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“And you can do that? Get me back in Mabel’s good graces? We had fifty-five good years together. I’d hate to ruin things now.”
“I can certainly do my best. And I’d hope she’d recognize that if you hired me to do this, you’re doingyourbest, too, and she’ll forgive a few oopsies.”
Mr. Bernard grunts. “Would you do that for me?”
I nod. And my stomach twists. After three years, I still hate this part of self-employment—asking for money to do something I’d gladly do for free and most clients could easily pay double my rate for. I steel myself for the grunt that expresses my rate is too high.
But Mr. Bernard doesn’t puff when I tell him my rate is fifty dollars an hour. He doesn’t wince when I say I need to spend at least twenty hours, preferably within the next few days, to do my best for his plants. And then two hours a week to make sure what we save flourishes.
“Too goddamn much death in my life this past year. That’s a small price to pay to keep what Mabel loved alive.”
“With all due respect to your wife, Mr. Bernard, I’d love to have you work alongside me so you can experience the joy Mrs. Bernard got from caring for these plants. And you might think I’m crazy, but her plants will appreciate it too.”
He scoffs. “You sound just like her. She talked to them like they understood what she was saying. She hated when I cursed in front of them.”
“They do understand. They absorb the energy.”
Mr. Bernard holds eye contact with me for several long seconds, and I wonder if he’s worried his grief has been hurting the plants. I risk it and guess that he’s spent hours each day out here in his well-loved chair. “More would’ve died if you hadn’t sat with them. Every time you exhale, it’s fuel for them. We’ll make Mrs. Bernard proud, I promise.”
“I’m paying you forty hours up-front since I don’t want to be in your debt if I die between visits. You keep track of your time, and tell me when I owe you more.” He pushes himself to standing. “I’ll get my checkbook.”
Igrab an Uber home since I can’t carry the four boxes of plants Mr. Bernard insists I take with me—the bonsai trees, plus all the flowers that are likely too dead to save. He doesn’t want to look at them anymore. He told me if I can save the plants, I can keep them. And if I can’t, I should sell the pots and pocket the money.
A few blocks from home, I text my sister, Georgia, and ask her to come out to carry in a few of my prizes.
She meets me at the curb. “Really, Virginia?”
“Just help me get them inside. I don’t want to leave them on the sidewalk for someone to steal.”
“Who would steal boxes of dead plants? And these are going in your room.”
“Chill out. I’m not holding on to many of them. Not for long.”
On the ride home, I’d looked up the pots that the bonsais are planted in. I snapped pictures, and Google Images found their sisters. Mr. Bernard hadn’t exaggerated. Each is valued at over a thousand dollars. They’re pretty, but really, half a month’s rent for one ceramic pot?
Rich people … I truly will never understand them.
I pull the check from my wallet and dangle it for Georgia to see. She eyes it, then me, like it might be counterfeit. She attempts to steal the flimsy paper from my grip, but I snap it away.
“The rent you owe me?”
“The dead plants will pay you back. I’m using this to attend the Come Into Power seminar next month. Deadline to apply is Friday, and this is exactly what it costs. It’s too perfect. Obviously meant to be.”
“Virginia,” she warns, picking up one box and then another, finding her balance. “Another get-rich-quick scheme?”
“Ha. No.”It’s not.“I’m not an idiot.”
Georgia lifts a teasing eyebrow. I’d smack her, but my arms are full as well. “This is an investment—in me, in my future.”
“Yes, because you’re anentrepreneur.” Georgia almost chokes while exaggerating the French pronunciation.
“One day, you’ll see.”
“I’ll see when you’ve paid me all the back rent.” Georgia pushes open our door with her butt, and I follow her inside with Mr. Bernard’s check burning a hole in my pocket.
The plants from the four boxes cover our kitchen table and the counter beside the fridge. Aside from the bonsai trees, all the other plants really are too far gone to save. It breaks my heart, but I empty their soil into the compost bin in the backyard. Our ground-floor suite is too small for two people, but the giant yard more than makes up for it. And the landlord lets us pay part of our rent in-kind—which means I make sure the gardens are well cared for in exchange for a hundred-dollar discount on my share.
With the pots soaking in the bathtub, I make dinner while my sister hand-stitches the final touches on a 1950s dress pattern in our living room-slash-studio.Unsolvable Crimes: Solvedplays in the background. We’ve seen every episode at least twice and have turned the show into a predinner drinking game we call “Truth or Lie.”
