Dead Plants | Christal Ruppert

Dead Plants

Christal Ruppert

Fiction

It's a rare day in August, so I have my car windows down, but even if I didn't, I think I'd still hear Vivaldi's Four Seasons a block away from Opal's house. When I pull up to the curb in front of her house, I just sit for a full minute, trying to comprehend the scene.

The front and side doors are propped wide open. The windows, also open, are missing their screens. Rugs litter the front lawn. A cluster of potted plants has taken up residence on the sidewalk. Music pours from every cavity in the house. I sigh and grab the bakery bag from the passenger's seat. Mom owes me for this one. "Opal?" I have to yell because the music is loud enough to burst an eardrum. No wonder Opal needs hearing aids. I mean, besides the fact that she's like 78. I reach for the dial on her kitchen stereo and try again. "It's Kit." There's a dull thud from the direction of the living room, so I drop the bag on the counter and head that way. "Opal?" Opal is standing on a step stool in the middle of her living room, her back to me. I glance around to quickly inventory the room: The couch cushions are propped up against the wall and there's a precarious stack of books next to the case. Opal's reaching for the ceiling light, but there's at least a good two feet between her head and the ceiling. I sigh. "Opal, what are you doing?" She starts as if I've surprised her -- as if she missed the decreased volume on Vivaldi or my shouts from the kitchen. She lowers her arms and turns around. "Oh! Kirsten Ingrid, I wondered when you would get here." "What are you doing?" I repeat. She steps off the stool with determination. "Changing the light bulb and dusting the sconce," she says. "But now that you're here, you can do it." I sweep a hand around the room. "I mean with all of this." "Spring cleaning." Everything is a declaration today. "Opal, it's August." "Kirsten Ingrid Therese, it is never too late to clean your house." I raise an eyebrow. I step onto the stool and reach for the light fixture. "You shouldn't be doing this on your own." "That's why you're here." She says this as if it's obvious, matter-of-fact. I unscrew the glass globe and bite my tongue. If she's using my full name and everything, it's useless to argue that she should have waited. She'd probably lecture me about that, too. But honestly -- she's lucky I did show up before she hurt herself. Opal's constantly trying to overdo things for her age. One of these days, I'm going to show up to find her on the floor with a broken hip or something. I grimace at the thought and keep my grumbling to myself as I take the light apart and hand it down to her. "Don't tell me I'm too old to change a light bulb," Opal warns. The woman is a mind-reader.

I give her a teasing look. "Me? I would never." Opal starts working at the grime on the glass dome. "You are a very loud thinker, Kirsten Ingrid. I don't even need my hearing aids for that." "Hey, what's up with broadcasting Vivaldi, anyway?" She gives me a look as if this, too, should be obvious. "It's Spring," she says. I can't tell if she means the movement of Vivaldi or she actually thinks August counts as springtime.

