Pet Plant by Crystal Collier

Lillian closed the door as her son, all dressed in black, walked away. She set her keys on the hutch, too numb to hang them properly on the pegboard and stepped out of her heels. The kitchen counter was littered with flowers, unopened envelopes, and prepared meals she’d been gifted, things she needed to put away, but she walked blindly past them.

John’s oxygen machine still sat next to the bed, along with his slippers, poised as if waiting for his feet. Feet that would never wear them again. What was she going to do with them?

Lillian curled onto her side of the bed. The paper program still clutched in one hand was her lifeline, her window to the past, the last evidence of the reality she faced. Her fine black dress crinkled around her tucked knees, but she did nothing to fix it.

The program read: John Marlow Kasperson, beloved father and husband, born November 6, 1943, deceased March 17^th, 2015.

This last week bruised by in a flurry of phone calls, decisions and paperwork: filing with insurance, purchasing a casket, reading a will, picking colors and types of flowers, arranging speakers and musical numbers, selecting pictures for a collage…

John Jr. had done his best to ease her burden, but in the end, he was six-hundred miles from home and running on empty. His wife and children desperately needed him and he was torn between home, work and his mother’s need. It was best he’d gone.

Now Lillian was on her own.

Permanently.

She clutched the paper tighter and closed her eyes.

***

The ringing doorbell woke her. Sunlight streamed into the room, so it must be mid-morning, but Lillian didn’t remember making the decision to fall asleep.

His side of the bed was empty.

Again. Like every morning.

Lillian wriggled out of bed and aimed for the mirror. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her hair lay flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other. She hadn’t been to the beautician in the three weeks since his death. She hadn’t been anywhere really since the funeral. The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom and back.

The doorbell rang again.

Maybe they’d go away.

***

Lillian felt less grimy after a shower, but she couldn’t stomach the toast she’d made. Instead, she sipped her coffee and stepped out to the front stoop. She almost tripped over the potted plant sitting in the middle of her porch. A bonsai tree. Its limbs drooped under skeletal branches, nettles or leaves almost bare and browning. A card had been slipped under one corner of the plant’s tray.

She hefted the thing off her porch and carried it to the kitchen table. It was the most pitiful plant she’d ever seen. The card that came with it said simply, Koshi has been a little neglected, but he’s a sweet tree. Here’s hoping he’ll bloom for you like he wouldn’t for me.

“Koshi?” Lillian repeated. Who named a plant? That was just silly, but the poor thing must be starved. She hurried away and got a cup of water. “At least you can have a good drink, but I’m no good to care for you,” Lillian confessed. “I’m all tired out and have nothing left to give. I’m ready to die and join my John. You’d be better off with someone else.”

Did she imagine it, or did the little plant’s limbs tremble as she poured the water? Her lips twitched like they might pull up in a smile. “There you go, little one.”

She glanced around the counter, at the mess surrounding Koshi. Surely no plant would like living in such a disaster zone. She should clean it up so Koshi had a clean place to dwell, at least until she could find a better home for it.

***

The kitchen looked better, and every time she passed through it, she spoke to little Koshi. It was beginning to perk up a little, but the room was so drab, she didn’t know how it could possibly thrive. She pulled back the curtains and let the sunlight in. She’d always loved those curtains. They added just the right shade of yellow to remind her of a summer’s day—like the day John proposed to her at Heartford Park. That had been an amazing day. Her heart warmed with the memory and she recalled how much she loved that place.   

“You know what, Koshi? I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

***

A week went by, but little Koshi still was struggling. One day Lillian believed he was recovering and his little limbs would sprout green chutes. The next he looked to be on the brink of death again.

She put on a decent blouse and pants, washed her face, did her hair, and went to the store. She stopped into a nursery and asked what kind of plant food she needed for a bonsai tree. The shop keeper directed her to a book about grooming and feeding bonsai trees and helped her discover Koshi’s breed: Chinese Elm. She thanked him, although she admitted she was only caring for the tree until she could find a new home for it.

Koshi liked his plant food. He responded well. She even discovered new buds springing the next week, but he wasn’t growing as well as she hoped. She took him out back to the fresh air, and the porch desperately needed cleaning after the winter. The grass needed mowing, the leaves needed to be raked, and weeds needed to be pulled from the flowerbed. Koshi must be overwhelmed by the disaster of a yard.

Lillian took him back inside, determined to do something about the disrepair.

***

Koshi’s regular visits outdoor had done wonders. His little limbs brimmed with greenery. The porch had been cleaned up, the yard maintained, and Lillian had enjoyed many days of fresh air and invigorating work through the project. She felt stronger than she had in years.

It made her think of Margaret, her elderly next door neighbor who had to move into a home a year ago. She’d loved Margaret’s cookies and friendship through the years. What had become of her friend? She decided an excursion was in order.

