PART I
She remembered when they began to fall in love.
Their romance defied the odds, in that it sprouted up in the middle of a cold, wet autumn, when the ground is tough and firm and the roots of greenery have taken refuge beneath the damp, dark northeastern United States earth. It was despite this—or perhaps because of it—that he met her at a farmers’ market in The Middle of Nowhere, New England. He had held two Cortland apples. He had put one in her empty hands.
They ran into each other again, at the same market exactly three days later. Instead of walking this time she’d ridden the pink Huffy she’d had since high school, and as she was putting down the kickstand, he’d recognized her and approached. He’d given her two more Cortland apples and a ride home. They’d rolled up the gravel driveway in his gray ’07 Jeep Wrangler, and he’d parked in front of the garage, taken her bike off the rack on his car, opened her door, and offered her his hand as she climbed out of the passenger’s seat. She’d invited him to stay, and he’d reluctantly declined, but as condolences he gave her his phone number and a kiss on the cheek goodbye.
He was always doing that, giving her things—Cortland apples, a ride, his hand.
Butterflies.
He gave her butterflies almost as much as he gave her soup, and he gave her soup all the time that autumn, and even more that winter. He’d come over to her house with bags full of groceries, and she would sit at the kitchen island and watch him work the stove. It wasn’t always homemade, but it was always good. Chicken noodle, cream of mushroom, broccoli cheddar. He made her soup every time she caught a cold; she caught colds even more than she got butterflies, and she had butterflies all the time.
He’d invited her to his church, once. New Hope Baptist, nineteen minutes from her house and eighteen from his, nearly at the midpoint. She’d been to his house a few times, but he said he liked hers better; he’d said that hers was cozier and warmer, and so they spent most of their time there. When he took her to church that day, he’d driven all the way past New Hope Baptist to get her, and then the nineteen minutes from there. They’d walked in hand-in-hand and found a seat three pews down.
After the sermon, he’d asked her if she believed. She thought it strange he didn’t ask her that before inviting her to church—she thought it even stranger that the question only occurred to him ten months into their love. But she’d only smiled, and kissed him, and said: I believe in you. Is that enough?
And he’d smiled and kissed her back. I believe in you, too, he’d said. They’d stood on the church steps, hands intertwined, and she’d felt full of faith, and she knew that was all she’d ever need.
The next time they went to church together, a year into their relationship, he didn’t ask that. They’d sat mostly in silence, actually. This was the first time she’d seen him pray like this—with his lips begging and his eyes squeezed shut. A tear rolled down. When he opened his eyes, she was still looking. She didn’t look away. He took her hand, gave it a squeeze, kissed her knuckles. Then he cupped her hand against his cheek. Another tear rolled down. She didn’t react, though—just looked at him the same way she always did. With love. With faith.
Her faith remained strong as their relationship went on, but she herself seemed to shrink. Perhaps she actually did. By the time they reached their one-and-a-half-year anniversary, she’d grown from being two inches to five inches shorter than him. Perhaps it was the hair that made the difference; her curls had lost a lot of volume. A lot of mass.
He prayed even more often once they hit the two-year mark. She always watched him. They’d moved in together by then, turning the white, ivy-laced Cape Cod from a house to a home, and she often came around corners or rolled over in bed to find him clasping his hands together as if the harder he squeezed the more likely his prayers were to work. His brows would furrow and his body would go all stiff for a long while, until the prayer neared its end. Then something would grasp at him, wrap him in a malicious bear hug, and this invisible force would rack through his shoulders and shake him with sobs, until she swept forward and replaced the evil embrace with the kindness of her own. She’d scoot closer under the covers or get up from the sofa and approach him at the kitchen table, clothed in dawn or dusk or twilight—any hour of the day—then she’d rest her head on his shoulder and their hands would intertwine, and his breathing would eventually slow to match hers.
He started giving her baths, somewhere in that same time frame. She’d refused at first—adamantly and indignantly. It reached a point, however, where she had no choice. She’d gotten too small. Her hair was too thin and flat. Her heartbeat was too slow. Once, while she was showering, she’d almost slipped. She’d caught herself, knocking down bottles of shampoo and conditioner. He’d come running in, said he’d thought she’d fallen. She’d seen the anguish in his eyes, even after she’d climbed out and toweled off and exchanged the slippery shower for the stability of their bedroom’s hardwood floor. She’d stood there in her towel, listening to him right the bottles in the bathroom, and she’d decided to concede. To let him swoop in to her rescue.