"I could hear it a block away." "I can hear it anywhere in the house," she counters. "Or I could. You must have turned it down." I don't answer and start unscrewing the two bulbs. "I've aired the rugs and washed the screens," Opal reports cheerfully as she hands me two new bulbs. "I've dusted the living room, but that's about as far as I've gotten." I glance around. From this vantage, I can see trails through the dust on top of the entertainment center and on the bookshelves. I make a mental note to wipe them down when Opal's not looking. "I've started going through Howard's books." I silently reach for the glass dome and replace it. No wonder she's torn the house apart. The thought of getting rid of any of her late husband's things always sends her into elaborate evasion tactics. I finish with the light and step off the stool. I look at Opal. She's wearing a frayed t-shirt and her hair is disheveled. Her brown eyes look at me expectantly through smudged glasses as she waits for me to speak, waits for me to react to her statement, waits for something. "I brought pie," I say. "Oh!" Opal claps her hands. "Lovely!" The distraction works pretty well for most of the afternoon. Opal issues instructions while she eats her pie and on we roll. She rearranges kitchen cupboards while I scrub the floor. I strip beds and collect linens so she can start laundry, and then she watches while I hang the rugs on the clothesline and beat them with an old tennis racket because putting them on the lawn does not count as airing them. She's sprayed down the screens, like she said, and they actually look okay, so I reinstall them. I can't even imagine how many bugs have gotten into the house while she's had all the doors and windows open. It seems kind of counterproductive to cleaning. Vivaldi plays on repeat, though at a more acceptable volume. After a while, we come to the collection of potted plants, which is the last thing on the sidewalk marking her as the crazy lady that she is. I plant my hands on my hips. "What are we doing with these?" The plants are in varying stages of death. The best of them looks leeched of color, like it needs a good long drink of water. The worst looks completely dead -- dry leaves have collected on top of the parched potting soil while the stem looks like you could break it if you breathed too hard. A better question: "How on earth did these get so bad?" Opal is notorious for over-watering her plants, not the opposite. Opal purses her lips. "They were in Howard's study." I flinch and instantly regret asking. We haven't been back in the living room since I changed the light bulbs, yet I've stumbled back onto Howard on the sidewalk. No wonder the poor things are dying. Howard's study has been shut up for the greater part of a year -- no water, little light. "Water them," Opal instructs. "Even this one?" I nudge the skeleton plant with the toe of my sneaker. It flakes off one of its last leaves. "Everyone deserves a chance, Kirsten Ingrid," she says. Then she turns and heads to the house for the garden hose. I do as I'm told -- of course I do. What am I going to do, argue with this tiny sprite of a woman? We leave the plants on the sidewalk after watering them. I whisper to them to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while they can because I have no idea what Opal's planning to do with them. Then I hurry to follow Opal back to the house. She's standing in the door to the study when I find her. More accurately, she's leaning into the door frame, as if she needs the support. I put a hand on her shoulder and peer into the room. I haven't been in here in probably a couple years -- even when Howard was alive, he kept his study closed most of the time. There are more books than I remember; the walls are lined with them. His desk looks frozen in time: papers scattered, a stained coffee mug and a small plate with crumbs sitting on the corner, a book propped open with a pen. It looks like Howard, and it looks like a true testament to the sudden heart attack that took him. I squeeze Opal's shoulder. She shudders. "I don't think I can. Not yet, Kit." It's the use of my nickname that tells me just how shaken she is. I gently fold her into a hug and pull the study door closed. "I think it's time for a rest," I say.

I coax her to her bedroom, settle her with a book and a glass of iced tea, and promise to keep the laundry going. I head back downstairs to dust the living room and put the cushions back on the couch. I tuck the stack of books into the study so they're out of sight. While I'm in there, I pause and look around. I wonder what she'll do with so many books, if she ever gets around to dealing with them. I'm tempted to peek at the desk, at the book Howard bookmarked with a pen. But I don't. I slip out of the room having disturbed nothing but the peace and a little dust. I turn over the laundry, as promised, and hang the sheets on the clothesline. I have to make a few trips to get all the rugs inside where they belong, but when I finish, I return to the plants. I'm not holding out a lot of hope, because the plants were in pretty bad shape, so I'm surprised to see how much perkier some of the plants are looking after such a short time. I clear out the dead leaves from the worst of them. I wonder if it's worth saving at all or if I should just let it fertilize Opal's little garden. But something stops me. It's Opal -- her words from earlier. Everyone deserves a chance. I consider this. Do I believe it? I think of my brother, Luke, and my former best friend, Kat. Of Howard and his books. Of me. I wonder if she meant people on the same level she meant things. I wonder if everything can be redeemed with a little love and attention. I wonder if maybe a thing will always be useful, but in different ways at different stages of its life, and that's why it deserves a chance, and a second, and a third. I wonder if Opal sees herself in the dried up little plant. And that thought makes my heart heavy. So I just haul the plants back to the house and leave it at that.