The Placeholder

Patricia Russo

The Placeholder

He didn’t know what kind of plant it was. Last spring, Jay had come back from one of his morning walks with a few wild, windblown seeds stuck to his jacket, and, on a whim, had put them in the little blue pot that once upon a time had had violets growing in it. Just to see what would happen. That was Jay all over, pursuing whims, following intuitions. Now, the kids kept telling him not to keep it in the bedroom, because plants sucked up oxygen when you were asleep. He knew that wasn’t true and explained to them exactly why they were wrong, but they were not swayed. Jay had always been better with them. Better at listening. Better at understanding. Just better.

More than a year ago, that walk. Now it was nearly summer again. He didn’t think he would be able to bear it.

He talked to the plant sometimes. Not to encourage it to grow—it was already too big for the small pot, its light-green oval leaves overspilling the lip and spreading down the sides, like ivy, though it wasn’t really anything like ivy in any other way. He talked to it so he could have a conversation that wasn’t on the phone, wasn’t mostly How’re you doing? Okay, see you soon, when soon meant Christmas or his next birthday. Sometimes he put it on the bed and lay down next to it, in the kind of curl he used to shape himself into to cuddle a cat, or the kids when they were very small. He would lie with one hand on the smooth pot and his nose just touching a leaf. Its scent was faint but pleasant, like new grass. Sometimes he hummed to it, a tune from Jay’s childhood that Jay used to hum to the kids when they couldn’t sleep. He’d known the name of it once, but that knowledge was gone from his mind now, and the kids didn’t remember, either. Sometimes he thought the leaves on the other side of the pot, not the ones his nose and chin and lips were touching, but the ones touching his hand, hummed back.

He had never seen a ghost and did not believe it was possible for them to exist. He knew, though, that transformation was possible. He’d seen it happen. He’d done it himself.

He understood, as a rational person, what he should do: transplant this wondrous thing into a bigger pot, maybe even plant it outside, where it would have plenty of room to grow and spread and thrive. But what his heart wanted was to lick the leaf that was touching his lip and then bite it, chew it slowly, taste it thoroughly, swallow it, and then the next one on the stem, and the next. Even if they tasted bad. Even if they made him sick. Even if they transformed him in a way he didn’t, not yet, entirely want. They could be plants together, couldn’t they? If the universe were a fair and decent place.

On the far side of the pot, the leaves draping, tickling, the back of his hand began to sing. It was almost, but not quite, a lullaby. The melody was soothing, but the words chided him. Sleep when you are finished, sleep when you are done. Look at the clock, my dear, it is barely midafternoon, the day is far from over. He didn’t recognize the tune at all, but he understood those words. It wasn’t Jay’s voice. He knew that. But it was close enough that it would do, for now, for today.

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Patricia Russo has had stories in Fantasy, The Dark, and Clockwork Phoenix and poems in One Art and The Acropolis Journal.