𝑨𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒔

    
     Pruning the shrubbery in the garden, I take out the weeds that have been competing with my ornamental plants and dump them into the nearby dustbin. I turn and face the insectivorous plant I recently got from my horticulturist friend, Luke. He’s got a thing for plants, and I’m amazed at how he’s able to manage such a lofty garden as his with his busy schedule.

     I love plants, but Luke is obsessed with them. There’s no way my little garden will surpass his, and I don’t intend to compete. He’s simply the best at what he does. I love that we share something in common. Plants are one of the most beautiful organisms on this planet, and if you pay attention to them, you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

     I put the garden shears on the table and pick up the box of spiders I’ve stored for my insectivorous plant. I take a couple of the crawling creatures and carefully place them into its bordered hinged leaves. Immediately, it closes the leaves and traps the animals. One of the fascinating phenomena in the life of the Venus flytrap is its mode of nutrition. I normally refer to them as beautiful but deadly flowers. But I don’t blame them. Just like animals, plants also have to adapt to survive.

     I step away from the plant and give it space to absorb the nutrients while I tend to the other plants. The door slides open, and I swivel. Jeff enters, dressed in one of his expensive suits. As always, he looks immaculate and handsome, and I can’t stop drooling. We’ve been married for a while now, but each time I see him, I feel like a teenage girl crushing on the most handsome boy in class whom I know wouldn’t even notice me. It’s silly that after all these years I still have those childish thoughts.

     I smile softly at him. “Hey.”

     He nears me with his eyes on me, but his peripheral vision is ogling my garden. He replies, “Hey,” in one of his sweet voices as I meet him halfway.

     “You woke up early. I didn’t find you in bed.”

     There’s concern in his voice. I know that might have startled him. I’m normally the last to wake up after the accident, but I wanted to tidy the garden. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.”

     He offers me a rueful smile, saying, “Don’t apologize. It’s nothing.”

     Finally, he takes his eyes off me and looks around the garden. I was wondering when he was going to do that. His eyes widen after roving them across the garden.

     “Wow! When was the last time I came here?”

     I stifle a laugh. Jeff isn’t one with a thing for flowers. The idea of having a garden was mine, so after buying the house from the previous owners, we turned a section of the backyard into one. I’ve worked tirelessly to keep it in shape, and I don’t regret doing so. Jeff rarely comes here and since he’s always busy, he’s never sat here to contemplate. I pity him for not making time to sit in our garden and relax.

     I say bluntly to his face, avoiding pet names to put my emphasis across to him. “You don’t come here, Jeff.”

     His face drops a little. I don’t feel bad for being so direct. I’d love some quality time with my husband in the garden, and I can’t hide that, not from him or anybody. It’s clear we’ve been distanced after the accident. There’s no point in hiding it. He knows it just as much as I know it.

     “I’m sorry for not making time for us,” he murmurs and wants to take my hand, but they’re gloved, so he holds my nape with my hair and brings me closer to him, resting his forehead on mine. The moment of intimacy sends a chill down my spine and somehow a memory strikes me. I’ve never been able to recollect that memory, but it has been triggered today. It isn’t a bad one though, just another close moment between us making promises we can’t keep.

     He brings his lips close to mine and kisses them softly. I don’t feel anything, so I don’t reciprocate. I feel numb lately, and I can’t explain it. He pulls apart and stares wistfully at me. I sense there’s so much on his mind he wants to tell me, so many promises he wants to make, but he can’t because he wouldn’t be able to keep them.

     I can’t keep track of the number of times he’s broken his promises. I don’t want to, and I don’t blame him either. As a named partner of his father’s company, I know it isn’t easy in his position. Blending it with his husbandly duties wouldn’t be easy either, and as far as I can tell, he’s been the perfect husband. I won’t ask more of him. He’s already doing enough.

     “I’ll make time for us,” he says.

     I won’t take it as a promise, so he won’t feel guilty if he doesn’t fulfill it.

     “All right.”

     “I couldn’t make you breakfast. I’ve got a board meeting.” There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice, and it fills the garden. Truth is, I don’t even like breakfast in bed, and I’m glad I woke up early.

     “It isn’t a problem. I can take care of myself.”

     He hasn’t attempted to leave. He stares at me, and I stare back at him. I can’t know what exactly he’s been thinking about lately, but if there’s something I know, it’s that he thinks I’m vulnerable and needs his protection from an abstract threat. The reason he feels that is obvious; he blames himself for the accident. I’ve talked him out of it to no avail. If he wants to blame himself for something neither of us had control over, then it’s his cup of tea.

     My psychotherapist told me that we had to make peace with the past for a better future and right now, I think I’m not the only one who needs the help of a therapist.

     “You’ll be late. I’m sure your Dad is sick worrying when you’ll show up. Get going.”

     I remember the day he was made a named partner of the company. It was his birthday, and his father gave him the biggest surprise of his life. We’d gone together to his parent’s house in Oklahoma to celebrate. His mum, Carla was happy to have us along with his Dad and siblings.

     After we ate dinner, his Dad announced for us to meet in the living room, where he told everyone about his decision to make Jeff a named partner. Jeff had been so overwhelmed that he almost dropped the glass of champagne. I still remember the shock on his face.

     I smirk at the remembrance. I’m happy he was made a named partner. He deserves it. Sometimes I envy him. He’s got another life apart from the one he has with me. He has friends at the company and above all, he has his memories.

     I remember when I used to be a normal person. When I had a purpose in life. Those days are long ago, and I can’t deny I’ve missed them. Unlike me, Jeff has something to invest his energy in. He has a purpose, and I feel I don’t.

     I don’t want to deprecate myself, but it’s difficult when you know who you used to be, and it’s so different from who you are now. Self-loathe is a sign of poor self-image, but right now I hate myself for not being able to remember everything till now. It’s been eight months already. Eight months! The doctor said my memories would come on their own in a familiar environment. I’m starting to think that maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

     “I should be leaving,” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

     I glance up and nod. He looks at me one last time, fondles my cheek, then heads for the door. I watch as he turns to face the door and makes his way out. It slides shut after he leaves.

     I continue with my mundane work. The engine of his car purrs, followed by screeches. I don’t hear any sound. I suppose he’s gone. I sigh softly as I brace myself for another lonely phase of my life. I pack the garden tools into the box.

     The garden looks tidy now. It will do for today. I pick up the toolbox and use the back entrance to the house, the emptiness of the house hitting me hard. It’s not like I’m not used to the quietness. It’s just that the house feels eerily quiet today. I’m praying my therapist comes earlier than he usually does. After that, I plan to visit Ms. Gillian and have breakfast there.

     Walking across the long hallway, I pass by the living room adjourning the study and in the kitchen, I near the cabinet, open it and keep the toolbox there. Then I pace toward the sink, where I squirt soap into my palms, and place them under the tap. I make a lather and vigorously rub my hands against each other.

     I dry my hands with a napkin, and then I fetch a glass of water, carrying it with me to the bedroom. I take two sips. Thirst assuaged, I place the glass on the nightstand and use the bathroom, where I intend to take a cold shower, keeping very long in there.