Glucose

By: Joseph Hastings

 

My wife is a plant. She is sitting outside in the garden photosynthesizing. She must do this every day without fail or else she will wither and die. She looks very pretty in the morning sun. When I watch her there, I feel as though the whole world is fed from her roots. It is all worth it because today she is a marigold, and she is beautiful, and I love her.

          I remember I have to meet my sister today. She has wanted to talk for some while now. We’re supposed to meet for coffee today, and I promised to let her buy me breakfast. After that, I said I’d get a report in for work. I promised myself that I would be productive today. I want to start keeping my promises.

          I know I have to go to our room to get dressed, but it is very difficult to leave the kitchen window. I work best late into the night. I go into my office downstairs. It’s nice. It has a bookshelf in the wall filled with fantasy novels and a small fireplace. It is the kind of room I have wanted since I was very small. In there, I can work on my spreadsheets or files or whatever else. I find that at night, when my mind has gone half to sleep and at least for one moment the world seems to stop spinning, I can work in that place.

          But my wife wakes up early. She has always gotten up early. This never changes. Sometimes when I watch her, I can’t help but stare at her in the garden and wonder just how early she got up. I like to think that she also wonders about how late into the night I stayed up. She exists in the morning, and I exist in the night, and, though it only lasts for a brief period, we overlap when I return to bed at dawn. Eventually, I manage to pull away to get changed. 

         I like to wear nice clothing. This never changes. It makes me feel clean and consistent. I usually go on walks in the morning. It helps me wake up. I think I look quite silly walking around the neighborhood in my button-up shirt and khakis, but all my neighbors don’t seem to mind. If anything, they give me this familiar, sensitive smile and maybe a polite wave. I used to go on walks with my wife before her roots were planted in the ground.

        When I return home, I am sweating from the walk. Even in the morning, the sun glares down at us. I know it is intent on feeding my wife out in the garden. I go to the sink to get a drink of water, and I catch a glimpse of her lying in the grass. Her leaves are spread out wide.

         Each time I get ready to leave, I check around the whole house to make sure that I don’t forget anything and that nothing is too far out of place. I hear the television playing and step into the living room. The news is playing something awful, so I turn it off quickly. Something in the blank television screen catches me. It seems emptier than usual.

         My wife and I used to watch reality television on the weekends, and we ate lots of mint ice cream. I fear that I’ve been gaining a lot of weight recently, but then I remember that I have always thought something like that, whether it is true or not.

         At last, I am certain that I have not forgotten anything, and that means I must go out into the garden to say goodbye for a little while. I open the screen door and step outside. We put our shoes by the door so that we don’t carry dirt inside. I walk across the grass in my socks, but the lawn is still wet from the morning dew. It has not been mowed for some time now.

        My wife rests in a sunbeam dripping over silver clouds and pouring down into our backyard. I walk to where she sits in the garden next to the strawberries and garlic. Since I can remember, I’ve always wanted to grow strawberries. Last summer, she finally planted them for me. Most of them are eaten by birds or insects, but the few we get are always wonderfully sweet.

        She looks serene in the sun, and the chlorophyll in her skin seems to shimmer. I kneel down to where her stem extends and speak to her. “I am headed out,” I say, “to go see my sister for coffee. I’ll be back soon, not more than an hour. Is that alright?” She doesn’t say anything back, so I ask her, “Do you want some water?” Plants need water to survive; this is the little I know because she taught it to me. She doesn’t say anything to that either, so I have to stop myself from lingering. I go to the garage and take the car out.

        The coffee shop is near. My sister was always going to pick something close to our home, so I wouldn’t have to go out of my way for her. That is the kind of person she is. This never changes.

        I pull into the parking lot with my handed-down sedan. When I step out, I notice the large dent near the trunk that keeps it from opening. I realize I can’t remember how it got there, and I figure that is not the kind of thing people normally forget. Yes, I know I should definitely remember, but, when I try to conjure up the memory, I feel my mind become absent like a room without furniture. I am standing in the parking lot staring at my car as my fingers start tapping against the keys in my hands when I hear someone call to me.

