Chapter 3 #2
Beyond the low-lying pit of sunken plants lies home.
We affectionately call it the fairy house, as do most people—a trend that started when Ivy and I were in elementary school.
Having never found evidence of fairies, I cannot verify their existence.
But an A-frame house is unusual for the area, especially one nestled into the trees and surrounded by gardens.
At night, with the interior lights on and string lights twinkling in the gardens, it looks rather ethereal—like the house and grounds exude their own bioluminescence, only ours is a warm light rather than a cold one, like at sea.
Dad constructed the greenhouse from old windows, including a gorgeous stained-glass circle rescued from an old church.
There, the light isn’t just golden, but a twinkling rainbow of greens, ambers, and purples.
It’s understandable why people might associate it with mythical woodland creatures and their luminescent fairy dust. Growing up, Ivy and I resisted the fairy label, but as we got older, we came to embrace it, realizing it was another unchangeable view not worth fighting.
In high school, Ivy and I posted a sign in the front yard—Don’t piss off the fairies!
I chuckle at the sight of it in the distance, glad Dad hasn’t taken it down.
Perhaps it’ll be good to be home.
I hop down from the decking to the garden, my suitcase thumping against the wooden planks and banging onto a cement paver. I beeline for the other side, head lowered to watch my step.
“Excuse me!” the woman calls, speedwalking toward me. “Excuse me!”
Her second declaration forces me to stop, as I imagine Dad imploring me not to be rude.
“Excuse me,” she says, softer this time as they hurry over. “We’re trying to find the Venus flytraps, but we’re having trouble. Has something happened to them?”
My heavy backpack nearly knocks me over when I lean down to the moss near my hiking boots and point to the tiny plants nestled into the underbrush.
“They’re so small,” she muses.
“I’ll get a stick. Let’s see if we can get it to—”
“No! Don’t. Instigating the trap expends an exorbitant amount of energy for them,” I say. “Doing so could mean they go hungry. You’ll hurt the plant.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
My narrowed, stern gaze diminishes his easy-going smile.
“We’ll behave,” the woman promises, as her dog lifts his leg and pees against a tuft of pitcher plants.
My grip strangles the suitcase handle as I leave them without another word. Engaging them further might lead me to do something regrettable, like calling them eco-hostiles or peeing on their discarded bikes to mark my territory.
Humans are the worst invasive species.
Across the garden, I climb the short embankment, pass our sign, and roll over the small dirt lane.
The absence of my father’s ancient Land Rover tells me he must be out.
It’s a Friday afternoon, and he could be anywhere—in his office at the university or the lab, meeting with colleagues, in a swamp hunting for more specimens, or playing chess with strangers at Greenfield Park. He has diverse interests.
Movement catches my eye on the extended deck, where a man I don’t recognize waters the potted plants and flower boxes along the railing.
He twirls around as if dancing to an inaudible tune, swishing the floral smock he wears and splashing water from his purple watering can.
What looks like a paperback sticks out from the rear pocket of his worn blue jeans.
His gray hair is kept away from his face by a red bandana, endearing me to him.
I am rarely without a scarf tied to my head or dangling from my hair, as I find them useful and convenient, especially in the field.
With a spin and flick of his hips, his eyes land on me, and he goes still.
Is he Dad’s housekeeper? Renter? Is he trespassing?
His long face flashes into an unnaturally wide smile. It stretches all the way to his ears and eyes. “Venus! You’re here!”
He plops the watering can down, claps his hands, and nearly tumbles down the deck stairs.
For a moment, I fear he might embrace me.
Instead, he takes my suitcase and eases the heavy backpack off my shoulders, swinging it around his.
“It’s absolutely thrilling to meet you. We wondered when you might get in. ”
“Who are you?”
He waves a hand in the air. His fingernails are painted neon green. “Oh, forgive me. Richard told me he hadn’t mentioned me yet. You must be completely confused. I’m Christie. Ed Christie, but I go by Christie.”
He extends his hand while balancing my bags and leading me up the deck stairs. I engage in a light handshake and ask again, “Who are you? And how do you identify?”
His broad shoulders lower as he beams with appreciation. “What a thoughtful question. I’m gender non-conforming. My pronoun is he, but they is fine, too.” He takes a steeling breath. “I’m your father’s partner.”
I stop on the top step and stare at him quizzically. “Partner? Business, academic, bridge? Could you be more specific?”
“Romantic,” he says with a smile before opening the front door to usher me inside.
“But my father doesn’t have romantic partners,” I say, utterly confused now.
“Believe me, it surprised us both,” he beams. “But the heart wants what the heart wants, as they say.”
I resist the urge to argue that the heart is an organ that pumps blood through our bodies—it doesn’t have wants, so to speak. But something tells me the conversation would be futile. “Is he here?”
“He’s grocery shopping for tonight’s dinner. Don’t worry. I gave him a specific list, so he doesn’t wander aimlessly. You know how he is.”
“Um, I do.” The fact that my father wanders in grocery stores feels like intimate knowledge, strengthening Christie’s claim of a romantic partnership. Still, this information stumps me.
Christie rolls my suitcase to a stop in the open living room. He sets my bag down beside it, takes a deep breath, and rests his hands on his hips. “It’s so perfect that you’re here for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“Ivy’s bringing her new beau over to meet your father. I already know Gil. He’s a sweet soul—you’ll love him,” he says. “I’m making lasagna.”
Though lasagna sounds wonderful, I feel myself unraveling at his rapid-fire information.
My hands fist at my sides as tension fills me.
My father has a romantic partner? Ivy has a new boyfriend?
They have plans together? Dinner with Ivy, Dad, and two veritable strangers isn’t the homecoming I anticipated.
