The Amaryllis

by Alyssa Adamson

  The Amaryllis

  ALYSSA ADAMSON

  Copyright © 2019 Alyssa Adamson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781794486355

  CONTENTS

  1. Visitor

  2. Unnatural

  3. Gifts

  4. Intuition

  5. Angel

  6. Guilty

  7. Company

  8. Different

  9. Secrets

  10. Gregory

  11. Lies

  12. Regret

  13. Alone

  14. Following

  15. Church

  16. Trouble

  17. Different

  18. New Life

  19. Loss

  20. Primrose

  21. Grey

  22. Amaryllis

  23. Epilogue

  “I cannot begin to fathom the intricate nature of love, the endless ‘whys’ and the cold reality of ‘because.’”

  ― Michael Faudet, Bitter Sweet Love

  1. Visitor

  I ripped out another page of my sketchbook as my pencil-drawn rose made the leap to R-Rated. That made thirteen by my count.

  What’s the point of having mandatory Art classes at all? Of course, if drawing was your thing, more power to you, but I would’ve gladly taken a second math class if it meant going the rest of my life without a sketchbook of vagina flowers.

  “You’re looking especially hostile,” Dad muttered, dropping another plastic bag over a nearby shelf. If I included Mom, outside by the truck, and my best friend Zach, who’d found a home sleeping on the mulch she’d already stacked in the back closet, the four of us constituted the whole of the store’s occupants.

  “I’m not hostile! Just…frustrated.”

  Though the register obscured my sketchbook, a graveyard of my failed drawings littered the counter from edge to edge. Dad unfolded one from a crumpled ball with a shriek. “What kind of homework are they giving you?”

  I heaved a sigh, head falling into my hands. “It’s a rose.”

  He didn’t look convinced. Grabbing another sketch off the counter, he studied it with a growing look of distaste. “That’s not a rose.”

  “Maybe I’ll switch to sunflowers—”

  “Maybe you should pick something less phallic. Y’know…the stem.” He brushed the rest of my sketches into the garbage. “What’s the assignment?”

  “Draw what you love most.”

  He had the nerve to look affronted. “And I wasn’t the first thing to come to mind?”

  “What’s the matter?” Mom inquired, struggling under the weight of two bags of mulch.

  “Your daughter loves weeds more than her own parents!”

  She’d made a valiant effort at pulling her cropped blonde hair into a knot but the exertion spilled most of it across her forehead anew. “Is this news to you? She spends more time in the greenhouse than she spends upstairs. I don’t think I’ve spoken to her in days.”

  Dad pouted with arms crossed. “Oh. Did you also know that she’s drawing pornography for art class?”

  She dropped the bag onto the lowest shelf. “What?”

  “I’m not drawing porno—” As the bell rang, singing the arrival of our first customer in an hour, I lowered my voice. “I’m not drawing pornography. It’s not my fault flowers look a lot like genitalia.”

  The customer’s footsteps reverberated against the wooden floor like a metronome. Slow. Foreboding. The three of us donned our best smiles.

  “Good afternoon, welcome to The Garden of Eden, how can I help you?” Mom inquired, hastening toward the entrance to help.

  “Hello,” a deep, soothing voice replied. “I have come to buy a few of your plants.”

  “O…of course,” she replied. “Follow me.”

  She staggered into sight first, followed closely by a mop of white-blonde hair. A towering frame. Violet eyes so foreign, so alien, I couldn’t decide…were they beautiful or repulsive?

  Even up close, he was perfectly smooth, perfectly symmetrical…all around perfectly perfect in every way. In true Eden-fashion, my hands shook. My lip broke out in a fine sheen of sweat. The barstool holding me up to the register quaked, threatening to drag me to my doom.

  As he passed, his stare found mine and held it. The ice I found there didn’t warm with recognition…didn’t warm with anything. The stranger looked about as capable of human emotion as a blank sheet of paper.

  I expected his glance to dart away; I hoped for it. The gravity of his attentions brought a haze that rendered me an inaudible, floundering mess. In the end, I made the separation. Even as I looked to the floor and caught my breath, I still saw the shine of violet eyes forever burned into my retinas.

  Mom laughed at nothing in particular, as she was opt to do in the direst of times. Under that unwavering stare, I couldn’t fault her this time. “I haven’t seen you around before. New in town?”

  He nodded slowly. Deliberately. “Of course.”

  She looked about as helpless as I imagined I did, now that she was fixed beneath him. She coughed, eyes flickering my way. “Oh. That’s nice. You’ll like it in Joy. We’re all pretty friendly.”

  Propriety told me he should’ve smiled, but he didn’t. “I hope so.”

  “So…what were you looking for?”

  “Anything. Everything. I need green to distract from the snow.”

  She nodded. “Was it hot back home?”

  “I suppose. Hotter than here in any case.” They passed through the sliding doors and I lost his words through the barrier.

  I cursed myself for what lack of bravery meant I’d never speak to…that. Even without words, my brain felt fried, tongue dry and bent into knots, body shaking. A simple ‘hello’ might have very well pushed me into a stroke.

