12. Sylvia
SYLVIA
I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t Mike answering all of Sierra’s questions. I know my daughter has enough curiosity to exhaust even the most patient of individuals, but evidently not Mike.
Or maybe not yet.
I don’t remember him being much of a talker. He still takes his time making a reply, considering the possibilities before he speaks. I still love the sound of his voice.
It’s clear that he loves what he does. His enthusiasm for his work can’t be disguised.
He was surprised that I stopped drawing and that makes my heart glow. He couldn’t have realized how important his gift would be to me, how an abundance of art supplies could urge me to reclaim something I’d surrendered.
I didn’t expect this smaller farm as our destination, or the delighted (and delightful) older gentleman who came to greet us. I sure wasn’t expecting to see the man – Rupert – give Mike an impulsive hug or to feel my eyes fill with tears when Mike grins outright at Sierra.
I didn’t expect to feel like we could be a family on an outing, like we belonged together exactly like this.
I didn’t expect it to feel right, not ever, and certainly not immediately.
But I do and some weight slides from my shoulders.
This feels easy and instead of analyzing that, I just go with it.
They say no one is an island, but I’ve been a fortress for a long time.
It’s not all bad to have someone else on watch.
When I’m with Mike, I feel as if everything will work out just fine.
Maybe he’s so convinced of it that his view is contagious. I don’t know, but it feels good.
Safe.
I hold onto Mike’s hand, liking the warmth of his fingers around mine, liking the way his forearm brushes against me. When he glances down, there’s a glow in his eyes that makes my heart flutter. I feel attractive and young, and it’s not all bad.
It’s when we enter the greenhouse that I start to see things, really see things the way I used to.
It begins with the sunlight, slanting through the shades in alternating bands.
I notice Rupert’s hands, his arthritic knuckles and the protruding veins, the hands of a man who has worked hard all of his life, his fingers tanned and spotted and lean, and I wish I’d brought a sketchbook.
I see the way the tomato plants twine around each other, how the leaves are unfurled and reaching for the sunlight, how delicate the flowers are. How did I forget to look like this? How did I forget to bring a sketchbook? I’ll never go anywhere without one again.
Why am I suddenly able to see again? Is it because Sierra is busy with Rupert? Because Mike is watching over all of us? Because I don’t have to be everything for everyone in this moment and can take a little time for myself? I don’t know and, in a way, it doesn’t matter .
This moment, this afternoon, is a gift, and I’m taking it.
“But why not just grow tomatoes outside?” Sierra demands and Rupert gestures to Mike.
“We used to,” Mike cedes. “When I was a kid, our crops were all outside.”
“Why change?”
“Because it’s more efficient. When you grow outside, you have to hope for good weather.
There could be a late frost and you could lose your seedlings.
There could be an early frost and you could lose part of the crop.
The summer could be too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry.
When you think about it, it’s a huge gamble, each and every year. ”
“But not in a greenhouse?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “The plants are sheltered, which means they can be nurtured. If I know that tomato seedlings prefer a certain temperature, I can give them that temperature, exactly, twenty-four seven.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. 21 to 27 degrees Celsius in daytime and 16 to 18 at night.” Sierra beams that she has a number. “They also like to have the soil at a specific temperature. Plus, we can provide the humidity level they prefer and the amount of water. I don’t have to wait for sun and rain.”
Sierra nods. “You can give the tomatoes their perfect tomato world.”
Mike smiles. “Pretty much. And because of that, I can plant earlier in the year, which gives me a longer growing season and a better yield.”
“More tomatoes.”
“Which means more money from the crop and a whole lot less uncertainty.”
“Why doesn’t everybody grow in greenhouses, then?”
“A lot of people around here do. Take a look at Empire on Google Maps sometime and switch to the satellite. You’re going to see an amazing number of large black rectangles around here.”
I know she will do this as soon as she gets home. She tries it on her phone, then mutters about the cellphone service being crap.
I can’t hide my amusement and neither apparently can Mike. Our gazes meet over Sierra’s head and my heart goes thump. There’s a warmth in his eyes that makes me all hot inside, and I have to look away again.
Rupert leads Sierra further into the greenhouse, fielding her many (many) questions with good humour, leaving Mike and I to follow behind and listen.
I’m smelling the tomato vines in the sunlight, feeling the warmth radiating from the gravel underfoot.
