Sunshine Picklelime (10 page)

PJ and her mom exchanged quick glances. Mrs. Patel picked up on this, eyes moving kindly between mother and daughter. “Child, sometimes people marry for all sorts of
reasons without being soul mates,” she said. “You’re very young, PJ. But not too young to learn some good life lessons from this. Friends and partners can grow in different directions and become closer. Or grow apart. Now, come, we’re getting too serious! Shall I heat more
papadum?”

Later, when PJ and Mrs. Patel were alone for a moment, PJ asked her for some gardening advice for their skimpy flower beds and lawn.

“Of course, child. Come tomorrow afternoon to my greenhouse and we’ll get cracking. We can plan lovely surprises for your mom when she comes home every weekend!”

As her mother returned to the kitchen, PJ looked up and realized her mom had also talked privately to Mrs. Patel, otherwise how did Mrs. Patel know she was leaving?

Mrs. Patel smiled at her reassuringly and said, “Reach into the fridge, PJ. I made your favorite, mango ice cream, for dessert!”

The moon was high and hazy through the salty night air by the time Mrs. Picklelime and PJ left the warmth of Mrs. Patel’s kitchen to go home. They were both sleepy, but it had been a lovely evening they knew they would remember for a long time.

“I’ll miss you, Mom,” PJ said as her mother unlocked the front door. “Even when I don’t see you I know you’re around. Soon you won’t be.”

“Remember we’ll see each other every five days, honey. That’s not too long for us to be apart, is it?”

operation owl rescue

When PJ left school
the next afternoon, the air was fresh and sparkling and the sky was a sharp blue, free of the heavy sea mists of the evening before.

She joined Mrs. Patel in her greenhouse and selected some tiny cherry tomatoes from clusters of sturdy vines. PJ couldn’t resist popping a few of them into her mouth and snapping the skins between her teeth. “Mmmm,” she said, juice trickling from her lips. “They’re like fruit.
Soooo
sweet, Mrs. Patel!”

“Pick as many as you like. Here, fill this,” she said, handing PJ a basket. “Put the tomatoes in a beautiful bowl in the middle of your kitchen table to light up the
room. Come, I’ll help you create your own garden. Let’s start you off with some sweet-smelling herbs.” She selected pots of basil, thyme, parsley, and oregano and placed them in a plastic tray. When PJ didn’t react, she added, “Be strong, PJ. Trust me, child. I know what it’s like when parents go through a rough patch. Work extra hard at school. Make your room into your den and pin up more of your lovely artwork, so you always have a little place where you feel good. Keep working with birds and animals. They’re great teachers.”

“I know,” PJ said.

As they carried their overflowing baskets of tomatoes into the kitchen and rinsed them in filtered rainwater, Mrs. Patel told PJ about the ways some animals could predict earthquakes or volcanic eruptions or other disasters.

“When they had an earthquake in China, the streets were jumping with frogs and all the ponds suddenly emptied. Birds disappeared from the skies. Cows threw themselves against fences,” said Mrs. Patel. “PJ, make a note of
everything
you are learning now from animals. They make you more observant.”

“My dad said my work with animals was just a fad,” PJ said.

Mrs. Patel chuckled. “Child, don’t worry. Sometimes our parents don’t understand us! My father couldn’t understand why I collected seeds from pods and grew them on windowsills in different types of soil to see which grew faster in which soil, which light, or which warm spot. When I tried to grow roses in a new color by attaching a crimson rose to a yellow rose, he said botany was a waste of time for a girl.”

PJ tried to imagine Mrs. Patel as a young girl. All the wonderfully abundant vines of bougainvillea she could see peeping through the kitchen window seemed different now. Mrs. Patel was more than just a good gardener. She had
lived
gardening for years! If Mrs. Patel could achieve her dreams in spite of a difficult father, so could she.

“Come, child. Time I taught you how to compost!” said Mrs. Patel.

They returned to the garden, carrying containers of tomato stalks, veggie peels from the night before, and a mountain of tea leaves. They tipped the containers into one of the tumbler compost bins by the back fence and tossed a layer of hedge clippings over the bits. After replacing the lid, PJ spun the tumbler bin around on its frame like a trapeze artist.

PJ wrinkled her nose. “Mrs. Patel, p’yew!” she said. “This must stink in summer!”

Mrs. Patel laughed. “It breaks down fast in summer, you wait and see. Now, look in the other bin.”

PJ twisted the lid off the second tumbler and peeked inside. Freshly composted, loamy, rich-looking soil filled the bin almost to the rim.

Mrs. Patel reached in for a handful, raised it to her nostrils, and said, “Hmmm.
Perfect
. This is how good compost should feel and smell, PJ. Open your hands.”

PJ opened both hands but couldn’t quite match Mrs. Patel’s excitement, except she loved the feeling of the crumbly soil. “So, leaves and clippings and veggie peels all break down to this?” she asked.

“Oh yes. With heat, of course, and a little moisture. When you cut your crop of hair again, you can add your curls to the mix. It breaks down well and keeps animals away. Now run and get the wheelbarrow, gloves, and spades, child. We’ll take some lovely compost across to your garden.”

They wheeled the barrow of compost, potted herbs, and young tomato and jasmine plants from Mrs. Patel’s greenhouse, and a basket of cherry tomatoes, across the road to the Picklelimes’.

“PJ, what’s going on with that veggie patch?” Mrs. Patel asked. She shook her head at a forlorn corner covered with straggly carrot and potato tops.

“I think we collected the last of the carrots and potatoes weeks ago,” said PJ. Compared with the gardens of Mrs. Patel and Ruth, the Picklelimes’ garden seemed neglected. Their live oak and pecan trees weren’t as old, sprawly, and exciting as those in Ruth’s garden.