  “You know him?” Dad asked, leaning heavily against the counter.

  I shook myself free of the haze. I’d forgotten prying ears lingered in the room. “No,” I mumbled over a tongue that felt like ash. “Why?”

  Dad shrugged and pretended to fuss with the display of vegetable seeds on the counter. “Nothing. He’s cute is all.”

  The snort came involuntarily. That is an understatement. “Shut up. Who taught you to say that?”

  “I’ll allow this momentary change of subject, but you’re not fooling anybody, Ed.” He shook the garbage can full of my sketches. “So no showing that boy your roses.”

  My face burned, but the sight of Mom in the greenhouse, probing the petals of the white lilies, put a smile back on my face. “Sure. Looks like Mom’s busy showing him hers, anyway.”

  “Ew.”

  “You mean that wasn’t funny?”

  Through the glass, she looked baffled by something the visitor said, or the dead expression he wore while he said it. He pointed to a row of ferns against the furthermost wall. As I contemplated which one he would purchase, he lifted three pots into his arms and nodded at Mom to pick up two more.

  So…all of them.

  I lurched to my feet as they faced me, sending the barstool crashing to the floor. In the same motion, I swept the sketchbook off the counter.

  Dad scowled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress someone.”

  “I will end you.”

  “Is that why you love the flowers more than me?”

  He made himself scarce before the boy breached the greenhouse doors, followed by my frazzled mother. “Eden, would you mind ringing him up?”

  The pleasantry came for our customer’s sake. Of course I’d have to ring him up. why else would I be here? Otherwise, the need to run would’ve already hidden me upstairs in the shower. Somewhere violet eyes couldn’t find me.

  C’mon, Eden, if there’s ever been a time t
o speak!

  I knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. My mind had already twisted itself into knots trying to come up with something witty to say, only to come up blank. Even ‘sure’ or ‘hello’ proved themselves much too complex.

  I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t notice English failing me. Inarticulate babble wished to rise instead.

  He placed the plants atop the counter beside the ones Mom had already handed over and tried to turn those violet depths on me. Thankfully, I counted myself a fast learner and looked at the fronds instead.

  Just ferns. Nothing extraordinary. And he hadn’t even picked the big ones from the display; he’d chosen the baby ones that would still need weeks of patience to see any real fronds. They looked awfully pale, hardly even green.

  I recalled planting two of them myself just months ago.

  “Hello.” That soothing voice warmed me like a physical caress. All of my attention turned to keeping the drool in my mouth.

  Mom shifted uneasily as I looked between him and the computer screen. “Thanks, kid. I…I’ll go get a cart to help you to your car.”

  Then she made herself scarce, too.

  “You look nervous,” the stranger noted. When it became clear he would get no answer from me, he sighed, attention already diverted to his wallet.

  I swore I could taste my heart in my mouth. Scanning the pots as quickly as I could, I paid special attention to the last of them. It had grown tall since I’d last admired it.

  Back in November it had been a mere seed in my hand. Just one. Coupled with water and my steady attention, now it stood a tall, green stem. Where there had been nothing, I’d coaxed something into existence.

  I smiled, pride taking the place of my perpetual discomfort.

  “Take good care of my fern,” I whispered, voice obstructed by the pot.

  His face didn’t flinch or warp, completely unsurprised that I’d spoken. That made one of us. “Your fern?”

  I nodded. The opportunity to keep quiet had already come and gone, and he just kept staring. It compelled me to continue. “I planted it last November.”

  “You must like plants.”

  I snorted in a most unbecoming way. Hands flying over my mouth, I let the horror wash through me with a cold sweat. I anticipated the laughter, but, somehow, the lack of it was worse. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just stared. “I…I’d have to. I live here.”

  His eyes roved over the store around us, from the display of seeds to the empty pots to the varying bags of dirt and the ceiling of warm cherry wood. “Which shelf is yours?”

  I didn’t think my face could get any redder. Lip quirking up, I pointed to the rack of mulch Mom had just stacked. “That one looks pretty comfy.” He either didn’t get the joke, or I’d grossly overestimated my comedic abilities. Suddenly in need of a change of subject, I inquired, “So…so why ferns?”

  “Should I have a tragic reason?”

  “I just mean…ferns are great and all, but I’d pick the roses any day. Why’d you pick the ferns?”

  I flinched away as I met his gaze, momentarily forgetting the burn. “My sister is depressed. I believe the green could make her feel better about…the move.”

  “Oh. We don’t have green roses.”

  I kicked myself for the stupidity that always streamed out of my mouth.

  The boy smirked. “I happened to notice. Keep your roses. And I will have the ferns.”

  It was only the barest hint of a smile but it was more than I could’ve hoped for. “I…if you change your mind, red’s a nice color. Or yellow. We’ve got them all, not just the white ones.”

  “You will be the first to know if I do.” He leaned against the counter, arm so close to mine that I could feel the warmth pouring off his bare skin. For the first time, I noted that he wore a t-shirt without the added protection of a coat, despite the snow outside. “What was it your mother called you?”