I smell flowers, too, and feel the slight breeze coming through the vents.
It takes me right back to that summer and when Mike gives my fingers a little squeeze, I have to think he’s there, too. I glance toward him and he smiles at me, his eyes alight with possibilities.
I want to grab every one of them and forget everything else.
Rupert is asking Sierra about what she plans to grow, how much of it she’ll be producing, what she’s going to do with any excess that Merrie doesn’t need. He’s prompting her to think and plan, and though she looks back at Mike for guidance, he shrugs.
“It’s your project. You need to make the plan,” he says, and that seems to be enough for her.
Once again, she’s asking questions, this time about yields and schedules, and I see Mike’s smile.
“You must be proud of her,” he murmurs, guiding me around a hose left coiled on the floor. “She’s so clear thinking. ”
“She was always analytical,” I say. “Always a planner and a puzzle solver.”
Always like Mike.
Rupert defers to him again, and Mike steps forward. I stand back and listen, smiling at the way he and Sierra interact so intuitively. I feel like they recognize something in each other and will be finishing each other’s sentences soon.
And once more I feel a little ache that I could lose her.
“So, what herbs are you going to grow?” Mike asks, pulling out his phone to make notes.
“Basil.” Sierra is sure.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know!”
Mike shakes his head. “But you need to decide. See?” He holds up his phone. “There are small leaf basils and large leaf ones, as well as a lot of varieties with different flavours.”
“Hundreds of varieties,” Rupert agrees. “Not all do well in the greenhouse.”
Sierra looks between them. “The kind with the big leaves. That’s what Merrie likes.”
“Genoese,” Mike says, then reads. “It’s prone to fusarium wilt, which is easy to get in a greenhouse, especially one open to the elements on good days. So, you’ll want to look for varieties that are resistant to that.”
“Can’t I choose them later?”
“But the variety you choose is going to determine how you plant it, maybe even when, and what your yields might be like.”
“And that will help you decide how much to plant,” Rupert adds.
“You’ll want to ask Merrie how much she thinks she can use per week,” Mike says.
“And you might have to do multiple plantings per season,” Rupert contributes. “I plant cilantro every third week from May on. You just can’t hold it in the heat. It’s better to start with new plants at regular intervals.”
“Leaf lettuce is like that, too,” Mike says and Rupert nods.
“Slow up!” Sierra says, her thumbs flying over her phone.
They don’t.
“And you can forget spinach in the summer,” Rupert says. “It’s better to plant two crops, spring and fall, since it likes cooler nights.”
“Maybe three if the season is long.”
“Or if you can lengthen it with glass or plastic tunnelling.”
If they think they’re going to intimidate Sierra with all this information, they’ve both got it wrong.
She already has her stubborn look, the one she gets when she’s determined to solve something.
“Where do I research that?” she demands, and Mike gives her a list of website urls.
She types as quickly as he recites them, saving them for later.
“You might have to use a book,” Rupert says. “Or a catalogue. I’ll lend you a few.”
“That would be awesome. Thank you!”
Mike glances up as a bee flies right past his face, watching it head toward the blooms on the tomato plants.
“Wait. You have bees in here?” Sierra demands. “On purpose?”
“You need them for pollination,” I say, because I know that much. “Otherwise, there’d be flowers but no fruit.”
Mike shrugs. “Technically, a lot of the hybrids we grow are self-pollinating, so there’d be some fruit even without bees. The plants are more productive when there are bees, though.”
“I did a project on bees and the environment. We need bees.”
“They’re important,” Mike agrees.
“And they come inside by choice?” she asks Rupert.
“If there’s a reason,” Rupert says. “My greenhouse isn’t controlled like the ones Mike manages.
I open the doors and the vents on sunny days, and there are no screens.
See in this back corner? I plant some flowers for the bees.
” I recognize the purple coneflower, but there are a number of annuals, too.
“It gives them a reason to visit, then once they’re here, they see what else I’ve got.
” He nods. “And I need them. The heritage varieties I’m trying out this year don’t self-pollinate. ”
“Bees for the win,” Sierra says and he grins.
“Exactly.” Rupert nods toward the hives we can barely make out on the far side of his fields. “Wouldn’t be here without the bees.”
Sierra studies them for a long moment, then turns to Mike. “And you have bees?”