The Gardener (3 page)

Bubba’s gaze fixed on my scar before going back up to meet my eyes. His voice was low and firm. “Take her home, sober her up. And keep her out of here. Better for her if she keeps her opinions to herself.”

Inwardly, I groaned. Did it always have to be the same story? It was one thing for Mom to bash TroDyn at home, completely something else to trash them in public while intoxicated. As I leaned over her to fasten her seat belt, her hand on my arm stopped me and I looked into her teary eyes. Among other things, I wanted to chew her out for drinking again. Instead, I asked, “You okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes wandered to my scar and she reached up with her fingertips, tracing it lightly all the way to my jaw.

After so long, I’d gotten used to my face. Things might have been better if they could have just sewed it straight up. But a few pieces were missing here and there, making the scar look somewhat like a quilt in places where the doctor had pulled the torn skin together. One end of the scar started at my right eye’s outside corner, making my eye look a little like it sagged. That line of the scar met another at the top of my right cheek, and two parts branched out from there, one ending near my mouth, the other trailing off the side of my chin.

Jack said it made me look tough, like some of those guys in the movies. That didn’t matter to me, looking tough. It might’ve been nice on the football field except my helmet covered it up anyway. And really, at almost six feet three and two hundred thirty pounds, I didn’t exactly come across as weak. Plus, there was no need to play a tough guy. If things worked out, if I actually did get into college, I planned to spend most of my adult life in a lab somewhere, hence the appeal of TroDyn, where appearances had no bearing on daily lives.

My classmates had been my classmates since I was in kindergarten. I showed up that week after the attack with a bandage, then the bandage came off, my scar was revealed, and for a few weeks it was big news. Then, as my silence grew, my celebrity and the scar began to fade. I was just Mason, my scar a part of me. And as I grew bigger than everyone in school, most saw me simply as this hulking quiet guy.

Maybe that was one reason for me to stay in Melby Falls after college, if I managed to go. Me, and my scar, were familiar. Out in the world I might just be the freak with the scar on his face. I liked being more than the sum of my parts. I also liked not having to deal with that shocked look people got upon seeing my face for the first time.

Mom set her whole hand on the right side of my face. “You’re still my beautiful boy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“For starters, you’d need to call a cab.” I snapped her seat belt and settled back.

She leaned her head on the window. “Something is wrong. Ever since the money stopped coming. I just feel it.”

“What?”

Mom had a funny look on her face, like she was surprised I’d heard her. But instead of answering me, she shook her head and didn’t say another word the entire ride.

Back home, I made Mom a pot of strong coffee. Caffeine would just make her a wide-awake drunk, rather than truly sober her, but it always helped. With a wince, I remembered my TroDyn application just as she plopped down at the table and picked up the sheaf of papers.

M
Y MOTHER WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO MAKE OUT THE
small print in her condition, but the large TroDyn insignia on top had to be unmistakable even to someone with blurred vision.

Slapping the papers down with her hand, she glared at me. “What are you thinking?”

I sat down opposite her. “It’s the summer program. It’s my best chance to get a scholarship.”

“No.” She slurped some coffee and repeated the word several times until I finally asked her to stop.

Trying to keep my voice soft and steady, I said, “Mom, we’ve got to be practical here. I need a college education, and you can’t afford it.”

She pushed the papers away from her. “There’s a fund.” She was hard to understand.

“A what?”

“A fund. A college fund. For you.”

I rolled my eyes and stifled a laugh. “Yeah, okay, Mom. You barely make enough money to keep the electricity on every month. You sure don’t make enough to have a college fund for me.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You’re right.” Her eyes met mine. “It’s not
my
money.”

“Whose is it, then?”

For a moment, she didn’t answer, like she was considering not saying anything else.

“Mom?”

She sighed. “Your father. Your father started the fund.”

I gripped the sides of the chair. “What?” He can’t be my father but he can start a college fund for me? I didn’t believe her. This was just a convenient excuse to get me to not go to TroDyn. And then I wouldn’t go to college, and then …

I picked up the application.