       “Hey,” the voice calls calmly. I look up to see my sister in an oversized brown coat. I suddenly realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen her in person, and I remember how even in summer she’d always get cold. I give her a wave back and walk up. We step inside as she asks me, “How have you been?”

I sit down at a table by the front window when I answer, “I’m okay. How are you?”

         She takes off her coat, revealing a long-sleeved sweater, and hangs it on her chair before sitting down as she begins, “I've been up to my gills with work.” My sister always pretended that she was a mermaid. The beach was the only place warm enough for her. “We’ve got this new client who wants something like a thousand orders in by the end of the month, so I’ve been making calls every which way, and the people at the office are just–” she trails off as she begins to think I am uninterested. I know this is not the case and that I very much love hearing about how passionate she gets with her work. I figured out some time ago that I have difficulty showing others that I am interested in their conversation. All I can give to fend off the awkward moment is a half-successful attempt at a smile.

       “Well, you know, they’re not helpful,” she finishes. She smiles before looking away toward the front desk. She has a habit of tapping her fingers on the table. I think this is where I got it from.

“Do you want tea? Or maybe a cappuccino. I saw a review that said this place has the best apple cider.”

I didn’t know cafes got reviews, but my sister would be the kind of person to check. “Just a coffee is fine.”

“Great, I’ll go get it now,” she says, nearly hopping out of her seat before taking a brisk walk up to the counter.

         I can hear her ordering something to eat behind me as I look out the window. It’s not much of a view, simply the cars parked out front. For some reason, I want to take a picture of the window view from where I’m sitting. I don’t think I am afraid of forgetting, but it feels inexplicably important to me, like it is the one and only time I will ever sit in the cafe down the street, as if this moment is invaluably precious to me that I must hold onto for as long as I can. Or else, well, I’m not really sure.

         Before I can notice, my sister is already back with the drinks. She also sets down a plate with what looks like a chocolate chip croissant and a blueberry muffin. My sister knows my weaknesses well, having relearned them three months ago when she was always over to make dinner for my wife and me.

        She set my coffee near hers so she could place the plates. When she picks it up again to hand it to me, I notice a BandAid on the top of her arm, half hidden by the sleeve of her sweater. “Did you hurt yourself?” I ask as she sets it down.

       “What’s that?” she asks as she sits down again. I lightly point to her arm. “Shit,” she says as she hides her arm under the table. “I mean, no, I just wasn’t being careful in the kitchen, is all. You know me.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t believe her, but that’s alright because she doesn’t need to tell me why.

          “But I’ll heal up quickly.” She takes a sip from her coffee, which invites me to do the same. It is hot, and I am ready to wake up. I used to never drink coffee, but some things change along the way. “Remember when I broke my arm in middle school at that gymnastics thing? It healed up in like two weeks. We decided that everybody gets one superpower, and I got super healing.” I’d forgotten that the main power of Miss Mermaid was extra white blood cells and bone tissue. “What superpower did we say you had again? Probably like intelligence or something.”

I smile. “Probably.” I remember I was given super strength. My sister said I could take on anything and turn out just fine.

          I take another sip of my coffee as I look out my window. My wife has never broken a bone. It is something we share in common. I remember whenever my sister broke a bone, she told me how she learned that it would only grow back stronger. She would go around the playground telling all her school friends how much stronger she’d become if they could only wait to see it. I wonder if my wife knows this.

        “You’ve grown out your beard. You look like a young Marx,” my sister says. I laugh to myself as I start to rub where there once wasn’t hair, then I become silent as I remember. She glances at me with a faint smile before looking away as I notice her eyes begin to water.

“Thank you for the coffee. I’ve been busy planning lately,” I say.

