Chapter Thirty-Eight
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WEDNESDAY
I’m awakened by the scents of cinnamon and coffee.
I stretch under the comforter, bare legs on cool sheets, and can sense without looking that I’m alone in the bed.
When I open my eyes, a white curtain is floating above me, the breeze pushing it up and up, until it sighs down.
There’s a pastry on a napkin atop the stack of books on Dev’s night table.
And a note: “Yesterday’s cinnamon roll, but still good.
There’s a clean towel on the chair, hot water if your shower’s quick.
Coffee on the stove. I’m in the garden.”
I grab my shirt off the floor, put it on, and tiptoe over to the front window.
Dev is at the other side of the garden, by his mother’s house, pushing a shovel into the ground with his foot.
I wonder how long he’s been out there. After a typical hookup, I’m out of bed first, making coffee, ready to start the day, on my own.
I tap on the window, and Dev looks my way, a hand over his brow.
He smiles and spears his shovel into the ground.
He spreads out his arms as if to present his garden on this sunny day.
I splay my palms against the window—ten minutes.
Hair twisted up in a knot, I take a quick shower.
Despite the lack of sleep last night, I’m already, or still, buzzing.
I get dressed, down some coffee, have a few bites of the cinnamon roll.
It’s surprisingly bright outside, the warmest day we’ve had yet.
The plants are still damp with dew, and some flowers already open to the sun.
I know only a few of them—iris, peonies, some tulips on their last days.
I ask Dev for a tour of the garden, and he takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s cultivated every patch of land. There are rows of seedlings just starting to come up and dirt beds with no signs of growth, their names written on plastic tags in Dev’s neat, slanted handwriting.
There will be tomatoes, garlic, carrots, peas, and rocket, which I think is arugula.
Sorrel, rhubarb, and fennel, and a whole section of herbs—rosemary, coriander, dill, and oregano.
Climbing up a trellis behind the herb garden is another plant I recognize, hollyhock, though it hasn’t flowered yet.
“That was my mother’s favorite,” I say. “She told me once she almost named me Holly, but my father, who was Jewish, thought it sounded too Christmassy. So she turned to Wuthering Heights instead.”
“You’re named for Catherine Earnshaw?”
Ten points for Dev for knowing another Bronte.
“Don’t remind me,” I say. “She was ghastly.”
“She was wild with emotion,” he says.
“Exactly.”
He laughs. “I meant it as a good thing.”
We move through the rows, Dev bending down from time to time to pull out a weed. He disentangles a delicate stem from a bushy plant as tenderly as a mother pushing an errant curl off her baby’s forehead. He picks up a tray of tiny seedlings. “These are ready to plant.”
“Can I help?”
Dev hands me the seedlings and points to an empty patch of ground. He tells me how deep to dig and how far apart. I kneel in the dirt and start to scoop away soil with my hands. Dev asks if I want a spade, but I like the feel of the damp earth.
“Full disclosure,” I tell him. “I have the opposite of a green thumb.”
“It’s not rocket science. It’s water plus sun, a bit of manual labor, and patience.”
“Is that all?”
“And faith.”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” I say.
“Let me show you.” Dev gets down next to me, takes a seedling out, tips it from its plastic pot.
“Pull out the root strings gently like this.” He teases them out, holds the whole thing in one hand while he moves more dirt away with the other.
He sets the plant down and pushes dirt around it and pats it down.
I’m extra careful as I take one of the seedlings and repeat what Dev did, conscious of him standing above me and watching.
But then he moves on and I lose myself in the task, tipping and scooping and patting.
The breeze moves through my hair. I wipe a fly from my face.
At the other edge of the garden, Dev resumes digging.
Birds chirp, and the wind sashays through the bushes.
A dog barks; a car shifts gears as it climbs the hill.
When all the seedlings are in the ground, I stand and brush the dirt from my hands and jeans. Dev pulls a hose from the side of the house and hands it to me. I put my thumb on the nozzle and spray the ground where I planted.
“I think they’ll do fine,” Dev says.
I imagine it will take weeks, if not months, for these plants to grow and bear fruit.
The sun will rise and set and rise and set, rain will sprinkle down, and the seedlings will push their way into plants, stems thickening until they are sturdy and strong.
And one morning, perhaps as sunny as today, there will be tiny buds, little vegetables beginning their journey.
I see it with astonishing clarity: I’m walking through the garden with a wicker basket, filling it with tomatoes, and green peas, and thick bunches of chard.
I hoist the basket on my hip like I’m carrying a toddler and bring it inside the cottage to Dev.
A gust of wind brings me back. It’s sudden and strong, like a rogue wave, prodding me to attention, if not like an electric shock, then like a spark.
Wake up . I look around the garden. It all looks the same.
And yet, something is different and unsettling.
The wind picks up again and now I hear her voice.
This, this is it, Cath. This will be perfect!
A coo of a bird, a morning dove, and the breeze pushes the plants, makes them bow.
I can see her too, eyes shining with excitement, talking about fate, and stars aligning, and divine justice, and even jiggery-pokery, putting right on my path, among all these villagers and dowdy tourists, a man like Dev.
My mother may as well be squeezing my hand.
This is what you must run toward. Leave everything for this. It is everything.
I don’t realize my hand is trembling until I see the hose shake. I drop it, watch it flip on the ground like a wounded snake. The iciness in my gut spreads to my chest, my hands.
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Dev says.
“I have to go.”
The water from the hose is making a puddle.
“Do you want some water? Some tea?”
“I don’t like tea.” It comes out too loud, emphatic. “I have to go.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Dev says, brushing the dirt off his hands.
“No, you garden, I can walk.”
I rush inside, pick up my bag.
“Cath, what’s going on? You’re acting odd.” He’s not stupid; he knows this is not a sudden illness. He scribbles down his number on a paper and hands it to me. “Call me later and let me know how you are.”
I rush through the garden and out the gate.