blue project

Mom had always cut off the heads of marigolds when she planted. She thought it helped their roots grow strong. Otherwise, the petal would suck up all the nutrition for its short glory and then die. I cut them off now too – with less certainty than her. I could see her smile and tell me, ‘It doesn’t kill the flower; it strengthens the bloom.’

The nurses watched us work. Making sure all the tools we used – even if they were plastic – were kept safe.

Out of all the facility’s designated “self-reflection” activities, gardening wasn’t a popular choice for the patients. After an hour, dirt finds it’s way through your gloves and under your nails and the rest of the day is spent shaking out the black crumbs from your hair. But it had the most sunlight of all the rooms. The entire roof was made of glass. Lined with marigolds, four major paths cut through the garden, each leading to a separate wing of the great building. Smaller paths weaved through the four major paths with hedges large enough to be considered a maze, but all lead to the center, so even though it felt you could get lost, it was impossible as long as you keep walking forward. They called it the Gold Room because of all the marigolds. It smelt like summer back home when we were kids and not like plastic walls and hospital cleaner.

Dr. Vanderleer spent his mornings helping tend the garden too. He was the lead geneticist at the head of Blue Project. That wasn’t the study’s real name, just what people in the other wings called it under their breath because all the geneticists wore light blue coats instead of the white that the doctors wore. His coat lay folded on top of a stone bench at the center and was patiently pulling out weeds. I read about him in most my genetics courses. I wrote a paper on his study on Progeria. Last year I graduated and applied to work with him and got rejected.

I wasn’t here to garden. I wasn’t here to recover either. I followed the gold path to him. A nurse held out her arm to stop me. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“I was told to fertilize all the flowers.”

“He does the ones in the center.”

“I won’t disturb him. I know him.”

“Don’t we all.”

Dr. Vanderleer had walked up and placed his hand on the nurses outstretched arm. She stammered, “Oh, we’re not - too loud… sorry.” And her arm sunk down.

“I feel like I know you.” Said Dr. Vanderleer, staring at me. “Not from here, but from before.” He waved his hand and I followed him deeper into the maze.

“I studied you in school. I’m a geneticist – I have a degree in genetics.”

We weaved through hedges, to an old, crumbling stone pathway. It was a section I hadn’t been before. There was stone table with an etched chess board, broken stone pieces, and two matching stone chairs. We sat down.

“I’ve read all your papers.”

He took the king’s pawn and played E3 and waited. I took a pawn moved it forward.

“I know you’re building something far bigger than people know – or even believe is possible –“

“Not many people do. Not yet.”

“I have ideas too. I think I could help you.”

“I like your energy. But, I know who you are.”

“I’m not just some patient in this hospital!”

“I’m sorry my dear - I read the files on whoever I work with – even those I garden with. Best to be careful these days. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

“I can start at the bottom. I can do paperwork or answer phone calls.”

“I don’t trust you enough for you to work with us – but if you want to be part of the project. We are in need of test subjects.”