Night Bloom

Kaleo Kealoha woke at 3:17 every morning smelling flowers. The first night, he thought he had dreamed it. The second, he blamed the open window. By the fifth, he began wondering why the smell disappeared before sunrise. At 3:17am on the sixth morning, Kaleo opened his eyes and knew immediately that it was back.

               Sweet.

               Heavy.

               Almost narcotic.

               The fragrance seemed too substantial to be a smell. It occupied the bedroom like another person. Kaleo rolled over. “Fuck me.” His nose was completely blocked. He breathed through his mouth and stared at the ceiling fan.

               3:17am.

               Again.

               He reached for the tissues on his nightstand and blew his nose. Nothing helped. His eyes watered. His throat itched. Outside his window, something rustled. Kaleo sat up. The curtain moved in the trade wind. Beyond it, the night was black. He had lived on Hawaiʻi Island for 46 years. He was not afraid of darkness. He was not afraid of things growing in it. But for the first time since moving back into his mother's house, Kaleo closed the window before returning to bed.

               Technically, it was his house now. He still thought of it as hers. His mother, Leinaʻala, had died 14 months earlier at 78, leaving Kaleo the small house and three acres that had belonged their family for generations. His older brother lived on Oʻahu. His sister had moved to Nevada 20 years ago. Neither wanted the property. Kaleo did. Or thought he did.

               He had spent most of adulthood less than 30 miles away, working maintenance at resorts along the Kohala Coast, fixing people's air conditioners, plumbing, doors, appliances, and whatever else wealthy visitors managed to break. He could repair almost anything. That had been useful when his mother became sick. Less useful when what needed fixing was her. Leinaʻala had survived diabetes, two heart attacks, and cancer once. The second cancer killed her.

               Kaleo moved home during her final year. After she died, he stayed. Eventually Kaleo stopped inventing reasons. The truth was simpler. He did not know where else to go. Every room contained evidence that he had once been somebody's son. Her ceramic bowl remained beside the front door. Her handwritten grocery lists were still clipped to the refrigerator. Three pairs of slippers sat beneath her bed.

               Kaleo packed her clothing twice. Both times he unpacked it. His brother told him that was unhealthy. Kaleo told his brother to mind his fucking business. They had not spoken for three months. Kaleo knew he should call. He also knew he wouldn’t. Pride was another thing he could repair for everyone except himself.

               His mother loved plants. Not landscaping. Plants. There was a difference. She knew what belonged on the island and what did not. She could identify trees from leaves, flowers from scent, and weeds before Kaleo noticed anything had sprouted. As a boy, she used to walk the property with him after rain.

               She would turn over leaves to show him eggs hidden underneath. Break open seedpods. Point to tiny shoots pushing through volcanic soil and explain how something that looked fragile could split rock if given enough time. Kaleo had once asked why she cared so much. “Because this was all here before you,” she said. “You should know whose home you standing in.” As a child, he had rolled his eyes. As a man, he remembered every word. The property had once been immaculate. After she became sick, it changed. Vines climbed fences. Shrubs grew into one another. Things appeared that Kaleo could not name.

               His mother still could. “Night-blooming jasmine,” she had told him once, pointing toward a sprawling shrub near the back of the property.

               Kaleo remembered white tubular flowers. “Smells good.”

               “Too good.”

               He had laughed. She had not. “Invasive.”

               That word mattered to her. Leinaʻala could tolerate almost anything native chewing holes in her plants. Something introduced? War. Kaleo remembered her standing outside at 77, weakened by chemotherapy, cutting branches while he begged her to sit. “You going kill yourself over one weed?”

               She looked at him. “No. But I can kill the weed.” That was his mother. Six months later, she was dead. The jasmine remained.

               At work, Kaleo sneezed nine times before lunch. His coworker Makoa laughed after number seven. “You dying?”

               “Allergies.”

               “To what?”

               “Something blooming at the house.”

               “Everything blooms at your house.”

               “Helpful.” Kaleo rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty and swollen. “Only happens at night.”

               Makoa stopped laughing. “Night jasmine?”

               “Maybe. I wake up at the same time every morning…3:17am.”

               “That stuff gets me too.”

               Kaleo looked over. “Really?”