  “Eden.” I thrust out my hand and he took it without hesitation.

  Time stood still.

  An electric current raced through my skin, shocking me. Burning me until the only feeling left was the ache in my bones. Gravity shifted, very nearly knocking me off my feet as it yanked me toward him instead of the ground. If not for the counter sitting between us, I swore I would’ve tumbled into his arms. Readily. Willingly. Happily.

  The stranger tore his hand away, breaking the spell so suddenly that my knees wanted to drop me on the floor.

  “It’s…very nice to meet you, Eden. I apologize. I’m in a rush.”

  I deflated. “Oh. Of course. I’m sorry to hold you up.” I promptly shut my mouth. Scanning the rest of his plants with expert intent, I bagged the pots and tried not to look him in the face again. “Sixty-five seventy-three, please.”

  It didn’t escape my notice that he placed the money on the counter and pushed it in my direction. Anything to avoid touching me.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  He nodded, lip quivering as he tried, unsuccessfully, to school himself back into a stoic façade and gathered the bags under his arms, eyes flickering over me. He practically ran for the door with Mom and her cart hot on his heels, looking more frantic as he took the knob in hand.

  “Wait! Isn’t that heavy?”

  “No,” he snapped. His face buckled under the strain of composing himself. “Thank you. I’m alright.”

  She abandoned the cart to reach for his bags. “Let me help you.”

  “No. I’m fine.” The snow drift blew in with his hasty exit, and then the door slammed shut.

  Mom shook her head, playful scowl turning my way. “You know that weirdo?”

  “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

  “Oh my God, that was weird,” Dad proclaimed from the stairwell. “We’re going to have to put you in classes on social interaction, Ed.”

  I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “Stop listening to my conversations.”

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Callum Reyes, leave her be! I thought you were perfectly pleasant.” Mom fixed my hair behind my ear. “That kid was just frosty. The next one will be better.”

  “What next one? Next customer? Sure, I bet the next one will be awful chatty.”

  She shrugged. “Mr. Green’s expecting me in a few. See you guys for dinner?”

  Dad leaned out of the stairwell enough to wink. “You bringing Chinese?”

  “If you’re going to insist on it.” She pecked him on the lips before donning her coat. She hesitated before the exit.

  “Mom? What’re you doing?”

  “I’m making sure that kid is gone. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m coming to pounce on him.”

  I guessed he had that effect on everyone. “I think you’re safe.” She seemed to agree, because she swept out the door, unleashing another breeze of snow across the carpet.

  2. Unnatural

  Though the tail end of yesterday’s snow fell across the roof, painting it a perfectly pearl white, the air in here stayed seventy-five. I relished in the humidity that hung, heavy, in my lungs. In the potent smell of rain and grass and rosewater. In the vacuum-like silence.

  No matter how bitter and cold the Georgia winter became, the greenhouse always felt like paradise.

  In honor of the routine my grandmother had drawn me into, back in my kindergarten days, I spent most of my mornings overseeing the rows of vegetation. She might’ve been gone three years now but the love of the morning stillness, hours before opening, remained. Some days, I would feed the seedlings. Others, I would water the dormant flytraps. Today, as I measured the length of a growing rose stem, I wondered if its white petals would appear before the next snowfall.

  “You’re going to be late if you don’t get out of here soon,” Dad mumbled, stripping off his robe as he staggered through the door. His worn nightshirt hung from his arms. “The snow’s definitely going to back up the roads.”

  He looked so young in the morning. Vulnerable. More akin to the hippie teen that ha
d traipsed into our little flower shop fourteen years ago than the creased store manager he’d school himself into by this afternoon. Pictures told me his hair had been longer then, although he’d kept it long enough to hang down his nape in a ponytail.

  Dropping the seedling back into its pot, I shook the dirt off my hands. “Zach should be on his way.”

  He was late. Again. But Dad didn’t need to know that; on any given day, Zach was about one bad word away from a shoot-on-sight plaque over the register. If Dad knew we’d been late to school all of last week, despite breaking every traffic law from here to the high school, I could only guess his head would implode.

  Thankfully, it didn’t have to be a lie.

  The little blue monstrosity pulled into the parking lot, over the curb, and onto the grass, windshield coated in homemade stickers and bleeding window art. ‘Ferg Mobile’ stretched across the glass in bold black letters. The most recognizable car in town.

  With a driver to match. Tall, pale, and ginger-haired, Zach lounged back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on his cell phone.

  “Speak of the devil,” I chuckled. My backpack sat by the register alongside my jacket. The thin material probably didn’t constitute a proper enough barrier against today’s unusual snowfall, but it was the only one I owned. As an afterthought, I took Dad’s gloves off the hook. He wouldn’t miss them. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Yeah.” He eyed the car with clear disdain. “Tell him to be careful.”

  “I will.”

  He followed me through the store, returning packets of seeds back to their hooks when the sliding greenhouse doors shook them off the display. Upstairs, the shower started. Mom.

  “You going to be around to work the register at four? Everybody’s going to want their roses in time for Valentine’s Day. I need all hands on deck.”