Things That Grow

by Meredith Goldstein

  “That’s really cool,” I say, and I’m being serious. It really is.

  I sit up, and he follows my lead. I can see my mom a few yards away, and she’s seated in her favorite yoga pose. She’s forest bathing as if she’s done it thousands of times before. I can tell by the set of her mouth that she might be speaking some sort of wellness prayer or something. Bill is on his back by her side. His sweat stains have only gotten bigger. His shirt is more wet than dry.

  “Do houseplants release the same chemicals?” I ask Kel. “Do they give off photons, or whatever, when they’re happy or threatened?”

  “Phytoncides,” he repeats, smiling. “I don’t think so. But they look nice.”

  “I just wondered. My grandma had a lot of houseplants, and I’m realizing that I never saw her get angry. Maybe it was the plants keeping her calm.”

  Kel smiles. “Maybe so.

  “May I make a request?” Kel asks then, and I nod. “These trees are all quite sensitive, especially those that aren’t native to this part of the world. You would think that human remains would be good for nature and for soil. But the body has a lot of chemicals in it. After cremation, the pH levels can be high and toxic.”

  I stare at his big woodland wizard eyes.

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m in this arboretum many hours a day. I’m only a part-time freelance instructor—I don’t work for the arboretum. But I’m here, and I enjoy working in this space whenever I can,” he says. “When someone tells me they’ve just lost a relative and they come in a group and they’re holding a bag, I can make a pretty good guess about their intentions.”

  “The Chico’s bag,” I whisper.

  “Personally, I believe in the right to bring loved ones to a place like this. I don’t believe in permits. We’re all of this earth. But people should protect the land, and we have to respect the needs of these trees and of Harvard, which is doing its best to preserve this property. Do you understand?”

  “You’re saying we can’t put the ashes here.”

  “I’m asking that you don’t put them right here, in this spot, near the trees. But you might find that there are some beautiful patches of flowers up the hill. There are also some nice shady areas with a great view. I would never recommend that you do any kind of scattering in the arboretum—I have no authority here—but if you were going to, that might be the place.”

  I do like the idea of a good view.

  Kel smiles, takes a map from his back pocket, and opens it for me, pointing to where we are and where he wants us to go, illegally, with our human remains. He’s a good sport.

  “There might be some rose of Sharon somewhere up there,” he says. “Very lovely.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Roses are kind of basic, right?”

  “Rose of Sharon is not basic at all,” Kel says. “It doesn’t look like the kind of rose you’d buy in a dozen. Technically, it’s more like a hibiscus.”

  “Hold, please,” I tell Kel, and I reach for my bag, which has the book given to me by Jill from the Garden Girls. I find a picture of a hibiscus right there under H, and the flowers are super cute and colorful. Thank goodness for this book.

  “Rose of Sharon can come in beautiful blues and purples,” Kel tells me.

  “That sounds perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

  He smiles, and there are so many lines around his mouth that they remind me of the inside of one of these trees. Then he rings a tiny bell—like a dinner bell—that must have been sitting on the ground next to him this whole time.

  He rings the bell two more times, and the forest bathers understand. Slowly, they pull themselves upright and sit crossed-legged, facing Kel. I see my family and Chris look around, nervously taking cues from the others. Chris sees that I’ve been talking to Kel and flashes a look of surprise. A few feet away, Seth’s eyes are red, and I realize that at some point during the exercise he must have been crying. I wonder what happened when he closed his eyes—what he told his tree.

  “Friends, I’m going to invite you to do some walking on your own,” Kel tells the group. “Those who want to peel off can do so now.”

  He gives me a knowing look, hands me his small paper map, and when the group follows their leader, my family is left behind. Mom, Bill, Chris, and Seth, who has composed himself, walk over to me, and Mom asks, “What was that all about? What did he say to you?”

  “We’re going to bring Grandma somewhere else. Maybe to a rose of Sharon. Which is apparently a hibiscus.”

  “Sweet,” Seth says. “Lead the way.”

