Chapter 5 ya’aburnee
ya’aburnee
I’ve always understood plants.
Give them a little water, a little sunlight, a little love, and they rarely surprise you. People, on the other hand?
We were strange, and confusing, and sticky. We laughed when we cried and cried when we laughed, we danced when we were sad and danced when we were happy, we grew hungry for food, for touch, for far-off places—
We fell in love with the wrong people, and we sobbed on the kitchen floor when the heartache sent us to our knees. We brought over Chinese takeout, and we plotted murders and we messed up, again, and again, and again.
We were elusive. When we got sick—really sick—we couldn’t be saved with sunlight and water and new soil. We couldn’t be trimmed off and propagated. And no matter how much time, or hard work, or effort, sometimes all you could do was sit at our bedside and talk with us.
And it would never be enough to keep us alive.
I could see why Eula thought I was magical—not only had I studied under one of the preeminent biodiversity professors in New England, but I had participated in multiple studies on ecological conservation and genetic diversity.
I was hired at the New York Botanical Garden as one of the youngest horticulturists in the field.
I had quickly climbed the ranks. I’d even gone so far as to take part in the breeding of a corpse flower—which was no small feat, since the recordkeeping of said plant is abysmal.
In short, I was good at gardening.
But if I was magical, then I could keep anyone alive just as well as I did flowers. But I couldn’t, and I didn’t. I simply knew what I could do well, and I burrowed myself into it. Water, soil, sunlight. Not magical. Just easy. Just predictable.
I averted my gaze to my hands. I was picking at my dirty nails anxiously, not sure how to respond. Boring? Sure. Strange? I’d gotten that a lot as a kid who preferred to spend her time dumpster-diving for forsaken plants. But—
Magical?
“I’m … just Sophie,” I replied.
Eula’s smile went wider, somehow. “Well, just Sophie, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.
Now! Jules, dear,” she added, motioning back to the fire truck, “give these strapping young people invites to the manor’s esteemed bicentennial party at the end of the summer for such a delightful ride, if you will.
You should all come. It’s going to be the talk of the town. We’ll even have fondue!”
Which was apparently all the fire crew needed to hear to RSVP on the spot.
Juliette, who was in charge of the guest list, jotted down their names and addresses to send invites.
She seemed, at times, more like Eula’s personal assistant than the director of events and relations, and it was increasingly apparent that was Juliette’s choice.
She liked things orderly, and I had the impression that Eula was the opposite.
Eula Beck was the kind of person to jump first and figure out landing on the way down.
“You’re the best, Euls! Can’t wait to go!” one of the fire-fighters called as they loaded back into the engine. The fire truck came back to life with a roar, then rumbled off down the drive again and into the evening.
Once they were gone, Eula finally grabbed her walker and slowly migrated toward the house, telling us how well it looked, and how much she appreciated me watering the hydrangeas on the front porch.
Juliette tried to help her up the steps, but she batted her away and thrust her purse at Wykofski to hold.
“How’s the planning coming?” Eula asked Juliette as she navigated up the steps and took a small break at the top.
Juliette updated her on the bicentennial planning: caterers, the search for a string quartet, RSVP invites.
There was also a daycare visit tomorrow, and participants from an artsy summer camp who were coming to practice still life drawings.
“Oh, that will be lovely,” Eula replied, then added, “Tell them to mind the goose. Damnit is usually on her best behavior with kids, but she’s getting ornery in her old age.”
“What is old for a Canada goose?” I mused, following them all into the house.
Wykofski said, “They can live up to twenty-five,” with a shrug. Then he added, “I guess she’ll outlive Reggie by at least ten years.”
Juliette wilted a little. “That’s so sad. He’s a terrible goose dog, but wherever she goes, he isn’t far behind. Poor Reggie.”
“Or it’s a pleasure,” Eula said, “to have the one you love outlive you.”
I hung back for a moment to close the door, glad that they couldn’t see me wince. Ya’aburnee. It was one of Harrie’s favorite untranslatable words. I’m sure it was a relief for the person who was gone, but what about the one who stayed? In Harriett’s journal, there wasn’t an entry for that feeling.
If my absence was noticed, it wasn’t commented on as they ran through the rest of the week’s schedule. I checked my watch. It was close to nine—I didn’t remember Juliette or Wykofski ever staying so late.