               “My auntie had one. Smell was so strong she couldn't open the windows at night. Made my cousin wheeze.” That reassured him. An explanation. No mystery. No reason to care that he woke at exactly 3:17am. Plant blooms. Pollen or fragrance irritates him. Window open. Kaleo wakes. Simple. That evening he bought antihistamines. He took one before bed. He closed every window. He turned on the air conditioner. At 3:17am, Kaleo opened his eyes. The fragrance was stronger than ever.

               He sat upright coughing. His eyes burned. The bedroom was sealed. Kaleo turned on the lamp. Nothing. He checked the window. Locked. He checked the air-conditioning vent. Cool air flowed normally. The smell seemed strongest near the bed. Kaleo stripped the sheets. Nothing. He checked beneath the mattress. Nothing. Then he saw it. A white flower lay on the floor beneath his mother's old dresser. Small. Tubular.

               Kaleo stared. He had not brought any flowers inside. He picked it up. The fragrance intensified immediately. His throat tightened. Kaleo dropped it. He sneezed so violently his ribs hurt. “Fucking hell!” He grabbed tissue, picked up the flower, flushed it, and washed his hands. By sunrise, his symptoms disappeared. At breakfast, he convinced himself the flower must have stuck to his clothing. It was possible. He worked outside. Problem solved.

               That afternoon, Kaleo walked to the back of the property with pruning shears. The jasmine was larger than he remembered. Much larger. Long branches sprawled through surrounding vegetation. Glossy leaves overlapped in dense layers. Kaleo found the white flowers. Closed. Waiting for evening. He grabbed a branch. Something about touching it bothered him. Not fear. Recognition. He remembered his mother's hand gripping almost the same branch.

               No. But I can kill the weed.

               Kaleo squeezed the shears. “Should’ve listened to you.” He cut.

               He worked for hours. The shrub fought him through sheer size. Branches snagged his shirt. Leaves stuck to sweat. He cut until his shoulders hurt, then stuffed everything into heavy yard bags. The base was too large to remove by hand. He would deal with it later. Before going inside, Kaleo looked at the mutilated shrub. “Sorry, Ma.”

               He wasn't sure why he apologized. Maybe because she had wanted it gone and he had waited until it inconvenienced him. That realization bothered him. His mother asked for help constantly during her final year. Not dramatic help. Little things. Change the light bulb. Move that pot. Trim that branch. Take the rubbish. Kaleo had always done them. Eventually. After work. Tomorrow. This weekend. He loved her. He had also been tired.

               There were days when he sat in his truck outside the house for 10 minutes because entering meant becoming a caregiver again. Ten minutes. That was all he allowed himself. Ten minutes when nobody needed medication. Nobody needed help standing. Nobody asked what the oncologist had meant. Nobody vomited. Nobody cried.

               Then Kaleo would open the truck door, walk inside, and become her son again. He had hated himself for those 10 minutes. Still did. Once, near the end, Leinaʻala had asked why he always looked so angry. “I’m not angry.”

               “You are.”

               “I’m tired.”

               She had reached across the table and taken his hand. “You allowed to be tired.” Kaleo had pulled his hand away. He had not meant anything by it. He was washing dishes. His hands were wet. She died 11 days later. Of all the moments from her final year, that was the one his mind preserved with perfect cruelty. Her hand reaching. His pulling away. The jasmine had been another unfinished job. She asked him three times to remove it. He never did. Then she became too sick to care.

               Kaleo stared at the stump. “I’m doing it now.” The leaves rustled. There was no wind.

               That night, Kaleo dreamed about his mother. She sat at the kitchen table. Young. Not young as he remembered her from childhood. Younger. Maybe 30. Kaleo stood across from her but remained 46. “You left it,” she said.

               “What?”

               “You left it.”

               “Left what?”

               His mother looked toward the window. The fragrance entered the room. Kaleo began coughing. Leinaʻala smiled sadly. “You always wait too long.” Kaleo woke. 3:17am. His pillow was covered in white flowers. He screamed. He fell from the bed, dragging blankets with him. Flowers scattered across the floor. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. The fragrance was suffocating. Kaleo crawled toward the door. His throat tightened. Each breath produced a thin whistle. He reached the hallway. The air there was clean. Kaleo gasped. Behind him, flowers covered the bedroom floor. He grabbed his phone and photographed them. Then he called Makoa.

