Things That Grow

by Meredith Goldstein

Jill says, “Good girl. That spot will be gorgeous in May.”

  I want to tell this to everyone, but I see that they’re already walking away, back to our cars to start the process of saying goodbye.

  When we make it back to where we started, all of us almost as sweaty as Bill, me with the dirtiest hands, Mom calls me over to give me the facts.

  “I just have a few coaching sessions this week, and then I’ll be back to help you pack.”

  I say nothing.

  “You’ll make new friends, and of course you can keep in touch with the ones you’ve made here,” she says. “Bill’s spare room has a nice big closet.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. Closet space is not what I’m looking for in life.

  “I think we’d benefit from a year together, Lori,” she says.

  Then she smiles at Bill, and I think that this is not about me. I’m an accessory, as usual with her. Like a geode necklace, but perhaps less meaningful.

  She hugs me, and it feels like a countdown clock has started ticking.

  Everyone waves as Mom and Bill pull out of their parking space, headed for the highway. I’m focused on Chris, though, and thinking of a plan.

  Chapter 5

  That afternoon I go over to Chris’s house and ring the doorbell. Chris’s younger brother, Adam, answers. He’s not looking at me, though. He just swings open the door, his eyes on what’s in his hands.

  “You know, I could be been an intruder,” I tell him. “Or a kidnapper. You should look up at a person before you let them in.”

  “Murderers don’t ring the doorbell,” he says.

  At ten, Adam looks like a mini-Chris, but his personality is all his own. Whereas Chris is polite and helpful and is always apologizing for putting anyone out—as if he ever does—Adam does whatever he wants and figures he’ll talk his way out of it later. He is already an expert at batting his eyelashes in a way that demands forgiveness.

  The only person who scares him is his mother. If Mrs. Burke gets angry with Adam and says three specific words—“Try that again”—his lip starts to tremble and he breaks into a performance of groveling that ends with his being sent to his room to think about what he did. He cries so much at that point, trembling with fear, that you’d think he’d been sent somewhere awful, as opposed to his room, which has actual toys all over it. Once he emerges, usually after about twenty minutes, he sits on Mrs. Burke’s lap and she calls him her Snugglepuss and all is forgiven. I have seen the cycle play out many times.

  Chris and I wrote a story about it once. We imagined what Adam experiences in that room when he’s sent there, and we decided that once he shuts the door, Mrs. Burke summons all of Adam’s inner demons and they spend that entire twenty minutes taunting him and calling him names. Edward Gorey-style characters with scarier faces. They scream at him about his behavior until he can’t take it anymore. We called the story “Time Out.”

  I have lost all track of days, which is sort of a late-August thing anyway, but time has been particularly weird since Grandma died. Adam has now reminded me that today is, in fact, a Sunday.

  Mrs. Burke does this thing where Adam is allowed to play games on his tablet only on Sundays, after church, and he can only play until the battery runs out. She charges the tablet on Saturday night, and when they get home, he wakes up and runs to it. It’s an old tablet, so it has about three hours of life in it. Adam has no self-control, and he plays the thing for hours, taking it with him to the bathroom because he doesn’t want to waste a second. When the tablet dies, he lets out a small whimper. But he knows the rules. He would never challenge them.

  “You look like the life is being sucked out of you when you’re on that thing,” I tell Adam, whose eyes are all weird and possessed. He ignores me and takes a seat on the round leather ottoman next to the couch.

  “What game?” I ask.

  “Battle Astra,” Adam mutters.

  I nod like this means something to me.

  I hear shuffling and see Mrs. Burke coming down the steps, and I get a hug before I can say hello. She smells like pretty perfume. She’s in gray yoga pants and a blue sweatshirt. She’s also wearing beautiful red lipstick and mascara, probably left over from a dressier morning at church and then the clothing drive. Her hair is in a perfect ponytail. She’s wearing a simple solitaire necklace with a clear stone that catches the light from the window. My mother’s necklace could eat this necklace.

