Then, as if she, even while dying, didn’t know how to stop being a grandma, there was a list of mundane chores including, of course, watering the fucking plants.
Almost as if playing tug-of-war with my waning soul, now my teenage sinner ways came to life.
She wants me to water the fucking plants?
Plants. So many fucking plants. They hung everywhere, resting on stands and overflowing the space to the point that I felt like we lived in a florist shop.
Even though I was in a hostile mood, my thoughts suddenly shifted. Wait. The plants. Once I’m gone, who will water them?
The realization that I couldn’t move the flower shop to whatever home awaited me ushered in a fresh wave of agony as it pierced my soul yet again. Before I knew what I was doing, I rushed to the little can that Noma used and filled it, watering her plants. I refilled the can more than once to water them all. After the last one, I set down the can and stepped back.
No sense of accomplishment or peace descended on me.
I felt pain. Anguish. Heartbreak. And… Anger.
It simmered from the moment I learned my Noma would leave me. The second I heard the word cancer, I began to rebel against the idea, warring with a fate I had no control over. Rational thought had fled, and in its absence, I became livid.
Reacting as a boy of barely fifteen years of age was able to since I was in possession of such grief, loss, and sorrow, I kicked at one of the stands holding Noma’s plants. It teetered before falling over and crashing to the floor. Dark brown dirt spilled across the old hardwood accompanied by patches of green leaves that mixed with the broken shards of the pot.
A gasp left my lips when I saw what else the terra cotta revealed. Little bundles of cash inside plastic baggies had been stuffed into the dirt. Hidden… in plain sight.
My jaw popped open. Then, I found myself scrambling to pick up the money, my heart racing.
Noma didn’t trust banks. There could be no connection, no trail. Fake names weren’t enough. She always received paper checks for work. Odd since most people preferred direct deposit, but not Noma. Every way she could protect us, she did.
The result? Lots of cash. She used only what was necessary to raise and care for her baby boy. The rest? I never knew what she did with it or where she hid it until now.
Curious, I began digging and sorting through all the plants, finding more baggies full of bills. Thousands of dollars. I shook my head at the quantity of it, staring at the massive collection of greenery all over the house. The pun undeniable now.
At first I wanted to collect it all and take it with me, but Noma had hidden even more money in the front yard. Why not this money? Why had she gone through such lengths to hide it elsewhere?
It could only mean this was Noma’s backup plan. Her plan B if Dad’s enemies found us and something happened to her. She needed a way for me to survive that, or in case foster care ended up a bad situation. Noma tried to allow for every contingency.
This wasn’t some rash decision. This money was accrued for longer than the months since she found out about her diagnosis. This accumulated for five years. Including the money she’d taken with her when she ran with her baby boy, and when it was combined, reached a staggering amount.
Suddenly, I wanted to remember all her demands I had refused to hear while she was dying. I slammed my eyes shut, begging my brain to recall any instructions.
My brain cooperated. I heard Noma telling me:
“Stop arguing and remember to hide this set of keys in the backyard…”
Then I heard her telling me:
“Don’t make me beat your ass! Listen to me! No one is to enter this house after I’m gone! Give your case worker this fake set of keys—where are you going?”
I’d been such an ass. I’m sorry, Noma.
Since her plan had included critical information about hidden money, I decided it was wise to follow the rest of her to-do list. Winterizing the home now made sense. What if a pipe busted and the lawyer had someone come into the house? Would they find the money and steal it?
Realizing Noma was possibly the smartest person walking the earth, I did everything asked. However, several of the chores were downright painful. Now I had a clue of what Noma went through packing bags before we ran. Looking around my room, I had to decide on what I considered irreplaceable treasures. Clothes were important, of course, but I chose four treasures to come with me. My knife. My knuckles. Noma’s last letter to me. And Dad’s yellow skullcap. I also chose to take a little cash for emergencies and new clothes because I was still growing like a weed with no sense of restraint. And I had no idea who would provide for me.
Reparking the Jeep stung. I could smell my Noma. I could almost feel her hands on the steering wheel. I could see her smile as she always studied me from the seat I was now in. Overwhelmed with emotions, I turned off the engine and exited, then hid the keys as instructed. Covering the Jeep, I hoped it would still run if I could make it back here.
Emptying the fridge reminded me how fast Noma weakened. There were still leftovers of food she had cooked then frozen for me. The woman was dying, but still worried about how her baby boy would eat.
In the freezer were more prepared meals. I couldn’t follow her instructions. I couldn’t toss out one item. Especially those meatballs and sauce. Instead, wiping tears, I shoved every frozen meal into a duffel bag, hoping there was a freezer where I was headed since the electricity was going to be turned off soon.
The last painful chore was turning off the water. In the kitchen, all dirty dishes washed and put away, I was barely able to breathe. In the sink, dancing stars blessed my hands, my skin, my soul. I prayed they would find me wherever I ended up.
