Chapter 1

She was hiding behind a rack of terracotta plant pots at the garden centre were she worked, sitting there with her back against the wall where no one could see her, which was ridiculous. What am I doing here? She asked herself as she stared at the scalloped edges of the pots. They were the good ones, imported from a potter in England. Exorbitantly expensive, but rich customers snapped them up. She remembered placing the order and filing the invoice. She looked down at the inventory sheet that she'd just finished checking over when Tanya and Allan, her co-workers, had appeared on the other side of the rack and started talking about her. It was obviously an ongoing debate.

“Kristabell is a freak,” Allan declared loudly and with conviction, obviously not the first time he'd said it. It was a quiet day. There were no customers around to hear him.

“I think calling her a freak is pushing it a little. It's not like she's retarded or like she has a third arm . . . but I know what you mean,” Tanya responded.

Kristabell felt like crying. It was an ache deep inside that she thought she'd left behind when she'd dropped out of high school, but the last few months it was creeping back. She'd never exactly felt like she belonged, but it seemed lately as if everyone was confirming it to her. Even the people who shouldn't be. Just the other night she'd overheard her parents talking about her in a similar if less insulting vein.

“Do you think she knows that she's not like everyone else?” her father had asked her mother.

“I don't know,” her mother had responded, “but the older she gets the more obvious it is.”

It was late at night and they thought she was asleep.

For eighteen years her parents had taken everything about her in stride, or so she'd thought. An odd child, she'd been what is typically referred to as a hopeless dreamer. She'd spent her life reading books about fairies and unicorns, dragons and knights. She could spend hours lost in the backyard, just watching the trees grow. It was when she was thirteen that her obsessive passion for gardening emerged. It had begun with a simple package of wild flower seeds, but over the past five years her garden had turned into a veritable riot of flowers, fruits, vegetables and herbs. She grew strawberries, violets, kale, roses, kiwi, wisteria, cabbage, lavender, and everything in between. She had planted virtually every available square inch of soil on her parents city lot and had grape, kiwi, and clematis vines scaling every vertical surface.

At sixteen she'd come home from school after having been pushed, intentionally, on the stairs only to limp to her locker and find that someone had figured out her combination and left a dead frog there for her. Of course she'd screamed. Of course they'd laughed. “Hey Thumbelina! Someone get your prince?” a taunting voice had called out behind her. “Thumbelina didn't marry a frog,” Kristabell had said quietly, to no one in particular, then she'd blinked away her tears, retrieved anything of value from her locker, and left the school, never to return. There was a limit to how many times she could leave school bruised and humiliated, and she had reached that limit. She just couldn't take it anymore.

She had walked in the door at home and announced that she would not go back and that there was nothing they could say or do that would make her. But even this her parents had simply accepted as though they had been expecting it. Her mother, Fionnuala, was a bartender, and her father, Gavin, was a fire fighter. He'd looked at her calmly and said in his soft Irish accent, “More than one way to get an education.”

Her mother's response had been, “Don't need grade twelve to do what I do.”

Neither of her parents, it turned out, had finished high school, although her father had done his 

general equivalency, so they had simply left her up to her own devices.

Kristabell applied for a job at the little garden centre not far from home. When her boss, Sheila, had asked her, “Why should I hire you?” Kristabell had been ready.

“Because I'm good with plants.” She brought out a stack of photographs. Her parents had taken the pictures and she, Kristabell, featured in many of them with grubby knees and dirt up to her elbows working in her garden. “This is my garden. My parents don't help me with it,” she'd told Sheila.

Sheila was blown away. The job had been Kristabell's for the taking.

Sheila liked her and had taken to calling her Sprite. The first time Sheila had called Kristabell that she'd asked, “Why did you call me Sprite?”

“Well, you're a funny little slip of a thing and, what with those big solemn eyes of yours, all that hair, and your pretty, pointy little face, you look for all the world like one of Arthur Rackham's fairies.”