My deadpan expression meets his excited one, and he takes me in, his grin falling into concern. “How about I take your bags upstairs, and when you’re ready, you can join me for a cup of tea? Your father’s hibiscus honey blend is lovely.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, but heaves my luggage upstairs. I follow slowly, taking in the familiarity of home. The buttery wood walls, the faint scent of Dad’s teas, and the warm light of his Tiffany-style lamps. It’s minimal, but comfortable.
But there are differences besides Christie.
I take in the expansive great room with its practical navy blue sectional—one end covered with folded throw blankets because Ivy and I routinely needed them—and my father’s worn leather chair.
His side table is stacked with books and scientific journals, in which he often appears for commentary.
But beside his reading materials are paperbacks featuring couples in varying states of undress, Christie’s presumably.
A newer leather chair with a matching ottoman has been placed between my father’s side table and the fireplace.
Christie must be important to my father to have his own chair.
I head upstairs, noticing that the formerly barren wall is now covered in framed prints.
Not just any prints, but my artwork—drawings that I gave to Dad growing up.
A baby turtle hiding in the grass behind our house.
A squirrel’s nest I observed while climbing a tree.
A cardinal pecking for worms under a bush.
My artwork often helped me express myself when I couldn’t do so otherwise. Only the best drawings from my field journals became gifts, after Henry lit up when I first gave him one, a frog we played with once.
“Frank the Frog. I love it. I’ll keep it always,” he said—a promise I’m sure he didn’t keep.
The absence returns, an ache in my chest. Home sometimes hurts.
“We’ve made some upgrades,” Christie says as I meet him on the landing, “to make it more comfortable. No more twin beds or Ivy’s stuffed animals.”
I turn the corner into the loft bedroom to find a full-sized bed adorned with plush, hotel-style linens in sage and gray.
Soft light from the skylights overhead creates rectangles on the bedding.
The large windows bring the outside in, and the glass door leads to an outer deck.
A cedar chest has been added, and it holds my old notebooks, probably a hundred filled journals, some bursting at duct-taped seams for the many feathers, leaves, dried flowers, and even the occasional dirt or bark sample I tucked within the pages.
Christie hovers over me, as if gauging my reaction. “Your father wanted them kept safe. It must be fun to see all of your journals in one place.”
“Not all,” I correct weakly, “but yes. It’s very organized.”
It’s a wonder that he kept them, let alone stored them so carefully.
They’re messy and rudimentary, but these remnants of my past show skill and promise.
Instead of trophies, certificates, and acceptable grades, I had these.
Being a so-called genius proved detrimental in school. There, I rarely, if ever, felt smart.
My work desk is clean, as if waiting for me, but the shelves above it are still lined with specimen jars and beakers.
The small plant clippings I once propagated are now mature plants.
The thick vines of a half-dozen varieties of pothos curl along the shelves and climb the wall, latching onto the wooden surface with their aerial roots.
They will soon crest the ceiling if I don’t trim it back.
Still, I love plants that go wherever the hell they want.
“I love this room,” Christie coos, opening up the balcony doors with a flourish. “It feels like a treehouse.”
All I can say is, “Yes, it does.”
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, with a delicate pat on my shoulder. “When you’re ready, come downstairs for tea and nibbles. You must be peckish.”
Christie disappears, and I step outside, reveling in the pines and oaks surrounding me.
The viney trellis hangs off the balcony’s side, latched between the railings and the house, and is where I used to climb down and escape, usually to Henry’s house.
Sometimes, he climbed up to see me. On closer inspection, I spot a familiar broken slat.
Though Henry was slight in his younger years, by tenth grade, he was taller than me.
By our senior year, he'd filled into his six-foot-two frame, his branches thick with muscle and his base broad at the shoulders, like a stick-figure, expanded and broadened with lines and colors that added richness and depth.
He was exquisite, and, at eighteen, too substantial for the trellis. The wood split when he climbed up it.
“Meet me in the greenhouse.” His words flutter into my thoughts like tired wings.
My fingernails dig into the wood railing as I stare at the overgrown path toward his house.
We were back and forth so much then that the trail just appeared underfoot.
Now, short grasses fill in what used to be upturned dirt from my boots and his sneakers.
His childhood home is a half-mile through the trees to the northwest, a ten-minute walk.
I wonder if he’s there. Somehow, I feel him there, making the ache inside of me gnaw and throb as it grows. I’m a parasite, desperate to reclaim the sanctity of my host. To feel wanted again. To feel… liked. To feel his arms securely around me, holding me in place.
I survived my so-called education by two conditions: first, that it was best to keep my head low and my mouth shut, though I was not very good at either.
My second was Henry. To this day, he’s the only friend I’ve ever had.
I imagine taking our path, making it worn and clear again, and tapping gently on his bedroom window until he stirs and lets me in, sleepy-eyed but smiling to welcome me.
Like it used to be.
Like nothing happened.
Like we could erase the time between.
Like we could have a second chance.
That unwelcome tension in me grows. The longing to see him is fierce and unrelenting, a lightning bolt of needy energy. Do it. Just do it.
But reason steps in, shutting down my impulse. I must accept what I cannot change. I’m still me, and he’s still better off without me.
I need to put Henry Greene out of my mind.
Or, at least, do what I always do—tuck his memory into a dim corner where it doesn’t hurt quite so much, and only pull it out in the quiet at night, when I’m alone and desperate to feel something, even if it’s sadness. I’ve become skilled at deflection and distraction.
Only it’s a challenge relying on those skills here.
With deep, strengthening breaths, I close my eyes and square my shoulders.
I’ve been at sea, atop mountains, in deep jungles, and in a myriad of dangerous situations, and I’ve survived them all.
I can survive this. I put on my comfortably numb armor and prepare myself to face the family that has gone on without me.