Hannah Martinez

Chapter 1

I was a perennial in Mom’s garden. She pruned me and grew me in the same soil as her other plants. If not for my obvious lack of roots, I would be considered a plant too. She treated me that way, and even measured my height each year and compared me to different types of flowers. As a young girl, I thought it was magical…until the year she called me a pigweed. Last year, she compared me to the largest sunflower stalk in the garden. I didn’t mind that one.

The forest of our garden hid our house from the neighborhood. Because of this, the citizens of Minorville, Illinois wanted nothing to do with Mom and believed she was a witch. Many times, I wished our house looked like the other tidy white houses on our suburb street. I was sure our neighbors wished that, too. Even though I hated being the object of rumors, I couldn’t help noticing that everyone’s yard needed at least one cherry tree.

“Katie, can you prune the hydrangeas today? Oh, and the ivy. It’s choking the morning glories…” Mom was beginning her daily watering routine indoors. She had four pitchers filled with water so far. Only twenty more to go.

“Sure,” I said. I wanted to ride my bike this morning. The sunny skies were calling me out of the shady rain forest where I lived. But the ivy needed pruning. One of my tasks was to keep it from spreading anywhere else in the garden. I learned to keep watch on the stealthy vines.

Mom had two hundred thirty-five plants to water. More than half of them grew inside. She started at the top of the three-story house with ferns she hung from the ceiling. Her spindly wooden ladder would sway as she tended to them, and water dripped on our heads as we walked under them. Then the rest of the day, she watered every sprout and vine on the property. It would be one thing if she did it out of joy and leisure, but it was more than that. It was why she lived, and I hated that.

The moisture from the indoor garden spread mold throughout our house. The dirt-brown carpet had once been green. The red Victorian wallpaper faded into a splotchy mess years ago. Mom always said the sun bouncing off the leaves of houseplants was the best decor. But it was 1975 and I wanted new orange shag carpet and bright pink chairs that looked like butterflies. At least that was what I saw when I hurried through the magazines in the checkout line.

I took shears off the kitchen counter, also known as the garden tool area. I stepped outside and met blooming red poppies. The yellow day lilies met me next as I walked down the pathway. Fresh grass carpeted the space between all the plants for a landscape of green and brilliant colors. The dogwood and black ash trees mingled their branches and leaves to create a diverse canopy above all the smaller plants below. The smell of the heat freeing the scents from all the plants relaxed me as I breathed deeply. The garden was a constant reminder of work, yet I had to admire the beauty that bloomed from our labor.

“Katina, did your mother tell you about the hydrangeas?” Grandpa said from behind me. He was admiring the hydrangeas against the fence, his fingers looped in his suspenders.

I nodded.

“Good. I want them to be as brilliant as possible. Take good care of them. They remind me of cotton candy at the County Fair, eh? Those blue and pink colors.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But I see it. You see so many things that I don’t.”

“No, plants just catch my eye,” he said as he knelt to inspect the dangling purple allium flowers. He reached into his brown vest and grabbed a small pair of brass scissors. He snipped the flower off and took out a tobacco tin from his pants pocket, stuffing it inside.

“Did you ask Mom if you could pick the alliums?”

“Of course! I would not put myself in danger’s path so foolishly! Did you get to sketch them?” I nodded. “Good.” He grunted as he lifted himself up and brushed soil off his pants. Grandpa and Mom wanted accurate, though tedious, sketches of the plants for research. Since Grandpa’s fall from medicine, he decided to cure plant ailments. He collected seeds from every plant he could, cataloging and preparing to nurture every future generation of flora.

I snuck through the garden gate and grabbed my bike from the side of the house once I finished pruning. On my bike, the air and wind were dry, wiping away the precipitation from the furnished greenhouse where I lived.

Even though I lived in the strangest, dingiest house, I made sure I could save enough for the best bike. It was brand new and silver, unlike everyone’s rusted bikes in town. Every break and lunch hour at school I escaped on it, riding through the forest hugging the left side of the high school. No one ever said anything in all the four years I’d done it. They were probably afraid Mom would curse them or cast some spell.

For four years, I arrived at that red brick prison of a school five minutes before class started, chained my bike, and walked to my classroom, arriving as the bell rang, avoiding most people. There was one girl, Jean, who rode with me on her bike sophomore year during breaks, and I taught her about the plants around the school and showed her my drawings of all the flora. But the best part of our friendship was getting to read her magazines. Magazines were my one tie to society, because Mom thought we floated above any need to understand the outside world. Instead, I felt crushed beneath it, never able to connect with anyone.