That night when she was alone in her room Kristabell had looked at herself in the mirror. She was pretty—though not fashionably pretty—with thick wavy, pale ash coloured hair that reached her hips and fair skin that gave her a strange colourless quality. It made her lips, which always looked like she'd been eating cherries, and her eyes, which were a strange intense blue—the colour of storm clouds, or mountains in the distance—stand out even more. Sheila was right. She did look like an Arthur Rackham fairy.

Kristabell often wondered what people, other than Sheila and her parents, thought of her. At school the other kids had generally been cruel to her, making the odd tentative friendship she would form every so often awkward and short lived. Most of the time she had felt too shy to talk to people. She was constantly, unintentionally, frying computers in the computer labs which had always lead to more bullying. She wished that she could move through the world with more ease. She wished that she knew what she was doing wrong, but she was what she was—whatever that was. But then, there had been Evan.

Evan had been her best, and only, friend. A university student, he was Sheila's son and would come home and work for his mother at the garden centre during the summer. Kristabell and Evan had a lot in common from a certain perspective. They liked the same books, movies, music and tended to have the same views, although he had, on many occasions, tried to convince her to go back to school.

The first summer they worked together things had been casual enough. They would go for the odd coffee and trade books, but they were at work together nine hours a day six days a week. It wasn't as if they didn't see quite a lot of each other there, and summers at the garden centre were busy and exhausting. At the end of the summer Evan had asked for her address though, and all that winter they had exchanged letters. Nice old-fashioned paper letters.

When Evan came home again the next spring, he came with a gift. An original edition of  Undine, illustrated by Arthur Rakham. “My mum always says you look like one of his creatures. I found this at a flee market and I couldn't resist. I know how much you like books.”

She had taken it, held it tightly against her chest, and smiled, a soft inward smile that he probably hadn't understood. Except for her parents and Sheila, no one had ever given her a gift before. No one had ever valued her friendship before. 

She and Evan spent more time together that summer, going to movies, bookstores, the beach, and often meeting for lunch on their day off, but if Evan had felt anything more than friendship for her, he'd hidden it well. More than once Kristabell had come out of a theatre restroom after a movie to find him standing there with that easy grace of his, Evan had a sort of physical confidence, a comfort in his skin, that Kristabell figured came from being a competitive swimmer—being in prime physical condition—but, that also, maybe, she suspected, came in part from the amount of time he spent in a speedo, being at ease with himself as he was, dancers seemed to have a similar quality—, and there would be an attractive girl there in the theatre lobby, ogling him and chatting him up. The girl would take one look at Kristabell and then say something to the effect of, “Aw, how cute. You take your little sister to the movies. I wish I'd had a big brother like you.” And then the girl would make cow eyes at Evan, and Kristabell would make him laugh by rolling her eyes while the girl wasn't looking. But they never claimed to be anything other than siblings because, somehow, after being mistaken for siblings, admitting that they weren't just seemed awkward, although Kristabell couldn't have, at the time, said why. And then he'd kissed her.

After two summers of not holding hands, not hugging . . .? They were friends weren't they? And friends touched each other sometimes. But not Kristabell and Evan. Even sitting next to each other in theatres sharing popcorn they'd made sure their arms never brushed, and the kiss had shocked her. She'd been standing on a step ladder in the back of the storage shed putting away plant pots. It was the last week of August. Kristabell had turned to Evan to ask him to pass her a plant pot but instead she'd looked at him and said, “I can't believe I have to stand on the second rung of a step ladder to look into your face without hurting my neck.” And he'd stepped up to her, taking her arms lightly in his hands, and kissed her. Not a timid chaste little kiss either. A real kiss. Kristabell hadn't seen it coming. She was so taken aback and overwhelmed by the actual feeling of him kissing her that her response had been confused and minimal. He'd stepped back from her and said, “Krista I . . .” And then looking as if he almost might cry, he'd said, “Bloody hell,” and walked away.

Bloody hell. Those were the last words he spoke to her.

He wasn't at work for the rest of the day and when Kristabell was leaving he still hadn't returned. She headed across the parking lot to the intersection, waiting for the light to change, goosebumps forming on the backs of her arms. It was a little cool outside and she'd forgotten her sweater. She turned back and headed for the staff room to get it. She walked in and picked up her cardigan, then she heard Evan's voice, “I moved my plane ticket. I'm going back to Montreal tomorrow.”