Margaret sat alone in a bed by a window. Despite the chipper yellow paint and white-lace curtains, her friend’s hair, always done up, now sagged, and her lips, always brimming with smiles, dipped toward depression. No hint of cookies or baking filled the room, no cards or signs of friendship. A collection of framed photos sat beside the aging woman, people she had loved and lost, people she loved and never saw, people who had become little more than a memory.

Lillian knew how her friend felt. More importantly, she knew what her friend needed. What she had needed.

Margaret’s head turned toward the door. Her eyes lit. “Is that my dear, old neighbor?”

Lillian forced a smile. Koshi had healed her heart so much and he could do the same for a lonely old woman in a care facility.

“Don’t hate me, Koshi.”

***

Lillian brought the little plant the very next day. Every week she visited Margaret—to check in on Koshi and help her friend prune the little guy. She met other residents of the home. Their loneliness weighed on her, but she knew how to ease it. Each month she selected a new “target,” and gifted them with a bonsai tree. By the end of the year, she held classes on taking care of their plant companion for all the residents who were able. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She told Koshi what wonderful things were happening because of him, and for the millionth time, wondered where he had come from.

The day Margaret died, she delivered him to the newest resident, just as her friend had requested. He was the gift that kept giving.

That evening, she sat at home pondering over it all: loss after loss, the sting of death, the joy of giving, the renewal of a purpose. She remembered the first time Koshi’s limbs began to bend from the weight of his leaves. She begged him not to look as she pulled out the pruning sheers, promising, “This is going to hurt so much, but it will help you grow. Be strong, little one.”

She lifted the clippers and snip. His little limbs trembled like he was screaming and she’d hated every second of the task, but he grew stronger, he grew greener, and he’d brought so much joy because of that painful choice.

Lillian almost thought she heard a voice echoing the memory, saying, “Lillian, I know taking John away hurt so much, but you are learning and growing in ways you’d never have imagined. Be strong, little one. You have so much to give.”

Crystal Collier is an author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids, with the occasional touch of humor or inspiration. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE. 

The Price of Freedom by Mary Waibel

"Freedom isn't free. It's paid for by the blood and sweat of our soldiers."

~Author Unknown

***

I stared at the empty desk as Mr. Richardson droned on about our founding fathers and the sacrifices they’d made for our great nation. Normally I couldn’t wait to hear his tales of the past, but today the present weighed heavily on my mind.

How are you coping? Are you outside in the batting cage the three of you made together, absorbing the vibrations of the bat as you hit ball after ball? Or are you sitting in your room, blaring your black metal tunes through your headphones, drowning out the world and your memories?

I wanted to be there, to be the support that Evan needed, but my parents refused to let me. Oh, they told me it was because they didn’t want me to intrude on this personal, family time. But I was certain it was because they didn’t want me to have an unexcused absence on my record. Like that mattered when his entire world had been ripped apart.

So I’d painted on a happy face and dressed in my go-to comfort clothes. The short denim skirt that alway drew Evan’s eyes to my legs. The warm-up jersey with his number. And my beat-up white Keds. If my friends noticed my fake smile and overbright laugh, none of them said anything. They’d just hugged me, no questions asked, and offered me the kind of support I’d wanted to give Evan.

“Freedom isn’t free.” Mr. Richardson’s words blared in my ears, pulling me from my thoughts. “It’s paid for by the blood and sweat of our soldiers. This payment began with the first man who willingly gave their life in pursuit of our nation’s freedom. And it extends into the future with every man and woman who pledge their lives in defense of our nation.”

Tears burned, and I blinked them back, angered at his audacity to talk about the price of freedom today. Yesterday, that price had hit too close to home. I thought word would have spread like wildfire through our community, but no one else seemed to have heard anything. The only reason I had learned what happened was because I had been at Evan’s home when the military officers came to break the news to his family.

The officer didn’t say much about what happened, just that Kyle had willingly sacrificed his life to save the men in his unit. He was a true hero. A patriot.

While the accolades were nice, they didn’t ease the grief. The loss. The drowning senselessness that permeated my mind.

Stunning disbelief turned to unbearable grief. Time lost all meaning as I held Evan as he sobbed over the loss of his brother Kyle. Listened to the stories the family shared about this man I had never met.

Kyle was only seven years older than Evan and me, but those few years seemed like a different generation. All I knew about him I’d learned from Evan. He had idolized his brother, wanting to be like him in every way. The best ball player. The best scholar. The only thing Evan hadn’t aspired to be was a soldier.

I felt cheated that I hadn’t gotten to meet Kyle, to see for myself what kind of man he was. I was supposed to meet him when he came home on leave in the summer. A leave that would never come. I wrapped my arms around my waist, holding in the anger I wanted to vent at the unfairness of it all.