One day, she invited me to her house after school. She was going to teach me how she feathered her hair every day. She liked to comment on how my fine copper-brown hair against my blue eyes would look stunning like that, and how all the boys would be after me.

Except they were all terrified of me.

When I walked into her house, fresh, fluffy red carpet lined the floors. Shiny wood paneling surrounded the living room. Pictures from her parents’ wedding graced a coffee table as we walked to the dining room, and I tried to suppress the jealousy that wanted to darken this rare day. Someone invited me somewhere. I didn’t want to spoil it.

Her mother greeted us and placed a warm vanilla cake on the table as we sat.

“So where do you live?” her mom asked as she poured us milk. Her blonde hair curled at the ends. Not a stray strand anywhere. Her orange collared shirt was free from wrinkles, and I couldn’t help comparing her to Mom and her faded dresses and wiry hair.

“On Lewis Street.”

“Oh, that’s a quaint little street. Who are your parents?” She walked to the kitchen and opened the door to the baby blue fridge to put away the milk.

“I don’t have a dad, really, but my mom is Lucy Morrow.” She dropped the milk, and the glass bottle shattered. I knew why.

“Mother!” Jean shouted and rushed to help her. I stood and grabbed my jacket.

“I’ll see you later, Jean. Thank you, Mrs. Sackett.” I didn’t turn to see if they acknowledged me, but I heard whispers.

“I swear I saw her mother chanting in the yard,” Jean’s mom said.

After that, Jean never spoke to me. In fact, the rumors of Mom and me being witches grew. Mom said people try to name things they don’t understand whether they’re right or wrong. It helps them. Well, it didn’t help me, but at least I understood why people enjoyed picturing me on a broom late at night. In the end, I decided it was better not to be involved with anyone at that school. The sooner I could leave, the better.

***

I reached Ray’s Market and grabbed a Coke and more chamomile tea for Mom. I was glad I had money from yard work jobs. Though people preferred not to talk to me at school, I was the one most sought after for gardening. People hoped Mom had given her green thumb to me since she would never talk to anyone, let alone work for anyone.

When I walked to the check-out stand, Ray nodded from the deli in the back and headed over to check my items. He pointed at my bike outside the window of the store.

“How much do you want for that bike?” he asked. He wiped his head with his forearm and combed his fingers through his greasy gray hair. I tried not to cringe when he then wiped his hands on his stained apron.

“It’s not for sale.” I placed my Coke and tea in front of him.

“I’ll give you fifty dollars for it.” He looked down. “And these expensive selections for free.”

“No, thanks.”

I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could. I felt threatened that people were ogling my bike. It took me too long to save for it, and I wasn’t giving it up now.

I snuck the bike back to the side of the house when I got home. Mom was waiting for me on the front porch. She opened her mouth then shut it.

“You almost missed teatime.” She turned and walked into the house.

The beige teakettle rumbled as I entered the house. Mom set two cups on the table for us, and harvested beans in a bowl. Their tangy, fresh scent cut through the musty smell of the house. She turned to me.

“Katie, I wish you would tell me when you plan on leaving home.”

“I know, but sometimes I just need to get some fresh air.” I decided not to mention how I needed time away from the house. And her. A pang of guilt hit me. She needed me. This was where I belonged, whether I liked it or not. I popped the lid off my Coke, ignoring the teacup Mom set for me.

“The freshest air in the state is on our porch. There’s no need to go anywhere for that.”

“Then I need different air, air with a little pollution in it. Just to shake things up.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She sighed. “I know you need to get out. You’re young but let me know. I’d like you to help with watering. I’m not feeling up to it right now.”

The teapot whistled at a high pitch.

“I’ll get it.” I poured her a cup, and the lines on her forehead vanished.

“There are many antidotes in the world, but this right here will cure anything.”

After a quiet teatime, I grabbed the watering can to water the houseplants. I felt chained to that watering can. Mom sat in her navy wingback chair in front of the window in the living room. She always looked out at the birches on the side of the house for the rest of the day after watering. I tried asking her what she was thinking about once. She had looked at me and said that was none of my business. Now I inquire as little as possible. She was in her own world, and I in mine.

I slammed the watering can on the floor when I finished. Mom jumped a foot in her chair.

“Katie!” she exclaimed.

“Sorry, just excited to finish watering inside.”

She scowled. “Well, now that you’re done, can you water outside and start some rice? I’m still not feeling well.” Her face was pale, matching the nearby calla lily’s lack of color. Her hands were shaking. I rushed to her side. That was always the first sign.

“It’s all right, Mom. I’ll take care of everything. Just relax. You’re safe.” She thrust herself forward and grabbed her arms, shaking all over now.

