Cactus

by Kate Finegan

An Honorable Mention from the 2023 Fiction Contest

At the baby shower, Diana’s mother-in-law gives everyone a little plant inside a little pot. She rubs the guest of honor’s blooming belly and says to the assembled women, “Put your energy into your succulent, and it will transfer to this little miracle.” Two pats, little-miracle, for this little-miracle of science, little-miracle of perseverance, little-miracle of all those shots. My plant looks like a flattened artichoke, but I don’t know if it has a heart. Its leaves end in sharp tips, and I’m tempted not to take it. The last thing I want is some cactus.

See, Diana has tried and tried, for years and years, and once, in the office, I joked things could be worse, meaning where workload is concerned. That’s when she recounted all the fertility appointments, all the tears, all the hormone shots. So many pinpricks for a maybe-baby. So shouldn’t this plant be plastic, not some totem needing tending? Ten, fifteen women at the baby shower—how many might kill their little-baby cacti?

“Succulent,” Cheryl, an accountant, corrects me.

“What’d I say?”

Day-drunk from mimosas, she pulls me in, whispers so my colleagues will not hear. “It’s fine. They’re tough to kill.” But she whispers much too loudly.

They’re tough to kill. Thrive on neglect. People love to tell this lie, and my plants always love to die. But I cannot kill this cactus. I watch it, from the moment I wake up, all through breakfast; I even take it to the bathroom, keep the shower curtain cracked a smidge, check for brittle leaves or signs of drooping. Are they called leaves? Some little offshoot sprouts; I learn that’s called the chick. And then it’s Monday. Monday, and another morning commute, another morning to wonder what will come of my little cactus. 

Here’s the thing—I used to be the smart kid, top of class; that meant something. But salesman-of-the-year plaques don’t ask my mom for grandma’s cookies, don’t tie flies with my dad. I’m supposed to be innately nurturing. I’m supposed to say yes, please, when my boss asks if I’d like to hold her little boy. Must have missed some week in Girl Scouts, and I never took ballet. In seventh grade, I was tasked with caring for an egg, but I granted my partner full custody. 

At work, I’ve been told to keep dummy photos in my wallet; childless women make customers uncomfortable, never mind my numbers are the best. So that’s it. I’ll take the damn thing to the office. I tuck it into my jacket and take it on the L train. A little girl smiles when I half-unzip to check on it. I smile back until she tries to yank the chick right off. I slap her hand unthinkingly; her mother keeps her earbuds in, keeps staring at her phone, so I stick my tongue out at the little girl as the train rolls to a stop. 

The commute is hard on little cactus. That girl-thief and the close quarters of the jacket, the breath of so many strangers, all that jostling. At work, my boss asks where I got it. I tell her, forgetting she was so conspicuously not invited. We’ve got how many channels of communication in this office? Email, Slack, and WhatsApp. Now this baby shower Facebook group, all these women with their photos of unwrapping diapers stuffed with melted chocolate bars, playing “Guess the Mess.” I won that game. They joked I’m good at messes. They joked, but it’s true. 

“Dead set on killing the unkillable?” Cheryl asks on her way to the water cooler.

My gaze flickers to the framed ultrasound on Diana’s desk. She has headphones on; she cannot hear. But then again, I wear headphones without music so I won’t have to talk to people.

“No! What?”

“Succulents need sun.”

This is a basement office. So I take the cactus home, determined not to kill it, to somehow make it thrive. The apartment smells of mildew and meadow-scented sweat from the racks of laundry hung to dry. The washing machines in this old building stink; I should buy stock in Febreze, I go through so much of it. I put pasta on and forget to time it, so it overcooks. I consider masking my mistake in cheese and butter, but leave the gummy mass in the pot. I sit down to watch the cactus, succulent, whatever. I open Tinder, swipe left, swipe left, swipe left. Since thirty, all I ever swipe is left. The phone dings. Diana’s mother-in-law on the event page: UPDATE on my SUCCULENT!! The PRECIOUS little BUD is FLOWERING!!!:)

Her plant must be different. For my plant, a flower means the mother dies. My thumbs hover over the screen like I’m at some kind of séance. I can’t think of a word to say. Another ding. Mine too! From the do-nothing project manager, a photo of what’s certainly a cactus, all prickly with a bright red bloom. I’d like to pinch that little flower off. 

Ding. Be sure not to overwater!

Ding. How much water is too much water?

Ding. Press your finger in to feel the soil. If it’s dry, it needs some water.

I press my finger into the little pot and feel something taut go snap. I’ve cut the chick off from the hen, that lifeline beneath the soil. I turn off the screen, but the notifications keep on dinging. They sound like bells on Christmas Eve, back home in church. Every little girl wanted to be the one to carry baby Jesus down the aisle and set him in the manger, but all I wanted was to play the biggest, deepest bell. Once, I squeezed a balloon under my shirt beneath the bleachers at band camp, saying oh, my aching back and all the other kids laughed, so I said I’m about to burst and squeezed my arms around my middle and pushed and pushed, but the balloon just stretched and strained; it wouldn’t simply pop. So I stuck a pin through my green T-shirt and a girl said that’s fucked up. She was twelve, but she was right.

Ding. Ding. Ding. The baby shower keeps on going, all these photos of these succulents, all this advice from all these women, the already- and someday-mothers. My fingers type Clive Schnell into the search bar. My old neighbor. The one I raised the egg with. The one I forced to raise the egg alone. We swore we’d always stay in touch.