I didn’t even know him and I’m angry, I can’t imagine how you and your parents feel.

The bell rang, and I jerked back to the present. Moving on autopilot, I gathered my books and shuffled off to my next class.

“Savannah?”

I turned toward the voice, my fuzzy mind taking a moment to recognize Ally, my best friend. She frowned and reached a hand out to me.

“What’s wrong?”

Tears trickled down my cheeks and I swiped them away. I didn’t answer. It wasn’t my story to share. My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my pocket, my breath hitching as I read the simple text.

I need you.

I fled down the hall and out the door, not stopping to sign out at the office. Not stopping to tell Ally what I was doing. All my focus was on getting to Evan.

At the end of the sidewalk I stopped and sent him a text. It wouldn’t do me any good to run to his house if he was somewhere else.

On my way. RU @ home?

No. At the bridge.

My heart stuttered, and I took off, running down the sidewalk, the need to be with him overwhelming. I knew he was safe. That he wouldn’t do anything stupid. No, the bridge was the place he went to when he needed to think, to find his path.

I cut through the field, my steps slowing as I neared the rickety planks. Evan leaned against the railing, his hands clenched around the faded wood, staring at the babbling brook below. My heart broke again seeing the depth of his loss. I sucked in a deep breath and stepped onto the bridge. The structure swayed, but I moved onward, stepping up behind Evan and wrapping my arms around him.

He stiffened then relaxed into my embrace, his hands anchoring me to him.

“He would have really liked you.” His voice rumbled under my ear, pain scarring his words.

I squeezed him, offering silent support. My actions telling him I was here for him, however he needed me to be.

After a few minutes, he released me and turned, his hands settling on my waist. His eyes were swollen and red, dried tears streaked his cheeks, and his hair looked like he’d tried to pull it out. Seeing him like this made me ache deep in my bones.

I cupped his cheek, wishing there was something I could do, something I could say to make this better. Easier. But there were no words to fix this. Nothing to fill the hole that would forever be in this family. My mother always talked about how time dulled the edges of the pain, but I couldn’t see how this pain would ever go away. No matter how much time passed.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm then leaned his forehead against mine and sighed. My hand drifted from his cheek to his back, rubbing in soothing circles.

“Thank you for meeting me here. I promise I’ll make it right at school.”

I pulled back, hooking my hands around his neck. “I’m not worried about that right now. None of that matters. What you need is all that matters right now.”

He tucked my hair behind my ear, the action familiar and grounding. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. I just talked to him two days ago. Right before he left for his mission.” His voice broke on the last word, and I leaned closer, resting my head on his chest, letting him draw from my strength. “Do you mind sitting here with me for a bit? I’m not ready to go back home yet. Mom and dad are…they’re trying to make arrangements, and I’m just in the way.”

“I’m here to do whatever you need me to do. If you want to sit, we’ll sit. If you want to throw baseballs, we’ll do that. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Savannah.” He buried his face in my hair and held me close for a moment. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

We settled on the deck of the bridge, our feet dangling over the water that bubbled and babbled ten feet below. Birds chirped as they flitted from branch to branch in the trees lining the brook. Overhead, the sky was summer blue and cloudless, too beautiful a setting for the emotions churning deep inside me.

“The Army Chaplain came back this morning.” He laced our fingers together, and I leaned my head on his shoulder, waiting for him to continue at his own pace. “He said Kyle’s unit came under attack. One of the men got hit and Kyle pulled him to safety before he was killed.” His breath turned ragged for a moment, and his Adam’s apple bumped the top of my head as he swallowed back his grief. “He was a hero, not just for me, but to his team.” His shoulder shook with his sobs. “We’re all going to miss him. The world will be a darker place without him in it.”

For a moment, my mind drifted back to Mr. Richardson’s words this morning. He was right. Freedom isn’t free. It’s paid for by the blood and sweat of our soldiers. And by the tears of those they leave behind.

***

My thanks and heartfelt gratitude to all the men and women who serve in our military, and the families who support them. We wouldn't be here without all of you. God bless you all!

I tried to find the source of the quote that started this story for me, but I could only find links to USMC tweet and the Seal of Honor FB page. (If you haven't see this page, check it out. It's quite moving!) If anyone knows who said it, I'd love to know!

***

This story is set in the same world as my new release, The Boyfriend Project. And yes, this is the same Evan you hear about there.

Twisting tales one story at a time. 

YA author Mary Waibel’s love for fairytales and happy-ever fill the pages of her works. Whether penning stories in a medieval setting or a modern day school, magic and romance weave their way inside every tale. Strong female characters use both brain and brawn to save the day and win the heart of their men. Mary enjoys connecting with her readers through her website: marywaibel.blogspot.com

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