Planted

The woman had always lived in this small town. As did her mother, as did her mother’s mother, and maybe even her mother before that. She knew this town as well as she knew her own body. The schools, the chemical plant, the grocery store, the strip mall, the clinic, the bank, the community college. She grew up here. As did her daughter. They grew up here, together. That’s what happens when you have a baby at fifteen. You grow up together. And grow up, she had.

When she informed her then best friend turned lover of her pregnancy, the boy, and boy in action, but at nineteen years old, a man in the eyes of the law, he gave her $800, a kiss on the forehead, and a goodbye. He left, changed his number, and they never spoke again. She assumed he returned to the reservation but she had no way of knowing for sure. And she didn’t care, to be honest. She told her mother. Her mother asked her what she’d like to do. The woman said she was keeping it. Her mother took the money, put $500 in an account for the woman, gave her the remaining $300, and they prepared the home to receive the baby.

The woman read every book she could get her hands on. She wanted only the best for her child. She was a very intelligent girl. Everyone in the town knew she’d grow into greatness. But even highly intelligent kids make silly choices. And most of the town thought that her getting knocked up, and worst still, keeping that baby, was a very silly choice. “What of her future?” They all speculated.

But, being a grade ahead already, gaining college credits already, after having her daughter, the woman became even more focused. She took more college courses while she got her high school diploma. She did whatever she was allowed to further herself. And she would drag that baby with her everywhere while she did it. She’d drag that baby to the library, to lectures, to seminars, on study dates, wherever she had to go, and could get away with it, that baby was coming. She’d walked across the stage to get her diploma with that baby on her hip.

The woman worked nights as a nanny while she pursued her Vocational Nursing Certification, and then bridged to her RN as soon as she could. And that baby was there, in tow, every night at work with her, and in the day to every class, up until clinicals where the daughter wasn’t allowed. That baby had a calm, peaceful demeanor and was something like the class mascot. She’d float from the woman, to a friend, to a professor, with no issue. She rarely cried, and always seemed interested in whatever lesson was taught. That baby was the perfect match for the woman’s soul. But she wasn’t a baby anymore. That didn’t stop the woman from giving her best to the daughter. When she realized the daughter was having difficulty digesting meat, the woman decided they’d be vegetarians. When she noticed the conventionally grown fruits and vegetables were possibly causing eczema flare ups in her daughter, she focused on buying organic. When she learned how expensive organic is shortly after the switch, she decided to make a raised bed garden, choosing raised bed because she was weary of the soil composition and quality being they lived so close to the chemical plant. When the daughter started kindergarten, the woman applied for the school nurse position, and got it. When she wanted a bigger back yard for the daughter, she got a second job at the clinic, and then bought them a house, a small two bedroom with a huge yard. When the daughter seemed to be allergic to something in the lawn of their yard, she got artificial grass installed. Whatever it took to assure the daughter’s safety, happiness, and health, the woman did, without question or hesitation.

The woman sat running her fingers through her daughter’s long, thick, dark curls. Curls that, if she was being honest, she’d admit she was a little jealous of. The woman’s was a coarser texture that could barely be called a curl on a good day. She had turned her afro into locs years ago. Looking at the daughter, she thought, it was like, all the best parts of her DNA culminated into this person, the best person she knows. Her very best friend. They had the same build, the same face, and could almost be twins, except for the wide, almond shaped eyes and rich complexion the daughter got from her Suoix father. Where the woman was brown, with golden, honeyed undertones, like the stuff of flowers and sap, the daughter was brown, with deep red undertones, like the stuff of the earth and bark. The daughter was stunning, and crack whip smart. Smarter even than her mom. But whether that was nature, nurture, or both, who’s to say? When you spend your infancy and toddlerhood on the floors and tables of lecture halls and labs, having textbook passages read aloud to you like bedtime stories, it may cause the brain to develop differently.