The first time, he’d made a grand episode of it. Vanilla-scented candles and rose petals and bubbles. She’d climbed into the bath, and he’d brought her a bottle of wine. He’d told her it was good for her heart, so she’d let him pour her a glass. She’d sipped while he washed her hair, while he washed her back and shoulders with body wash and kisses. Then he’d scooped her up in a fluffy towel and carried her to the bedroom like a princess, or a damsel. He’d helped her into a night gown, tucked her into bed, kissed her good night, and gone to sleep lying next to her.
After that, the baths began to lose some of their charm. First, the candles had disappeared. Then the rose petals. The bubbles were next to go. After a couple of weeks, he’d followed suit, replaced by ladies she didn’t know in scrubs and clean white shoes. He came by the cold, sterile, boxy room every once in a while, to push the IVs and monitors out of the way and tuck her into bed, but the sheets were starchy and he never stayed the night. Sometimes he’d linger an extra five minutes, and he’d kneel on the tile floor beside the bed and take her hand in his and pray. But he never squeezed her hand tight—never tight enough—and he’d stopped closing his eyes.
By the time she was allowed to go back home, he’d stopped praying at all.
PART II
They planted the seeds behind their house on a cold, wet day in November.
She’d had them with her when he picked her up from the hospital, tucked in the pockets of her overcoat. They’ll work, she told him as she climbed into the Jeep, they will. Don’t you have faith? And he’d answered, pulling out of the parking lot, I do, of course I do. And she’d said, Let’s plant them now.
But it’s raining! He had looked at her like she was crazy. It’s raining, and it’s November, and you’ll catch something worse than what you already have. And she’d stared at him, that look in her eyes that he’d once loved but had grown to resent—her dark eyes burned through him, and her lips said, I thought you said you had faith. And he insisted that he did, but that maybe they should wait to see what her doctor thought too, but she’d just stared at him until finally he said, Fine, honey. We’ll plant your seeds when we get home. And that had seemed to placate her, and so when they’d arrived home and gone inside he’d sat down at the kitchen table and decided to relax for an hour or so, satisfied that she was satisfied. But she’d stood at the door, leaning against the frame for support with the seeds still in hand, and stared at him, waiting. What, you want to plant them now? She had nodded. I don’t want to wait. I want to get better as soon as possible.
You’ll catch something if we go now, honey.
I’ve already got something. I can’t catch anything worse.
He’d tried to convince her of what a terrible idea it was—to try and plant and nurture something in this kind of weather, and couldn’t they wait even just a few hours to see if the rain cleared up? But the conversation went the way they usually did these days: with her obstinacy and his caving in. At least put a coat on, he’d begged, because she’d already taken hers off and wasn’t moving to put it back on. Wear my poncho; it’s in the hall closet. He’d offered to grab it for her, but she’d adamantly refused and stepped out the door in just the maroon Henley she’d already been wearing. He’d shrugged on his overcoat and followed her out into the rain, snatching an umbrella from the hall closet and opening it on his way out, jogging a few paces in the cold late autumn air to catch up to her. He’d held the umbrella over her, letting cold, thick raindrops splatter on his head and trickle down the back of his neck. He gripped the umbrella tighter and followed her farther into the rain.
They walked a few yards from the back door, then she stopped so suddenly that he almost bumped into her. Here, she said, pointing a thin finger at the ground.
Here? You can’t be serious. The ground was solid, dense. The grass was gone, leaving nothing but lifeless, dull, packed gray-brown dirt. I thought you wanted the seeds to grow.
Here, she said, and she knelt down on the ground and waited for him to follow suit.
He didn’t—not immediately. He handed her the umbrella and told her to be patient, and then he went to the shed and rummaged around until he found a bag of potting soil, and then he returned to her and dropped it on the ground with a dull thud.
What’d you bring that for?
It’s soil. For your seeds.
There’s already all this dirt in the ground, though, see. What are you doing bringing more?
And he stared at her for a moment, wondering to himself why he let this woman drag him out into the middle of a November rain to plant something when she didn’t know a thing about it. The dirt already in the ground isn’t enough, honey. It doesn’t have the right nutrients. The right stuff.
And she stared at him, long and hard. He thought that she was going to argue, but then her gaze softened and a smiled quirked up the corners of her lips and she simply said, Okay, and then she handed him the umbrella and began to dig out an empty space in the wet gray mud. First with her bare hands—then he’d run back to the shed and grabbed a trowel and thrust that into her hands, and then she dug with that instead. He stood with her, covering her with the umbrella until there was a round hole about eighteen inches in diameter and fifteen inches in depth.
It’ll look so out of place, she’d told him, staring at the hole.
That’s just how backyard gardens look. Just wait until we get a proper garden, in the spring, with rows upon rows of plants, and all the dirt is new dirt.
