Page 89 of Lovingly Restored

“One more stop,” Anna says, fiddling with the clasp of her necklace as she turns down a road that leads away from the oceanfront.

The streets start looking very familiar.

I turn down the radio. “Anna?”

“Are you freaking out? Don’t freak out.”

I twist my hair in my hands, messing up Anna’s blow out.

“Isaac messaged me because you’re ignoring him.”

My mouth falls open. “It’s not like that.”

I should have replied. I’mgoingto. I’ve read his heartfelt apologies a hundred times.

“That’s kind of what it seems like…”

She’s not wrong. There must be some sort of time limit on these things. What if he stops looking for my replies? What if I accept his apology but it’s too late?

“He wants you to pick up your planter.”

I rub my temples. “I don’t want it.”

“He won’t even be there. He said to go around back and get it. It’s yours.”

I should be relieved to hear that this errand isn’t going to turn into an awkward encounter, but instead a pang of disappointment rolls in. The planterwouldbe pretty tucked up against one end of my balcony, flowers springing from the soil.

“It’s a nice memory of Mummo.”

As soon as I think of her, my mind is made up. I have nothing to remember her by, except for a few photos.

I bite my lip. “It’s heavy. I suppose the flowers will be dead, though, so we can dump out the soil.”

The poor things will be shrivelled and brown from weeks of neglect, frying my poor zinnias to a crisp. Some gardener I am. Plant mom, my ass. Bitterness spreads over me every time I see a poster for a summer market or a roadside stand selling bright orange or pink gerberas. That’s supposed to beme.

My heart rate ticks higher the closer we get. I don’t want to see the house in whatever state of demolition it happens to be in. I avoid the passenger side window at all costs. Seeing a hole in the ground will ruin me.

“You’re going to have an awfully hard time making it to the backyard if you won’t even look at the house.” She elbows me.

“I’m going.”

Why can’t he have left the freaking box out front? He paid someone to have a whole car delivered to my house once. Why not a few pieces of wood?

“You want me to come with you?”

“No, I just need a few minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

I push the car door open, forcing myself to be brave. Songbirds sing of approaching dusk, a lawn mower drones nearby, the fresh cut grass smell strong in the heat.

Get it over with.

The house I ran from looks…the same. I shade my eyes from the late summer sun. Perhaps all the renovations are inside. When I try to picture the living room without its wood burning fireplace or the bathroom without the jadeite fixtures, I can’t. It’s all wrong. The gravel path between the house and garage is shadowy and cool, and I pause when I see the English Yew thriving there. Isaac told me that we all have our own areas of expertise and the memory paints a soft smile on my lips. When I round the corner, I take a step back, blinking rapidly. This can’t be real. The moss-covered cement pavers and creeping weeds are gone. Neat interlocking bricks have taken their place. I raise my head, squinting against the low-lying sun. Is sudden onset colour blindness a thing? Because there isn’t a single brown, dry, dead object in sight. In fact, there’s barely anything I recognize except for the fence and the workshop and the mature trees along the property line. Maybe I’ve developed severe double vision, too, because there’s my planter, but it’s multiplied.

The once barren backyard is in the throes of a landscaping transformation. A dozen garden beds cover the neat grass, each box filled with dark, moist soil. One area of the yard has been churned up into a large, in-ground bed surrounded by deer fencing. Dominating the unfamiliar landscape, opposite the workshop, is a completely new structure. A greenhouse. It’s not even close to the one I admired at the garden centre. It’sbetter.

My fists tremble in the fabric of my dress. The gigantic, glass-covered greenhouse glitters in the golden hour rays. I barely dare to breathe, lest the mirage before me disappear. Lured by the sparkling light, I press my shaking hands to the hot glass. Inside are empty rows of sturdy shelves. A familiar creaking sound surprises me, and I rip my hands away like I’ve been burnt. Isaac emerges from the workshop, a wood plank balanced on one shoulder. He’s dressed in cargo work shorts and an honest-to-goodness leather tool belt around his hips. Shirtless and sweaty, rows of abs flex as he exits the workshop door with the board in tow. He halts when he sees me, free hand steadying the plank as his momentum changes.

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