As the daughter lay her head in her mother’s lap, the woman traced the baby fine edges of her hair, thinking about all the times she’d brushed and combed and smelled those curls, how it was her very favorite smell. The daughter always, even as a newborn, smelled like ylang ylang and pine, floral and earthy. The woman always thought people were weird when they said how amazing baby’s heads smelled. All baby’s heads smell like hair to her. Just like everyone’s head. Until she had HER baby. HER baby had the best smelling head on the planet! And even now, well past the baby years, she still had the best smelling head on the planet. She lifted her finger tips to her nose and a smile spread across her face.

“Did you just sniff your fingers!?” The daughter asked, peeking up from her novel.

“What!?” The woman asked, still grinning from memories.

“What what? I asked if you just sniffed your fingers, you weirdo!” The daughter said, chuckling.

“So what if I did?” The woman replied.

“You’re so strange mama.” The daughter rolled her eyes, returning to the worn, well loved book in her hand.

“Look who’s talking! You’re just as strange as me!”

“If I’m strange, it’s BECAUSE of you!” The daughter said, playfully popping the book on the woman’s arm.

“You probably right!” The woman laughed.

In fact, she was right. Growing up together, whatever the woman was into, the daughter was also into. Science, guns, unsolved murders, cooking, hunting, crime, adventure, sports, post apocalyptic novels, mysteries, art, hiking, music, motorcycles, video games, photography, a vast and varied array of interests that many of the daughter’s peers weren’t even exposed to, let alone enjoyed. Or the woman’s peers, for that matter. They created a very odd, and interesting duo. But their weirdness never mattered to them because it made their bond stronger, and more exclusive.

The daughter sunk back into her novel, which, if the woman had to guess, was either an Octavia Butler or a George Orwell novel, but the paperback was missing its cover and had very faded first few pages, so she wouldn't know unless she asked. But she didn’t care to ask.

What the woman did ask was “are you hungry?”

“Ummm…yeah actually.” The daughter answered.

“You want a grilled cheese?”

“Yeah! And tomatoes and onions?” The daughter added.

“Alright. Tea?”

“Sure! Thanks mommy!” The daughter replied with a grin.

The woman set off to the kitchen. She gathered her ingredients. She chopped and she thought. She thought and she chopped. She thought about the NDA she was forced to sign. She thought about all the little signs that she had noticed and shoved down, put out of her mind, and rationalized away. She wondered if the daughter had noticed anything, any of what she herself had noticed. The daughter was a very perceptive girl. She wondered if, on the days the daughter had tagged along with her to the clinic for her shift, as she read her novels or played her video games in the woman’s office, did she hear anything or see anything that she had questions about. She wondered if she should ask the daughter if she’d noticed anything. But then, how could she answer questions without violating the NDA? Does it matter at this point if she violated the NDA? Why hadn’t she asked questions sooner? When the chemical plant paid for the additional wing and waiting room to be used only for their employees, when the employees started coming in more frequently, with more severe burns, from different parts of the plant, when even supervisors with no direct exposure to chemicals were coming in for burn treatment and radiation poisoning, when people who weren’t employees of the chemical plant started showing symptoms of radiation poisoning, why hadn’t she asked more questions? She was selected as head nurse for the new wing, she’d gone through all the extra training and certifications for burn treatment and radiation treatment, she was given a hearty salary increase. Is that why she didn’t ask the questions? The money? The training? She rationalized that the hospital was doing all they could, that the chemical plant was taking responsibility and caring for their employees by funding this wing, this training, this staff. But deep down, she had questions. She wanted to know what was going on. Why are cases increasing when they’ve been told the chemical plant was increasing safety measures, and reducing exposure, and automating all direct exposure to chemicals as much as they can?

