The Greenhouse

 Paula's story

We are a very Catholic family. That’s an important detail for you to know, because it informs every decision that came afterward.

 

My name is Maya O’Malley. I am 13 years old. And in the course of one day, my understanding of my world changed forever. 

 

I come from a big Irish Catholic family. I am the youngest of five; my older brothers and sisters are each two years apart, then there’s a five-year gap, then me. My dad has six siblings, so I have aunts, uncles and cousins almost too numerous to count. Although we are scattered across the country, we are together at every family wedding and funeral, during holidays, and summertime reunions every other year at one of my uncle’s place in Nova Scotia, up in Canada. 

 

Of all the many, many members of my family, my absolute favorite is my cousin May. She’s a lot  older than me, and she is just the coolest. She’s single, and she lives in a loft apartment like you’d see on Instagram or something. She’s a senior analyst at a big investment firm — whatever that means — but she says that’s just to pay the bills. In her spare time she creates the most beautiful collages out of fabrics and ribbons and bits of things she finds, well, I don’t know where she finds all the stuff that she uses to create her art. She is starting to be recognized by local art galleries — she has had a few exhibitions — and I just know she is going to be a famous artist one day. I want to be just like her when I grow up. 

 

Anyway, one summer afternoon, I was home doing a whole lot of nothing — isn’t summer wonderful? — when May came to the house, looking a little out of sorts. She said she was fine, but her hello kiss was a little distracted, and instead of talking to me as she always does, full of questions about my latest crush or what I’ve been doing lately, she just asked, “Where’s your mom?”

 

I told her Mom was out puttering around in the greenhouse, checking her roses and no doubt cooing to her plants. My mom can be weird that way.

 

May disappeared out the back door, and I walked out onto the back terrace to watch as she walked down the path to the greenhouse, then greeted my mom. The two of them hugged, talked, but then they cried, hugged some more, sat down, then talked a long time. By then, I was curious but bored, so I went back inside, and upstairs to my room to read the latest murder mystery in a series set in the Dordogne region of France. I’m going to go there one day!

 

At some point, May must have left, because Mom came into the house, came upstairs, stuck her head in my room and asked me if there was anything special I wanted for dinner. I asked for her homemade Mac and cheese, my favorite.

 

Later that night, long after dinner was over and the kitchen was cleaned, Mom and Dad came into my room. “There’s something you need to know,” Dad said quietly, taking my desk chair, as Mom sat down on the bed next to me.

 

And here’s what they told me:

 

My cousin May was raped when she was 15 years old. Amid all the trauma of that event, she and her parents decided together that she would have the baby and put it up for adoption, because, well, that’s what good Catholics do.  That’s when one of May’s uncles and his wife asked if they could adopt the baby, keep it in the family, raise it as their own child, give it all the love it deserved. May and her parents, not really too surprised at this display of generosity and faith and family strength, happily agreed.

 

About a month before the baby was born, the man accused of raping May went on trial, and my cousin May testified against him. Eight months pregnant, she took the stand in the courtroom, and in a strong and clear voice, identified the man at the defense table as the man who attacked her that night, months ago. It didn’t take long for the jury to convict him and send him to prison.

 

Soon afterward, May’s baby was born, a little girl who had so much O’Malley in her — her eyes, her wide smile, her thick, dark hair —that her new parents could hardly believe it. She took her place in the family, a sweet and happy child who grew tall and strong and smart.

 

Twelve years later — just two days ago! — the man was paroled from prison, and immediately tracked down my cousin May. He called her, and threatened to find the child and tell it the awful secret of its birth, but said he would stay silent if May came up with several thousand dollars.

 

My Irish Catholic family closed ranks. There was no awful secret: every birth is a miracle, and this one was no different. And blackmail is blackmail: it would never end. So the family decided to call the rapist’s bluff, report the attempted blackmail to the police, send the man back to jail, and tell the child the story themselves, in their own way.

 

And that’s how I found out that my adored cousin May is actually my mother, my parents are my aunt and uncle, my siblings are my cousins, my other aunt and uncle are my grandparents.

 

So I ask you dear listeners, to put yourself in my place. Does this change anything? Does it change everything?

