Page 8 of Lovingly Restored

“I’mahorticulturist,“ I mimic myself as I lock up. “More like an idiot.”

I press my cheek against the door, watching the gold links of the chain lock swing back and forth like a pendulum. I’m not a horticulturist.Not even close.An amateur gardener,at best. What I am is a licensed practical nurse. Just like my mom. And I should be satisfied with that…but I’m not. I desperatelywishI had the land, time, and skill to have my own flower farm. Something about my roadside rescuer seemed to encourage the lie, and there’s no taking it back now.

Undressing is a struggle. My raw palms brush against my damp jeans as I remove them. I peel the denim off as gingerly as possible and still hiss at the pain. The steamy shower is bliss, even though my hands sting at first, and as I slide down onto my sore ass, I remind myself that I’m lucky. A bruised tailbone is nothing compared to what could have happened. I may do homecare now, but I’ve been in hospitals and seen the results of crashes. When my fingers are pruney, I scrub my hair and face, but the soap doesn’t wash away the images of Isaac driving me home. A strong hand on the steering wheel, damp shirt stretching over broad shoulders, eyes focused on the dark road. Tucked into my bed, exhausted but safe, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to guess what his reaction might be when he notices my number. Will he toss his head back and let out that throaty, male bark? God, that sound heated me better than the butt warmer in his obnoxiously fancy truck. Marching up to him with the fury of a damp house cat was a dumb risk. But the way my body reacted when he took my wrist into his grasp and when he tucked me behind him as my car engine threatened to blow up? That felt more like a reward.

When dim light filters around the edges of my blackout blinds, I roll my neck and shoulders and groan. My muscles feel like they’ve been dipped in cement, stiff and heavy from my humiliating fall. Everything from my evening comes flooding back. The unsuccessful string of meetings with small farm owners as I searched for a space to grow flowers this spring, the engine making increasingly weird sounds, the spotty reception and worsening weather as the sun set.

“Damn.”

My car is still sitting out there, and the very last thing I need is for my Saturday to be spent figuring out what’s wrong with it this time. Three minutes passes before I check my phone with one barely open sleep-encrusted eye. I tell myself I’m looking up the weather…but I’m checking to see if Isaac messaged. The fact that he’s the best thing that happened to me yesterday is very telling. There’s a single email, so I scan the message, then read it more carefully.

“Oh my god. I got it!” I bolt upright, wincing at the pain in my tailbone.

I wiggle in my bed, a careful dance of celebration that doesn’t jostle any of my vertebrae. After I type a quick response, accepting the job that will pay me a better salary than I’ve ever earned before, I make my bed and slip into my pink fuzzy bathrobe. A live-in nurse/maid/cook position is unconventional…and probably not legal, but the octogenarian’s son is willing to pay the big bucks. And the house? Oh, thehouse. I toured it the day of my interview, and the hundred-year-old home made me swoon. It’s everything my apartment is not. Rich wood, a brick fireplace, a backyard that’s close to an acre. I creeped the address on Zillow after. It’s had the same owner since the sixties, and the price they paid for it made my jaw drop. You wouldneverfind anything that price in West Isle anymore, not even a studio condo like my cousin, Anna’s. I suppose if I kept to my original plan and went back to school to become a registered nurse, I might be able to afford a nice little house for myself one day. But my heart’s not in it anymore, or rather, my heart is too involved. Everyone told me nursing would be the perfect job for me. Like mother, like daughter. But my clinical placement supervisors countered that by suggesting I was too sensitive, too easily attached to my patients. They weren’t wrong. I’ve been wearing my heart on my sleeve for too long. Grief grips me for longer and longer with each patient I lose. Last year I took care of a gentleman for nine months, and when he passed on I had to take a leave of absence. We became good friends, and then he was gone. Guarding myself against heartbreak has not been my forte.

But you know what I’ve never cried about when they’ve died? Plants. Sure, it sucks, but it’s not that big of a deal. It means you get to figure out where you went wrong and try again next time. Growing flowers from miniature seeds and creating living works of art is a straight up joy injection.Over the years I’ve taught myself about the flowers that thrive in this region of British Columbia, patiently waiting for the tender sprouts to emerge from the soil of the planters I’ve squeezed onto my postage-stamp-sized patio. I even took design classes at the florist and learned how to arrange my tiny crop of zinnias and gerberas to sell at the downtown farmer’s market. Seeing the bouquets I grew and arranged go off with their new owners was everything. But I only had enough for one weekend.

Settling onto my loveseat with my usual plate of scrambled eggs, I click on my television. It’s the Home and Garden channel around here or nothing.

“I’ll take one of those, please,” I mumble around my bite of cheesy eggs, pointing my fork at the screen.

I’ve tuned in at the tail-end of my favourite show,Backyard Shakeup. A drone shot of a transformed yard full of curved garden beds, mature trees ringed with mulch, bright blooms exploding out of raised garden beds.

My lips close over the tines. “Mmm! Freaking gorgeous.”

The old house I’ll be moving into next week could look like that. Currently, it’s chaos with a side of neglect. When the credits roll, I mute the TV and hit redial on my phone to call the tow truck. No sense putting it off any longer.

After a minute of crackly jazz music, an unenthused woman answers, “West Isle Towing.”

“Hi, my name is Ashlyn Carter. I called last night about my vehicle.”

“You the one who changed her mind?”

“Er, sorry about that,” I say.

“Mmm hmm. Civic, right?”

“That’s right. I’ll explain to you where it is–”

“The mechanic just got back to the shop. It should be at your address.”

I open my mouth to interject, there’s obviously some confusion, but she rattles off my licence plate and address accurately.

“Yes, that’s correct, but I didn’t–”

She hangs up on me. Rude.

The last of my eggs almost slip off the plate and onto the worn carpet as I spring up and speed walk to the living room window. My muscles protest at the burst of movement. Sure enough, my car sits at the curb, looking as crappy as ever. Dull paint, cloudy headlight lenses, but it’s mine. I’m breathing a sigh of relief when I put two and two together. There’s only one other person who knows about last night. The same person I have no way of contacting because only he has my number. The number he didn’t use despite going to the trouble of having my car towed to my front door. The longer I stare at my car, drumming my nails on the chipped windowsill paint, the more it irks me. How am I supposed to pay him back? Does he think I can’taffordto have it towed? Because I can. I’m only pinching pennies because I want to. And why not send a quick message? ‘Thought it would be a good idea to tow the car after all, it cost this much, e-transfer me.’ I picture the shiny black truck with the supple leather interior and glare at my snake plant, plucking a dried yellow leaf and crunching it in my palm. I can manage my own affairs, thank you very much.

“Anna, would you look at me? Please?”

She dodges my attempts for eye contact, angling her body away from me, arms crossed in a huff.

“Did I hear something?” She cups her hand to her ear.

“Yes. It was me, the serial oil change skipper. I’m right here. Forgive me!” I interlace my fingers under my chin.

“Forgive you!” She whips around, leaning across the wobbly coffee shop table.

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