We’re going to plant more seeds?
I mean, we can. Sure. If you would like.
I would love that.
In the spring, though, when the weather is better.
She made a funny face, then, frowned at the ground. Okay, she said softly. She didn’t say anything more.
He gave her the umbrella and filled the hole with the new dirt, and then he held out his hands for the seeds. She pulled the packet from her back pocket and started to open it with difficulty, because the icy rain chilled her fingers, no doubt.
Why didn’t you bundle up, sweetheart? All of this would’ve been so much easier.
She gave him the packet to open, and he had a hard time with it, too, until finally he ripped it open with his teeth and the seeds burst from their packet and spilt out upon the old dirt.
He grasped at them, and so did she. He swore, scrambling for the pea-sized things while she picked them up one by one. He clawed at the ground, getting dirt under his fingernails, while she placed five seeds in a little arrangement in her palm and gazed lovingly down on them, the seeds seeming to shiver in her tender grasp.
He threw his handful on the old dirt, and she gently placed her five seeds on top, and he threw a blanket of new dirt atop the old. She began patting it all down.
The dirt isn’t supposed to be too smooth or too packed, honey, he said. Her face seemed tiny as she watched him shake it all up again, shoving his hands into the dirt and mixing it up until it was no longer matted and dense like the rest of the dirt in the yard. And then, satisfied, he stood, taking the umbrella and taking her hand and leading the way back inside.
Don’t we need to water the seeds? How are they going to grow?
It’s already raining, honey. We don’t need to do anything else.
Isn’t the rain too cold? How will they survive? It’s frigid. It’s November.
They’re seeds, honey. They’ll be fine. If anyone’s going to be cold it’s you. Look at you—you’re shivering, darling. Come on; let’s get you back inside.
He held the door open, and she ducked under his arm, and by the time he finished shaking off the umbrella and folding it back up, she was already seated at the kitchen table, staring out the window at their single-plot garden.
What are you doing, honey?
Waiting for the seeds to grow. She said it simply, like it was obvious.
It’ll take some time, dear, you know that. It won’t be instant. And you should change out of those clothes.
She didn’t move, just stared out the window. He made her a cup of honey vanilla chamomile tea and sat beside her for a few minutes, then left the kitchen. He came back with a blanket from the sofa, and he draped that over her damp shoulders before leaving again.
Several days passed by in this same fashion. She’d waited at the table while he occasionally brought her tea and often left the kitchen. They’d waited for days, then weeks, then months for the seeds to sprout, but they never did, and winter came and he gave up. He brought her tea but never lingered after that, and she’d sat at the window, gazing out into the backyard and waiting for the seeds to do what they’d promised to do, but they still never did.
She died before spring could come around.
PART III
He remembered when they began to fall apart.
It was a particularly bright Sunday afternoon in October, about a year into their love. They’d gone to church that day. They were having an early dinner at her place.
She’d smiled at him over the roast beef with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, and he’d fingered the ring in the pocket of his slacks and thought about telling her that she gave him something to believe in, that she made him feel like a kid again, like they were twelve and not twenty-four. But she needed meds or a miracle, not a marriage, and he didn’t want to be a twenty-six-year-old widower; Lord only knew how long she’d last.
He left the ring in his pocket.
He’d gotten up, and she’d gotten up too—fragile but determined—and they’d cleared the table and washed the dishes together in the double sink—he scrubbed and she dried—and then they’d retreated to the sofa to watch a film. She’d laid her head on his shoulder, and her soft chocolate curls had brushed against his cheek, and he’d sat very still for fear of making her move, for fear of making her pull away and take her warmth elsewhere and leave him cold and alone.
He’d started to cry, then, quiet tears rolling down his cheeks. A sniffle had escaped him, and she had scooted closer. Neither said a word; just sat watching Pixar’s Up and held each other close.
As time went on, he began to cry more often, breaking down in the middle of prayers with his hands clasped like he was holding on for dear life. She was always there to comfort him—ironic, he thought, that she was the one dying but he was the one falling apart. Their hands would intertwine, and she’d lay her curl-less head on his shoulder, and his heartbeat would slow, his breathing would even out. He’d wonder what he was going to do when she was gone.
He stopped looking his could’ve-been-wife in the eye and started avoiding her as much as possible. He loved her so much he couldn’t bear to be around her, so he took care of her but that was all. He still made her broccoli cheddar soup and reminded her to take her meds and helped her out of the Jeep when they returned home from her doctor’s appointments, but he couldn’t stand to love her anymore—it was killing him because it was, possibly, killing her. He’d convinced himself that his affection was poison—she hadn’t, after all, gotten sick until after they’d first met; and, anyways, it was easier to blame himself than to accept that some things were out of his control. It seemed like every time he prayed, she lost more curls. His prayers weren’t working, and he didn’t understand why. He was closing his eyes. He was folding his hands. He was doing everything right.
