I open to the dog-eared page.
“This is ‘Sanctuary,’ by Dorothy Parker,” I begin.
My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges.
And sweet’s the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.
There is a pause. That moment of silence that I now recognize is part of a Dorothy Parker one-liner sinking in.
Then Seth gives me a slow clap.
“God, she was good.”
“She was probably the best kind of jerk,” I say. “Like the person you’d want to be in a corner with at a party.” Like Grandma Sheryl and Seth.
We’re quiet for a while, looking at the water. Then I find my phone and take a picture of the view and send it to the Garden Girls.
“How perfect,” Kevin writes back.
Jill says, “Well done.”
The rest of them respond with thumbs-ups and hearts. Rochelle adds a shooting star. That’s a new one for her.
We don’t wait long before we decide to return home. Chris doesn’t sleep on the ride back, but he doesn’t talk either. Seth looks deep in thought, and I am too.
* * *
Back at home, Seth goes outside to make a call to Ethan while I heat up lasagna. I put a big tin tray of it in the oven and then watch Seth pace around the front lawn while he talks, Devin Coogan bouncing up and down in the distance.
Later, we watch Edward Scissorhands, and I learn what kind of person I am.
Edward’s skin is soft and pale around his scars, and his hair is wild and black, and when he smiles, it is the most earnest kind of happiness, which reminds me of Chris.
“So?” Seth says. “Forget who plays him, and the real world, and the practicalities of the scissors, and ask yourself, ‘Would I?’”
“I would,” I tell Seth because I know it will win me points—and it does.
“Damn right you would,” he says.
This is the new plan, the one I want to make happen. Maybe it is possible.
It could be like this every night if he stayed. I could avoid moving my entire life to live with a parent who is probably somewhere clutching a crystal, coaching someone on their life instead of improving her own. I could have something like what I’ve had with Grandma Sheryl—a home where I can be myself, an adult who gets me.
As the movie credits roll, we both fall asleep on the couch. I wake us both up at, like, three a.m., and we shuffle, exhausted, to our rooms. I hope he is comfortable.
Chapter 8
My mom has been a lot of things. The first job I remember her having was as an office manager in a doctor’s office. That’s when we lived in New Jersey the first time. Already she was into meditation and self-help books, and she loved one book called The Secret, which basically says that if you are confident that you should get something, it will come to you. But you have to be really sure about it. No doubts. You have to be like, “I will get a puppy,” and then you’re bound to get one. A puppy will be thrust upon you because you made it so.
Mom’s wish was for a career and a partner, she said at the time. I guess that’s why she kept moving in with boyfriends and quitting jobs to take new ones. She would make those things materialize, but they were never quite right. The minute I left and moved in with Grandma, Mom settled down a little, which makes me wonder what she was really running from. I try not to think about that.
It was after I moved out that she started going to school to be a life coach. She trained in this program to help others manage their lives. Which is big-time irony, the most frustrating kind if you’re her daughter.
Seth told me one Christmas that people who have careers helping others often can’t help themselves.
“I’ve known so many therapists who are messes,” he told me. “It makes perfect sense that your mom is becoming a life coach.”
I’m in the middle of imagining her in a session with someone, grabbing her geode necklace while telling them what to do, when my phone starts ringing. It’s FaceTime, and it’s her.
Maybe I accidentally did The Secret.
I sit up and answer so she won’t bother me for the rest of the day.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
She’s not looking into the camera. Her face is to the side, and she looks pale, with no makeup on. She’s not wearing her necklaces.
“What’s up?” I ask, getting worried.
“Look!” she says, and then moves the phone to what’s behind her, which is a white wall.
“I see nothing.”
“Oh, shoot,” she says, fiddling with the technology. “Maybe if I turn it this way.”
She’s walking the perimeter of the room, and then I get it. This room will be mine.
There is some construction debris on the floor. Pieces of wood.
“Is the ceiling falling down?” I ask.
“What? Oh! Oh, no, Lori,” she says. “Bill is making you a desk!”
That is so nice. That makes what I’m about to say so much worse.
“Mom,” I say in my kindest voice, which is also a fake-sounding voice, “I have an idea. What if Seth moved in with me here for the year. Like, he could go back and forth and see Ethan. He teaches most of his classes remotely anyway . . .”
Silence.
“You want to live with Seth?” she asks after an eternity.
“It’s not about wanting him instead of you,” I say. “I just want to stay here, you know? I mean, that’s not news.”
Mom’s face deflates—literally sags—like a bouncy house that’s taken on too much weight and is sinking to the ground with a bunch of tumbling bodies inside.
“You don’t see anything positive about living with me,” she says.
“It’s not that,” I tell her. “I just told you that wasn’t the case.”
“He lives in New York,” she says.
“It’s one year. Ethan could visit, and I think Seth could do a lot of writing here. I keep seeing him inspired, making notes. Also, we get along so well and have so much in common. And he’s doing a really good job of watching me.”
Now I’m being honest. He’s better at this than she is.