  Mrs. Burke could not be more different from my mother. I love her.

  She takes a long look at me.

  “My Lori,” she says, and I melt inside. This is why I’m here. “How are you holding up?”

  “It’s sucks,” I tell her before I can censor myself. This is not a suck house. “I’m sorry I said suck.”

  “You get a pass this week,” she says. “You must be missing Sheryl so much right now.”

  “Not yet,” I admit. “It doesn’t even feel like she’s gone. Her smell is still in the house, you know?”

  “Oh, the smells. Smell is so important. Do you know that when my mother died, I put her favorite robe in a large Ziploc bag?” Mrs. Burke tells me. “Once a year, on her birthday, I open it up and smell it. It might be silly, but even though the smell is mostly gone, it makes me feel close to her.”

  “That’s a really good idea,” I say, making a note to myself to put some of Grandma’s clothes in something I can seal tight.

  “How was the clothing drive?” I ask.

  “We collected and sorted more than five hundred suits. Pantsuits. Skirt suits. I’d call that a success.”

  “I know Grandma wanted to help,” I say.

  “I know she did, sweetheart,” Mrs. Burke says. “Christian is helping his dad put up some shelves in Adam’s room,” she adds, changing the subject.

  Right on cue, there’s the sound of a hammer, and then Chris’s dad comes down the stairs.

  “He’s going to put a hole right through that wall,” he says to Mrs. Burke before he notices me.

  “Hello, Lori, dear.”

  “Hi, Mr. Burke,” I say.

  “How are you holding up?” he asks, echoing his wife without knowing it, and this time I have a better answer.

  “Okay, considering,” I say.

  “Well,” Mr. Burke says, “anything you need, we’re here.”

  Then he goes into the kitchen.

  “Let me call for Chris,” Mrs. Burke tells me.

  “Actually,” I say, “I came to talk to you.”

  “Oh. Of course,” she says, and leads me to the couch.

  Nearby, Adam screams, “No!” and Mrs. Burke and I both jump up, startled. Then we realize he’s yelling at the tablet.

  “Adam!” Mrs. Burke yells at the same time that Mr. Burke yells the same thing from the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” he yells back. “I just died.”

  “Young man!” Mrs. Burke yells in his direction, but that’s the end of the sentence—she doesn’t say anything else. He shoots her an apologetic look, probably thinking about “time-out,” and then settles into the ottoman again, his expression contrite.

  Mr. Burke smiles, rolling his eyes as he passes us to go back upstairs to his project.

  “What game is that?” Mrs. Burke asks Adam.

  “I borrowed it from Sammy,” he says, not telling her that the name of the game is Battle Astra.

  “It better not be guns or war,” Mrs. Burke says.

  “It’s not a gun game,” Adam swears.

  “If it is, Adam, you better switch it to Zelda—” she starts.

  “Mom, there are no guns, I swear,” he says.

  “Then how did you die?”

  “A blaster!” he says.

  Mrs. Burke is quiet, and I know she’s probably deciding whether a blaster is some kind of gun, which it most likely is, but she exhales, gives Adam a long look, and decides not to pursue this fight.

  “What can I do for you, Lori?” she asks.

  “Well . . .” I start. “First, thank you f
or letting Chris be around so much and to miss church and everything today. It helped to have him with me.”

  “Of course,” she says. “No need to thank me. You two are peas in a pod. And Sheryl was always here for me.”

  “She was?” I ask.

  “Always,” Mrs. Burke says. “When Gary and I moved here years ago, we were both working in the city. I was taking the commuter rail into Boston every day, running back and forth to pick up Chris from daycare. We didn’t know one single neighbor. No one went out of their way to make our acquaintance. One day Sheryl saw me with groceries in one arm and Chris in the other. I was close to dropping everything, and the next thing I knew, there she was, taking the bags, carrying them inside, making me laugh.

  “No one tells couples how lonely it can be when you first have kids. Our friends were all in the city still. We were tired all the time. Sheryl started showing up at our door with books for us to borrow, and it was a lifeline.”

