The Gardener

   Pat’s house always smelled of wet soil. She would get so excited when new seedlings popped up, even after twenty years of gardening. She could make anything grow, including lost boys. 

  At first I resented her. I thought she collected us, like old, tattered books. I thought she wanted to make us over, to make something presentable, something of no substance for her guests to admire. I grew to know that she wasn’t in the business of restoration. Pat just wanted to preserve our stories, to make sure the damage wasn’t irreversible. She adopted four boys from foster care, I was the last.

  When I came to Pat’s house I was twelve. It was the first time I was removed from my mother. Now I can admit that I was scared, but back then anger was my go-to emotion because it was all I knew. It tinted everything around me. I thought Pat was ugly, I loathed her smelly house, and most of all I hated her plants. That shit was everywhere. 

   I cannot stress enough how many plants she had. There was no lawn around her house, instead, she had flowers. I remember swatting at a dozen bees before we even got to the front door. It wasn’t much better inside. There were plants on tables, side tables, and window seals. She even had plants hanging from the ceiling. They all looked the same and they took up so much space. It was like her house had two ingredients, plants and photos of her sons, everything else was an afterthought. 

 I’ve been with Pat for about six months when I finally understood. We were getting along well enough. I had my own room that, to my relief, was plant-free. Every day Pat would ask me if I wanted to help in the garden. And every day I declined. I wanted nothing to do with the earth. Warms and bugs grossed me out and I didn’t want to get dirty. Pat’s hands were always filthy when she came back inside. 

   That day I had a visit with my mother. I wanted to go back to her so desperately. I saw that she wasn’t sober. I could smell the grime when we hugged. I wondered if the water has been shut off again. But I was a child, and I couldn’t process it. 

  It was a long ride back to Pat’s house and I stewed in my anger all the way there. I decided it was Pat’s fault that I couldn’t go home. She already had photos of me hanging next to her other sons. It was just me and her, all the other boys were grown. I used to stare at their pictures and envy their escape from this greenhouse. She must’ve wanted me to replace them. 

  When I got to Pat’s house I was intent on hurting her. If she hated me she would kick me out. If she kicked me out I could go home. I grabbed any plant that I could reach. I smashed three before Pat got to me. She wrapped around me. We tumbled to the floor. I was fighting her, but I was a scrawny kid and she was an experienced foster parent. First came the scream, then the tears and then I felt myself dissolve into her. I didn’t want to keep fighting, I just wanted her to hold me. She rocked me for a while, running her fingers through my hair. When my sobs subsided she helped me stand up. I expected her to lecture, or yell or worst of all to call the social worker and have me removed, but of course she did none of these things. Instead Pat asked me to help her repot the damaged plants.

  As I held the broken stems I felt shame. I didn’t believe that the plants could recover, but I followed Pat’s instructions and put them in the earth anyway. I was surprised every day to find them alive. The healing power of care was evident in their growth. Eventually I moved them to my room. I looked at the waterfall print on the snake plant’s leaves and the spikes on the aloe vera and wondered how I never noticed their differences. I watered them diligently and when the philodendron grew a new heart-shaped leaf I felt like I just got a new puppy. That was the week I started helping Pat outside.

  I had to start my day with a walk through the garden. It centered me for the rest of the day. I would run my fingers along the leaves. They were usually still wet with the morning dew. My favorite was the basil. The smell lingered on my fingers and filled the air. In the afternoons I would harvest vegetables for our meals. In the evening I would water. The garden was all-consuming, and it was a relief to think of something else, besides my circumstances.

  My mother never overcame her addiction. Pat adopted me a year later. It wasn’t perfect, but we became a family. As I grew older I had less and less time to garden. When I moved out I stopped completely. First I had no space in my dorm room, then no balcony in my apartment, and then no time in my house. It was always something that I would get to later. Then Pat died. 

   I haven’t been home in a year, my job has kept me away. Yesterday my brothers and I cleared her house. Her garden was overgrown, Pat had arthritis towards the end. My brothers helped her weed, but they didn’t have the attention to detail that I did.

  As I went through her things, taking the photos off the walls, I wondered if I should’ve stayed closer, worked less and gardened more. I though there was time to come back, a human mistake to make.

  Me and my brothers each took as many plants as we could. We gave away the rest to her neighbors. On the drive home the snake plant I broke so many years ago sat shotgun. It was thriving. We were both thriving because Pat could make anything grow, including lost boys.