Yetta woke early Sunday morning and prepared for a day just like any other, removing the silk scarf from her head and freeing the sprightly leaf jutting out at a perfect right angle from her left earlobe. The pink spot where stem met flesh often tingled in early hours, but she was careful to scratch with care, not wanting to damage whatever roots spread under the skin. She wasn’t sure how deep they ran, but it was best to be gentle regardless. Though she had been surprised to see the little bud sprout there one afternoon, pushing a golden stud out of its way in the process, she was perhaps more surprised that it didn’t cause her much alarm. In fact, if you asked her, she’d say it was most natural. Inevitable, even. Cosmic symbiosis and all. The ear-leaf matched her eyes and had grown considerably over the last three months, its shape somewhere between a horse chestnut and mulberry. “Horse-berry,” she had dubbed it with a chuckle. One of a kind. The doctors her son had dragged her to were not so affectionate, but what did they know? They couldn’t even say what it was, how should they know how it was? She stopped the appointments when Dr. Psorecze suggested singing it off, the brutish man, and she smiled now thinking she felt another little sprig ready to poke through her knee soon, its knobby prickle just beneath the skin.
Fluted mister in hand, Yetta pushed her blue browline glasses farther back on her nose and ventured into the living room. “Hello, lovelies,”she called, moving first toward Charlotte, the chipper little Majesty Palm in the corner. Next came Winnie, the modest Aphelandra, followed by the twin Spider Plants, Judy and Barb. The horde of succulents near the window didn’t need much, but Yetta still rotated them each with care so what was once in shadow could be in sun. Her hands moved slowly, especially when she came to Sandy, whose gangly, bumpy leaves would glide against the pads of her fingers like rosary beads and make her think of light things. God knows, she needed that. Hanging above the sofa, Fran the Bird’s Nest Fern required the most attention, long arms drooping dramatically until her urgent thirst was quenched with a gentle spray. All around Yetta’s home, fronds, stalks, and petals spurted from every crevice, a monochromatic kaleidoscope teeming with life.
“This is getting ridiculous,” her son had said on his last visit. “I can’t find the kettle and I feel like a toucan.” God love him, he just couldn’t understand. It had been so long! Where was all the love supposed to go? She sighed at Fran now, who knew more than most, then bent to pull on her neon orange boots. The thin insole of the left one had worn away long ago, but Yetta couldn’t bring herself to replace them. The rubber formed just right around her feet, and she loved the way their bright color bounced off the glossy green leaves of her garden. She moved to unwind the hose beside the porch and began singing a low melody to her vegetables, watching for flashes of orange as she plodded through neat rows of dirt. “Good morning, my sweets.”
The corn at the north end of the garden bed was silking, so they were first to get a drink. Their stalks were covered in thick leaves that flowed outward like a schoolgirl’s ribbons, and they had been expertly spaced to avoid overcrowding without verging into isolation. Yetta knew they liked to be close enough that they could still feel each other when the wind came rustling through. Same for the climbing beans covering the trellis opposite the corn. The separate, twilling vines needed each other to make their climb. It was only the cabbages at the south end who liked a lot of space to themselves, which Yetta granted for their benefit.
On this particular morning, though, she stopped at those cabbages, her heartbeat reverberating just a bit louder than normal in her ears. This had happened before, several times. So much so, in fact, that Fran kept telling her to quit planting such tiresome cabbages, but Yetta couldn’t help it. How else was she supposed to remember?
She breathed in deeply, the crisp smell pulling out sudden memories of math homework and soccer practice. Yetta reeled, the still running hose dropping from her loose hands. For a moment—but only a moment—she remembered what it was like. How he had needed her. She reached down slowly and placed both hands on one leafy head, smiling at the cool firmness. She plucked it with ease and cradled it all the way back inside, leaving her hose to sputter in the mud, and hummed as she entered the kitchen.
Picking up what was surely the last corded phone in North America, Yetta placed the receiver to her left ear (little Horse-berry liked to be included in these conversations, after all) and dialed the only number she still had reason to use. It rang six times.
“Hi, mom.”
“Jeremy! How are you, love?”
“I’m alright. What’s going on?”
“Oh, I was in the garden this morning, and the cabbages were just so beautiful. Right at their peak. You can tell by the firmness, you know. Lots of people will tell you it’s the size of the heads that indicates a readiness for harvest, but really you have to give the little guys a nice, firm squeeze to see if they’re tough enough to pick. Too soft in the middle, and you’ll not be happy with the taste. Not as many nutrients that way either. Did you know—”
“Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta run to the store for Beth here in a minute. Is there a reason you called?”