The meeting last week gave her the information she was longing for, and then some. It was revealed that the chemical plant was, and had been for a while, unstable. It had been leaching radiation into the soil, into the air, and into the water. That everyone in this town had some ungodly degree of radiation poisoning and being that the town was saturated, for so long, there was no way to correct it. Every shower or bath they took, every time they got caught in the rain, every barefoot step they’d take, every breath, was added exposure. There was no cure at this point. And not only that, but the chemical plant had reached a critical point in its containment, and repairs were no longer working. There were leaks. Corrosive substances were spilling out at a rate that was beyond the capability of anyone to repair. The situation was dire. The situation was irreparable. They were doomed. They were damned. It was done. And she couldn’t even inform anyone. NDAs had been signed when she accepted the position as head nurse, along with the entire staff of the new wing. According to their estimations, today would be the day of critical mass. Today would be the day the plant went nuclear. Today it would explode.

The woman thought as she cooked on autopilot. She grilled the veggies, and she chopped fruit. She watched the cheese bubble up on her cast iron skillet and it reminded her of the bubbles on the flesh of those with chemical burns from the plant. She felt queasy. She felt flushed. She ran to the sink and heaved. Her stomach was empty. She ran water, scooped it into her hands, brought it up to her mouth to swish. She froze, thinking of the radiation she’d become aware of. She separated her hands and let the water fall. She turned off the faucet angrily. She squeezed the sink's edge. Angry at the situation. Angry at herself. What could she have done differently? Her job was to protect her daughter and she failed. What could she do?

The woman went back to the stove and cooked their sandwiches. The daughter walked in with a grin on her face. “Mama, you know what’s next week?” She asked.

“What?” The woman responded, absentmindedly.

“YOUR DIRTY THIRTY GIIIIIRL!” The daughter shouted, with a hip bump. “What we gon do!? Wanna go ride 4wheelers? Wanna go shooting? OOOOHHH YOU WANNA GO SKYDIVING!? Let’s go SKYDIVING!!” The daughter rattled off excitedly.

Her birthday. The woman hadn’t even remembered. How does she respond? Knowing she, knowing they wouldn’t be around to see the day. Knowing today was it, end of the road. What does she say to her daughter? Does she lie? Does she pretend? What should she do?

“Skydiving sounds AMAZING!” The woman allowed herself to imagine. She saw them in their matching air suits, hair braided back, taking selfies, boarding a plane, flying up, seeing the land beneath them. She imagined the rush, of adrenaline, of air around them. A broad smile filled the woman’s face.

“Let’s do it!” The daughter screamed.

“Okay, I’ll look into some places to see minimum age requirements and stuff. It’s gonna be so fun!!” The woman replied giddily, allowing herself to dream.

They chatted a bit and the daughter went back to her room and her novel. The woman made them some hot tea. She looked at her phone screen. It was 247 pm. The projected time of the cataclysm was between 3 and 5 pm. She thought.

“What should I do?” The woman asked herself. She stirred her tea and she thought. There were gentler solutions than awaiting the inevitable. But could she make that choice for herself? For her daughter?

No. She couldn’t. The woman always shared a phrase with the daughter, and she’d not known how applicable it’d be. “I’m with you from your first til your last” and it’s so true. She’d stick it through and face it alongside her favorite person. Her best friend.

The woman carried the food and the tea into her daughter’s room. They ate together and chatted and the woman couldn’t help checking the time.

318 pm. They talked about how the movie “Antebellum” made them think of the book she was rereading, “Kindred” by Octavia Butler.

353 pm. The daughter showed the woman some of her new sketches on her iPad.

409 pm. The woman and the daughter sang and sketched together. “I love you so much.” The woman said. “I love you more,” the daughter replied. “I love you most!” They both rushed to say, laughing in unison.

426 pm. A loud whistle sounded.

“What’s that?” The daughter asked, looking up from her art, confused.

The woman grit her teeth as she glanced around. Is this it? Was this the moment?

“Mama, what’s that sound?” The daughter asked. “It’s so loud!”

The woman decided then, to inform her daughter of the impending situation. “I think it’s the—”