“That’s right. Her birthday is coming up, isn’t it?” she asks happily. I nod. “Are you getting her anything?”

“Yes, she wants a puppy.”

“Really?” She asks, leaning in with a slight amusement mixed with a more hidden twinge of concern.

          “Yes, five of them actually, and they all have to be wearing hats.” She leans back, more relaxed when she figures I am joking. “They all have to be different kinds of hats, and they all have to be different breeds of puppies. They will wear bow ties with different patterns, but uniform boots across the quintuplet.”

          “That’s nice,” she says. I smile as I take another large sip of my coffee. I know she thinks I’m joking, and that’s alright. It is enough that I know that on one of her birthdays, maybe one soon or maybe one of her last, she will finally have her five puppies with hats.

“I’ll probably get her notebook or something to use in the garden.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea. You always gave the best gifts.”

I grin. “I know.” My gifts are indeed great. This never changes. As I am smiling, my sister takes her chance.

“Are you alright?”

          “You already asked me that, remember? I told you that I’m fine, or maybe I said okay.” I pause before speaking with more certainty. “No, I’m certain I said fine.”

She stares at me. Her eyes are still glossy. “Please.”

         “I don’t know.” Whenever they ask me this now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell them. I feel like I know, then they ask again, and I suppose I didn’t give them the right answer. When they keep asking, I forget or the answer changes. Soon enough, I realize I never knew in the first place. “I don’t know,” I repeat. I take another sip of my coffee, and for the first time I realize my sister has stopped drinking hers.

“I know you don’t want to talk to anyone,” she starts.

“I didn’t say that.” She continues anyway.

          “But I’ve been thinking about moving back home for a little. I can work from home, and we could talk once a month. You’d hardly ever notice.”

          I look at her. I am tired of being a burden, and I know she understands this. I promised her that I wouldn’t worry her so much like I did last time. But she doesn’t look away, and I begin to wonder which one of us she’s trying to save. I understand that none of us are superheroes, yet I know that we all need saving.

“Okay,” I say as I pick off a piece of the croissant. It is stale but familiar and warm.

          “I’ll come over to make dinner once a week,” she says. We cross gazes only for a moment. I understand that this is not a request but merely a message.

          “Okay.” I have the rest of the croissant and start eyeing the muffin. My sister has gotten these for me so that she can watch me eat. This is new in some ways, but in many others it is as it has always been.

        “How is she?” My sister starts asking questions more quickly because she knows once I finish the food it will end.

         “Who?” I pretend. We smile, then I continue, “She is good,” and when I say this I am almost surprised by how much I mean it. “Her garden is getting bigger, and one of her friends visited two or three days ago.”

         “That’s fantastic. Really, fantastic.” I smile back as I grab the muffin and get a few bites in. “And how’s your sleep? You texted me,” she adds to justify the question.

“Good,” I lie, but I think it’s less of a lie if you both know you’re lying. She grins still.

“Damn, it’s cold in here,” she says, putting back on her coat and sipping her coffee.

          “I’ll have to get you a warmer sweater for your birthday.” We share a grin before I go to finish my muffin. My sister relents and starts going on about her work. We wave goodbye in the parking lot.

          I am home again soon. I enter the kitchen and see a glass of water sitting on the countertop. It is half full. I go to the sink to look out the window where I spot my wife still in the garden. She has grown taller, and the sun has run higher into the sky so that she may reach up into the light. I should go tell her I am home. I will bring her a glass of water.

        I open a cabinet to get out a glass, then I go to the sink. I start to think about my day, how productive I can be today. As the water pours in, I suddenly realize how tired I am. I wonder if I have done enough today, and yet I want to do so much more. I turn off the sink once it fills near the top. I clutch the glass in my hand and peek out the window once more as if to check she hasn’t moved in the half minute before looking back at the counter.

I notice a bug crawling across the kitchen counter. It is a ladybug, but somehow I know that it is missing a leg.