“Well, I called to tell you about the cabbages, dear. I thought you’d—”
“Yeah, you know how I love cabbages. I’m glad they’re doing well, mom, but I really have to go.”
“Oh, but I didn’t tell you the best part yet!” She paused here for dramatic effect.
“Yeah?”
Yetta smiled. “I’m making your favorite! Pork cabbage rolls! I thought maybe you’d like to drop by for lunch later. You know, after you run your errands.”
“I don’t know, mom.”
“Bring Beth along, too, if you want! I miss seeing you two.”
“We were just over there last week.” (It had actually been closer to three weeks, as Yetta knew very well, and they’d only come to pick up all those comics Jeremy had stored in his old room.)
She sighed. “Things just move so slowly around here, dear.”
“Yeah, I know. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check, okay?”
Yetta looked down at the fresh cabbage in the sink, her shoulders slumping just a fraction forward. “Well, okay. But at least let me cook for you next weekend, when Beth goes on that little trip of hers.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t need you to take care of me when my wife is gone for a few days.”
“I know that, dear. I just meant it’d be nice. For both of us.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll talk about it later. Right now, I have to go. Love you.”
“I love you, too, dear, and I’ll—” She heard the soft click of the line going dead, and the dial tone sounded again in her ear.
Horse-berry drooped against her as Yetta hung up the receiver and breathed in deeply. “Well, more for us, right, love?” Although a half wall separated them at the moment, she could still sense Fran’s heavy leaves forming a disapproving frown. She always did think Yetta was too tolerant. “I can hear you,” she called over her shoulder.
She picked up the cabbage head once more, being very gentle—at first. But just at first. That scent was just so gripping. Rousing. Provoking. She couldn’t help herself. Why not try and squeeze a bit more out of it, she thought. Without even telling her fingers to move, she soon found her nails digging into the compact mass of leaves, feeling a slight resistance that, she discovered with satisfaction, gradually yielded under continued pressure, the stiff leaves shifting and compressing into one another. The outer layers eventually cracked like forked lightning bolts, and she could feel cool droplets of moisture pooling around her fingertips as they sunk deeper into the dense core, releasing that delicious aroma she so craved. It was not until Horse-berry tickled the side of her neck that Yetta released her grip abruptly, feeling lightheaded. She looked around her for a moment, unsure why she was sweating, and squinted oddly at the punctured cabbage in her hands.
She felt another soft tickle on her neck and smiled. “What would I do without you, my sweet?”
Yetta spent the next hour stirring cabbage, prepping fillings, and setting her table for one. She remembered thinking once how cramped her tiny eat-in kitchen felt at mealtimes, how she couldn’t breathe stuffed between the stove and the straight-backed chair behind her. Now all she felt was air. When she finally sat down to eat, she listened to the gentle swoosh of her lovelies enjoying the fresh breeze from her open kitchen window. She closed her eyes and chewed her cabbage rolls slowly.
After she tidied the kitchen, packing away one extra leftover container just in case, Yetta spent the rest of her day in much the same way as the dusty string of days that preceded it: vacuuming the spotless rug where Jeremy had taken his first steps, sanitizing the same crevices she wiped clean yesterday, and pruning her only remaining source of consistent company. At first, Yetta had thought her green friends were mostly just good for listening, and they certainly were, but over the years she had discovered they were also quite eloquent conversationalists. They would say beautiful things about balance and time and, when feeling feisty, Charles B. Griffith (they didn’t much care for him). They always had a number of things to say and took their time saying it. Especially Fran, whose rattly voice was as clear and unflinching as church bells, if only you were willing to listen. And Yetta always was.
But tonight, Fran had quite a lot to say about Jeremy that Yetta could not abide. “He’s just a boy,” she reminded her. “He’s still learning.” Fran gave her a look that said He should be ashamed, and Yetta held her hands up in response, insisting she would hear no more of that nonsense.
Still, Fran persisted: After all you’ve done for him? The impertinence of it!
“I haven’t done much at all, really. Not in a long time.” She paused, trying to shift her tone. “Besides, it’s normal. Independence is healthy. I could learn a thing or two from Jeremy.”
Or teach him a thing or two.
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
Fran just postured at her with an air of righteousness.
Yetta rolled her eyes. “Always so dramatic.”
