Southern Fried Sushi (33 page)

Mom had written about Japan—my Japan—in such tender color and poetry it put me to shame. All my award-winning articles suddenly seemed like they’d been written by one of those wind-up monkey toys banging cymbals.

“I will not die,” she wrote, “but live, and proclaim what the Lord has done!”

I couldn’t read another word. Felt sick, stifling. I closed the book and pressed it to my heart. Slipped to my knees and let my tears soak the flowered upholstery of Mom’s armchair.

When the sky turned the pale blue color of the silk ribbon in Mom’s journal, I found my feet on the smooth kitchen linoleum then on the cool, rough wood of the deck.

I had to see Mom’s roses. Touch them.

And I tripped down the last two steps in horror.

T
hey hung ruined, scorched. Dried, brown, lifeless, the leaves withered and tattered. Carmine petals scattered the flower bed. Only a few green leaves survived the mayhem, looking out of place in the faded canes. The white ones, if I remembered correctly (I couldn’t tell for sure because the petals had all dropped) looked like they’d been struck by lightning.

“What have I done?” I cried, rushing inside and fumbling for a watering can. I doused the roses in a sparkling shower then raced back for another. And another. When I’d finished, I stood there dumbly and surveyed the mess.

It was my fault. Adam told me to water her roses. So did Lowell, for crying out loud. I hid my face in my hands.

Dawn suspended a pearly, diaphanous mist over the morning. Calm, without a car stirring. The sun still sat below the horizon, and dewy grass sparkled in gray tufts. A night chill hung in the air.

“Noooo!” I moaned, getting on my hands and knees and studying the dried rosebushes, wishing I could do something—anything—to help. Like … mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? I felt more foolish by the minute.

Finally, squatting on my heels in despair, I remembered. I rushed into the house, stumbling over my tennis shoes, andgrabbed my cell phone. Called Adam, not realizing it was six in the morning.

“Hello?”

“I think I killed them,” I said, tears streaming down my face and choking my throat. “They’re all dead—every last one of them!”

A long pause. “Shiloh?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I drew my sleeve across my eyes. “Mom’s roses. They’re all dried up.”

I heard some muffled noise in the background. Another pause. “Did you … um … water them?”

“Some.” I tramped through the mulch and knelt by a formerly pale yellow bush that now stood limp and shriveled. “It rained the other day, too, so I thought …”

“A drizzle, or a good, hard rain?”

“I don’t know. Maybe … in between. I don’t know.” My voice choked up again.

More noise on the line. “Can you wait thirty minutes?”

“Thirty minutes?” I repeated, uncomprehending.

“Just give me time to get there, okay? I’ll take a look.”

“Really?” I sniffled, not believing what I heard. “You’ll come here? Now?”

“I’m on my way out the door.”

Not again. Not after the gas can, after … I smacked my forehead in frustration. “Adam, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I just …”

“Don’t say stuff like that, Shiloh.” He sounded annoyed. “You should know better.”

I gulped, not sure which astonished me more: his scolding or his offer to come.

“Sorry. I take it back. But I woke you up, didn’t I?” For some reason that made tears come again. Everything I did was wrong.

“No, you didn’t. I get up early.”

I scrubbed my toes miserably in the mulch. “Should I water them some more?”

“How much did you already give them?”

“A couple of buckets.”

“That’s enough. Don’t do anything else. Too much water and you’ll shock their root systems or drown them.”

“Should I put … fertilizer or anything?”

“No, just wait. I already put fertilizer plugs last time I came. Just wait until I see the extent of the damage, and then we’ll see if anything can be done.”

I hung up and wiped my face. The words “extent of the damage” rang in my head like one of those awful songs you can’t get rid of.

Damage, broken, ruin. I’ve just killed Mom’s roses.

I looked down and saw pajamas, so I rushed inside and threw on the first thing I found. Pulled my straggly hair into a ponytail and washed my tear-stained face. I was still crouching by the flower bed when a crunch of gravel made me look up.

“Had breakfast yet?” Adam slammed the truck door shut. Dropped a packet in my hands, paper-wrapped and steamy warm.

“Breakfast?” My eyes glazed over, uncomprehending.

“Breakfast. Food.” He looked ready for work in a baseball cap and work boots. “Remember what that is?”

He was speaking another language. All I could think of was Mom’s poor, crumpled roses in the dry flower bed and those beautiful lines in her journal. We stood there as he surveyed the damage. Then he knelt and checked the leaves. Touched the soil at the base of the canes. Gave a low whistle.

My eyes spilled over, and I left him there, letting the screen door slam behind me. No way I’d stand there in front of a man and cry. And for Adam, this would make the second time.

Adam looked up at me when I came down the steps, still squatting by my ruined roses.

“It’s pretty bad,” he said finally, gently twisting some leaves in his fingers. They fell like powder, disintegrating.

“Then that’s it.” I tried to suck back my tears. “I’ve done it. I’ve destroyed her rose garden.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean not necessarily?” I snapped. “They’re gone! They’re dead! There’s nothing we can do, right?”

“I can’t make promises,” said Adam, scratching his head. “Not in this condition. But there’s a good chance the roots are still alive.”

“Like that’s going to make any difference.” I kicked a piece of mulch.

“Of course it does! It makes all the difference in the world.”

I raised my head.

“The roots are like the heart, Shiloh. If they’re alive, there’s still hope for the plant. It can grow again. It can produce leaves. It can live. It can bloom.”