I hum the first bars of “Route 66” because that’s the sort of music Clive used to hum to me, in that strange space that’s more than friends but less than adolescent lovers—a childhood intimacy that turns strange with puberty, when the old habit of listening to his parents’ records becomes laden with connotations, and the same goes for familiar touch, the platonic harmony of bodies. I tell the cactus I never learned the words to this song, only its melody. 

We had to watch The Miracle of Life when we got our egg babies. The health teacher did high kicks, shouting “Yay, birth!” as this room of twelve-year-olds watched the push and scream and snip and tear and ice-cube-crunch and hoo-hoo-hee-hee hoo-hoo-hee-hee and here comes the head and one last push and clamp and snip and it’s a girl, that orchestra of birth, and Clive said women are so strong, and I thought no way in hell I’m doing that. 

He doesn’t look so different in his profile picture. Maybe his old soul always shaped his face. I try to type a message but somehow initiate a video call. He answers before I can hang up. This cactus is doomed.

“Long time since I’ve seen your face,” he says. This guy would wear fedoras in the hallway then take them off when class began. I was a little bit in love with him, or maybe just with the fedoras.

“Hey,” I say. “I have this cactus.” I hold it up.

“That’s a succulent.” A long silence in which I refuse to say he’s right. I even know the species, but to my mind it’s still a cactus. “So, what’s the news? How’s life in the big city?”

This small-town fedora boy-now-man. In seventh grade he hugged me long and tight when he said he broke the egg.

“A girl tried to kill it on the train.”

“Why’d you bring it on the train?”

“You’re breaking up.” But Clive comes through loud and clear. I hang up and write dropped call. He writes back Such a pleasure to see your friendly face! This guy was the one who laughed at all my shitty jokes, the one who called me normal. So this guy must’ve been delusional. Still is, maybe—who answers a video call from an old classmate without warning? But still, I type you too! then delete the exclamation point, click send. He hearts it right away. The message box says he’s typing, not typing, typing, then I put my screen to sleep.

Something’s burning, I can smell it. The alarm goes off. Shit. I run across the room for a broom, jam the handle against the smoke detector’s bright red light, but nothing happens, just the noise. They say it’s good to sing to plants, so I’m guessing this will be the thing that kills it. I always do this—leave the burner on after cooking my shitty pasta, so the abandoned noodles go up in smoke. I grab my desk chair, but it’s got wheels, so I’m sure it will shoot out from under me, leave me lifeless, sprawled and stinking on the floor for days until the landlord comes to check on rent. I climb up anyway and wobble up to standing. Someone pounds on the door. I ram my middle finger into the red light. One more squeal, a couple beeps, and then it’s silent except for the knocking. I fumble off the chair, run to the kitchen, shut the burner off, and holler, “It’s fine!” Eventually, the knocking stops. These everyday emergencies, all alone here in this apartment. Friends say I should get a cat, but here’s the thing—they’ll slurp your eyes out if you die. Anyway. I sit and watch the cactus. The phone dings. Clive. Take care of yourself, hear?

Here’s the thing—beyond the small emergencies, I run my life as a tight ship. A workaholic with nowhere to go, I’ve saved up so many vacation days, been gifted extra for my sales. So I pack a bag. I put the cactus in the cupholder. You don’t get to be the top salesperson without attending to customers’ wants and needs: I keep the air off so the cactus can stay warm. I sweat in the sweltering car and say to no one, “This is the first adventure.”

First of what, I can’t quite say. It’s just a cactus, after all. Succulent. I’ll call it what it is. I’ll try to remember. Music helps some plants to grow. Just like you’re supposed to want to talk to babies through mothers’ stretched-tight skin. Crouch low, whisper jokes, sing, say my name is so-and-so, and I just can’t wait to meet you. 

I hum the old songs Clive would play when I’d lie with my head against his heart and listen to its beat keep time. Time—I hum to kill some. The cactus hums back, vibrates in the cupholder. No gas stops for miles on this endless road, and the tank is nearing empty. If a car stalls in the desert, does the stranded woman make a sound?

But just when I think the fumes have finally run out, the sky opens up, yawns wide over the vast expanse of rust-red dirt, all dry, and there’s a larger cactus, a saguaro, and I know you’ll wonder if I’m dreaming, but I’m not someone who dreams. I stop the car, get out, and there’s a single gas pump, mimicking the stance of the saguaro, like a mother-in-law with hand-on-hip. Then the saguaro tips its hat—because yes, this dapper plant wears a fedora, and when I hum the song about the moon, it hushes me and belts out “My Way,” and yes, I know it’s a mirage, of course I do, and don’t they all know it, too—all those woman with their little plants in little pots—so I sit awhile. The saguaro serenades its potted cousin. The desert sun glints off my windshield. I turn up the brightness on my phone and see I’ve got a string of messages. Diana’s sister—

Mine died :’( 

A picture. The once-green stalk now browned and doubled over.

Try putting it under a lamp.

Water it! 

Maybe it’s getting too much sun. 

It looks like you overwatered it. Check the soil. It should be dry to the touch.

I tap my tongue to the roof of my mouth, swallow air and wish for water. Just then a brook gurgles by my feet like babies’ laughter, so I drink from it and know just what to do—the thing is, I’m resourceful. I dig a small hole with my tire iron, not too close to the water, which tasted real enough and babbles like it’s learning to twist its tongue into first words. I plant the little cactus. When I pull it from the pot, it doesn’t stab me. It’s a succulent. I fill my tank, give my regards to the saguaro. I lock the phone inside the trunk of my car so I won’t touch it. In the rearview, the small dot of a succulent. No saguaro, brook, nor pump, no water in the desert and nothing to keep this old car running, but my gas gauge is reading full, and when the sun sets, it’ll set behind me.

Published August 6th, 2023