  We walk for about ten minutes, mostly in silence. The path takes us up a hill, past patches of so many blooming things and trees, until I see a patch of shady grass covered in pretty green plants. It’s not far from a sign that says EXPLORERS GARDEN, which is something I bet Grandma liked. This patch of grass and already-bloomed buds is a small oasis on a hill that has a good view. Like a little hiding place close to the center of the arboreal action.

  “This is it,” I say, and I feel it. She’ll be able to see everything from here.

  “Oh, honey, this—this spot is beautiful,” Mom says, and Bill walks to her and holds her hand.

  “I don’t know if this is a rose of Sharon, but I love it. She’d love it,” I add.

  “I know she would,” Seth says, and I see that he’s holding the Chico’s bag now.

  We all agree. We’re not fighting, and I believe the trees have helped us make peace with one another, at least for the afternoon.

  We all sit down near the one patch of grass and supernat­ural-looking shimmering leaves—which could be weeds, for all I know—coming from the ground, surrounding them as best we can. A couple with a double stroller passes us, but after they disappear, we’re on our own. The closest arboretum visitors are far in the distance. Most people probably opted for air conditioning today.

  “We should do this while we have some privacy,” Seth says.

  Without asking for permission, Chris takes an art knife out of his backpack—the kind he’d use to make a stencil—and outlines a circle in the dirt in the center of the space. Then he uses his hands to dig.

  I sit down next to him and watch. The adults surround us.

  Chris looks up and then stops. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I just wanted to help make a place for you to do . . . what you need to do.”

  “It’s a perfect spot,” Mom says.

  “Thank you, Chris,” Seth says. “I think we’re all a bit unsure about what to do here. This is a help.”

  I will never stop appreciating Chris’s perfect friendship.

  Once he’s made a deep pocket in the ground, Seth reaches into the Chico’s bag and removes a white cardboard box the size of a peanut butter jar. It reminds me of the kind of box you’d put a cupcake in. There’s a gold sticker on top that says WALSH’S, with that shamrock in place of the apostrophe.

  I hear a rustling next to me, and when I turn, I see that Chris cannot help himself; he’s fumbling with his backpack again, putting the knife away and taking out his sketchpad, and now he’s drawing. It’s compulsive behavior with him, and one of the reasons I love him so much, because this is how he proc­esses the world, putting it into a spiral sketchbook and changing it into something he can understand. I guess that’s also why I write.

  Seth’s hands are shaky and fumbling, so it takes him longer than it should to open the box. No one breathes as he pops the top and pulls out what’s inside.

  The plastic bag is clear, but it’s very thick, so the contents inside look a little fuzzy. We all get a muted look at the gravel-like cremains. They’re a darker color than I thought they’d be, but I see the white pieces.

  Tiny white pieces. Tiny pieces of bones.

  Mom starts crying.

  “Oh, Mom,” she says, and Bill pulls out a pile of tissues from his shirt pocket. I appreciate that he is a person who thinks to bring tissues.

  Then Seth takes Mom’s hand, and they both cry together.
Bill hands Seth more tissues, and we all wait until they compose themselves.

  I’m not crying. I don’t know why.

  What I feel is weirdly more like . . . euphoria. For a moment I think about how lucky I am that I knew this person, that I got to live with her. I think about our mutual love of kettle corn and how she always trusted me. That for a while, when I thought college might be a waste of time for someone like me, she didn’t push back. She told me it wasn’t for everybody, and it was a really expensive thing to sign up for if you’re not all in. Then she looked up which of my favorite writers had college degrees, which turned out to be all of them. But the point was, she made it so we could figure it out together.

  She was really funny and kind, and I was lucky to know her.

  I think that when I die, I want to be cremated too and placed wherever she is.

  Seth doesn’t seem to be able to move. He’s just clutching the bag of craisins like it’s a stuffed animal. He can’t take the next step. Grandma Sheryl would want me to help him.

  I reach out and place my hands on Seth’s, and he looks at me like a scared kid.