“You think he’s parenting you well,” she says, and her voice is bitter. “Like you thought my mother was a better parent than I could ever be. You think that’s the truth.”
I don’t say anything for a bit, but then I decide to be honest.
“I’m not sure everyone is cut out for parenting,” I tell her. “Grandma Sheryl was a teacher. She didn’t mind sitting at home all night and focusing on someone else. You have other stuff to do. Boyfriends to move in with. That’s okay, it’s just not great for me.”
Mom looks directly into the phone and becomes an entirely different person—the one I like and rarely see. She’s so woo-woo usually. She talks with this high voice that’s all light and airy and feel-good and blissed-out—too confident about her positivity—even when things are miserable.
But every now and then her voice drops an octave and she sounds like some person I’d want to know. Usually that voice came out when she was fighting with Grandma Sheryl on the phone, or when she’s telling an old story about my dad.
It’s been forever since I’ve heard her sound this way.
“You think there’s only good and bad. That your grandma was a good parent and I’m a bad one, and that Seth is wonderful and I’m terrible.”
I don’t want to have to confirm this, so I say nothing and look away.
“Your grandma was a great parent because she got a second chance.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Mom hesitates.
“She wasn’t so perfect with me,” she says, her voice even lower. “Mom ignored Seth and me for, I don’t know, most of our childhoods. Dad died, and then all Mom did was work and tutor into the night. She did it in the house, so she’d be in the living room patiently working with kids on their homework. Perfecting their college essays. Meanwhile, Seth and I
would be in our rooms upstairs, fending for ourselves. The house felt like a business. We felt like burdens just by being there.”
“But she loved kids,” I say.
“Other people’s kids!” Mom says.
I want to defend Grandma Sheryl. She worked nights to support her kids because she loved them. There’s no way she ignored her own.
“She and Seth were so close,” I argue. “I know she didn’t ignore him.”
“Because my brilliant brother figured it out,” Mom says. “He took on Mom’s interests. He loved reading, so he didn’t have to fake anything. But he realized that if he read all her favorite books, she’d pay attention, and she did. They functioned that way ever since. By the end of high school, he was helping her tutor other students. They were like partners, more like twins than he and I could be.
“I’m not a reader, Lor. You know that. I wasn’t an anything, really. She didn’t help me figure out what I liked, what I might be good at. She and Seth had their little club, and I wasn’t part of it.”
I can’t imagine Grandma Sheryl ignoring anyone on purpose. But . . . I also always liked what she liked, just like Seth. We could always talk about books. But what if I hadn’t been interested, I ask myself for a second. What if I’d been a kid who loved sports? Would she have invited me to live with her?
“I know you love your uncle Seth,” Mom continues. “I love him, too. But he has never been responsible for watching over anyone, including himself. He does what he wants. There’s no way he supports himself financially—that’s Ethan’s territory. Seth has never had to be the person giving the final answer. It wouldn’t be what you think.”
Of course he does what he wants, I think. He’s an adult.
“Could we try?” I ask.
She exhales.
“I don’t know, Lor. I can talk to him. I just—I need time to think about whether it’s a good idea.”
I nod. I don’t want to break the silence in a way that will change her mind. Inside, I’m squealing. Even this much commitment feels like progress.
“Listen, honey, I’m going to go talk to Bill. Forget what I said about Grandma. It’s complicated grown-up stuff, and your memories of her don’t have to match mine. It’s been a tough week, and I’m trying to process it all. I shouldn’t be putting it on you.”
This is the most my mother has ever said about why she is the way she is. I wish she was like this more often.
“Okay,” I say, not wanting to push her.
She hangs up, and all I can focus on is the news—she will talk to Seth about staying.
I find myself walking into the spare room, her old room. There is no desk. There are no bookshelves. Just Seth’s stuff. For the first time, I notice that there is no evidence that my mother was ever here.
Chapter 9
We walk down a side street in the South End, a swank neighborhood in Boston, and Seth nods his approval of our surroundings. It’s a cooler day, finally, so I’m in my red dress with the yellow collar that I found at the secondhand clothing store near the movie theater in Somerville. Chris always says the appropriate accessory for this dress would be a massive knife. That’s the ultimate compliment.
But Chris is not here today. I told him that Seth and I could do this third box alone.
This is part of my backup plan, the one that involves me having to move. I want to see Chris a little less this week, to maybe get used to not turning to him for everything, to figure out how to enjoy him from afar, if that’s what has to happen. I don’t need him near me every second. I can survive without him.
Also, I want him to have some space for himself. I know this week has been a lot. I am usually better at thinking about him first. This whole thing has turned me into the neediest person and I hate it. He should have a minute to draw on his own, or play with Adam. Or sort clothes with his mom.
God, if I have to move I’ll miss Mrs. Burke so much.
But if my plan A works, it won’t have to come to that.
I let out some stress by kicking a cobblestone.
“I know I always say I would never live in Boston, but I could live on this street,” Seth says, looking around. “I could see myself here.”
“Oh, really? You could imagine yourself being happy on this street?”