He should know what this is doing to you.
“Yes, well, motherhood is half love and half lies.”
It will be your fault, then, you know.
Yetta looked sideways at Fran as she conjured flashing images of lonely women left to be eaten by their own cats—and worse, lush growth happening behind locked doors, where the sun was always shining but not for them.
At least the Dodder hugs its host as it drains it of all nutrients.
“Fran!” Yetta bleated, after just a moment’s hesitation, “That is not the same, and you know it!”
Isn’t it, though?
“Can you believe this rubbish, Horse-berry?” she said, tilting her head to see what she could of her little ear leaf. It swung gently side to side. “See? Two to one. You lose this one, Fran.” And with that, Yetta excused herself early, assuring Fran that she’d be expecting an apology in the morning and making sure to switch off the grow lights on her way out. She paused briefly by the refrigerator, looking back at her small dining table, then went straight to bed and waited for sleep to wash away lingering thoughts of Dodder vines.
The next morning, Yetta rose even earlier than usual with a sharp pain in her right knee. She groaned at first, still hanging onto the strings of odd dreams, but she quickly shot upright as she realized what the pain meant. This, Yetta thought, was surely it. A second little bud ready to spring to life. Just the pick-me-up she needed. She removed her headscarf so Horse-berry could be there to meet his little brother. Her hands trembled as she wiped the affected skin with a cool, damp cloth and prodded the subsurface bump with her finger. “There you go, love, you can do it.” The nickel-sized protrusion pulled her skin tight from underneath, pressure building and making Yetta squint in discomfort. Soon, though, she felt a small pop of tissue and bent down to view the little sprout more closely.
She brushed away the puss and grit around the opening but couldn’t find any sign of budding. Gosh, did it itch, though. Lips pursed, she bent farther forward now, peering intently into the oozing pit just below her kneecap and finally noticing a small stirring within. Such an odd sensation! She hadn’t even felt Horse-berry at first, but this was different. She prodded the surrounding skin a bit more, nudging the little thing to unfurl into the open, but—what was that? The shadow of a flutter made her retract her hand in an instant. She saw no green, but a kind of dark gleaming, like light reflected off a blackberry. She squinted, tilting her head to the side. What are you? Slowly, the gleaming bulged, and her face fell. What broke the surface was not a bud at all but the ugly head of a fungus gnat. A very large, gray fungus gnat with a belly the size of a ping-pong ball. She gasped and swatted at the thing, but it was too quick in squeezing out of her knee and buzzed easily through her clasped hands. It made the sound of a rusty lawn mower as it hovered clumsily near the foot of the bed then sputtered out the door. Yetta scrambled off the mattress and followed as quickly as her sore knee would allow, not even pausing to grab her glasses. The gnat’s spindly legs trailed behind its striped body, and its beady black eyes landed on the first green thing it saw: Fran.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” screamed Yetta, lunging for the gnat as it sped toward her leafy friend. It dove into the soil, burrowing like a badger deep beneath the surface, where there began an alarming series of muffled crunches. “Get out of there!” Yetta dug after it with her bare hands, searching frantically for the beast, but it barreled out the other side before she could catch it, smashing straight through the blue ceramic pot and leaving a gaping hole that soil spewed out of. As the dark clumps tumbled to the floor, Yetta tried to steady Fran by quickly shifting the remaining soil around her weakened stems. She was piling the last mound when a sudden upward force pushed her hands right back out of the pot, a wild spray of dirt shooting directly at her face. She gasped again, choking on bits of soil, and stared wide-eyed at the sight of hundreds—thousands—of tiny little gnats shooting out from Fran’s roots, buzzing in a fierce whir of brown and gray. Yetta watched helplessly as they demolished each leaf in frenzied precision, a primeval plague playing out at unbelievable speed. It wasn’t until the churning air scraped the glossy leaves against each other that Yetta realized plants could scream.
“No!” she cried, hands uselessly swatting the unperturbed savages as they devoured her friend. How could she have been so careless? She should’ve known what had been dwelling inside her all this time, should’ve felt it in her bones and ended it. And now—oh, Fran. She was half gone already.