By August, he’d stopped going to church. By October, he’d stopped praying altogether.
She never quit, though. Always bursting with her own kind of faith—a faith in them. Overflowing with belief. He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d started to resent her, envy her for it, but when he picked her up that one morning—when she’d climbed into the Jeep and declared not her million-dollar meds, but a pack of seeds to be the cure of all her ails—he’d found it easier to look her in the eyes.
Where did you get those?
There’s a woman outside the hospital, selling them. They’re blue iris seeds, and you know I love irises. And she promised that these seeds—and she held them up for him to better see—will heal me. They’re special seeds, not just normal flowers. She said all I have to do is believe, and then they’ll grow, and then I’ll get better. He didn’t understand how she could talk like that without laughing, or even so much as cracking a smile. Without seeing the oddity of it all.
How much did she charge you? He was nervous for the answer.
Only two hundred. She said it was a very good deal.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t even realize she’d had that much money with her. Jesus, honey, don’t you think we should’ve tried the meds first?
You don’t have to trust the seeds. I trust the seeds. She cradled the packet in her hands, brushing her fingers over the blank green packaging. All I’m asking is for you to trust me.
I love you, honey. You know I do.
That’s not the same thing.
Eventually he’d conceded, and they’d planted the damn things. In the rain, no less. The packet didn’t have any instructions on it. He remembered when he tore it open, spilling its contents out onto the unforgiving ground. They didn’t look like any iris seeds he’d ever seen. He hadn’t seen many, but he didn’t think they were supposed to look tiny, and purple. These seeds were shaped like lightly stepped on spheres. They looked like candy.
On the day she died, he dug the seeds back up. He found the spot where they were buried, grabbed a shovel, pressed it into the ground with a grunt and the heel of his boot, and dug until all but a few of the seeds were once again scattered on the hard ground, shivering gently in the early February air. He didn’t manage to get them all, but he got enough. He put them in a jar and put the jar on the windowsill. Those are the seeds, he said to himself, that killed my wife. Then he wiped his eyes and decided that the jar was better housed amongst the Windex and dish detergents and SOS pads, under the kitchen sink.
He spent the week between her death and her funeral outside. The air was cold, but he didn’t layer. He needed to feel something. Icy pain was better than being numb, so he spent those several days with bare arms and a goosebump blanket. He began, for the first time in a long time, to understand his lover. He learned, very quickly, why she’d refused to wear a coat.
Often, he brought a cup of tea. At first earl grey, then black, then green. Once it was coffee. Twice he had a newspaper. Once, a crossword. Later, a book. He started reading about gardening, and—during the last few of those brief several days—the neighbors could peek over the fence and almost-always see him holding a book with a particular blue flower on the cover.
Sometimes he held nothing at all.
When his hands were empty, he clasped them together, and he tried to pray again. He reached for the faith his lover had left behind—swept it up from under the rugs and dusted it from the shelves and pulled it off the hangers—and he set it in his palms and pressed them together like faith alone could bring her back.
Her funeral was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon. That morning, he stepped onto the porch with a cup of tea in his hand. Honey vanilla chamomile. It had been her favorite.
He settled down in his usual place: her chair—he’d dragged it outside from the dining table the day after she died and stationed it on the back porch. It was in this chair that he sat every morning, just as he did on this one; and it was once seated in this chair and looking out over the yard that the cup fell from his hands, spilling tea all over the birchwood floor.
He rubbed his eyes. Blinked twice, then rubbed them harder, then opened them wide. His heart started to beat too fast. He clasped his hands together, by instinct. Shaky steps carried him from the porch. His vision began to blur. He fell to his knees. Large sobs shook his shoulders.
There, standing bright against the dull grass, was a small bunch of blue irises.
EPILOGUE
He arrived at the funeral the happiest anyone had seen him in about two years. He smiled through the processions, smiled as they brought her to the six-foot hole dug in the ground. (He imagined them having dug with their bare hands.) He smiled as they lowered her into the space. (They placed her very gently.) He smiled as they laid a blanket of dirt on top of her. (Of old dirt, like all the rest in that garden of tombs.)
After the ceremony came to its close, he knelt gently at her headstone, patted the dirt down, and dressed the grave with a small bouquet of flowers, hand-picked from their very own garden. Then he went home and found the jar under the sink. He picked a spot in the yard and knelt down. He closed his eyes. He folded his hands. And he gently laid the rest of the seeds in the ground.