               “Come over.”

               “Kaleo? It’s three in the fucking morning.”

               “Come over.”

               “What happened?”

               “Just come.”

               Makoa arrived 25 minutes later. Kaleo led him into the bedroom. There were no flowers. Not one. Kaleo stared at the floor. “No fucking way.” Makoa looked at him. “They were here.”

               “Okay.”

               “Don’t fucking ‘okay’ me.”

               “I’m not.”

               “I took a picture.” Kaleo opened his phone. The photograph showed his bedroom floor. Empty. His stomach dropped. “I saw them.”

               Makoa sat beside him. “When did you sleep last?”

               “I sleep.”

               “You look like shit.”

               Kaleo wanted to throw him out. Instead, he started crying. It happened without warning. Not because of the flowers. Because he was exhausted. Because his mother was dead. Because his brother was angry. Because he had spent 14 months living inside a museum of somebody he loved. Makoa put a hand on his shoulder. Kaleo covered his face. “I miss her.”

               “I know.”

               “I should’ve done more.”

               “You took care of her.”

               “Not enough.”

               “There is no enough.”

               Kaleo shook his head. “She asked me to kill that plant.”

               “What plant?”

               “The jasmine.” Makoa became still. “You cut it?”

               “Yesterday.”

               “All of it?”

               “Most.”

               Makoa looked toward the window. The first light of morning was appearing. Outside, something white opened among the trees.

               Kaleo called in sick. After Makoa left, he went outside with a shovel. The jasmine had grown back. Not partially. Completely. Every branch he had cut had returned. The yard bags were empty. Kaleo approached slowly. White flowers covered the shrub despite the morning sun. “That’s not possible.”

               He drove the shovel beneath the trunk. Roots resisted. He dug around them. More appeared. Thick cords spread through the soil. One ran toward the house. Kaleo followed it. It disappeared beneath the foundation. He cut it. Clear sap bled from the wound. The fragrance exploded around him. Kaleo coughed. His eyes swelled. Another root moved beneath the soil. He saw it. Not settling. Moving. Kaleo stumbled backward. The cut root curled toward his boot. “This cannot be real!!!” He brought the shovel down. The root split. Both halves recoiled. Kaleo ran.

               By sunset, his throat had begun itching again. He packed a bag. He would stay with Makoa. Tomorrow he would call someone who knew how to remove invasive plants properly. For once, Kaleo would not wait. He carried the bag toward the front door. A white flower lay on the doormat. Then another fell from the ceiling. Kaleo looked up. A green shoot protruded from the smoke detector. “This is insane!!!”

               The air conditioner turned on. Fragrance poured from the vents. Kaleo dropped the bag. He ran toward the door. Vines burst through the frame. They twisted around the knob. Kaleo grabbed them. Sap coated his hands. His skin erupted in red welts. He screamed. Flowers opened along the vines.

               One.

               Five.

               Twenty.

               The house filled with perfume. Kaleo's throat constricted. He could not breathe. He staggered toward the kitchen. Branches pushed through cabinets. Roots cracked tile. White flowers opened everywhere. Each one released another wave of scent. Kaleo found his inhaler in a drawer, leftover from bronchitis years earlier. He used it.

               Nothing.

               His airway continued closing. He crawled. The jasmine followed. Not quickly. It did not need to. Kaleo could barely move. His eyes had swollen nearly shut. Saliva ran from his mouth because swallowing had become difficult. He reached the kitchen table. His mother's chair stood where it always had. A vine curled around one leg. Kaleo stared at it. The dream returned.

               You always wait too long.

               “I DID MY BEST!!!”

               He pulled himself upright. “I’m not waiting.” Kaleo grabbed a knife. He cut the vine. Another wrapped around his wrist. He slashed it. Two replaced it. Every cut released more fragrance. Every attempt to kill it poisoned the air further. Kaleo understood. Fighting made it stronger. He dropped the knife. The vines stopped. For a moment, nothing moved. Kaleo looked toward his mother's chair. “I’m sorry.” His voice was barely audible. “I should’ve listened.”