         For a moment, because all it takes is a moment, I cannot tell if the bug is there in reality or if my mind has conjured it up. I feel my fingers start to tap the glass as I fail to remember the difference between the two. This has happened before. It’s all too familiar, but I thought I had moved past this feeling. I promised that I had gotten better. I fall to the ground and hear glass shatter.

         I tell myself to get off the floor. My arms won’t move under the weight of this awful feeling. It is a sadness so terrible that you cannot think about anything else, and you hate yourself for trying to rationalize why it has come this time. It is a horrid and inexplicable emptiness as if

all the meaning was suddenly pulled from the air, and I can no longer breathe. I cannot tell if I am crying because all I can hear is my own mind telling me to get up, but the feeling pulls me deeper like chains tying me to the ground. I curl into myself.

        My mind is filled with thoughts of the storm. The wind and rain outside is whipping around the house, nearly pulling it off its foundation, and lightning cracks across the sky. I try to hide inside, but I know my wife is still in the garden with that horribly raging wind. It wants to pull her from the Earth and consume her in its storm. The wind wants for no reason. It is only in its uncaring destruction that it starts pulling at her roots. I could not leave her.

        No matter how hard the wind pulls or the rain pours down, I keep her roots in the ground. I keep them in the ground because her roots feed the world, and I can’t imagine how lifeless and scary the world would be without her there to hold it up. I press down as hard as I can on the dirt, and I make sure she stays exactly where she is planted.

        But the effort is so great. The storm starts pulling on me. Something in the wind tells me to fade into the storm. I could be hurled away by the wind, but maybe it would only send me floating with clouds. I am frightened and tired, and I realize I am in tears. And yet, I see my wife

still planted there. No matter the wind or rain, as long as I hold on to her roots, we may weather

it still.

        I understand I am lying on the kitchen floor. I have to get to the living room. I can prop myself up on the couch. I can get up, and this will never have happened. I try to push myself up to crawl, but my arms give as I start coughing from something stuck in my throat. My mouth

tastes like dust.

       I have to get to the living room. I must do this for her. I try again and get up to a crawl. I manage to make it to the carpet, then cling to the couch as I find my way to its front where I prop myself up. For the first time, I notice I can breathe since the wind left me. It is nice to feel the air

in my lungs. I can sense that soon it will feel thinner again.

       I hear the screen door slide open. My breath is cold, but I can use it to gather enough energy to push myself up. I am too weak and hasty; as I try to stand, I fall onto the carpet. I am stuck to the ground as if all my energy has been wasted in a useless effort, and I see no reason to

get up. I can hear footsteps.

       She walks into the living room and stands in front of me. I try to move my head to look at her but am unable. I cannot even tell if she is looking at me. All I can see are her bare feet. She stands for a moment then gently lets herself fall to the ground.

       My wife lies next to me. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish she’d come running in my arms how she used to, but I understand things are different.

       I understand that bad things happen and that you cannot go back. All I can do now is keep our roots in the ground. That way, as we take in the rainwater, we may grow. We may become more than we ever were by letting ourselves sit together and weather the storm.

       Right now, my wife is not a plant. She is a human woman who speaks more softly than before. This is different, and I understand that some things change. But, her hair is still a soft brown like cedar, and her eyes are a mossy green. This never changes. Still, I like the metaphor because it gives me something to cling to. If only my wife were a plant, then perhaps I could have protected her from the world when she was human.

       I can breathe again, so I take each breath slowly. All we can do now is know for certain that, at least for one fleeting moment, we are safe here with each other. I can be okay with that. Even if I must face it every day for the rest of my life, I know at least she will face it with me.

       When my wife sits up, I can see in her eyes that she can see me, and I know I am understood. She leans in and kisses me softly. With a little bit of water and sunshine, I know we’ll be alright. Her kiss is a subtle sweet like glucose.