Eula also seemed to notice the time. “Oh! It’s dark outside. You should have all told me it was so late! I don’t want to keep you here another minute.”
Wykofski waved his hand dismissively. “Pshhh, shush, Euls. It’s the first day you’re back. Besides, what else is there to do?”
I guess game night and “snackaroonies” with his buds could wait.
“And you just got in,” Juliette added, holding her clipboard tightly to her chest, “so we want to see that you’re settled.”
“I’m settled enough, you don’t need to worry about me,” Eula chastised, but then she paused.
“Actually, there is something I’d like to talk to you about, if you’re willing to stay a little longer.
” I began to quietly excuse myself when Eula looked back and pinned me with her gaze. “All of you, if you don’t mind, dear.”
I rooted to my spot. “Oh. Um. Okay.”
Juliette and Wykofski exchanged a strange look. “I’ll go put on some tea and bring some cookies, and we can all meet on the veranda?” Juliette suggested, apparently deciding to not ask why we were meeting, and they embarked for the kitchen together, leaving me with Eula.
When they were gone, her shoulders finally wilted with fatigue, and she sat down heavily on the cushion of her walker.
“Dear,” she called to me, and I wasn’t sure if she just misremembered my actual last name, or if it was a term of endearment she used with most people, “would you mind wheeling me onto the veranda? I’m knackered. ”
So I did.
All the while she asked how I was doing and whether I was getting along well with the garden, just as she had on our weekly calls, and that settled my anxiety a little bit.
I updated her on the care of the wildflowers, the boxwoods, and the lilies—it was early-July, so quite a few new blooms were about to sprout.
I also admitted that I still hadn’t found a source for those vines, and wondered if she’d ever had issues with them in the past.
“I haven’t actually—and they’re only in the Hedges?” she asked.
“At the moment, yes. Near the door, actually.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “The door . . . ? You mean the exit arch?”
“No, the blue door,” I said. “And that reminds me—the garden there, is that also one you want to make over for the bicentennial?” If so, it would need a lot of work, and even then I wasn’t sure I could make it look like more than an after-thought.
It still irked me that I hadn’t found it until now.
If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d think it was impossible.
She seemed utterly perplexed regardless. “A blue door in the Hedges?” she repeated, her hand going to a necklace, the pendant of which was hidden beneath the collar of her blouse. “Oh no, dear, you must be mistaken.” Then she gave a laugh. “There’s no blue door in the Hedges!”
Could I have been mistaken? My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Great. The first time I meet Eula Beck in person, I make a fool of myself. I didn’t want my employer—however temporary—to think I didn’t have a strong sense of the garden. Especially after a month tending to it.
“Right, sorry,” I said, laughing it off, more confused than ever. Because if Eula said there wasn’t a garden in the Hedges, then where had I been?
It had been a long and unseasonably warm day, I decided, and I was already distracted because of the Harriett of it all. Maybe I was mistaken. It was probably in the Central Garden—or behind it. Somewhere close. I decided to find it again first before I mentioned it again.
I parked Eula on the veranda and pulled up a few chairs for the rest of us. As nighttime settled across the garden, little solar-powered Edison bulbs popped on overhead and across the railings, giving off a warm, incandescent light.
Once I sat down, she leaned over and put a gentle hand on my arm. “I would just like to express my gratitude. I appreciate that you came all the way up here to futz around in my garden. It was a tall ask—so thank you for answering the call.”
“Um—it was—of course,” I stumbled, baffled. It helped that no one knew exactly how tall an ask. “It’s my pleasure.” She smiled. “Pleasure is still often hard work, dear.”
“I … suppose it is.”
Content, she sat back on her walker. Juliette and Wykofski came out a few moments later with a tray of tea and a dozen sugar cookies. They sat down in the chairs I’d pulled up, putting the tray in the middle.
Eula prepared her drink with sugar and milk and inhaled deeply. She sighed. “There is nothing quite like a good cup of tea at home.”
“Are you sure your doctors signed off on you being here?” Juliette asked worriedly, taking her tea with so much sugar even a honeybee would die.
“What could they do? Keep me?”
“Yes,” she deadpanned.
Wykofski shook his head, all milk and no sugar in his tea. “I fear you sometimes, Euls.”