“What do you mean? You're going back a week early?” She heard Sheila's voice through the office door. 

Then there was a long awkward silence after which Evan admitted, “I kissed Kristabell.”

“I'm confused. I thought kissing was a good thing,” Sheila responded dryly.

“Mum you're not serious?”

“I am. I don't understand. You're good friends. Some of the best romantic relationships come out of friendship. What's wrong with Kristabell?”

“Well other than the fact that I live in Montreal and she lives in Vancouver,” Evan started his list, “She's a seventeen year old high school drop out, and as if that's not enough she looks like she's about thirteen. It seriously bothers me that I'm attracted to her. I mean, she's what, just slightly over four foot eleven? I am a six foot three inch tall, twenty-two year old, grad student!”

“Kristabell is more mature than the average twenty year old Evan. Even you've said that.”

There was a tense silence that followed and then Sheila asked Evan, “So what is this then, some kind of snobbery?”

“Call it what you want. I just want to go back to Montreal and get over her before the semester starts.” 

And then the office door had opened and he'd walked out and seen Kristabell standing there holding her sweater. Evan hadn't said anything, he'd just stood there looking at her then blinked hard a few times and walked away. That was the last time she had seen him. The next summer he got a job tree planting in Ontario. Sheila tried not to talk about him. It was a huge blow to Kristabell's ego, not that she had felt for him then what he'd felt for her. Evan wasn't her type, she'd told herself, but the fact that he found his feelings for her so repulsive that he wouldn't come home just so that he wouldn't have to see her . . .? She missed his friendship. She missed his letters. She missed the way his friendship had made her feel . . . normal. A part of her was curious as to what it would have felt like if he had pursued her romantically, but every time she let her mind go there, she remembered how he had looked at her that last time. No. It was better if she just tried to forget Evan. Forget his letters. Forget their long conversations. Forget how she hadn't noticed until it was too late, just how handsome he was. No. Forget Evan. The problem was that she couldn't forget how let down she'd felt. She tried to distract herself. She took courses over the quiet winter. Anything that caught her fancy. Aromatherapy, herbalism, horticulture, world religion. She wished that she could say she was content but after a long empty summer, she felt like she was floundering. And now here she was, at an all time low, hiding behind the plant pots, afraid to come out because if Allan and Tanya knew that she had heard them talking about her, well . . . it would just make life that much more uncomfortable.

            “So, earlier today, I found her staring at the begonias,” Allan was telling Tanya, “Like she could see them growing. Sometimes I catch her singing to the plants. She's so loopy. I wonder if she smokes pot or does mushrooms before she comes to work.”

Tanya cracked up at this but she quickly stifled her laughter. Kristabell heard Sheila walk up and tell them, “Enough gabbing you two.” And then she sent each one on a separate task and poked her head around the rack of pots. “Come on out Sprite. They're gone,” she said in an understanding tone. Kristabell always found it difficult to maintain her composure when someone did something nice for her and this time was no exception.

  “Thank you Sheila,” she said, blinking and wiping at her face.

“Don't let them get to you,” Sheila said looking a bit concerned then, “You seem pretty down lately. Why don't you take the rest of the day off. I'll still pay you for it. Just go. Treat yourself good for a few hours.”

“Thank you Sheila,” Kristabell said again, wiping more furiously at her face.

“Go on, get out of here,” Sheila chuckled good naturedly. 

Kristabell walked home. It was one of those perfect late August days when the leaves are just starting to turn, the sun is out and the sky is as blue as it can get. She felt the sun doing its magic and by the time she was stepping in the door she felt comfortable in her skin again. Her parents were at work and she would have the house to herself until around three AM. Kristabell decided that she would have a hot bath, go for a walk, come home, make herself some dinner and eat it in front of a movie. That was, if she could get the DVD player to co-operate. Electronic equipment didn't seem to like her much. Most of the time she could listen to her Ipod without too much trouble but she had to get her dad to download songs onto it because every time she went near the computer when it was on it shut itself down, as if it too knew she was bad news. Oh well, at least there were always books.