 

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Jackie's story - based on a conversation I overheard in a café in Dijon some time ago.   Where is he? I can’t imagine  why he’s not here Did you see the time? He said he’d be here at midday and its well past Yes, almost 5 minutes past now Where could he be Where is he? He should be here by now I asked him what time he’d come And he said at midday So where could he be then I don’t know, perhaps he went to see his mother Yes she must be in quite a state After what happened Something awful, so terrible that... I can’t imagine anything worse Do you think he s forgotten to come No he never forgets anything His father called him   “elephant boy” his memory was so good Well then where can he be Did she find out what really happened? She must have done,  with all the police and enquires and everything After 50 years of marriage she must be feeling quite lost Wouldn’t you? Yes, I guess so, and such unusual circumstances That’s for sure It was in the newspapers you know No I didn’t know My neighbour showed me the article And I cried when I read it Pass it over I’d like to read it too Oh dear,  what a tragedy So awful …. That’s why I’m wondering where could he be? I hope he doesn’t do anything silly Where is he? Can you look outside to see if he’s coming down the road No nothing yet I just wonder what is going on Such terrible news especially as they wanted one so badly His mother always had it on her wish list, but never expected one and then that to happen Boom ! – Just like that His father was inside and keeping himself busy Very sudden it was – I guess life is like that one day you’re here and the next ….gone! When did they say it happened? just the other day An accident?      No – a bolt of lightening came out of the blue  –  struck during the storm and everything  exploded with the force of it – scattering the roof into tiny shards and started a fire … Completely destroyed it was What ? Well the greenhouse of course His mothers new greenhouse with his Dad inside Devastated the boy is He said he’d come by Well I don’t know I wonder where he has got to ? Picking up the pieces Iguess   ___________________________________________________________ Annemarie's story As the first fine droplets of drizzle caress my cheeks and hands I make my way through the arched doors of the greenhouse. Not any old greenhouse but a teak, metal and glass temple. The rain is pattering on the roof, splashing from a drainpipe, barely audible, on a leafy shrub, drumming on the lawn. Rivulets tumble down the glass bouncing off the iron framework. I gaze at the slender copper-coloured beams of teak supporting the intricate framework, elegant blackened metal arches and circles connecting the side and quirky curved metal struts undulating across the panes. No green beneath my feet in this arid region of deserts but flagstones and gravel and metal grids beneath which water is trundled through the arteries of iron pipes. Beside me plants with downy foliage and flamboyant flowers.  Here you can marvel at the large blooms of the South African king protea and wonder at the bottle brush-like flowers of Australian Banksia.The stone plants and bear paw succulents from South Africa  fascinate, as do the Australian kangaroo paws and grass tree which bears its exuberant head of glaucous hair on a thick wrinkly trunk. In the dry gravel are succulents with fleshy leaves, globe or barrel-shaped to maximise their capacity to store water; some with  spines but no leaves  to minimise evaporation, and ferocious spines to to protect them from predators and deter grazers. Fibonacci spiral patterns appear in the whorled leaf arrangements, that channel rainfall to the roots. Segmented, gnarled or twisted this motley crew of cactii have stories to tell; strange, misshapen or just plain rude these shapes are sculptural.       I pass through another modest door into the hot humidity of tropical rainforest, the dark forest floor an intense competition for light giving rise to the high dense canopy. Coffee, kapok and  bananas with leviathan leaves, bromeliads clinging to stems of trees collecting moisture and nutrients from the debris in their upturned reservoirs. Twining its path through the trees the wonderfully named Strongylodon macrobotrys, its racemes are covered in inverted, jade coloured claws which flower in spring and can reach 90 centimetres in length. The showstopper of the tropical pool is a giant Santa Cruz waterlily, whose leaves unfurl to reveal ferocious spikes on the underside, leaves like enormous green pie dishes, performance platforms for birds. The flowers of this plant last only two nights turning from female to male during that time. Carnivorous pitcher plants and cascading passionflowers with fluttering purple stamens add to the diversity. Another wooden door and inside the aroma is enticing. Mediterranean herbs assault the senses. 'Are you going to Scarborough Fair?   Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,' I hum quietly to myself  recalling an old English song, 'remember me to one who lives there…'. Here the plants are more familiar but I marvel just the same. I see blue skies through the old glass panes and realise the rain has ceased.  I hear the hum of insects, see butterflies flitting from flower to flower, testing and tasting the nectar. What better way to spend a rainy afternoon travelling the world through a sea of plants. Emerald, celadon, jade, chartreuse, mint, olive, citron, pea, bottle… there must be more than fifty shades of green and you can see them all in the Cambridge Botanical Garden Glasshouse…the Greenhouse!   A story from Patrice Louisa and the Bear Louisa sank lower into the tub encouraging the bubbles to foam up over her breasts to her chin.  The tiny scratches on her arms and legs stung for a moment then subsided.  She snaked one long brown arm out from the bubbles to lift the wineglass sitting on the edge of the tub.  The glass was beaded with condensation.   She sipped the cold wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before putting her head back and swallowing.  She felt it slide down her throat and into her stomach—the contrast between her internal and external temperatures was so great that it gave her a jolt.  