by donalee Moulton
Moist originally appeared in After Dinner Conversation.
Someone is watering my plants.
I first noticed this with the peace lily. I had watered it mid-week. (I remember because book club meets on Wednesday, and it was my turn to host. A wilted lily would have been a greater topic of conversation than Where the Crawdads Sing.) The spathiphyllum consumes water like a hungover teenager. Yet when I went to water it two days post-Crawdads, the soil was moist, and a small puddle rimmed the inside of the planter.
I thought nothing of it at the time. Attributed the anomaly to weather or luck or the vagaries of light. But when the butterfly palm that sits beside the lily continued to send its leaves skyward long after they should have drooped in despair to the earth, I knew something more than light, luck, or low barometric pressure was the root cause.
After this, I made it a point to record the date and time I watered each plant. This was no small task. There are 26 plants. Within two weeks, 20 plants did not require me to water them even once a week––but they were not dry. Indeed, they looked healthier than under my green thumb.
Initially, I thought the watering spree might be an unexpected act of kindness, my husband rising to the occasion and lending a hand after 26 years. Who knew, perhaps dishes would be next. Despite that first rush of adrenaline and promise, however, my serotonin levels returned to reality. I worried Phonse might be in early stages of dementia, at times believing himself to be someone else. A gardener, clean freak, or alien watering can perhaps. But no, my husband was himself. He drew a clock without tremor or error, and he could recall eight of ten words I put on a piece of paper. (The two words he forgot: laundry and anniversary.)
Even so, my husband was the most likely suspect––or helpful other. I spent some time with Google looking into disorders that could compel someone unknowingly to water plants without being asked. Google, surprisingly, did not have an instant answer to this question, but I persisted and finally concluded it could be a sleepwalking syndrome. I tested the diagnosis. Once Phonse was in bed and snoring soundly, I tied a cord to his wrist and mine. My husband didn’t move, except to roll over yanking the cord and chafing my wrist. After seven days, I stopped the binding ritual and purchased a corticosteroid cream.
The plants were flourishing.
I finally decided the best approach was the direct approach. One evening following the six o’clock news, when Phonse was mid-scratch, I asked him if he had been watering the plants. That got his attention.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Someone has been watering the plants,” I said.
“Don’t be foolish,” my husband said, but he paused. Perhaps this was reflection. No, it was Phonse solving the mystery. “You water the plants.”
I could have pursued the discussion, albeit under duress, but my question had been answered. Phonse knew nothing about the plants. My daughter walked into the family room just as my husband made his pronouncement (he really should turn his attention to world peace). I decided to go for 0 and 2.
“Are you watering the plants?”
There is a look that only 16-year-olds can achieve. It is a cross between a stabbing constipation pain and a facial spasm. It means I am an idiot. Still, bodily consternation alone did not answer my question.
I repeated it, although I anticipated the answer. Jasmine has never watered a plant. She might if a hormonal love interest gifted her with one, but I’m certain even that commitment would not last. My daughter simply doesn’t deign to do housework. She gets that from her father.
The twitching stopped. It was accompanied by eye rolling, but I saw her lips parting and her tongue moving forward in her mouth. Jasmine spoke. “Nope.”
And that was that. There is no reason for either Phonse or Jasmine to lie, just as there is no earthly reason for either of them to defy their DNA and water the plants. They have never done this before. Why would they start now?
Still, someone is watering the plants. I strolled through the house, poking a finger in every pot. A few could stand a little liquid libation, but most were contentedly damp––and not of my doing. I water the plants on Friday, unless I am hosting book club. The odd bit of greenery, like the lily, gets watered twice a week. This is an inconvenience, but it is preferable to a dead plant. Or a wilting one. Wilting plants always look like they are crying out for help. It creeps me out.
The question of who is watering the plants is more of a puzzle than a harbinger. Clearly no one is breaking into the house just to water my plants. That said, I now check the alarm system before I head to bed.
It occurs to me one humid, stultifying night about 3 a.m. that I am applying logic to a situation that may be logic proof. No one in the house is watering the plants and no one can get into the house to water the plants (‘cause that’s a thing). So maybe it’s not someone but something.
I think instantly of my sister Joan. She’s spiteful, and she’s dead. Joan died a painful and protracted death from stomach cancer. I went to visit her in Alberta. I don’t like that province. People smell like cows. Joan didn’t smell like a cow, but she had numerous other bovine qualities many of which were directed at me with more than a hint of malice. Once, when I was in the second grade, Joan told all the kids at recess that I had lice. By the time we were back at our desks, half my class was scratching. One little girl, Sadie maybe, broke into tears. The whole class pointed at me and yelled, “She has lice.” The teacher hustled me, at a distance, to the nurse’s office. My mother was called. Joan grinned all through dinner. (I got back at her a week later by peeing in her bed just before her best friend arrived for a sleepover.)
Needless to say, my older sister and I did not like one another. That didn’t change as we got older. There was more distance between us, and fewer reasons to breach that span. I’m not certain if we disliked one another intensely enough for her to travel 5,000 kilometers and haunt my house. But if she’s here, dry plants would drive her nuts. I take some satisfaction in that.
There’s nothing for it but to go full ghostbuster. I learn that smudging with sage can cleanse negative energy. (That would be Joan.) I’m not sure what smudging is, and I have only used sage in stuffing. (I do make a great buttery herb dressing with craisins.) I turn to Amazon. There are many options––sticks, incense, spray––but it will take at least two days to get a delivery. I don’t have two days.
