The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns by Margaret Dilloway Page B

cut ties with her mother, said good-bye to all these years of disappointment, stopped calling her on the phone. But she won’t. She can’t, yet. Maybe being here, with me, will let Riley see the shell that is her mother. This abandonment should not be what Riley thinks is normal.
    I want to tell Riley all this, but know she’s not ready to hear it.
    “It is a good opportunity,” is what I say instead. I nearly choke on these words.
    Riley turns back to me. “It was really quiet here.”
    “Quiet is good. But you can come with me, if you want.”
    “I got so bored, I cleaned up the greenhouse after I watered.”
    I freeze. “You cleaned up the greenhouse?”
    She waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I didn’t throw away any plants.”
    I force myself to take deep breaths. Training Brad to clean up had taken a few weeks, and here Riley has done it in one evening? I have everything in a particular space, a particular order. If I could have painted a grid system over the entire greenhouse with spots for everything, I would have. I do not like this to be messed with. I realize I am clutching the back of the sofa rather hard, and relax my grip.
    “Aunt Gal?” Riley says.
    “Riley, it’s good to want to help.” I struggle for polite words, when cursing is all that comes to mind. “But how would you like it if I went into your computer and decided to poke around and clean stuff up?”
    “I wouldn’t.”
    “Exactly.”
    Her face falls. I feel terrible. But really, it’s my stuff.
    • • •
    I GO INTO THE GREENHOUSE. Here, it is truly quiet. Only the sounds of the fans. I inhale once, twice. Soil and the spicy scent of the seedlings.
    It looks like she’s swept and taken out the trash. And dusted; the metal fans are clean once again. Not bad.
    I walk to my seedling bins and look over the rows of the Hulthemias. More have sprouted and bloomed. I handle a yellow Hulthemia I’ve tagged G8. It’s got a lot of blossoms and a bright orange center, but no scent. That’s too bad. I was sure it would have fragrance, like its cousin. Fragrance is elusive, I remind myself.
    I walk to seedling G42. This is the one I’m hoping will be the best of the bunch. It will look like a clean orange flame with a red center, reminding me of bonfires. One bud has opened. It’s beautiful, the splotch perfect in the petals like watercolor spilled by a skilled artist. No fragrance, though. Darn.
    I should wait another year, see if I can turn out a better rose.
    But what if there’s not another year?
    I refuse to let the thought settle. There will be another year, I tell myself sternly.
    The next bud might have fragrance. It might smell more strongly in a couple of days. I am vacillating. This rose has unique coloring that I might not get again. Though I know it could be better.
    Every time I look at the bloom, my heart accelerates and I feel giddy. That’s got to count for something. Besides, the entry fee for the show I’ll enter is only twenty dollars, and it’s just over in San Luis Obispo. It’s worth it, even if I lose. “Oh, Gal. You’re so stubborn,” I say, then laugh to myself. I sound like my doctor. Or my mother. I go back into the house and fill out my rose entry form.

8
    O VER THE NEXT WEEK OR SO, I PUT THE ROSE SHOW OUT OF my mind. There’s really nothing else to do about it, unless a better rose blooms in the meantime, which would always be nice. Riley, it is decided, will make the drive to San Luis Obispo with me for the show.
    Riley gets up on time, without the complaining I’d braced myself for, gets in her uniform, and rides to school with me early. I like to get in an hour before school in case a student needs help. Riley usually goes over to Dara’s class and draws.
    She really ought to be one of the students getting tutoring. Riley is in my sophomore biology class, and whatever she learned at her old school she either forgot or hasn’t yet studied. She stares at the slides and cannot make out the proper