  “What are you doing?” he says as I try to take the bag from him.

  “Helping,” I whisper.

  “Lori,” Mom says, “you don’t have to do this. We’ll do it.”

  “I know I don’t have to,” I say. “But I don’t mind. You guys just be her kids today.”

  And then I realize that this might be why I’m not crying, at least not right this second. One of the things about grandparents is that even if they’re on the young side, you know they’re not designed to be part of your life forever. You don’t get to have them for a chunk of your life, because you weren’t around for a chunk of theirs. It’s a relationship with a clear end; even if everyone lives to be a hundred, you still get only a window.

  It’s different with parents. No matter how I feel about my mom, I can’t imagine her ever being elderly or gone from the world. It would never feel right. She and Seth probably feel the same about Grandma.

  As soon as Mom realizes I’m trying to be nice and sensitive, she relaxes her shoulders and nods. Seth releases his tight grip on the bag.

  I find the hole Chris made in the ground and open the bag, prepared to pour it in. For a second, I wonder if I should have brought gloves to do this so I don’t get gross craisin residue on my hands, but I also think I want to touch the craisins, to know what they feel like. I don’t care if they’re toxic.

  But before I stick my hand in, Mom has something to say.

  “Did you read Wild?” she interrupts.

  “Hmm?” Seth mutters.

  “Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild. It was very popular, Seth.”

  “Grandma read it,” I tell Seth. I remember seeing the book next to her bed. It had a big hiking boot on it. I think she also saw the movie.

  “I know what it is,” Seth says in Mom’s direction, annoyed.

  “I bought it up because the author did this TED Talk about radical sincerity,” Mom says.

  “Right. Her TED Talk,” Seth says, and takes the biggest breath to calm himself. “She’s not famous for her TED Talk, Becca. You know, she started as a novelist. I’ve read her novel.”

  I love when Seth pretends that nonfiction doesn’t exist.

  “Wild! That’s Reese Witherspoon!” Bill adds. “I saw the movie.”

  “Yes, honey,” Mom says. “But the book is all about the death of her mother and how she hikes the Pacific Palisades.”

  “The Pacific Crest Trail,” Seth mutters.

  “Right,” Mom replies, ignoring his tone. “The Pacific Crest Trail. Anyway, she has her mother’s ashes with her, and she eats them.”

  Chris’s head snaps up, and his jaw drops, as does Seth’s.

  “Why would she do that?” Seth asks.

  “I believe it was to have her mother inside her, just like she had once been inside of her mother. It was very poetic, from what I remember. Something like that, I think.”

  I look into the bag. The craisins look chalky and hard and not at all digestible.

  “Are you suggesting we eat our mother?” Seth says, pushing his hair from his forehead. It’s extra springy with the humidity; my mom’s is too.

  Chris’s hand starts moving feverishly on the page, and I assume he’s now drawing someone eating remains and becoming a possessed golem or something.

  “I’ll do it if you do it,” I challenge Mom.

  “I’m not suggesting we do that, Lori, I’m just remembering the book,” Mom says.

  “I’m not sure it would be healthy,” Bill offers with a shrug.

  “Let’s just move on,” I say. Sweat is running down my legs.

  “I do recommend the TED Talk,” Mom says.

  Chris bites his lip.

  “Okay, enough. Let’s move this along,” Seth says. “Before someone official walks by and demands to see our permit.”

  Then we’re all silent and staring at one another. Actually, everyone’s staring at me. I’m the one holding the bag.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m doing it. Now.”

  “Good. Great,” Seth says, and he sounds scared. “Do it.”

  I begin to pour.

  The first thing I realize is that this hole is not big enough to fit what’s in this bag. The divot in the ground is overflowing in seconds, so I have to stop, cover it with some nearby dirt, and look for other places to put it.

  “Do you want another hole?” Chris asks. “I can make that one bigger.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just going to spread it around.”