               A vine slid across the table. It touched his hand. Almost gently. Kaleo began crying. Not from allergies anymore. “I was tired, Ma.” Another vine reached him. “I loved you. I was just so fucking tired.” Flowers opened around his fingers. “I’m sorry.” For one impossible second, the vine curled around his hand exactly where Leinaʻala's fingers had rested during their last conversation at the table. Kaleo sobbed. He closed his fingers around it. That was when the plant tightened.

               The vine punched beneath the skin of his palm. Kaleo screamed. He tried to pull away. Another tendril entered his wrist. The first moved beneath his skin. He could see it. A green line traveled beneath the flesh of his forearm, raising it as it advanced toward his elbow. “No! No, no, no!” Kaleo clawed at his arm. The tendril split beneath his skin. Two green branches became four. Tiny white buds pushed outward from underneath him, stretching his skin into pale lumps. One burst through. Blood ran down his arm around a perfect white flower. Then another bloomed from his shoulder.

               Kaleo screamed until the swelling in his throat reduced the sound to a rasp. Vines entered his nostrils. He clamped his mouth shut. A tendril pushed between his lips. He bit down. Bitter sap flooded his mouth. His tongue swelled almost instantly. The plant forced his jaw open. Three thin shoots slid over his tongue and disappeared into his throat. Kaleo gagged. He tried to vomit them out. They went deeper. Something moved beneath the skin of his neck. Then his chest. He could feel roots branching inside him, searching through warm tissue.

               His lungs burned. He tried to inhale. Instead, a white flower emerged from his mouth. Then another. Kaleo's hands weakened. His head lowered toward the table. Through eyes swollen almost completely shut, he saw his mother's empty chair across from him. For the first time in 14 months, he did not see evidence that she was gone. He saw evidence that she had been there. That was different. Kaleo stopped fighting. The jasmine did not.

               Makoa found Kaleo the next morning. He was seated at the kitchen table in his mother's chair. His body was covered in white flowers. They filled his lap. His shirt. His open mouth. Several had rooted inside his nostrils. Vines emerged from beneath his eyelids. Small blossoms protruded through ruptures in his forearms and chest. When Makoa touched Kaleo's shoulder, something beneath the dead man's skin moved.

               He jerked his hand away. A flower slowly opened from a wound beneath Kaleo's jaw. The medical examiner determined that Kaleo had died from catastrophic airway obstruction consistent with a severe allergic reaction. The rest was harder to explain. Roots had entered his mouth and nasal passages. Fine tendrils extended deep into his lungs. Others had traveled beneath the skin and through muscle. Several wrapped around ribs. One had penetrated the wall of his stomach. Some growth had clearly occurred after death. Some had not.

               No one could determine exactly when the plant entered him. The night-blooming jasmine had consumed much of the house. County workers removed it. Then removed it again. Then again. Each time, roots remained somewhere underground. Eventually the property was condemned. Kaleo's brother flew from Oʻahu to collect what could be saved. He found their mother's ceramic bowl near the front door. Her grocery lists. The gray cardigan she wore during chemotherapy. He found Kaleo's phone beneath the kitchen table. The last photograph showed an empty bedroom floor.

               Nothing else.

               His brother sat in the driveway and cried for both of them. Before leaving, he walked toward the back of the property. Workers had cleared nearly everything. Bare soil surrounded the house. He stood where the jasmine had grown. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then he smelled it.

               Sweet.

               Heavy.

               Impossible.

               His eyes began to water. He stepped backward. From somewhere beneath the exposed Hawaiian soil came a soft tearing sound. A green shoot broke through. Then another. Then dozens. Tiny white flowers began opening before his eyes. Kaleo's brother ran. Behind him, the fragrance spread through the warm evening air. By 3:17 the next morning, night-blooming jasmine had emerged on the neighboring property.

               Then the next.

               Then the next.

               Roots traveled beneath fences and roads, through drainage ditches and forgotten patches of soil. The plant had been brought to Hawaiʻi by people. People had allowed it to escape. People had watched it invade forests and crowd out what belonged there. Now, finally, it had stopped behaving like something introduced. It had decided it belonged. And everything else was the weed.

               Makoa performed a public records search for Leinaʻala’s death certificate.

               Time of death: 0317.