The hot water melted her tired muscles – she hadn’t know picking berries would be so strenuous but she was pleased with her loot -- three large bowls of shiny ripe blackberries.  Two and half bowls were already in tidy zip-loc bags stacked in the freezer like a miser’s money against real and imagined hard times.  The last half bowl sat on the kitchen table with a plate over it.  The heavy cream was in the fridge, a whipping bowl cooling in the freezer compartment on top.  She hoped Hank would be back by the time she finished her bath because she wasn’t going to wait for him to festoon those berries in home made whipped cream and eat them on the deck in clean pajamas while watching the sunset.     On the way to picking berries she’d had a close call with three hysterical deer that burst from the tree line and danced madly around in front of her—long legs poking up and down like pistons.    One had headed dazedly for the grate of her car.  Louisa slammed her foot onto the brakes and turned the wheel giving the deer enough time to come to its senses –what little it had – and follow the rest of its herd into the woods. Her heart had pounded for a while afterward and she drove more cautiously the rest of the way, scanning the tree line and the fields to make sure they didn’t sneak up on her again.   The day before she had seen a mother black bear and two cubs walking across the road north of the farm as if off to attend The Teddy Bear’s Picnic of her favorite childhood song. It was the first time she had seen bears and she was delighted by how much they looked like picture book bears with their rounded shoulders, big paws and shiny coats.  She’d had an almost overwhelming desire to follow them off into the woods but some atavistic good sense kept her from doing so.  That and the notion of how embarrassed she would have been to have to tell Hank how she’d wound up in a tree too scared to come down until he found her.  Louisa felt a tingle of pride over the things she had learned these last few months. Even this morning after losing a few of the ripest berries to the long grass underneath the bush she had figured out how to cup her hand beneath the berry and pick with her index finger and thumb creating a cup for the ripest berries to fall into when she jostled the bush.  While she still found living so far in the north at times daunting and occasionally lonely she relished the life she had, the stark beauty of the landscape, the encounters with nature and animals, time to read and write and most of all, the time with Hank.  For a moment she listened to the rumble of his voice in her head and hoped again that he would make it home in time to join her for berries and the sunset and her smelling like bubbles and clean pajamas.     Over the sound of NPR in the living room she heard movement in the kitchen and was pleased that he had arrived just as she was thinking about him.  She yelled out in a fake French accent, “Henri, I’ll be right out.  Don’t touch those berries”, then stood up in the tub with islands of foam dotting her body.  She rinsed off with the hand held shower being careful not to dilute her wine.  There was a crash in the kitchen that she attributed to the breadboard falling over, which it did with irritating regularity. “Are you okay?” she yelled.     When she opened the bathroom door she was wrapped in a bath towel with her hair turbaned into another one and holding her glass of wine.  Clouds of fragrant steam poured out from behind her.  She was disappointed for a moment that Hank wasn’t sitting on the couch, she knew he would like the picture she made and maybe she would wait for the berries with the right enticement.  She padded into the kitchen calling his name.  She was smiling already wondering which of them would unwrap her towel first when she saw Hank sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Only it wasn’t Hank.  It was a black bear who had knocked her bowl of berries onto the kitchen floor and was snuffling them up, leaving trails of black raspberry juice as he chased them along the floor.       Louisa was outraged.  How dare he eat her berries, she had labored for them like a farm hand and she had the scratch marks on her arms and legs to prove it. He should pick his own.  Then the bear looked up and while he still looked like a story book bear he was quite a bit larger and her startled yell when she noticed made him startle in turn and for a moment the both of them looked at each other round eyed and still.  The stillness passed and suddenly the kitchen was a tumble of portly black bear looking for his escape scrambling and sliding on the slick vinyl while Louisa flapped her bath towel and shouted.  She was shouting, “Those are my berries, I have the scratch marks to prove it, you’d better get your stinky bear hide out of my kitchen right this instant before I turn you into a rug to use in front of my fireplace that doesn’t exist but so what?”  The bear, in his confused tumbling for escape, luckil, found the door and helter-skeltered down the back stairs before Louise incensed - started flinging at him the cast iron pot and empty tea kettle that had been sitting on the stove.  The bear skittered over the field, his rump bump-bumping for the trees as fast as he could with Louisa losing ground rapidly but still flapping her towel and shouting at the top of her lungs stopping finally, stark naked where the driveway met the field.     She hadn’t seen that Hank’s pick up was also in the driveway and that he stood one leg in the cab and one out on the driveway watching in astonishment.   Louisa turned toward him realizing quite suddenly that there had been a bear in her kitchen and she was standing, naked, in the driveway.  She began to cry with belated tears, belated fears.  Hank came up to her, wrapped her in his arms, holding her head against his shoulder and listened as Louisa snuffled out that the bear had taken their berries and scared her and made a mess of the kitchen and she was fine but from now on they would lock the door wouldn’t they?  He kissed her head, her cheek.  Tried not to laugh quite yet and asked her if there was any whipped cream left.