“I just don’t know about this, Ben. Isn’t it weird? A party in a cemetery?” Mom frowns, clutching her purse to her chest on her porch.
I shrug. “Sure. It’s weird. But it would mean a lot to me if you came and support my girlfriend.”
Mom seems to gnaw on the inside of her cheek and then smiles. “I do want to meet your girlfriend. I just wish she didn’t work in a cemetery.” Mom whispers this last word like it’s a secret the neighbors will disapprove of. Maybe they will. But I don’t care what the neighbors think of my Eila. I’m proud of her, and she’s mine.
I drive Mom to the cemetery, where Eila and the other staff members have created an open-house event to showcase the historic space. There are a lot of celebrities buried here, as well as some sculpture work by famous artists. And of course, some incredible landscaping by the best horticulturist in the entire world. If you ask me.
I park near the entrance, happy to see the number of cars who turned up. As Mom climbs out, I pop in the ear loops I bought for these sorts of public events with crowds and their associated noises. Mom frowns at the white loops and I explain, “these filter out a lot of the background noise. It makes it easier for me to concentrate on what specific people are saying.”
“I see.” She nods, like she doesn’t quite, but I do know she’s trying. A few weeks ago, I told her I’m autistic and shared some of what I’m working on with Dr. Morgan. Mom smiles and taps her chest. “You seem different, Ben.”
I shrug. “I’m the same. I just have different strategies now and I know more about how to stay comfortable.”
Mom looks like she’s about to say something, but Eila charges up to us from the closest flower bed. “Is this her? Are you Mrs. Barber?” She throws her arms around my mom, who stiffens. Eila draws back. “Sorry. Are you not a hugger? I’ve been working on being more affectionate, but I guess not everyone appreciates that. I’m just so excited to meet Ben’s mom!”
I slip an arm around her shoulders. “Eila Storm, Wendy Barber. Mom, this is my Eila.”
Mom tears up and pulls Eila away from me, giving her a face pat and a loud cheek kiss, like she used to give me until a few weeks ago I explained that I like to be touched more firmly. Mom grips my shoulders and squeezes and I rest my cheek on the top of her head. Sniffing, Mom pulls back. “Now tell me more about this event.”
Eila grins and gestures for us to follow her down the path. By the willow tree, she’s set up a small stage and sound system, and our mutual acquaintance Chloe Preston, aka novelist Chloe Petals, is about to start a presentation about the historical research she conducts to write her steamy romances.
All the Storm sisters are present, along with Esther’s husband and a large group of women wearing pins declaring they are Fresh Out Of Fucks. Piper, with Cash in tow, hands Eila one of the pins, and my lady joyfully attaches it to the strap of the new overalls she bought for this event—her one foray with the public in her official capacity at work.
After Chloe’s bit, Eila’s sister Eliza guides a group through the perimeter pathways, talking about the ways her goats represent a sustainable approach to contain invasive species that might otherwise destroy the landscape and the grave markers.
The event I’m really looking forward to is Eila’s spotlight, when her boss introduces her as a spectacularly gifted horticulturist and hands Eila the microphone. I bite back a whoop as Eila grins at the crowd. “Thank you all so much for venturing out here today. I’m thrilled to help tend this magnificent landscape, which is still thriving today after 200 years—simply because 100% of the plants you see here are native to this area.” Eila gestures around the vibrant wildflowers, still colorful and fresh in early September. “Look at the beautiful blooms, at how easily maintained this space is. With 200 acres and 9 miles of pathways, this cemetery is committed to right-sized effort for maximum visual impact. But we’re also protecting an incredible biome.” Eila talks about the scientists observing frog populations and migrating birds who find rest in the cemetery, above ground.
I love to watch her talk, so confident, so happy. She’s still wild and unpredictable. She’s still often crass and stubborn. But today she’s comfortable and proud of what she’s been able to achieve. She continues talking, saying, “I say these beds require limited care—not neglect. With the right amount of attention and direction, even the scrawniest vines can flourish.”
She meets my eye and I blow her a kiss, glad I have a reason to stare at her now. I hover near the back of the gathering. I am grateful Eila has a lot of people here to join her love of noise and celebration. Grateful we’ve got a mini-keg of Eye of the Storm on ice at my house, which I plan to share with her from the quiet comfort of my sofa.
Eila keeps trying to convince me this drink would make an ideal shower beer, but she’s filled my shower with plants, and I can’t handle the feel of the leaves against my skin when there are two of us in the shower stall. So, we’re going to compromise.
I drop Mom off at home with a promise to bring Eila around for dinner sometime soon, and I swing back to the cemetery, where the crowds have dissipated, the silence has returned. I find Eila at the edge of the pond, running her hands along a row of cattails.
“You ready to go?” I reach for her hair, always filled with fluff and particles from the plants with which she surrounds herself. She nods and wraps her fingers through mine, strong tendrils that bind us together—an unlikely pairing spliced into something powerful.
“Take me home, Ben Barber.” She kisses my cheek, and we walk toward my car, arm in arm.