Lilly's Stories

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he dropped his shears in surprise. Paul had been pruning the dahlia pinnata, and since his house was so far from any town—the nearest was at least thirty minutes away—he never thought he would hear another human without a scheduled meeting. His secluded abode hardly ever saw any other face but his.

He looked up and twisted his upper body to see the figure standing behind him. It was a young man, appearing to be about eighteen or so. He had a worn backpack slung across his left shoulder and a manila folder in his hands. He was poking his index finger with the corner of it in a nervous, fidgety way.

Paul stood and dusted the dirt from his knees. The act only added to the filth on his jeans, as his gardening gloves were coated in a thick layer of muck themselves. He pulled them off and stuck out his hand to the man, who took it gratefully.

“Hi,” the man said with a faint Boston accent. Closer to him now, Paul could see the dark, bruise-like circles under his eyes and his exhausted, unshaven face. “I’m wondering if you could tell me where I could find a Paul Hofer?”

Paul smiled. “I just so happen to be him. Can I help you?”

The man swallowed and began twisting the paper on the corner of the folder.

Suddenly realizing he was letting his nerves show, he dropped his right hand to his side and cleared his throat.

“It would probably be best if you were sitting down, sir,” he said. “Do you have any place where we could talk?”

Paul nodded, apprehensive about whatever the young man might want to speak to him about.

“Let’s go inside,” he suggested, and motioned towards the house.

The man nodded and followed Paul’s footsteps until they reached the cottage-style front door.

Inside was filled with books and potted plants, each in a designated space. It was cozy, yet organized and clean.

Taking off his muddy gardening boots, Paul led the man through the small foyer into the kitchen. Sitting down at the round, wooden kitchen table, he asked again, “What can I help you with?”

Fighting hard to keep his hold on a calm demeanor, the man cleared his throat again.

“Do you remember a man named Andrew Edwards?” he asked.

Paul froze. He hadn’t heard that name in so long that he had assumed he would never know what had happened to the owner of it.

“Yes,” he said slowly, blinking in astonishment. “He was my half-brother. My father died when I was thirteen, and then my mother married a man named Kenneth Edwards. They had Andrew when I was fifteen.”

That was over fifty years ago. Paul shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Well, you’ll probably want to look at this,” the man said and handed Paul the folder, of whose corner he had nearly torn to pieces.

Paul took it with a shaky, gardening-worn hand. He ached to see what was inside—he had to know what happened to Andrew—but he also dreaded the thought of really knowing what had become of his brother.

Slowly unfolding the thick paper folder, he discovered that its contents were three sheets of paper: a marriage and birth certificate and two death certificates.

The marriage certificate showed the names of Andrew Edwards and Christina Alaban, who married about twenty-five years ago. The birth certificate was for a Liam Edwards just over seventeen years ago. The death certificates had Andrew and Christina’s names on them, both from three months ago.

Paul let the papers slip from his fingers and descend on the table like feathers.

He looked up at the young man, who was now tracing the lines of his hand with his fingernails and looking anxiously at Paul.

“Those were my parents,” the man across the table said, needing to break the silence. “They got in an accident in June, and my mom’s parents died when I was three. She didn’t have any siblings, so I started looking on my dad’s side. His parents died just a few years after my mom’s, and he only had one other sibling.”

He looked at Paul, searching to see if he was angry or if he would break out in tears and embrace him.

“Liam?” Paul asked. The young man nodded.

Tears sprung to Paul’s eyes. His brother was dead, and his only nephew was sitting right in front of him.

The zamioculcas zamiifolia seated on the shelf in the corner of the kitchen seemed to wilt, its optimistic, hunter-green leaves uncharacteristically drooping.

Paul glanced down at the papers, wishing like a child that they would magically vanish and a different story would have found its way to his ears.

But he wasn’t a child. Things were not going to change, no matter how terribly he wanted them to. He couldn’t depend on make-believe and fantasies to repair it all. What happened next was up to him. After learning about his nephew’s predicament, he couldn’t leave Liam to fend for himself.

“Where have you been staying for the past three months?” Paul asked, concerned.

Liam shrugged. “At first, I was in a group home. It was pretty great there but I couldn’t fit in. Then I stayed with a foster family, and we started looking into my ‘real’ family. They helped me out and just last week, we found out where you lived. They drove me out here, but I wanted to see you alone.”

Paul didn’t want to waste another second. “Would your foster parents be alright with you staying with me?”

Liam’s sapped face lit up while, at the same time, tears pooled in his eyes.

As they embraced and caught up on the seventeen years that had been lost, the ZZ Plant stood up tall and serene, basking in the love between long lost nephew and uncle.