normalcy, unfeeling and uninspired, and nobody would notice or care.
But then, in the garden maze, there was Olivia. And he realized that there was, to his surprise, something in Green Valley that was still interesting to him. Something that nudged him out of his stupor and made him want to actually try. He wanted to know more about her, this new Olivia who seemed both hardened and hesitant. He wanted it like he hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. He did not expect that she might ever love him again—if she ever had loved him to begin with. And he wouldn’t want her to love him—she deserved better. But the idea of getting to know her better, of drawing her out and discovering what it was that she so desperately guarded, that was a project that invigorated him. He would stay in Green Valley. He was back for good. He felt more clearheaded than he had in a long time.
He climbed the stairs out of the hidden garden, feeling oddly energized. Then he was outside in the blazing, antagonistic brightness of July, which was July in all its copious Julyness, baking the earth to powder under the sun.
In the Bud
Many years ago when she was still alive, Olivia’s mother had liked to tell her daughter a story: Once upon a time, a woman and her husband longed for a child. But the woman grew older, and the man grew older, and they came to believe they would not have a family of their own. Then, one day, the woman happened upon a fairy splashing and frolicking in a valley stream. And in order to keep the woman from giving away the secret of her existence, the fairy agreed to give the woman a daughter in exchange for her silence.
For many years the woman waited. She waited, until she decided she must have dreamed the whole thing. But then, one beautiful spring morning, she pulled up a clump of yellow dandelions only to discover the tiniest of human babies, curled up within the root ball and sweetly speckled with dark brown dirt. And she knew the fairy had not forgotten her after all.
Sometimes the story changed as it suited Olivia’s mother’s mood: The man and the woman found the baby in the hollow of a tree, in a fallen robin’s nest among the blue eggs, in the closed bud of a peony after all the other flowers had bloomed. But always, the story had the same ending: The man and the woman were the Pennyworts, and the baby was Olivia, and they were very happy and surprised when she arrived.
Olivia had loved the stories—though it had been a moment of great embarrassment when in the third grade she realized that she had not in fact been found floating on a water lily, and that her appearance on the farm had more to do with what the geese and goats did in the springtime than with pixie dust or magical storms. But her mother had always insisted that the stories she’d told Olivia about her birth were the perfect truth, if not the actual truth, because they got to the fundamental moral of the story better than facts ever could: Of all the people in Green Valley, Olivia had been born special.
From the beginning, all types of flora had been drawn to her. Houseplants turned away from the sunlight to bend in the direction of her crib. A formerly well-behaved patch of Dutchman’s-pipe had climbed up the side of the farmhouse to her nursery, where it plastered itself against the windowpane as if it wanted to reach in. Olivia’s mother said she’d noticed all of this, but had decided that there was nothing menacing about the phenomenon, and if the plants wanted to be close to her little human miracle, she couldn’t blame them.
Alice’s ideas aside, Olivia did believe certain people were born gardeners, and she was one of them. She grew up playing with pill bugs and millipedes and butterflies in the furrows of her family’s fields. She’d learned to wield a dibble for seeding before she’d learned to walk on two legs. She cried like the world was ending when her parents tried to bring her indoors even for a quick snack, and the
But then, in the garden maze, there was Olivia. And he realized that there was, to his surprise, something in Green Valley that was still interesting to him. Something that nudged him out of his stupor and made him want to actually try. He wanted to know more about her, this new Olivia who seemed both hardened and hesitant. He wanted it like he hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. He did not expect that she might ever love him again—if she ever had loved him to begin with. And he wouldn’t want her to love him—she deserved better. But the idea of getting to know her better, of drawing her out and discovering what it was that she so desperately guarded, that was a project that invigorated him. He would stay in Green Valley. He was back for good. He felt more clearheaded than he had in a long time.
He climbed the stairs out of the hidden garden, feeling oddly energized. Then he was outside in the blazing, antagonistic brightness of July, which was July in all its copious Julyness, baking the earth to powder under the sun.
In the Bud
Many years ago when she was still alive, Olivia’s mother had liked to tell her daughter a story: Once upon a time, a woman and her husband longed for a child. But the woman grew older, and the man grew older, and they came to believe they would not have a family of their own. Then, one day, the woman happened upon a fairy splashing and frolicking in a valley stream. And in order to keep the woman from giving away the secret of her existence, the fairy agreed to give the woman a daughter in exchange for her silence.
For many years the woman waited. She waited, until she decided she must have dreamed the whole thing. But then, one beautiful spring morning, she pulled up a clump of yellow dandelions only to discover the tiniest of human babies, curled up within the root ball and sweetly speckled with dark brown dirt. And she knew the fairy had not forgotten her after all.
Sometimes the story changed as it suited Olivia’s mother’s mood: The man and the woman found the baby in the hollow of a tree, in a fallen robin’s nest among the blue eggs, in the closed bud of a peony after all the other flowers had bloomed. But always, the story had the same ending: The man and the woman were the Pennyworts, and the baby was Olivia, and they were very happy and surprised when she arrived.
Olivia had loved the stories—though it had been a moment of great embarrassment when in the third grade she realized that she had not in fact been found floating on a water lily, and that her appearance on the farm had more to do with what the geese and goats did in the springtime than with pixie dust or magical storms. But her mother had always insisted that the stories she’d told Olivia about her birth were the perfect truth, if not the actual truth, because they got to the fundamental moral of the story better than facts ever could: Of all the people in Green Valley, Olivia had been born special.
From the beginning, all types of flora had been drawn to her. Houseplants turned away from the sunlight to bend in the direction of her crib. A formerly well-behaved patch of Dutchman’s-pipe had climbed up the side of the farmhouse to her nursery, where it plastered itself against the windowpane as if it wanted to reach in. Olivia’s mother said she’d noticed all of this, but had decided that there was nothing menacing about the phenomenon, and if the plants wanted to be close to her little human miracle, she couldn’t blame them.
Alice’s ideas aside, Olivia did believe certain people were born gardeners, and she was one of them. She grew up playing with pill bugs and millipedes and butterflies in the furrows of her family’s fields. She’d learned to wield a dibble for seeding before she’d learned to walk on two legs. She cried like the world was ending when her parents tried to bring her indoors even for a quick snack, and the
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