Chapter 4 #2
The night passes pleasantly enough, especially once I make myself a Vodka Cranberry from Dad’s bar cabinet.
I observe their interactions and show customary interest in Gil’s job as a software developer, his gaming hobby, and his large family, as well as Christie and Ivy’s mutual appreciation of the romance genre.
Everyone enjoys Christie’s lasagna. Buster settles after seemingly pointless running, wrapping himself into a tight ball under the table.
I long to get up, explore, and be on my own. Prolonged conversation exhausts me. I imagine it’s like a muscle that must be exercised daily over time to succeed in a long marathon like this. But I endeavor to see this through, to once more feel a part of the family.
Still, I don’t belong. The couples engage in what I can only assume is their typical affection—holding hands, occasional kisses, and constantly leaning in toward each other, as if they’re unable to communicate effectively outside of a three-centimeter range.
This creates two pockets, one on either side of me at the round table, and highlights my aloneness.
I don’t say much at dinner, unless asked directly.
Keeping my head down and mouth shut prevents difficulties.
But once the vodka achieves its numbing effect, impulse takes over, and I blurt the question that’s bothered me since learning that my father has succumbed to romantic feelings.
“What happened to romantic love being a construct, perpetuated by society, religion, and the need to procreate? Independence showed true strength, you said. Depending on another person to feel complete undervalues our worth and makes us reliant on a fantasy for our happiness. Makes them reliant, too. Romantic love is a burden. That’s what you told me. ”
Despite my conversational tone, the table falls silent. A Carolina barn owl hoots overhead, as if citing my faux pas. People don’t like being called hypocrites, I can hear Dr. Broderick saying. Ivy’s obvious irritation strangles me from across the table.
Dad sets down his napkin with a thoughtful, “Hmm. I failed to factor in the soulmate equation and the immense power of a… what do you call it? A meet-cute?”
Laughter roars across the table, and Christie practically falls out of his chair, gushing, “Yes, a meet-cute! You’re learning my book terms!”
“Meet-cutes are my favorite,” Ivy coos. “Gil and I met over a game board—he let me win. That’s how I knew!”
“Seeing you smile mattered more than winning,” he grins, slipping his lanky arm around her shoulders.
Flummoxed by Dad’s non-answer, I sip my drink and say nothing as stories about how they met and when they knew float blissfully across the table.
I knew many times with Henry. Though I didn’t understand my feelings then. At the time, it felt sacrilegious, or at least disrespectful, not to put my complete trust in my father’s words. His lifestyle and our unique family unit proved his claim against romance to be true.
Even so, Henry was different.
I knew when we first met in second grade. He cut through our property to go home rather than take the bus, and, so surprised to see someone in my woods, I fell out of a tree right in front of him.
Or maybe I fell on purpose—my motives are murky now.
He dropped to my side and asked, “You okay?” in a tone that suggested genuine concern.
Once I assured him I was fine and that falling out of trees happens to me frequently, he laughed and joked, “That’s because people don’t belong in trees,” and I couldn’t fault his logic.
He helped me up and asked how to get home.
I understood his confusion. Things look different in the woods.
We talked the entire journey to his house, the longest conversation I’d had with a peer.
I knew almost right away that I’d love him if romantic love existed.
I couldn’t decide without further evidence.
At the time, all I knew was that he didn’t seem to mind me—not my scientific facts, my lazy filter, or my so-called difficulties.
He was curious, insightful, patient, more intelligent than most, and had a smile that favored his left cheek in a delightfully asymmetrical way, like a lopsided ice cream cone—sweet and tempting me to catch it before it fell away.
When that lopsided smile sat across from me at lunch a few days later, my endearment grew into hope.
I knew love existed the first time he held me close amid a loud and tumultuous storm as we hovered, scared, in our lean-to.
We were eight. He latched onto me when the crack of lightning hit nearby, shaking the ground underneath us.
“I don’t like this, Venus,” he said, voice trembling as his breath tickled my neck.
“It’s okay. You’re with me. Everything’ll be okay,” I said, pulling him tighter, and feeling, all at once, this beautiful relief, like his touch untied the knots inside me.
The tighter he held me, the better I felt, like he was an anchor holding me in place.
When the danger ended, we slowly let go, but he said, “Thanks, Venus. I, um, didn’t mean to be a baby.”
“A baby?” I retorted. “You’re not a baby.”
He shrugged, looking sheepish and bothered. “My dad calls me that sometimes.” Even thinking about it forced him to use his inhaler.
“He’s wrong. You’re the bravest, kindest person I know. Everyone gets scared. I was scared. You made me feel… better. Safe, actually.”
I meant every word, despite his shock. He had to be the bravest and kindest—he was friends with me.
His surprise drifted softly into something like pride, like he couldn’t believe himself to be any more than a tagalong on my adventures.
“Me? Really? I, um, didn’t think you even liked me all that much. Your face always looks so… bored.”
“Henry, examine the evidence. I wouldn’t build a lean-to with anyone I didn’t like.
Besides, my face doesn’t… I don’t look…” Struggling to find the right words, I used my father’s.
“I didn’t come with as many smiles as other people.
However, their rarity makes them more precious.
That doesn’t mean I’m not smiling on the inside. ”
His eyes widened behind his round, rain-specked glasses. “Are you smiling now?”
The question made me laugh. “Yes.”
“Good,” he said with a cough.
“You’re soaked. Your mom’ll be mad. Let’s get you home.”
But halfway there, he turned to me. “Venus, whenever you want to feel better… I’m here.”
