Risen - Unearthed: love, acceptance, and other lessons from an abandoned garden

Copyright 2016 by Alexandra Risen

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

www.hmhco.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Risen, Alexandra, author.

Title: Unearthed : how an abandoned garden taught me to accept and love my parents / Alexandra Risen.

Other titles: How an abandoned garden taught me to accept and love my parents

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015043038 (print) | LCCN 2015046581 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544633360 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780544636477 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH : GardeningPhilosophy. | GardeningTherapeutic use. | GardeningAnecdotes.

Classification: LCC SB 454.3. P 45 R 57 2016 (print) | LCC SB 454.3. P 45 (ebook) | DDC 635dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015043038

Illustrations by Heidi Berton

Cover design by Kimberly Glyder

Cover photograph Mark Fearon/Archangel

PUSSYWILLOWS CAT-TAILS; words and music by Gordon Lightfoot; Copyright 1967, 1968 (Copyrights Renewed) MOOSE MUSIC LTD. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.

THE SOUL IS THE ROCK; words and music by Gordon Lightfoot. Copyright 1974 (Renewed) WB MUSIC CORP. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.

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In loving memory of my parents,
their fellow emigrants who became family,
and their enduring legacy.

Sometimes a tree tells you more than can be read in books.

C. G. Jung

This book is a collection of reminiscences molded into my story. They are as accurate as my consciousness allows, and narrated through the lens of my personal experiences, tempered by the passage of time. Others interpretations may vary, but it is my intention to be accurate, and always from a place of love and acceptance. Some of the names are changed to respect privacy. Individuals and companies hired for the garden restoration are identified with pseudonyms. Ive included one minor composite character, and some people and events were omitted. Time, events, and conversations have been edited, condensed, or reordered for narrative purposes, with an attempt to remain faithful to the overall storys integrity. The garden restoration took place over approximately ten years. Finally, most of the recipes were adapted from sources Ive gratefully included in the bibliography. Please note the foraging guidelines on .

NEVER TASTE OR EAT ANY PART OF A WILD PLANT UNLESS YOU ARE CERTAIN OF ITS IDENTIFICATION AND SAFETY. THE PUBLISHER AND THE AUTHOR DISCLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ADVERSE EFFECTS RESULTING DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY FROM INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THIS BOOK.

PROLOGUE

T HE ISOLATION OF INTENSIVE CARE suits my father. His coma asks nothing of him but silence. My insomnia dragged me here, but its an excuse. Something else, something unrecognizable made me drive in the amber streetlight glow, through the darkness, asking me if Im still willing to try after all these years.

The night nurse decides to break the rules. Okay, dont tell anyone. Follow me, she whispers.

Her voice merges into the fluorescent lights hum. No day and night hereonly the nonstop drone of the machines that we let take over at the end, because thats what Mom decided.

The nurse leads me to Fathers bedside and pulls up a chair between two monitors. An electric jungle of wires starts and ends under the thin sheet that covers him up to his neck. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, exhale, and swallow. Open your eyes, I tell myself, and as I do, I notice that Fathers hands and feet are encased in pale blue Styrofoam blocks, like the plant protectors I use to shield my roses from winter frost. Only his fingertips protrude, long and brown with perfectly trimmed, ridged yellowed nails.

What are those? I whisper, pointing at a block, avoiding the important questions Im afraid to ask.

We need to manage his body temperature.

Temperature?

We try to keep the body cool and the extremities warm for circulation.

Its a body then. A gray-skinned cadaver heaving with artificial air. Nausea roils my stomach.

Talk to him if you want. Say what you came to say, the nurse says.

I didnt come to say anything. What is there to say? This isnt the place to express years of resentment. I examine his tidy nails, because I dont know where else to look.

Maybe you did, she says. They can hear, you know.

No, he cant. The doctor said his brain is dead. Completely unresponsive, hed said, so sorry.

She looks up from her clipboard.

Why do you work here? I ask.

So people can die better than my parents did.

Im sorry, I say. Thank you.

Talk to him, he can hear. Been doin this long enough. Doctors dont know nothin. She looks toward the hall. Say your piece, dear, and then you better be off, or Ill lose my job.

I watch her walk away. Her pale green bouffant cap and hospital scrubs fade into the wall color. Im alone. I look around, behind me, and above to the suspended machines, ignoring Fathers sheet-covered figure. Definitely alone. Time is at a standstill, and yet its speeding by. Nothing to do but begin.

Funny, huh? I say to the blue sheet. Even if you want to speak to me now you cant. I wait and watch. His chest rises and falls. I dont know what to say.

The machines beep consistently as if to offset my racing heart. The rooms air circulates around me, bathing me in memories and disinfectant. I swallow my queasiness and continue.

All those years of complete silence, and now were here. So you fell out of the apple tree. Figuresfor pies probably. The fragrance of childhood Sunday morning wafts into my memorycinnamon and burnt sugar. No fairytale smiling mother in an apron, though. Just a silent man, eating pie alone at the table. I hate apple pie.

I thought about it, you know. In the twenty years I lived at home, you said maybe twenty words to me. One a year, on average. No one would believe it if I told them.

I catch myself, my heart pounding. I didnt come here to be angry. Or maybe I did.

Did you forget Megan is getting married, and Im supposed to stand up for her in ten days? I continue. She wants to cancel the wedding. I even offered to make the wedding cake. Now all we have is rotten apples on the ground, and youre here.

I babble, on and on, and my words shift to the everyday. The garden is in full bloom, but too small. Over-planted and overgrown. Cams ready to move again for privacy and a bigger garden. Hes crazy. I just finished renovating, and Max loves his big-boy bedroom.

After half an hour of small talk, I stand, feeling stupid. What am I doing, trying to reconcile with my fathers brain-dead body. Im terrified to experience death for the first time, a hollow death of a man who never came out of the shell he is about to go back into. Sweat rolls down my chest under my T-shirt. Im used to his silence, but this is different. This silence is pure and deep and driven by the end. Its unfair of me to take advantage of it, to fill it with my indignation. I need to leave, and never tell Mom or Sonia that I cametheyd want to know