  Mrs. Burke smiles.

  “That’s why it was so serendipitous when you showed up for Chris. We’d hoped to introduce you at some point, but then there you were, finding each other on your own.”

  “Right,” I say, and take a breath. This is my opening. “About that . . . with Grandma Sheryl gone, my school situation is sort of up in the air. I’m almost eighteen, but not yet, so it’s not legal for me to live on my own in the house.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s not a good idea, even if you were eighteen,” Mrs. Burke says, folding her hands in her lap. “It wouldn’t be safe, you all alone in that big house.”

  “Right. Of course,” I say. “But I really don’t want to move. My whole life is here. Chris and I have a lot of plans for our writing and applying to colleges. Two peas in a pod, like you said. I don’t want to move to some random place in Maryland and miss N-Files and Senior Internship.”

  Senior Internship is a program at the end of senior year where you get to take a week off from school to shadow a job. Miss Checka told Chris and me that she has a friend who’ll be able to hook us up with a publisher in Boston that puts out some of the real books we love.

  Mrs. Burke shifts in her seat. Maybe she knows what’s coming.

  “I thought maybe I could stay here for the year,” I say. “With you. In this house.”

  “Lori.”

  “I’m over here so much anyway, and I’m sure I could get my mom to give you money for food and expenses, and whatever I might need. Mostly I keep to myself when I’m at home anyway. I was thinking that Chris could move into Adam’s room, or maybe, if Mr. Burke isn’t using his office that much, I could set up there. I wouldn’t even have to bring much stuff.”

  “My room is my room,” Adam mutters to himself. “No one else in my room.”

  “Lori,” Mrs. Burke says again, and I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully.

  “I also think this would be best for Chris,” I say, trying another strategy quickly before she can give me an answer. “He’ll need a good portfolio for colleges, and I can help him with that. Like, at this point our portfolio is shared, with my stories and his art. We’d use the time to make it better and to help each other with college applications.”

  I’m hoping the more I say “college,” the more she’ll be open to this. I don’t expect a yes right now, but I’m aiming for an “I’ll think about it.” I’m just trying to avoid a no.

  “And you’d get a bonus babysitter for Adam!” I say.

  “I’m allowed to stay home alone now,” Adam says.

  “Not at night you’re not,” Mrs. Burke tells him.

  I am distracted when I hear a light tapping noise, and I look over Mrs. Burke’s shoulder and see that Chris has come downstairs and is in the hallway. He’s hiding behind the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen, and he doesn’t know I can see him.

  He looks tense.

  I didn’t talk to him about this idea, and maybe I should have, just to get his thoughts on how to persuade his mom, but I’m the better negotiator. Also, it came to me out of nowhere when I got home from the arboretum. I didn’t want to waste any time.

  He looks shocked by my request.

  “Lori . . .” Mrs. Burke says again, bringing my attention back to the couch.

  “I know this is something you’d have to think about—and talk to my mother about. I don’t expect you to have an answer right this second,” I assure her.

  I can see Chris cover his mouth with his hand. He’s tense from anticipation. So am I.

  “Lori,” Mrs. Burke says, “I do have an answer right now. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  I imagine multiple version of the word floating through the room like smoke rings.

  “It’s not a good idea,” she says, and her tone makes it clear that this is a final answer.

  Mrs. Burke starts to talk, but I can’t listen. I am distracted because my best friend—who’s just heard his mother’s rejection of my plan to move in—could not look more relieved. With no idea that I can see him or that I know he’s listening, he exhales and wipes his forehead, as if he’s a comic book character with a thought bubble that says “Phew!”

  My breathing feels weak. Chris takes a few steps back, and now he’s out of sight.

  “Lori, are you all right?”

  “What?”

  Oh, right. Mrs. Burke.

  “Can you explain that again?” I ask. I want to hear her reasoning. For a second, I compartmentalize Chris’s relief.