Kristabell slipped out of her work clothes, pinned up her hair, and then slipped into a tub full of hot water and let her mind drift. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I just need a few weeks off, she thought as she soaked away the grime and the weariness. Maybe that would explain why she felt so sensitive all of the time. Kristabell stood and let the water run off her body. She towelled dry then let down her hair, relishing the feel of its softness against her bare skin. She sat on her bed and brushed her hair out with her good boar bristle brush for ten minutes before getting dressed. She pulled on a pair of jeans and took out her favourite dress. It was a bit worn, but it always made her feel right. It was pink with flowers embroidered on the hem, sleeves, and collar. The skirt reached to just above the knees. She slipped the dress over her head then pulled on the green wool cable knit cardigan that her mother had knit her, and went down stairs. Kristabell slipped on a pair of brown mary-janes, did up the straps and took her canvas shoulder bag down off the hook by the door. The bag contained her wallet, Ipod, a blank notebook and some pencil crayons, so that if she met a plant that she didn't know she could draw it then take the notebook home and identify it.

It was still brilliant outside and it was only two in the afternoon. There were hours still before sundown. Kristabell headed east toward Queen Elizabeth Park. The neighbourhood she lived in was a neat, tidy, upper class neighbourhood smack in the middle of Vancouver and it had often occurred to her to wonder how her parents had been able to afford the little house that they lived in. Her parents had been very young, 22 and 23, when they had adopted her. Her birth mother had apparently been a bit younger than her parents and a good friend of theirs. They had agreed to raise Kristabell as a favour to their friend. They seldom spoke of her mother except, occasionally, to tell her that she looked like her, and this they always said with sadness in their eyes. Then they would sigh great heavy sighs and say, “But your mother is gone.”

Kristabell had always assumed that “gone” meant dead, and since Fionnuala was in every way a mother to Kristabell—she had even breastfed her when she was a baby—Kristabell had simply loved Fionnuala as her mother and let the past lie. Since her parents were so cagey about the past it was probably just as well. All Kristabell knew about her parents was that they had come to Canada from rural Ireland as uneducated young people with no family connections, and had shortly afterwards adopted her. But it still didn't explain to Kristabell how they had come by the house. She glanced back at it as she walked away, her riotous garden setting it apart from the other houses on the street.

Queen Elizabeth Park is one of the highest points in Vancouver and Kristabell liked to climb to the top and look at the view of Vancouver's downtown and the north shore mountains. She had sometimes done that with Evan, but today she just puttered around, wandering the trails in the sort of wooded area that wrapped itself part way around the base of the hill, simply enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by trees. It was in places like this, or in her garden, that she felt most at home. Kristabell had a sudden overwhelming urge to be able to walk away from the world with all of its noise and fumes, celebrity gossip and violence. She had tried to isolate herself from all of the awfulness. To just stay home and leave the TV off, go to work, take a course, and keep her life quiet. But lately it just didn't seem to be enough and it was as if she could feel something deep inside of her that was dying to get out, but she couldn't let it out because fitting in was hard enough as it was. She thumped down on a log and put her head in her hands trying to push the feelings away. She was supposed to be enjoying herself right now, not falling apart. The feeling became so intense that Kristabell jumped up from the log and began walking quickly, wiping furiously at her face, gasping back sobs, and not really paying much attention to where she was going, just walking randomly and purposelessly through the trees.

Any person who has grown up in a city has a certain awareness of that city around them, and even though this little patch of woods that Kristabell knew so well could make her feel like she was in a real forest for a little while, she had to pretend, just a little, that she couldn't see the flicker of the city at the edge of the woods, and it didn't take Kristabell long to realize, even in her disturbed state, that she couldn't see the city at the woods' edge anymore and, in fact, from where she stood, the woods appeared to have no edge at all, and this would have been alarming enough, if it hadn't been for the man on the large black horse charging towards her.