She ripped it out of my hand. “You’re not going anywhere near that place.”

As we glared at each other, the phone rang several times until I finally let out a huge sigh and got up to answer it. Mom’s work. I covered the mouthpiece. “It’s the Haven. They want to confirm you’re working at eight. You’re not, are you?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “What day is it?”

I blew out a deep breath. “Are you serious? It’s Friday.”

“But I don’t work on—” She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. “I forgot! I switched with Burt.”

Although our little Cape Cod house had pretty low rent, we would be in trouble if she lost her job. All those pesky little things that required money, like lights and water and, oh yeah, food. We’d been lucky so far; the Haven of Peace gave her overtime, health insurance, and retirement. The hours sucked, four nights a week, but then she had three days off. And she managed to save her drinking for those days, which worked fine unless she forgot her schedule.

“Mom?”

She headed for her room. “Tell them I’ll be there.”

As I threw some leftover curried chicken in the oven fordinner, the shower started, signifying Mom was on her way back to the land of the sober. I set the timer on the oven. I’d been the only kid in the cooking class at the library, but it came in handy on the nights when Mom was in no condition to cook. I mean, 80 percent of the time, she was a fully functioning mom, cleaning the house, cooking, keeping me in line. But the rest of the time, I had to step up.

In my room, I plopped down on the weight bench in front of my TV and shoved in the DVD of my father. I’d watched the videotape so many times since the day of my accident that it had nearly worn out, so I had it transferred to a DVD. Of which I burned twenty copies. Just in case. Nineteen of them were in a box under my bed. One was in my DVD player.

When I was small, I watched it a lot, nearly every day, but as I got older, the urge grew less frequent. Still, it became a bit of a security blanket I couldn’t give up. And when Mom and I fought, usually when she’d been drinking, it was a comfort to flick it on and see what I’d seen a thousand times before. Because there was something about watching it, something that happened to me. The video sucked me in, magically put me in a sort of trance, giving me a reprieve from my life.

Like always, I froze as the video flickered on.

My father, or rather his green-shirted torso, sat in a chair in front of a yellow wall.
The Runaway Bunny
was in his hands, which were a darker skin tone than mine. The first time I noticed the color of his skin, things clicked into place. I’d always wondered how I could’ve gotten my dark skin from my paler-than-pale mom. Watching the video was like understanding where I fit, somewhere between the woman who cared for me and this man, this man I’d never met. I studied the footage every time I watched it, always with this little bit of hope that I’d discover something else about him.

Or about myself.

But it was the same every time, no more buried treasure to be found. His voice is deep and he reads clearly and well. The text is all on pages with black-and-white illustrations, divided by a full page in color with no words. At one part of the story, my favorite part, the one where the bunny wants to go be a crocus in a hidden garden, he turns the book to himself and pauses, turning the page before showing the camera again. And, for just a second, his right sleeve slips up, revealing a tattoo on his forearm. A blue butterfly.

“Mason!”

I tore myself away, clicked the remote to pause, and went into the master bedroom. The bathroom door was shut. I knocked. “Mom?”

She opened the door, standing there with a blue towel wrapped around her, hands streaked with blood.

Grabbing a towel to staunch the flow coming from her shin, I dropped to my knees in front of her. I shook my head and muttered, “You shouldn’t shave your legs when you’re drunk.”

Her hand rested on top of my head. “I can’t go to work like this.”

“Mom, you have to. You used up all your sick days for the month.”

“I’m in no condition to work.” Her voice was whiny.

I just wanted to tell her to shut up. But that wouldn’t help, so I made certain my voice was quiet. “That’s all we need—for you to get fired.”

She sounded even more agitated. “Which they will do if they see I’m not sober.”

There was only one solution I could think of, and it was a terrible idea. “I can go with you, help you do your work.”

She sank down on the bed. “You can’t do that.”

