything. The lichen stone wall and the pond plump with Fantails. The blossoming berry trees and layers of wild thyme and violets, crisscrossing the lawn like fragrant commuters hurrying on their way home.

           The sunflowers in the rear left quadrant still had their lemony-bright heads although a few of them seemed to be supporting their backs with their long, leafy limbs; stooping like old men who had been working the railroads all day. She didn’t take any pictures of them. They seemed shy in their weariness.

The next morning, she showed Clifford. “Your garden is stupendous. Look! Everything is in blossom.”

“But what about my sunflowers?”

“They’re fine. I just ran out of time.” She fidgeted as she said it and Clifford knew she was lying

 “I just wish I could see them. Tend to them a little. They’re very sensitive, you know.”

The doctor patted his arm. “Don’t worry, soon you’ll be home. Now you keep the photos. I have medications to dispense.”

She walked briskly from the room, absentmindedly leaving her keys on the side table next to a half-finished coffee.

Clifford grinned.

“Don’t worry,” he said out loud to no one but the clock. “I’ll bring the keys back tomorrow.”

And the clock gave a tick.

*

Late evening and the moon was hanging like a lopsided smile.

“Turn away,” he shouted at it as he scaled the hospital walls.

When he reached the perimeter of his garden, he could smell the musty damp of wood and moss. The trees were hushed but he could hear the tiny blip blip of Fantails’ mouths in the pond.

 Bliss.

Suddenly, he heard a noise.

           Someone was working in the garden. No. Wait. Maybe three or four. Pushing wheelbarrows, mulching soil. Some were bent over, talking to the weeds. Not pulling them out exactly, but rather coaxing them to perhaps find another place to live. He didn’t recognize any of the workers. They were lanky with long legs, like stilt men, but their heads were disproportionate, big. He thought them to be graceful, but he didn’t want to disturb them. Gardeners were a territorial breed and dangerous when wielding pitchforks.

           He crept down the back to where his sunflowers were. But they were nowhere to be seen. Their beds had been roused but they were long gone.

“Oh no,” Clifford moaned, laying down in the soil “They’re gone.”

He began sobbing into the earth until the moon lost its smile.

*

The next morning Clifford woke up back in the hospital.

“You took my keys,” the doctor said. “Luckily, my boyfriend and I found you before anyone noticed.”

“Oh,” said Clifford glumly. “My sunflowers are gone.”

“I wouldn’t say they were gone, exactly. A little weary looking, perhaps.”

“You mean, they’re still there?”

“Of course, that’s where we found you. Sleeping among their stems.”

“But last night they weren’t there, I swear.”

The doctor smiled.

“Probably off gallivanting, as sunflowers are wont to do.”

“Bad sunflowers,” scowled Clifford. “I thought they had left me.”

“O, I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” the doctor said.