I’m being sarcastic because literally anyone could see themselves here. We are in one of the richest neighborhoods in Boston, the kind of Boston you’d see on a television show, with pretty brownstones and manicured trees. The South End is lined with French restaurants, people who walk dogs that wear clothing, and a craft market Grandma Sheryl used to take me to before Hanukkah. Last year we stopped for hot chocolate and walked from booth to booth until we found handmade worry dolls and bought some for Mom and Seth. We got some for me, too. I wonder where I put them. Because I am worried.
This could be the last time I’m in the South End for a long time, so I take it in. I try to see it through Grandma Sheryl’s eyes, now that I have had more time touring gardens with the botanic bible that I’ve found myself reading before bed every night. There are azaleas in front of the row of brownstones next to us. There are pink and yellow mums. There are some wilting dahlias—or at least that’s what I think they are—which might be my favorite. I can’t believe I know this.
“Are we going in the right direction?” Seth asks.
I grab my phone from my dress pocket and type in the location again.
“My GPS says we’re forty feet away,” I respond, confused. We should be right there.
Seth looks around to the brownstones on either side of us. “But there’s no garden.”
“There must be. It says Tapestry Garden is right here.”
“What’s the address we’re looking for?”
“One eighty-one.”
Seth squints to see a plaque on the browwnstone in front of him.
“This is one eighty-nine, so it must be on this block . . .”
We wander side by side until we see the gorgeous home between 179 and 183.
“This is one eighty-one?” Seth mutters.
The building is so beautiful, I gasp. It is a very tall brownstone with fancy marble stairs and tiny gargoyles on each side of the landing. A man with a bow tie should live here. Or a very fancy widow.
There is large brass plate on the front door. It says COFFIN.
“What the fuck,” Seth says. “Why does it say coffin?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “I have no idea.”
“I’m googling it,” Seth says, taking his phone from his bag.
I don’t wait. I hit the buzzer.
“Lori, what are you doing?” Seth asks.
“It says coffin,” I say. “It’s a sign that we’re supposed to be here. Literally.”
“What the hell, Lor—”
Before Seth can finish, the door swings open, and on the other side is a man. An adult, younger than Seth by some years. He has peachy skin, with a beach tan and floppy blond hair. He wears skinny jeans and a black T-shirt that says SIMPLE in all caps. He’s painted his nails dark blue, and I decide he must be interesting.
“Can I help you?” he asks, running his eyes over us. He takes a long look at my dress and my hair, but I can’t tell if he likes my look. I stand taller.
“I hope so,” Seth answers from behind me, and with that one phrase, I can tell that Seth wants to climb all over this man, which is fair, because he is Uncle Seth’s type and objectively cute. I mean, this SIMPLE man is everybody’s type, I think. He radiates the entitlement and confidence of a Jake or a Tyler.
“What can I do for you?” the man says to help move us along.
“Um . . .” I say. Seth is legit just staring at him. “We’re actually looking for something called Tapestry Garden. Google says it’s at this address, but maybe it’s wrong. Have you heard of it? Is there a garden nearby?”
The man smiles, showing straight white teeth. His eyes are so blue.
“It’s here. It’s my mother’s garden.”
Seth and I show our confusion.
“It’s a private garden,” the man clarifies. “It’s called Tapestry Garden—by the family. Technically, it’s just our backyard.”
“But it’s in Google Maps,” I say.
“I mean, it is a designated society garden,” the man says. “I suppose it’s on a map. But it’s not a public garden or run by the Parks Department or anything. It’s only on a map because the home is historic.”
“Shit,” Seth and I whisper at the same time. This is a setback we did not expect. We glance at each other—and then at my backpack—which has the Chico’s bag inside of it, and we’re both a little baffled about what happens next.
“I’m Seth Seltzer,” Seth says, climbing the last step to the door and sticking out his hand for the man to shake. “This is my niece, Lori.”
“Hi,” I say sheepishly, and wave.
“Liam,” the man says, shaking Seth’s hand. “Liam Coffin.”
“Your last name is Coffin!” I say, stating the obvious, based on Seth’s expression. “That’s why it’s on the door.”
“Yes,” he says. “We’re not the Coffins, but we’re distantly related. I suppose every Coffin is technically one of the Coffins.”
I nod, even though I have no idea who the Coffins might be.
“Would you like to come in?”
We must look very lost or very unthreatening, because we are one hundred percent strangers and this man is letting us into his house. We follow him down a long hallway that has wide built-in bookshelves Grandma Sheryl would have killed for, into a living room that has pristine white walls and dark blue velvet furniture. There are very old-looking paintings on the walls, and I doubt they’re replicas. One is of a miserable-looking woman staring out a window.
“If you’re interested in the garden, my mother can tell you all about it,” Liam says, still standing as Seth and I sit on a leather love seat. “I’ll grab her,” he adds, and disappears.
“What is the plan here?” I whisper to Seth because we are in a private, very expensive and scary home.
“Shhh,” he responds.
We’re silent until he says, barely audibly, “My god, there is so much Wedgwood.”
Things That Grow Page 14