I couldn’t look at him. The perfumed morning hung between us, and I scarcely dared to breathe. “Even if there are no leaves left?”

“Even if there are no leaves left.”

The force of his words echoed in my soul. He was no longer talking just about Mom’s plants but about me. My life. My heart.

“You mean … there’s hope?” My pulse quickened. “They can come back?”

“Maybe. Like I said, I can’t promise anything.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep my pulse from surging. “But what if they’re really, really dead?”

Adam rested his hand on his knee. “Well, Shiloh, there’s where God comes in. He’s the only One who can raise the dead. That’s beyond watering. That’s in the realm of miracles.”

“God can … raise the dead?” Strange, but it seemed exactly what He had done to Mom. Brought her dead and broken spirit into extraordinary life and beauty. Caused her to burst into bloom. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t believe anymore.

“Sure He can. Nothing is impossible with God. He’s alreadyraised His own Son back to life for us, and I can’t think of anything more impossible to fix than death. Can you?”

I touched a broken rose twig, shriveled like an autumn leaf. “No.”

“Then pray. No promises, but let’s do what we can and ask God to spare these poor, dried-up roots. Some of them, at least, look … well, somewhat salvageable. It’s pretty bad, Shiloh, but believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

“Worse than this?”

“Look.” He touched the red rosebush, which still clung to a few normal-looking leaves. “See this green? It’s getting water from somewhere. It’s not healthy, but it’s trying. Somewhere down there it has a lifeline. The heart is still pumping.” He lifted blue eyes to mine, and something in my heart stirred as if waking from sleep.

It’s trying. The heart is still pumping. If it’s still alive, then there’s hope. It can live again. It can bloom again. Fragile jars of clay, but still holding treasure. Struck down, but not destroyed
.

Choose life, that you may live!

I buried my face in my hands. “What about these white ones? They’re all brown. And they’re the most important ones of all. I can’t … explain why right now, but they are.”

Adam patted the soil below the thorny canes tenderly, as if tucking them in for the night. “Then we have to take care of its heart. Coax it not to give up. Give it what it needs, and see if miracles happen. Does your mom have a hose?”

We split up, and I found it against the back side of the house, wound in a neat coil. Adam dragged it around to the flower bed. Went to the back of the truck and got out something silver.

“What’s that?”

“A sprinkler. To keep the waterings even throughout the day.” He hooked it up to the hose, and out sifted a soft little shifting spray that turned, turned, turned with sibilant sounds. I watched the fine mist gently bead the dried leaves and brown

branches like healing tears of repentance.

“So what do I need to do?” I crouched next to him as he adjusted the sprinkler.

“Well. For starters, you need to remember to water your roses,” he said sternly, tugging on his cap in irritation. “Maybe we can save them this time, Shiloh, but I can’t promise next time. Miracles happen, but I don’t run my business asking for them every time I forget to do my job. You need to water them every day, just like I told you. Morning and evening, without fail, even if it rains.”

“So the sprinkler doesn’t do it for me?”

“No way. The sprinkler serves as a backup, not the real watering. I can’t tell you how many desperate phone calls I get from people and companies telling me their roses dried out. Roses need water, lots of water. It’s that simple. You can’t count on someone else to do the job for you. That’s what I tell all my clients.”

Adam, still miffed, sat down on the deck steps as the sun began to rise, leaving a place for me to sit.

“People who won’t invest the time shouldn’t buy roses or dahlias or varieties that require a lot of care. They need crown vetch or a cactus or something you can just throw in the garden and forget about. But they won’t have bouquets of roses in the spring. You can’t have it all. You have to choose what you want in life and go after it.”

I hugged my knees on the deck steps, thinking of Becky’s prayer journal. So much like Mom’s, lined day after day.

“What do you want in life?” I heard myself say.

“Me?” Those bluish eyes met mine then lost me somewhere over the trees. “God. To know Him better and honor Him with my life. To …” He stopped. “Basically that.”

I wanted to ask him what he almost said but didn’t, but thankfully kept my mouth shut. Instead I breathed in fresh dawn as orange clouds turned gold. Up in the dome of blue sky

a group of birds flew together, almost too small to see.

Adam turned to me there on the deck, thick sandy hair poking out from under his baseball cap. “And you, Shiloh? I think that’s a fair question. What do you want in life?”

My eyes watered as I remembered Mom’s journal and all my spiraling thoughts since I’d come to Staunton. My proddings and searchings. My emptiness, and my old dreams of glory.

“I don’t really know,” I replied, looking down at my hands. “I wish I did. At one time I would have said to write more or win more awards or … something like that. But I really don’t know now.” I rested my chin on my knees pensively. “But when I figure it out, I’m going after it with all my heart. That much I know.”

Adam nodded. “I believe you.” He nudged me with his elbow, hands tucked in his pockets. “You can start by eating breakfast.”

I remembered the thing in my hand. I opened it and found a sausage biscuit with cheese. Adam got his biscuit, which had grown cold on the car seat, a thermos of coffee, and an extra mug from the truck as the sprinkler whish, whished beside us.

We sat there on the porch steps and munched, listening as a blue jay shook the leaves and shouted his familiar cry: “Thief! Thief!” from Stella’s silver maple tree. Sunlight climbed across the land in a brilliant burst. The grass sparked blue and red fire.

“People don’t shoot blue jays, do they?” I bit into my biscuit.