There never had been any reason for me to go to the Haven of Peace, and I struggled to think of ways to make the idea sound less idiotic. None came to mind. I said, “Mom, come on. I’ll just stay a while until you’re completely fine, and then I’ll sneak out and go home.” I’d nearly convinced myself it was a good idea.

“No.” Her hand patted my head. “I’ll be fine. Night shift is easy.”

I sat down on the bed and put an arm around her. “Let me drive you at least?”

“Okay.” She leaned into me for just a moment before heading back into the bathroom.

Enabling her like that wasn’t good, I knew, but she was my mom. What else could I do? I tossed the bloodstained towel into the laundry room sink and then filled it with cold water to soak. Back in the kitchen, I cleaned off the table, setting Mom’s purse on the edge of the counter, where I promptly knocked it off with my elbow when I swung back around.

Her crap was all over the floor, and I started shoveling it back in, when I saw her Curves key chain with a small key on it. Like the kind of key that might fit the filing cabinet in her bedroom. I glanced toward the bedroom once, then slipped the key off and put it in my back pocket.

Black Sabbath blared from the front pocket of my jeans. I flipped my silver phone open. Jack said, “Hey, we can go tonight after all. I get off at nine.”

I glanced at the clock and did the math. I would still have time to drop Mom off and then come back to the house to finish the TroDyn application, forged signature and all. And maybe go on a little treasure hunt. “Cool.”

Right.

To save time, I packed a backpack to take to Jack’s cabin, throwing in the DVD. I always took a copy when I went out of town, the way other people might stick a family photo in their wallet. Maybe it was weird, but I just felt better knowing it was there, in case I wanted, or needed, to watch it. Jack had known about the tape since we were in grade school and never gave me any grief. He knew what it meant to me.

After dropping Mom off at Haven of Peace, I drove home and went right into her room to try the filing cabinet. The key turned easily. My hand rested on the handle, but I didn’t pull. It was an invasion of my mom’s privacy. But I couldn’t help wondering if there might be something interesting in the file cabinet. Maybe something from my father?

Like a college fund? I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

Still, I started to look. One folder held tax files. I flipped through them. The signature line was blank, the TurboTax electronic signature jotted down beside it instead.

My heart was beating harder. “This is crazy,” I muttered. Did I really expect to find some secret about her past? Of course, didn’t every kid wish that? Instead of being stuck with the parent we have, didn’t we all want to discover they were way cooler than reality?

I sighed as I set the tax files down. The only secret past my mom had was that she had a kid with some guy who was no longer in the picture. Not exactly a rare thing.

My hand got caught when I reached for more files. As I yanked it out, something fell off the bottom of the top drawer.

A manila envelope lined with crackling, yellowed Scotch tape.

With a quick glance at the doorway, even though I knew Mom was at work, I stared at the envelope she’d hidden. I’d be lying if I said I believed the video of my father was the only thing she’d ever kept from me. I didn’t suspect big secrets, but I sensed there could be smaller things that might affect me. Part of me figured the envelope was the only thing she’d ever kept from me. And that part of me decided to take the envelope into the kitchen and open it.

A small laminated card fell out first, a miniature diploma. From Duke University. Upon closer inspection, I saw my mom’s name and her degree. My mouth nearly dropped. My mom had a master’s? I pulled something else out, a white envelope with the return address of a financial firm. Inside, I found a notice dated six months ago, stating that automatic deposits had been suspended. That was about the time Mom started drinking more.

I set that aside and reached inside the manila envelope again, pulling out another small card. That one had a picture of my mom, and the insignia above it was one I knew well. It was on my application.

My jaw dropped.

It was an ID card for TroDyn. Not like the ID card she had for the Haven, which didn’t mention the name TroDyn. My mom had worked for the labs?

I lifted my backpack off the kitchen table, then ran out to the Jeep and tried not to speed as I headed for Haven of Peace. It had to be a mistake. Maybe it was an old name tag from the Haven, maybe they used to have the TroDyn logo on them. At a stop sign, I turned on the dome light and studied the ID. No mention of the Haven. And in the picture, my mother wore a white lab coat. Definitely not an ID from a nursing home.