HOUSEPLANT

Beatrice Ambrose shuffled towards her bedroom windowsill, a green, plastic watering can held in her fragile, ancient hands. She smiled, a toothless smile, disguising the anguish that tormented her seventy-five year old body.

    “Come on, you old thing, there's life in you yet,” she mumbled to the withered houseplant.

    The liquid food had failed to revive the strange-looking plant, the tendrils devoid of moisture; the rust-brown leaves littering the pink windowsill. The tears flowed down Beatrice's wrinkled face as she tried in vain to spark some life into the dying plant.

The squeak of the bedroom door failed to distract the old woman from her restorative duties. A small girl tiptoed towards her, her heart saddened by what she was witnessing.

    “Nana Beattie, why are you crying?”

The old woman looked down at the girl, who wore her blonde hair in pigtails. Her turned-up, freckled nose sniffed the air, and she grimaced at the stench the plant gave off.

    “Kirsty, shouldn't you be at school?”

    “Silly. It's Sunday, Nana," she tutted, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling.

    “It's my plant, Kirsty. It’s dying, just like me.”

    “Don’t say that.”

    “But it’s true, my petal.”

    The small girl edged forward, cocked her head to one side, and examined the plant more closely. “What type of plant is it, Nana?”

    The old woman proceeded to water the houseplant. “This, my dear, does not have a name.”

    “But, all plants have names.”

    “Not this one... This plant is like no other.”

    Kirsty stepped back, her mouth agape, and gasped when she saw the tendrils rise up briefly, before sagging again. “Did you see that?”

    Beatrice wiped her moist eyes with her handkerchief and sat on the bed, patting the vacant space next to her. “The plant has lost the will to live.”

    “But, you can always buy another one, Nana.”

    “Make yourself comfortable, Kirsty... You like stories, don’t you?”

    “Very much,” answered the girl, sucking her thumb and sitting cross-legged. The ten-year old waited eagerly for her grandmother to begin.

    “My mother, your great grandmother, gave me that plant shortly before she passed away. I must have been about your age, Kirsty. That plant, my dear is sixty-five years old, and it appears that we’ve both outstayed our welcome.”

    “But, Nana, plants cannot live for that long.”

    “Who says they can’t? It appears that we’re destined to die together.”

    “Don't speak like that, Nana.”

    Beatrice smiled and hugged her granddaughter. “I'm not afraid to die, little one. It comes to us all in the end.”

The old woman lay on the bed and closed her eyes, and Kirsty swore that the plant wilted even more. She bounded down the staircase to raise the alarm.

******

    It pained Kirsty to see her mother cry. “Nana is in hospital, preparing for heaven,” she had said.
    Kirsty’s curiosity got the better of her, so she headed for her grandmother's bedroom. The flaccid plant looked so out of place on the sunlit windowsill, the dry soil crying out for moisture.

    Kirsty picked up the watering can and made for the bathroom. As she filled the watering can, she accidentally knocked a glass beaker into the sink, shattering into a thousand pieces. The young girl attempted to pick up the glass, and grimaced as a shard pushed into her finger. She removed the offending splinter and ran cold water onto her bleeding finger.

    Kirsty returned to the bedroom and emptied the entire contents of the watering can onto the lifeless plant. A droplet of blood fell onto the soil, an action that sparked off a reaction.

    She stepped back and watched in amazement as the plant came to life, flourishing in the moist soil. Kirsty rubbed her eyes in disbelief, when bloom after bloom appeared on the healthy-looking stems. Red, yellow, orange, blue, pink. There must have been twenty different coloured blossoms adorning the revitalised houseplant.

    Kirsty smiled contently and felt a sudden inclination to be close to her mother. She took the staircase two at a time and reached the bottom, just as the telephone rang. Her mother snatched up the receiver and the transformation on her face was plain to see. With trembling hands, she dropped the telephone. “It was the hospital... Nana’s coming home... She’s fine.”

    Kirsty hugged her mother, inwardly knowing that the houseplant had somehow been behind her grandmother’s miraculous recovery.

******

    The thriving houseplant appeared to revitalise Beatrice on her return home. Her cheeks gained colour and her wrinkles appeared to have vanished, leaving a healthy complexion. Her stooped walk was replaced by a youthful gait.

    The pleasant aroma from the plant circulated around the household, and the atmosphere that it created affected everyone in some way. It was as if the resurrected plant was somehow rewarding the inhabitants of the house.

    Kirsty’s mother no longer suffered with asthma, a complaint she had suffered with since she was a child. Her teenage brother, David was cured of his acne, and spent hours in front of the mirror, congratulating himself on his success.

    Kirsty’s father was becoming an embarrassment to his children, as well as his wife. He had taken to wearing clothes usually associated with teenagers, and the last straw was when David caught him wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses.  Yes, the Ambrose household certainly was thriving.

******

    Kirsty sat on her grandmother’s bed with her dolls, occasionally glancing up at the colourful plant.

“This here is Grace, and this one in the pink dress is Sally. Would you like to play with my dolls, plant?”
    “You’re cuckoo, are you.”

    Kirsty's head snapped around to see David stood at the door, grinning. “What do you want, spotty?”

    “I have no spots, look,” he smiled proudly, thrusting his clear face forward for his sister to see.   “Who were you talking to?”

    “None of your business.”

    “It's that grotesque plant, isn’t it?”

    “The plant is not grotesque, it’s beautiful,” insisted Kirsty.

    David walked towards the plant and it seemed to withdraw. “It’s grotesque. What type of plant is it anyway?”

    “It's a special plant.”

    “Rubbish. It’s a freak.”

    Kirsty jumped up from the bed. “No it isn’t, spotty; now go away.”

    “I have no bloody spots!” He turned to the plant and snapped off a bloom.

    “Leave it alone!” screamed Kirsty.

    “Mother!” came the cry from outside. The children leant out of the window to see their grandmother lying on the garden path, being comforted by their mother.

    “See what you’ve done!” yelled Kirsty.

    David shrugged. “What are you talking about?”

    “You did that to Nana.”

    “You're crazy.”

    “Spotty!”

    “Bed wetter!”

    “Spotty! Spotty! Spotty! Spotty!”

    David picked up the plant and hurled it through the opened bedroom window.

    “Noooooo!” screamed Kirsty.

    The sun disappeared behind the clouds and the room was bathed in darkness. Kirsty sat on the bed,sobbed, and watched the departure of her brother.

    “You asked for it, Kirsty.”

    For twenty minutes, the little girl wept, until she heard the sirens grow louder. Nobody had to tell her who the ambulance was coming for, but in her heart, she knew that it was too late.