The Survival Kit (6 page)

Read The Survival Kit Online

Authors: Donna Freitas

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Death & Dying, #Love & Romance

BOOK: The Survival Kit
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CAN YOU TELL
“But these are so ugly,” I said.
Will and I were standing in front of a large wooden bin that was filled with thick, gnarled roots covered in knots. The ragged cardboard sign attached to one of the planks said “Pink,” the next one over said “White,” and a third said “Blush.”
“We’re not planting actual flowers. You knew that, right?” Will watched me in between picking through the bin, choosing one root over another, using what criteria I could not imagine—they all looked the same, each equally hideous. “Did you think they would be in bloom?” he asked.
“No,” I said in a huff, remembering the pictures from the gardening books of just the sort of mutant potato–looking things Will was admiring and discarding one by one and only rarely putting inside the basket I held in my arms. “I knew they would be roots. It’s just that the ones you keep picking look the worst of all.”
He stopped his search and cocked his head to the side. “Would you like to choose them instead?”
My eyes flickered to the ceiling. “No. I don’t know how to tell the good from the bad.”
“Okay then.” Will continued to sort through the bin, adding roots to our pile until we had twelve, four each of the different colors.
“That’s it? A dozen?” I stared at them, trying to decide whether or not these deformed objects could really turn into beautiful flowers come spring.
“I thought you wanted my help,” Will said.
“I do.”
“So trust me.”
“But we didn’t talk about numbers.”
“Twelve is more than enough. These will grow big, though the first year you won’t see too much. In three or four you’ll have more flowers than you know what to do with.”
“Four years,” I cried. “I can’t wait that long.”
“You’ll have to be patient,” Will said.
“I want them to bloom in May. I kind of need them to,” I added in a whisper, realizing how high the stakes felt for this one task.
“Oh, they will. You’ll have plenty. But the following year you’ll have even more. That’s all I was trying to say.”
“Really?” I asked, still wanting more reassurance.
“I promise.”
“Okay.” I began to breathe again, feeling mostly relieved. “What’s
blush
anyway?” I asked as Will traded one root for another from the bin with that particular sign attached to it.
“A color.”
“But what does it look like?”
“It’s a shade of pink.” Will seemed pained to admit out loud that he knew this.
I smiled a little. “What kind of pink?”
“Shades of pink are not up for discussion,” he said, and I almost wanted to laugh at his sudden discomfort. He grabbed the basket from me and walked up to the register, emptying everything onto the counter.
“Hi, Will,” said the girl ringing up our stuff. Between her tone and the looks she was giving him it was obvious she was flirting.
“Hey,” he responded, his voice flat and devoid of any real interest, placing the last root on top of the pile. Will took off, leaving me standing there with this girl staring at me, and not in a friendly way, eventually returning with two giant bags of compost and dropping them at my feet.
“Do we really need those?”
He gave me a wry look. “Peonies love this stuff.”
“But—”
“Just trust me,” he said. His blue eyes widened. “Okay?”
I nodded.
To the checkout girl he said, “We’re taking all of this,” and drew a circle in the air with his index finger to include the bags at our feet.
She smiled sweetly. “Sure, Will,” she said, before glaring at me again. While I paid, Will began shuttling our stuff out to his truck.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked once there was nothing left.
“All set,” I said, and walked out. Will followed behind me, each footstep loud as his sneakers crushed through the gravel in the parking lot.
“Glad to see you wore the right clothes,” he said, and I turned around. He was looking over my boots, jeans, and the long-sleeved T-shirts I’d layered on today.
“Uh, thanks, I guess.” I didn’t know what to make of this appraisal.
“Good for digging,” he said, and I did a double take.
“You want to plant these
right now
?”
“May as well,” he replied, and headed to the driver’s side while I hoisted myself up into the passenger seat. He opened the door and got in. “If we wait another week,” he said, reminding me of how I’d canceled last Saturday, “it might be too late. I know it seems warm out now, but frosts can happen quickly.” He turned the key and started the engine. “And I’m assuming you actually want these to grow.”
“Yes. I do,” I said under my breath, and we drove the rest of the way to my house in silence.
 