  “Really, it’s just what I said. I’ve spoken to your mother. She’s thrilled to have you in Maryland. Apart from that, you kids need attention and parenting, even though you think you’re beyond it. Chris and Adam need my undivided attention. I need to be there for Chris, specifically, as he applies for colleges and makes big plans for the rest of his life.

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t adore you, Lori. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you visiting and being an essential part of my son’s life. It only means that I can’t be your guardian. That’s a big thing—to be responsible for someone else’s child. It’s a responsibility I can’t take on, but that reality has nothing to do with how much I love you.”

  This is a totally lovely and rational explanation, but I am frozen, still, because it doesn’t explain why Chris wouldn’t want me here. I want to ask her about his reaction, tell her what I just saw, but I don’t.

  “Do you need some water, Lori? You look flushed. There have been heat advisories for days. Have you all been drinking water while you’ve been running around outside? Adam, go get Lori a glass of water.”

  “I’m okay,” I whisper.

  “Adam,” Mrs. Burke says, “water for Lori.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Adam says, sulking as he stands up, still playing his game, and slides his feet into the kitchen.

  “Lori, I’m sorry if you expected a different answer,” Mrs. Burke says, taking my hand in hers, “but you need to be with your family. It will mean sacrifices, but also new opportunities. Your mom told me all about where you’ll live—”

  “When did you talk to my mom?”

  “She and Seth stopped by early this morning. They wanted to know if I had any real estate contacts, and I do. There’s a lovely man at church who’s going to help them prepare the house for sale.”

  “Right,” I say.

  I don’t want to hear how we’re going to sell the house.

  Mrs. Burke waits for me to close the conversation. Maybe to say “you’re right” or some other polite response, but I can’t form the words. Maybe I didn’t believe I’d really have to move—to leave my life—until this moment.

  I take my hand from hers and stand up. I need to get out of here. Just then, Adam returns, holding a full glass of water in one hand.

  “Oh, no thank you, Adam,” I say, and he responds without looking up, saying, “No prob.” He takes a sip from the glass himself and tucks it under his armpit so he can return to his game with both hands
.

  “Adam Burke, hold that water with two hands,” Mrs. Burke says, rising.

  “I have to go,” I tell them.

  “Lori, if you want to talk more . . .” Mrs. Burke starts.

  “No. I shouldn’t have asked,” I say. “It’s fine. I should get back to the house. We’re planning our next garden trip, and I need to check in with Seth.”

  “Of course,” she says, but there’s pity in her voice. Or something. Then Adam drops the water glass.

  “Adam!” Mrs. Burke says, turning to him, and I’m happy she’s distracted so I can leave.

  I mumble a goodbye as I run out, the door latching behind me. As I make my way down the driveway, I glance up at Chris’s window to see if he’s watching, but he’s not there.

  * * *

  At home, Seth is standing in the kitchen next to the open refrigerator.

  “No more lasagna,” he says, and shuts it. “What do you want?” he asks.

  “P. F. Changs,” I say without hesitation.

  “Do they deliver?” he asks.

  “Everything delivers,” I say.

  We are the one residential street trapped in the center of acres of chain stores and every kind of commerce, but whenever Seth visits, I can tell he still thinks of Natick as the tiny town he grew up in. Like it will never catch up to what he has in New York.

  “Natick is a hub of services,” I say. “I can’t imagine what it was like when you were a kid.”

  “Natick was a dry town when I was your age,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “No alcohol,” he says. “Not in restaurants, at least.”

  “Weird. What did they do at the mall? Like at the Cheesecake Factory?”

  “There was no Cheesecake Factory.”

  “Wow. Olden days,” I say.

  “Be nice to your aging uncle,” he tells me.

  I want to laugh, but my body would rather collapse, I think.

  “You’re upset,” Seth says.

  I groan. “It’s not you,” I say.

  Seth takes a long look at me, and I squirm a little because he’s really paying attention, the way Grandma Sheryl used to. I’m not sure I want anyone to see me right now.