“I’m so cold,” she moaned.

“It’s fine. I’ll get a blanket. It’s fine. You won’t freeze.” She nodded. I looked at the clock on the mantel. Grandpa forgot to light a fire at four o’clock today. He knew better than that. I needed him to help me. Her attacks unleashed themselves more frequently these days.

Grandpa had explained as much as he knew about her condition early on, but neither of them ever told me how she got it. All I knew were the triggering words and situations. Well, most of them. There were still times when she would be in the garden, wandering through daisies and lilies, content with the world, then run to the house, close the door, and cower in her chair with her eyes darting all over the place. No one could talk to her when she was like this. Grandpa said it was like what he saw after World War II in soldiers, but she had been nowhere near a battlefield. And that was all he would say about it.

I covered her with a blanket and rubbed her shoulders. She relaxed under my touch.

I left Mom and walked into Grandpa’s library. Shelves covered the walls. Little wooden boxes and cloudy glass bottles crammed every surface with labels bearing Latin names and dates. Dried plants littered any other free surface, including the floor. He was funneling some seeds into one of my old Coke bottles.

“Grandpa,” I said. He looked at me, his body still.

“Katina.”

I stepped closer, despite seeing his focused face.

“Grandpa, you didn’t start the fire for Mom.”

“I was a little busy,” he said, reaching for a label.

“I don’t care. We almost had another situation on our hands.”

“I’m sorry, Katina, but it’s seventy-five degrees outside, easy to forget.” He rubbed his forehead, looking down at the floor. “I’ll remember tomorrow. Now good night, Katina.” He gestured for me to leave. I closed the door as I left, demonstrating the distance between all of us.

***

Later that night, I jolted from a dream, hyperventilating. I was on a large wooden stage with the figure I had always imagined being my father. He was a very dark, strange person. He was beckoning me to jump off a precipice with him, and Mom was behind us, ignoring me calling to her. Father touched my hand and in a muffled tone said, “I want to show you freedom…” He jumped and I watched him fall into the mist. I always had this dream, and I never jumped. This time I did. I woke up as soon as I went through the mist in my descent, screams filling the surrounding fog.

I stood and breathed, trying to calm myself. It was just a dream. He would be an old man by now if he was still alive. The urge to find him was always strong after that dream. My body shook with chills as I looked upward through the skylight in my bedroom. Something was wrong.

Mom.

I ran to her room, the darkness suffocating me and only adding to the panic. Her room was empty, her scarlet bed sheets made. I hurried down the stairs and screamed.

Mom lay still on the Turkish rug in the living room with the wooden ladder broken beside her. I collapsed to my knees.

“Mom! Answer me!” I shook her and pressed my ear to her chest. No heartbeat.

“Mom!” I held her close, breathing hard and feeling numb. “Grandpa!” He rushed down the stairs in his sleeping robe.

“Oh, God…” he murmured and knelt beside her. I looked at the fallen ladder next to her on the floor. He felt her pulse.

“Lucy…” he choked. We stayed there, surrounding her with grief and shock, unable to rise from the floor.

“We need to call 911,” he said. As we both stood, we stared at the spilt soil surrounding her like a dirty halo. I collapsed back to my knees in the dirt and sobbed. I wanted to reach out to Grandpa, but he escaped to the other side of the room, crying in solitude.

After calling the police, Grandpa looked out of the window, watching for them. I sat at the kitchen table, strategically sitting behind a large fern so I couldn’t see Mom’s cold body, and watched a light breeze stir the plants outside. I wiped away my tears as they streamed down my face, unable to eliminate their traces.

When the police came, they only asked questions with obvious answers. The lights wouldn’t stop blinking outside and everything was muffled.

“Why was she on the ladder?” a young officer with brown receding hair asked. His nametag said J. James. I couldn’t look toward Mom. Every second, the red lights from the police car flashed through the window and across her face like fireworks, illuminating her stiff features. I shook my head.

“What?” I asked. He repeated the question.

“Watering the plants on the ceiling,” I responded quietly. J grimaced.

“Was that normal behavior? Climbing that high to water plants?”

“Yes.”

“Did she drink any alcohol? Did she ask for help?”

“No to both.”

“Why did she do this so late at night?”

“Because she was a witch,” a bald police officer behind him whispered. Grandpa lunged at him.

“Shh, Earl,” J said.

“How dare you say such a thing! With her dead on the floor—” Grandpa struggled to say.

“Please stop!” I said. They all turned to look at me. “Is there anything else you need?” The police officers shook their heads and left, taking Mom’s body. Grandpa watched them leave through the window. The plants awoke from their curled state and faced the door, waiting for her return.