 
Later when Will handed me a shovel from the back of his truck I looked at him, concerned. “Aren’t these kind of big for gardening tools? Shouldn’t we start with some trowels?” I said.
“Not if you want to plant peonies,” he said, removing another shovel and walking around to where I stood in the driveway. “They need a lot of space to thrive,” he added, and started across the backyard.
“Wouldn’t they be nicer in the front?” I called after him.
Without turning around, he shook his head. Shovel in hand, I did my best to catch up, which wasn’t easy since the blade kept scraping along the ground. Once I was by Will’s side he started talking again. “I have an idea for where to put them. If you don’t like it, we’ll try somewhere else.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly.
Will took the path that led to Mom’s rose garden and stopped next to it, dropping the shovel to the grass. “This is what I was thinking,” he said, going on to list his reasons. “There’s plenty of room for the roots to spread out. The soil is already rich because of the roses and other flowers nearby—ideally we would have composted ourselves if there was more time but we’ll have to make do. They’ll get plenty of sunlight all day and peonies love bright light.” Will sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but before I could say yes he told me his last reason. “And your mom and I used to talk sometimes,” Will said in a quiet voice.
I looked up, startled.
He hesitated, as if instinctively he knew I needed a moment to process what he’d just told me. “Sometimes we’d sit at the table on the patio over here, or occasionally on the bench. I know
it was her favorite place. And I used to see you and your mother out here together, so I thought—”
“About what?” I interrupted.
His brow furrowed with confusion.
“What did my mother talk to you about?” I asked, more specific this time.
He looked away. “My dad. When he got sick and then, you know, afterward.”
“Oh. All right,” I said. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Let’s plant them here. I think it’s a good idea.”
Without looking at me again, he immediately began to mark out the boundaries where we would dig up the grass and soil, and we got to work. Will stuck his shovel deep into the ground and I followed, using my boot as leverage along the top edge of the metal, forcing it down into the dirt, and heaving the earth onto a growing mound. Despite the cool breeze, it wasn’t long before sweat rolled down my back and he and I both were stripping off layers, making a pile of discarded clothing in the grass. It was hard work, probably the most labor I’d done in a long time, but it felt good and I began to enjoy myself. The sun gradually made its way toward the horizon and I was so caught up in the rhythm that when Will spoke again I was startled. It felt as though we could go on like this forever, digging side by side, in silence.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hurrying over to where I stood in
what was now a hole about a foot and a half deep. My jeans were covered in dirt from my knees to my ankles. He grabbed the shovel’s handle, stopping me. “We’re planting peony roots, not digging for water.”
I was almost sorry to stop. “I hadn’t noticed that we were done.”
The scrape of the sliding glass door to the kitchen caught my attention and I saw that my father stood at the top of the back steps.
“Hey, Dad,” I called out.
“You kids want some coffee?” he asked.
A hot drink after all this work was the last thing I wanted, but I appreciated that he was making an effort to do something nice.
“Hi, Mr. Madison,” Will said.
My father made his way toward us. “Hi, Will. Nice to see you out here with Rose. And taking care of everything in general. It means a lot. I should say it more often.” He paused, surveying the nearby gardens. “I’m sorry I don’t.”
“I’m happy to do it. Mrs. Madison’s gardens are special.”
Dad rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Yes. I know.”
My father’s sincerity, whenever he showed even the littlest bit of emotion, made me tear up. I blinked my eyes and turned away, straight toward the setting sun.
“So how ’bout it? Coffee?” Dad said, his voice cheering up again.
I hoped my father wouldn’t notice that my eyes were wet. “Thanks for the offer. I’m thirsty, but not for something hot.”
“Oh. Right,” he said. “How about I put some ice in it?”
This made me laugh—he was trying really hard. “Sure, why not,” I answered.
“Will?”
“I’d love some water.”
“One water and one iced coffee coming up,” he said.
“Two waters,” I said.
“Two waters and one iced coffee,” my father confirmed, and returned to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Will disappeared around the side of the house—maybe he could tell I needed a minute alone or maybe it was just coincidence—but it wasn’t long before Dad brought out a tray with three tall glasses balanced on top and placed it on the nearby table.
“Here you go,” he said to me.
“Thanks, Dad. That was really nice of you.”
He smiled a little and I wanted to cry all over again, reminded that occasionally my father was still capable of doing Dad-like things, like trying to take care of me, even if it was only a glass of water and some coffee. “Okay, kid. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Back to work,” he said, and walked away, his shoulders a little hunched, though not as much as usual, and still I felt like weeping. Before a sob could escape I saw Will headed this way again, a giant bag of compost hoisted over his shoulders, his
body bent at an awkward angle. I lifted the cold glass of coffee to my lips and gulped some down, the bitter taste causing me to make a face and helping wipe away the sadness. Dad had made the coffee potent and even the ice didn’t dilute its strength. Will let the bag slide to the ground next to the newly dug bed. It made a heavy thud.
“Do we really have to use this stuff?”
“If you want your flowers to grow, then yes,” Will said, and drained his glass. He tore an opening in the bag and took the pair of thick work gloves hanging from the back pocket of his jeans and put them on. He began to pile compost into the shallow area, covering the bottom. It looked dark and rich and earthy next to the light brown dirt we’d piled up from digging the bed. After a while, he looked up at me. “It washes off, you know.”
This comment snapped me to action. I didn’t want him to think I was afraid to get my hands dirty so I walked straight up to the bag and stuck my arms elbow deep in the stuff, not even bothering with gloves, and brought up a giant handful. I dumped it in the bed, trying to mimic the way Will was shaping the piles of compost so each would cradle one root.
He stared at me.
“What?” I demanded. “Am I doing something wrong?”
A small smile, so small it was almost imperceptible, tugged at Will’s lips. “I said it washes off, not that you had to bathe in it. I have another pair of gloves you can borrow.”
“Gloves are for the weak of heart,” I said haughtily.
He flicked some compost at me and I yelped. Then I flicked some back, but he didn’t budge. “Whatever you say, Rose.”
It was the first time Will ever said my name. Before I could search his face for why, he was already busy at work again.
By the time we finished, the sun was almost set, the sky a brilliant palette of red and pink and blue. I was covered in dirt and compost and grass, certain I smelled awful. I couldn’t wait to take a shower, but I also felt satisfied. If we’d done this right, there would be gorgeous flowers coming up from this ground in a few months. Best of all, I’d done something my mother wanted and I was proud of myself because today I had honored her wishes.
“Everything okay?” Will asked.
I studied the sky awhile longer before I turned to him. “Yeah. It is.”
He nodded and began to pack up. When we were both laden with empty bags and tools we headed back to the driveway. “Now what?” I asked, after we returned the shovels and the wheelbarrow to the back of his truck.

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