Garden of Ugly Things

I crave the sun, but there’s so much between us. The soil, the terracotta vessel I call my home, the wooden shelves meant to imitate trees, and finally, thick panes of glass encasing this room.

The other botanicals assure me I’m in good hands.

“Don’t worry, Rapaceum. Rhea tends to us daily,” they say, blinking and waving from petals, leaves, and branches. “She’ll make sure you get what you need.”

I’m still waiting for my turn. Rhea gives plenty of attention to the beautiful ones; flowers and herbs in window boxes and hanging planters in clear view of the customers. She’s stationed me next to her cutting board.

In the minutes before the shop opens, she serves me from her watering can. Her forehead has more lines than a Tradescantia leaf.

“I’m not sure what to do with you, little root,” she says, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. “Why don’t you stick with me for the day, and we’ll see what the others make of you.”

Rhea settles my pot next to the register. There’s a small pool of sunlight a few inches away. My shoots stretch but we can’t quite reach. A cheerful sunflower soaks up the rays, face turned to the window. It’s everything I can do not to wilt.

A bell jingles above the shop door and Rhea welcomes a stream of customers. I watch them all, but none seem to notice me.

“Rhea, I must have some Chrysanthemum for my table.” An immaculately coiffed woman strides through the shop. She’s wearing a coat against the spring breeze, with the top two buttons open to display a diamond necklace. The other customers clear a path for her. “Tonight, we’ll find out if Jacob closed the deal.”

Rhea nods, gathers an armful of Chrysanthemum and bundles them in a paper cone. “I hope they’ll bring you prosperity and good fortune.”

The woman tucks her nose into the blooms and breathes deeply. I can hear the Chrysanthemum sigh, brushing her cheeks with their curled petals. Before the door swings closed, another customer steps forward.

“Do you have a recommendation on a bouquet for my niece's christening?” this woman’s eyes drift around the room while she fidgets with a ring on her finger. “She’s five; I’m not sure what would be appropriate for the occasion. Or a five-year old.”

Brightly colored flowers preen in the window box. Tulips of every hue turn and spin, flaring their petals wide. Rhea studies the assortment and settles on a handful of pink, orange, and purple daisies.

“Gerberas,” Rhea explains, leading the woman to the register.

“They’re so cute!” the woman coos. “They look like something my niece would draw in her coloring book.”

“And perfect for the occasion— they symbolize purity of heart.”

“You really know your stuff,” she says. Her eyes flick to me while she digs in her bag for her wallet. I detect a quick grimace, though that could be Rhea’s prices. Daisies don’t come cheap.

She speaks the truth; Rhea does know her stuff. There’s a flood of customers all morning. She hardly has time to nourish herself but does not neglect to water the rest of us. As for me; she plunges her finger into my soil, rubbing the grains between her fingertips.

“A bit dry,” she says. “But I think you’ll be fine until the closing shift.” Rhea turns away and smiles, ready to accept the next customer.

The sun travels across the desk and pools on the floor. The sunflower next to me has shifted its face again. I feel a small dig of pride. I’m made of sterner stuff.

When night falls, Rhea once again waters the flowers, moves some into cold storage, and shifts the hanging planters so they’ll catch the optimal light the next morning. She’s standing at the cash register tabulating her daily intake when the door handle rattles.

“We’re closed—” Rhea begins, peering through the window. An older woman has her face pressed against the glass, an auburn shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Rhea races to let her in.

“Sophia.” She greets the woman with a hug. “I was expecting you today. I’ve just moved your order to the refrigerator. If you’ll wait here—”

Rhea leads the woman to the register and steps away. She returns with a large bouquet of blooms, a perfect orb of purple and white, springing from a glass vase.

“Irises and Anemones,” Rhea says.

“For wisdom and protection,” the woman finishes in a murmur. She looked at the flowers to confirm their varietal, but I can feel her eyes on me. She dips her fingers into my soil, just as Rhea did.

I want this woman to conclude her business so Rhea can give me what I need.

“What is this?” the woman asks, studying me.

Rhea blushes. “I’m not sure, actually. It’s some kind of root. I left it at the counter all day to see if anybody would express an interest, but…” Rhea shrugs. “It might be happier on a shelf.”

“I believe this is Celeriac,” the woman says. “It needs watering. Don’t neglect your charges.”

Rhea smiles, but her heart isn't in it. She thanks the woman for her purchase and locks the door behind her. Muttering at the lateness of the hour, Rhea flips the sign to Closed and heads out into the night.

I am so, so thirsty.

I can smell the soil in the neighboring pots, rich with nutrients. One of my weaker shoots droops over the side of my pot. I have been left untended. But instead of wilting, I choose to grow.

Retracting my fibrous roots, I draw energy from my bulb and channel it into my shoots and leaves. Trading hours for inches, I pass the night sinking into nearby pots. I tap their roots and devour moisture from their well-fertilized soil.

I do what I must to survive.

In the morning, the pool of sunlight returns to the table. My leaves extend to three other pots. The sunflower curls in on itself, scowling, but I feel the sun at last.

Keys jingle in the door and the bell chimes. Rhea enters the shop, returning the smiles of the florals in the window. When she reaches the register, she freezes.

“What on earth?” she gasps, tracing my growth with her fingertips.

It is strong, but costly. It was worth the price. Now, Rhea sees me. Now, she will tend me as I need to be tended.

She lifts the pot and carries it back to the cutting board. She steps away, and when she returns, there is no watering can in sight.

She’s carrying pruning shears.

“Let’s trim this back, shall we?” She says cheerfully. The blades separate, a hungry mouth to consume my efforts.

The bell rings over the shop door. Rhea turns.

“We’re closed—” Rhea says, but it’s the woman in the shawl again. She points to me, palm outstretched.

“I’d like to take that one home with me, please,” she says. “Celeriac root does wonders for digestion.”

Rhea crosses to the register, stunned by the drooping sunflower.

I will taste the sunlight and be ensconced in the earth. I can feel it in my roots.