Orchard House: How a Neglected Garden Taught One Family to Grow by Tara Austen Weaver Page B
Authors: Tara Austen Weaver
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I found he had gone across town to my favorite restaurant and picked up an order of the soup that he knew I liked. When I thanked him profusely he shrugged it off, but in those moments I could see the little blond boy who had fallen asleep with his head in my lap.
Now, nearly a decade later, I asked my brother if he was okay with having me in Seattle. I asked several times, just to be clear.It’s one thing to have your sister in your city for the summer, babysitting your kids and dropping off dinner. It’s another thing to be stuck with her there, possibly forever.
“You can do whatever you want,” he said several times. “It’s fine with me.”
By then I had some friends in Seattle. I knew my way around. But still. Living in the same city would connect us in ways we never had been as adults. At the time our mother still lived in California and traveled often. If something happened to me, he would be the only relative in proximity. Besides my mother, he was the only family I had in all the world.
This change in geography would force us to be more to each other than ever before. Perhaps that is what I should have asked about. Perhaps I should have spelled it out for him.
Are you prepared to be my family?
Was he willing to take that on? Did I trust him enough to let him?
—
The first winter I spent in Seattle, I got sick. It started on a Saturday when I had driven north of the city to a large thrift sale. I wandered through buildings filled with everything from sporting equipment to antiques but left early, feeling sick. On my way home, I called my brother and sister-in-law to report on the sale. They had been undecided about making the trek.
“There’s good stuff,” I told him, “but I feel awful. I have a fever. I’m going back to bed.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’ll give a call later to check on you.”
He did call to check on me—but not until Tuesday. By then I had spent days in a blazing fugue, feverish and sicker than I had ever been. My sole memory of that weekend is getting out of bed to go to the bathroom and collapsing on the floor, the rough feel of carpet under my cheek. I remember trying to crawl acrossthe room. I remember wondering if I might die there. I woke two days later, in bed, spent and shaken, the sheets twisted around my legs.
By the time my brother called, I was angry. He was the only one who knew I was sick, knew I was alone. How could he have not checked on me? Was I not more important than a trip to Home Depot—or whatever he had been doing that weekend?
But mostly I was scared. I could have died there. Alone.
I was no stranger to being sick on my own. By that point I had been sick all over the world. In my student apartment in Vienna, my roommate had translated the dosage instructions on my medicine and made me garlic soup. In Thailand, kind guesthouse owners took my temperature and offered food from their own kitchen. In China, fellow travelers I had met only the day before ignored my protests and went out to buy soft tofu for me. They told me it was the only thing to eat after food poisoning.
I had been cared for more graciously by strangers than I had by my own brother.
Even in San Francisco I had been better off. There was Chinese takeout across the street. I knew my neighbors; our buildings adjoined. If I were truly dying, I could pound on the floor, and eventually J.L. would come to investigate. I could shout across the air shaft, and George would likely hear, or Mark and Chris upstairs. We might not have been friends, but our lives were unfolding in close proximity. I knew they would help if I needed it.
In San Francisco I had resources. I knew how to protect myself. But in this new city I was stripped bare. The neighborhood I lived in was desired for its proximity to the Arboretum, the university, the bridge that led to technology companies across Lake Washington. The houses were handsome, some stately, but the well-tended blocks were deserted
Now, nearly a decade later, I asked my brother if he was okay with having me in Seattle. I asked several times, just to be clear.It’s one thing to have your sister in your city for the summer, babysitting your kids and dropping off dinner. It’s another thing to be stuck with her there, possibly forever.
“You can do whatever you want,” he said several times. “It’s fine with me.”
By then I had some friends in Seattle. I knew my way around. But still. Living in the same city would connect us in ways we never had been as adults. At the time our mother still lived in California and traveled often. If something happened to me, he would be the only relative in proximity. Besides my mother, he was the only family I had in all the world.
This change in geography would force us to be more to each other than ever before. Perhaps that is what I should have asked about. Perhaps I should have spelled it out for him.
Are you prepared to be my family?
Was he willing to take that on? Did I trust him enough to let him?
—
The first winter I spent in Seattle, I got sick. It started on a Saturday when I had driven north of the city to a large thrift sale. I wandered through buildings filled with everything from sporting equipment to antiques but left early, feeling sick. On my way home, I called my brother and sister-in-law to report on the sale. They had been undecided about making the trek.
“There’s good stuff,” I told him, “but I feel awful. I have a fever. I’m going back to bed.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’ll give a call later to check on you.”
He did call to check on me—but not until Tuesday. By then I had spent days in a blazing fugue, feverish and sicker than I had ever been. My sole memory of that weekend is getting out of bed to go to the bathroom and collapsing on the floor, the rough feel of carpet under my cheek. I remember trying to crawl acrossthe room. I remember wondering if I might die there. I woke two days later, in bed, spent and shaken, the sheets twisted around my legs.
By the time my brother called, I was angry. He was the only one who knew I was sick, knew I was alone. How could he have not checked on me? Was I not more important than a trip to Home Depot—or whatever he had been doing that weekend?
But mostly I was scared. I could have died there. Alone.
I was no stranger to being sick on my own. By that point I had been sick all over the world. In my student apartment in Vienna, my roommate had translated the dosage instructions on my medicine and made me garlic soup. In Thailand, kind guesthouse owners took my temperature and offered food from their own kitchen. In China, fellow travelers I had met only the day before ignored my protests and went out to buy soft tofu for me. They told me it was the only thing to eat after food poisoning.
I had been cared for more graciously by strangers than I had by my own brother.
Even in San Francisco I had been better off. There was Chinese takeout across the street. I knew my neighbors; our buildings adjoined. If I were truly dying, I could pound on the floor, and eventually J.L. would come to investigate. I could shout across the air shaft, and George would likely hear, or Mark and Chris upstairs. We might not have been friends, but our lives were unfolding in close proximity. I knew they would help if I needed it.
In San Francisco I had resources. I knew how to protect myself. But in this new city I was stripped bare. The neighborhood I lived in was desired for its proximity to the Arboretum, the university, the bridge that led to technology companies across Lake Washington. The houses were handsome, some stately, but the well-tended blocks were deserted
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