It takes a little more searching but I find a crystal shop near me (who knew?). The shop sells sage sticks––dried bundles bound together for easy lighting and holding––as well as stones. I know nothing about stones but the nice man behind the counter says black tourmaline is an all-round protection against harmful spirits and energies. I buy a bracelet for $24.95.
Phonse and Jasmine won’t be descending on me for several hours. I decide to do the smudging ceremony as soon as I get home. This ritual is an even better idea than I originally thought. Joan had asthma. The smoke will irritate her no end.
As directed, I open a few windows to prevent the smoke detectors going off then walk slowly through the house. I pay particular attention to those areas where there are plants. Part of the ceremony involves stating your intention clearly. “Joan, get the hell out,” I say as I move from room to room and floor to floor. My bracelet jangles. I refuse to chant.
It is unclear how long it will take for the smudge ceremony to work or how often it should be performed. I repeat the ceremony for three consecutive days. At the end of day three, Phonse asks if I have burned supper. Jasmine wrinkles her nose in disdain.
I toss the rest of the smudging kit in the trash. I turn back to Google looking for in-house camera equipment that is both affordable and easy to install. This takes about 12 minutes before I’m bored to tears. I make my way to Best Buy and return home with a mini camera tucked inside my jean’s pocket. I’m pleased with myself for the purchase––$67.25––and with having made the trip. This way, if it is Joan watering the plants, she won’t know what I’m up to. There will be no unwrapping of a package post-delivery or reading a manual an evil spirit could peruse over my shoulder.
Instead, I have thumb-sized plastic disk in my pocket that contains a magnet. I pretend to clean the lamps and surreptitiously attach the camera. It’s angled to clearly catch a full-frontal view of the lily and the palm. If need be, I’ll buy another camera.
I do a test run. Even though it’s Thursday, I water both plants. On my afternoon walk, I look at the video. There I am clear as day. Joan is thwarted.
It’s getting a little ridiculous the number of times a day I poke a finger into soil. Covertly, of course. It takes three days before I find moisture that is not of my making. I was beginning to wonder if Joan had caught on to the camera.
In anticipation of busting a ghost, and wanting to savor the moment, I treat myself to a latte at the local coffee shop and take out my phone for the official unveiling. The latte was pleasant; the recording was less enjoyable. In fact, the recording was downright boring. There were 12 hours of the lily and the palm doing absolutely nothing. Perhaps they swayed at one point. But at no point were they watered.
I’m at a loss. Perhaps Moses is coming down from on high to lend a hand. But no, I’d have caught him on tape. Family––dead or alive––is out. I order a second latte. Whatever is happening cannot be, or have once been, human. That leaves inanimate options.
My husband arrives home from work to find me on the roof. He does not think this is a good idea. It’s my first time up here (one more than him). The view is quite lovely. I take a minute to breathe in the landscape. Perhaps I could meditate after all.
There are no holes in the slate tiles. Certainly, none that I can see. After I climb down, I call a roofer. It takes him two days, but the professional concurs. There are no leaks in the roof. So, nothing is leaking into the planters.
It must be the planters themselves. This house is new to us. We only moved in eight months ago. While the previous owners removed most of their belongings, they left a few plants, including the lily and the palm, and a ceramic spoon rest resembling a basketball. I’ve read about gizmos that alert you when plants need to be watered. Perhaps there are gizmos that actually water them.
The lily sits in a standard plastic green pot that is tucked inside what looks to be a whiskey barrel made of distressed oak with faux metal bands. The word “HOME” is on an oval placard between the bands. I start with the planter. I remove the bands, the placard, the nails. There is no gizmo. I dig into the lily. There is plastic, dirt, leaves, and more dirt. I toss the lily into the trash.
The butterfly palm yields the same results and suffers the same fate. I hope Joan is happy.
I will not be undone by some unknown plant waterer. Of all the fates I have imagined, this is not among them. Over the next 12 hours, I remove all the plants from their pots and their planters. Then I remove everything from the house. I drive to the local dump – you don’t want whatever is in those plants to be composted and leach into the groundwater. It costs me $75. I return the camera to Best Buy. Told them it was defective. So, I’m only out $7.75.
Over the next several weeks everything returns to normal. My husband watches the nightly news and scratches on cue. My daughter continues to perfect her look of constipation and consternation. I host the book club, and no one notices the missing plants. I also called my brother-in-law in Alberta to say hello. It was a short conversation.
It is Wednesday. I have prepared deviled eggs and red velvet cupcakes for the book club. Eclectic comfort food. I take napkins and hand sanitizer into the living room. I put the eggs on a plastic tray reminiscent of van Gogh’s Sunflowers. I paid $1.25 at the Dollar Store for the tray. The cupcakes are on a glass plate. I decide to add a bowl of olives to the fete. I know the expiry date has passed. I don’t think it will matter, and I won’t eat any.
I open the fridge door but can’t seem to find the olives. I look behind the ketchup (which really needs to be wiped) and the peach yogurt. I remove ginger ale and Clamato juice (which I have never tasted in my life). I look in the cheese drawer and the produce crisper. There are no olives anywhere.
I repeat the search. To no avail.
Someone has been cleaning my fridge.
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Sorry guys it was me. They looked thirsty