I took him up on his offer, and knew again, the first time I tapped on his bedroom window, desperate for an escape from the trouble I was in at home—I forget the infraction that time. He let me in and held me until the sun rose enough to find my way home again. We were twelve.
And all the times thereafter. I don’t think I could pick one moment. It was every moment.
I went on to climb mountains instead of trees, explore biomes instead of backyards, and try to make a difference, but only because he’d made such a difference to me.
I knew the night I told him. I love you, Henry. In the greenhouse. That last night.
Soon, darkness falls, and the automatic twinkling lights come on, warming the deck and gardens in a soft glow.
I’m reminded of the stars at sea, flickering, and moonlight catching the tips of waves—the warmth and welcome of light.
Ivy and Christie coo collectively, as if this doesn’t happen daily.
But I understand the appeal. It’s always been a lovely home, an oasis.
Once the plates are cleared and a tiramisu is served, Dad says, “Congratulations on your discovery.”
“Oh, what discovery?” Christie coos.
Before I can explain, Dad says, “Henricus filicis. It was in the department’s newsletter.”
I fidget with my bracelets under the table as the others give me questioning looks.
“The Henry fern,” Dad finishes. “Venus discovered a new species, and that’s what she named it.”
“New species are discovered every day,” I say, warding off their commentary. “It’s not that surprising for a botanist. Its distinguishing characteristic is that brownish seed balls appear on its fronds, similar to dandelions, that scatter easily into the air. It’s prevalent in North Wales.”
The stares continue as if I’m not explaining myself well.
“Who’s Henry?” Gil asks with a playful smile. I wish we could revert to nervous-Gil, the one who didn’t ask pointed questions.
“Venus’s best friend, boyfriend, soulmate,” Ivy says shortly, leaning closer to him. “Or he once was. Do you plan on seeing him while you’re here?”
“No!”
Buster startles at my bark, answering with a determined yap.
Ivy tilts her head, glancing from Dad to me again. “Well, you know—”
“Venus doesn’t want to discuss Henry,” Dad says suddenly. It’s unlike him to interrupt or come to my aid. He fiddles with his napkin, nodding toward my sister. “So, we shouldn’t.”
Christie follows Dad’s lead by explaining the special espresso beans that give his tiramisu its delicious flavor. I retreat inside for a refill on my Vodka Cranberry.
When dinner ends, people linger in the living room over coffee and tea.
I thank them all for a lovely evening, as is customary, and wander alone through my father’s lush backyard, a maze of herbs, vegetables, greenery, and flowers.
But even his upgraded irrigation system and blooming rose bushes around the perimeter fail to keep me from glancing over my shoulder at our old trail.
My impulses should be muffled, like distant voices—I’m on medication and took a second dose this afternoon in preparation for socializing—but they conspire anyway in corners, under my breath.
My fists tighten, and tension grows as I force myself in the opposite direction, toward the greenhouse.
It’s illogical to think he’s out there, at his childhood home. It’s even more illogical to think he’d want to see me, even if he were. If he thinks of me at all, he must hate me.
Hate me.
I push into the greenhouse, sloshing my drink on my hand.
I’m greeted by the soft trickle of water moving gently through Dad’s carnivorous bog.
The twinkling lights outside shine through the greenhouse’s recycled window panes and the circular stained-glass window over the door, creating amber and green flecks of light that dance around my boots.
It’s a heavenly place, warm and full of memories.
Through the tall pitcher plants and low, but ominous flytraps, I make my way to our garden, mine and Henry’s—a raised bed in the corner that Dad gave us to do whatever we so desired.
Every summer, we planned what we’d grow and harvested everything from cucumbers and tomatoes to blueberries, strawberries, and sunflowers (though the bed was too small to accommodate the giant flowers).
Among the diverse, lush greenery, our bed lies empty and dry.
The door thwacks after Dad wanders in, promptly stuffing his hands in his pockets when he sees me hovering over the dirt pile.
“I told you to use this space,” I remind him, “the last time I was here and many times before that.”
“Hmm, I didn’t need it, but since you’re here for the summer, you’re welcome to—”
“No, I’m not starting a garden. I’ll take care of yours, but that’s it.”
He nods, edges closer, and tugs a weed from the base of his container plants. He flicks the unwanted invader into a compost bin on his cluttered workstation. “Venus, my remarks about romantic love were taken out of context.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, stepping toward the door.
“Wait. Take a breath. Hear me out. Remember what I always say. Listening is loving.”
I stop, huff, and face him.
“You were eleven, remember? And frustrated, over your peers’ fascinations with boy bands, princess movies, and pop culture-isms that you weren’t interested in.
You felt left out. I explained why they were drawn to such things to help you understand—hormones, social constructs, and yes, romantic love.
Strengthening your independence felt more important than humoring ideas that, frankly, you were too young to entertain.
I thought undermining those notions would make you feel better about your situation. ”
“Make me feel better about being alone, that is,” I conclude for him.
“I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s for the best.” I force a weak smile.
“It must be strange for you,” he says after a breath, “coming home to all of this change.”
“Change is life’s most-kept promise. That’s what you used to say.”
“It’s true,” he chuckles. “I’m fifty-six years old.
Twice in my life, change has rescued me from my dormancy and pushed me, once by design and then by accident, into my best seasons—first, when I became a father, and second, when I found love.
I’m sorry I ever called it a burden. Love is freedom, Venus.
To be yourself without compromise, to discover your passion, to belong. This is what I hope for you.”
“I know where I belong—away from here,” I say, with numb resignation. “My hope for me is to be an adequate replacement for you and get through this summer as quickly as possible. Goodnight.”
I leave him, once again desperate to be alone.