  The bag is a little lighter now, and I begin pouring the rest of the ashes around the roots of these green plants, using my hands to cover the ashes with the soil. I go out of my way not to touch the cremains, although I’m sure I come in contact with them. I try not to think about it. I feel better about putting her here, where she’ll be surrounded by beautiful trees and plants, but where her body won’t get in the way of letting things grow.

  I want to give Grandma Sheryl variety, so I stand up and move a few feet away, where you can see more of what’s below the hill. My hands are a mess, but I don’t care. I close my eyes and rub the pieces into my palm, as if she might seep into me. It feels right to have her on my skin.

  It’s not until I notice the others staring at me that I return to the group and sit down, waiting for whatever’s next.

  “Is it time to say something?” Seth asks after an emotional cough.

  Grandma had asked for a reading, and I’d found one, but before I can grab my notebook to start, Mom begins to speak.

  “Mother,” Mom says, without preamble, “we love you. We miss you. We are here today to honor your life, your love of all beautiful things, whether it be words or flowers—or . . . this gorgeous grass.”

  “It’s not just grass,” I whisper.

  “I’d call it greenery,” Bill says.

  “Right,” I say. “Sure.”

  “Whatever!” Mom snaps. “Anyway. Mom, today we hope to bring you a very good view. We will miss you always.”

  Then she looks at us for a response.

  “Anything you want to add, Seth?”

  “Yeah, the actual reading, Becca,” Seth says. “Mom wanted us to read something from a book.”

  Mom looks hurt, Seth responds by looking contrite, and the whole exchange is fast and awkward.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got the reading.”

  I open my bag and take out my latest notebook. It’s a red spiral one, and I’ve been using purple ink on the white pages. I open to the latest page, where I’ve made notes.

  I let myself breathe and then start.

  “Sheryl Miller Seltzer was born in Boston in 1944. She was a teacher and, in later years, a gardener. She also liked British shows about murders, especially if the murderer character was a woman.

  “Most of all, Grandma Sheryl loved books. She loved women writers, especially the funny ones. She died on Dorothy Parke
r’s birthday.”

  Mom gasps. She hadn’t realized this. I give her a moment to recover. She takes Seth’s hand.

  “Today,” I continue, “for Grandma Sheryl, I’d like to read some Dorothy Parker.”

  I look up, and they’re all crying now, except for Chris, who has paused his drawing out of respect, I assume. He’s looking down solemnly at his sketchpad. I assume it’s his church face.

  “Go ahead, Lor,” Seth says, and sniffles.

  I flip to the next page and clear my throat. I want to give a good reading, loud and clear, for Grandma. I move to speak directly to the place where the craisins now live. I bend my head, as if Grandma’s remains might hear me.

  “‘You can lead a horticulture,’” I shout, “‘but you can’t make her think!’”

  There is silence for a beat.

  “What was that?” Mom says.

  “Dorothy Parker,” I say.

  “Jesus, Lori,” Seth says, but he’s already laughing. Then he’s laughing louder, and the rest of us join him. I know Grandma would find this hilarious, too. That was sort of the point.

  “Wasn’t there any other, I don’t know, more poignant Dorothy Parker passage?” Seth asks, beaming at me.

  “It’s the one that seemed most relevant,” I respond. “Most of her writing is about sex, men being stupid, and society women being terrible.”

  “I liked it!” Bill says.

  “I don’t know if I get it,” Chris says.

  “You know, hor-ti-culture,” I say.

  “Oh,” Chris says. “Oh!”

  Then he blushes.

  “Dorothy Parker would have been so good at social media,” Seth says.

  “Lori,” Mom says. “I’d like you to wash your hands.”

  And with that, she has ended the moment.

  She’s already standing up, preparing to leave.

  “I guess that’s it for Box One,” Seth says, and Chris gathers his things.

  Before we go, I take a bunch of pictures with my phone—of the EXPLORERS GARDEN sign, of the patch where Grandma now lives, and a shot of the view from above. I send them to the text group that is the Garden Girls. I see that they’re responding with prayer emojis and hearts.