“We’ll tackle the veggie patch another time,” said Mrs. Patel tactfully. “Let’s get a line of herbs organized in the troughs by the kitchen door first of all.”

They cleaned debris and old leaves out of the troughs and filled them with loamy composted soil mixed with garden soil. In one trough they planted rows of basil with the tomato plants. Then they mixed thyme, basil, oregano, curly parsley, and Italian parsley in the other troughs.

“Fetch some rainwater, PJ,” said Mrs. Patel. PJ ran over to the rain collection barrel and filled a bucket. “Don’t forget to water everything thoroughly each day for a week,” Mrs. Patel continued. “The herbs will reward you. Not only will they give you freshness for soups and pastas, but on a warm summer evening they’ll release their lovely smell for hours. Especially the basil.”

“Where shall we plant this, Mrs. Patel?” PJ asked as she reached for the climbing jasmine.

“I thought you might like that on your window ledge, child.”

PJ hesitated, trying to imagine the gulls’ reaction if she cluttered their landing pad! “I think I’d like it climbing up the trellis,” she said.

“Good choice. Some other time you can go from window to window and look out at the garden. I’ll follow you around outside and you can tell me where to mark the best views for new beds. We’ll make a note of shady areas and sunny areas. Then we can choose special flowers and flowering shrubs.”

“So we’ll always have pretty views?”

“Right, and we’ll choose plants that flourish in different seasons.”

“Mrs. Patel?”

“Yes, child?”

“Do you find soul mates through your flowers?” PJ asked. She loaded the spade into the empty wheelbarrow and pulled off her gardening gloves.

“PJ, soul mates don’t
look
for one another. They
find
one another. Soul mates don’t always marry. They don’t need to.” Mrs. Patel paused as they wheeled the barrow
back across the street. “Still, it helps if your life partner is a soul mate. Make sense?”

PJ pushed open the Patels’ gate. “Are we soul mates, Mrs. Patel?” she asked.

“Child, we’re kindred spirits. You and Ruth are also kindred spirits. That’s more, much more, than just being good friends. It means we share thoughts and understandings without a need for explanations.” After a minute, Mrs. Patel added, “You need to wait a few more years, dear PJ, before you experience a true soul mate. Now stop worrying! Start making a list of all your favorite flowers and colors for those window views!”

“Hey, PJ!
Niiiiiiiice
herbs you planted for us!” The gulls
rat-a-tat-tatted
PJ’s window before sunrise. She sat up. Big Gull and Little Gull flapped up and down outside in the blustery wind, an agitated dance of gray and white feathers, dark wings, and black polka-dot tails against a perfect backdrop of a slate gray sky.

PJ flung open the windows and waved them inside. “Shhh, keep it down, guys,” she said. “Those herbs are off-limits, you scroungers!”

“Not so fast! Good news. We found a store selling wild birds,” said Big Gull.

“Go,
gulls!
What’s it called?” PJ shook a bag of nuts and seeds onto her window seat.

The two seagulls began pecking furiously before Big Gull lifted his head and said between mouthfuls, “Tweety Birds.”

“So it’s Tweety’s!” said PJ. That was one of the names Ruth had found on the Internet! “Guys, we’re moving into action. I need another favor.”

“Oooh, a favor,” said Big Gull. “That’ll cost you, PJ. I mean, nuts and seeds will do for now. Talk to us. Then we’ll deal.”

PJ quickly outlined a plan to rescue the owls from the pet store.

“Are you kidding us? Owls aren’t our friends!” said Little Gull.

“C’mon, BG, LG. Don’t be like that! This is community action! I’d send every bird I knew out to rescue
you
guys if you were in danger,” PJ replied.

“Yeah, right. Send some friendly hawks our way, PJ, why don’t you? They
eat
other birds!” said Little Gull.

“LG, no one expects a pint-size like you to go face
down a bunch of
hawks!”
said BG, rolling his eyes. “Quit filling your beak with seeds. Can I talk to you?”

LG swallowed and waddled closer. The two gulls huddled together, raising wing tips to their beaks so PJ wouldn’t overhear their private conversation. Finally, they turned back to PJ.

“It’s a deal,” said BG.

“You guys rock, you really do!” PJ said.

“We’d like to try some of that deluxe birdseed we’ve seen delivered in purple plastic bags to the health food stores,” said BG. “They never stack the bags outside for us to peck open.”

“Yeah, real inconsiderate.” LG nodded.

“You got it. Tap on my windows when you have news for me. If I’m not here, I’ll be at Ruth’s tree house.” PJ told them how to fly there. “I’ll keep that special birdseed on me for you, OK?” she added.

“OK. But we can’t promise anything,” said LG.

“Do your best?” PJ said.

“We will, kiddo,” BG assured her. “Hey. We’ll bring the Gull Gang along.”

“Gull Gang?” PJ frowned.

“Just a bunch of gulls that hang out with us,” BG said, winking at LG.

“No violence. Agreed?”

BG tapped her cheek with his wing, tilted his head, and said, “Violence? You know us better than that, PJ. Let’s go, LG. We’ve got work to do!”

“Plan of action: late afternoon, just before closing time, OK?” said PJ.

“You got it.” BG nodded wisely.

The gulls spent the next few minutes pecking up the rest of the seeds.

PJ watched them hop from the window seat onto the window ledge and swoop off in their characteristic cheeky way. They dipped and tumbled in the wind and twirled around one another, putting on a big show for her before soaring high and flying off toward the coast.

PJ reached for her phone and speed-dialed Ruth’s number. She left a brief voice mail. “Dandelion juice bar next to Tweety’s. Just before closing time. Tell Joshua.”