Feeling her heartbeat in her neck, Yetta raced to search for something, anything she could use to defend what was left. She landed on a spray can filled with neem oil and a flyswatter. But as she raised her makeshift weapons, the gnats quickly split into two great hordes: one zooming toward the remaining greenery, the other toward Yetta. They were upon her in an instant. She sprayed and swatted in all directions, desperately trying to make a dent in the swarming cloud of insects that now blurred her vision. She pulled the top of her nightgown up over her mouth and nose, but she could still feel the blasted critters bouncing in her ears. Soon realizing that she had spun her way into the kitchen, she felt blindly along the wall until she snatched the phone from its cradle, dialing while brandishing the swatter above her and using her shoulder to clear gnats from her face. “Jeremy?” she screeched into the receiver, not able to hear if he had picked up over the deafening thrum of wings around her. “Jeremy, come quickly, boy! I need your help!” Before she could say more, the phone slipped from her hand to the floor as she took another violent swing at the ugly pests. “You little devils!” she bellowed. “You horrible beasts! Get out of my house!”
With another wild flail of her arm, she felt her wrist make hard contact with something skinny and cold—the faucet! She worked her way to the knob, twisted it all the way on with one deft motion, and pointed the sprayer directly at her own face. She squeezed the trigger. The resulting flood of water immediately forced the gnats away from her body, sending a few dozen plopping onto the terracotta floors in grim droplets where Yetta stomped them for good measure. Another steady stream of water washed her skin clean and misted the air around her enough to make the remaining winged brutes retreat. Wasting no time, though, they simply swooped into the living room to join again with the other swarm, leaving Yetta a sopping mess with only one remaining idea.
She opened the door to her back porch and traded the flyswatter for a door mat. Dragging it to the undulating gray cloud in her living room, she began swinging it overhead like John Henry driving steel. Though her boney arms trembled from the weight, it didn’t take her long to find the right rhythm. Swing, step. Step, swing. Swing, step. Step, swing. Please let her still be alive. With each powerful gust expelled from the whipping mat, she coaxed the swarm closer to the door. Lord God Almighty, don’t take her from me, too. Six, seven, eight more swings, and they were out at last, the hum of destruction dissipating into the morning air.
The last gray demon—the large one who had started it all—fluttered spastically behind the rest, lurching upward and dipping down in sharp succession, tumbling through the air in just the erratic way you’d expect of such a fiend. Yetta watched it go, slammed the door behind it, and fell to her knees as she shook with labored breath. All around her she saw broken pots, piles of loose dirt, and gnawed stems that had been stripped of leaves.
She crawled on all fours over shards of familiar blue, reaching out for the downed beauty nearest her that she’d loved for eight years. She lifted what was left of her leafy friend, loose soil slipping through her fingers. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re just fine, dear.” She fumbled around the rubble in search of any remaining part of the root ball that might be saved. She found nothing. Just crumpled fragments of what was once her spirited companion. If you weren’t paying attention—true for most people, but not Yetta—you’d miss it: the sound of dying green. It was breathy and circular like waves echoed through conch shells but far quieter, unwilling to disturb the air around with its quivering. Yetta stroked a limp blade. Tears burned down her cheeks as she cast her eyes from Fran to Winnie to Barb, slumping ever farther as she realized not a single one had survived. Not one.
Afraid to do so, but knowing she must, Yetta lifted a hand and felt her left earlobe. Where there was once a strong but supple stem, she felt only a jagged stump of frayed fibers.
Yetta stayed there, surrounded by death and debris and unable to move. Her lip trembled, and she clenched her fists, feeling her short nails dig into fleshy bits of palm. Above her, what remained of Fran’s hanging pot still swayed back and forth, leftover inertia that refused to abate. The macrame ropes squeaked against the metal eye hook in the ceiling, one slow squeal on the way forward, two quick chirps on the way back. Yetta listened to the rhythmic breaks in silence until the squeaks turned into syllables: It’s…your fault. It’s…your fault. After a few moments, and without making a sound, Yetta stood and fetched her broom and dustpan.
Soon, she had filled three large cardboard boxes with broken bits of green. Still in her nightgown, she pulled on her orange boots, grabbed a large container of fertilizer, and made the slow walk to the garden to bury her lovelies where they could be with friends.
When Jeremy arrived at his mother’s house twenty minutes later, frantic from the deranged message he had just received, he threw open the front door and called out in earnest. “Mom?” No response. “Mom, what happened? Where are you?” Silence. As his eyes took in the neat little piles of dirt and shattered pottery around him, his movements slowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smack of orange jutting from the garden’s edge that drew his attention to the window. His breath caught in his throat as he lunged outside, sprinting toward the leaves. He never even saw, resting neatly on the table, a note written on yellowed paper: Keep me with the cabbages, dear.