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“Is the plural of iris ‘irises’?” David squinted at the phone, trying to make out the words despite the sun. He held a handful of long skinny pieces of wood in his other hand. He was absentmindedly swinging them in a way that made Patrick worry that they might go flying, but gently enough that he decided not to comment on it. He was far enough down the row of irises that he didn’t think he was in danger.
“What else would it be?” Patrick wrapped a twist tie around the stem of a plant, careful not to knock any of the purple blooms nearby. He switched from sitting to kneeling and moved a few inches down to a floppy peach-colored iris. “I need another stake, please.”
David separated one from the others the best he could with his thumb and managed to extend it slightly. “I thought maybe it was one of those nouns that can be both singular and plural. Like sheep. Or moose.”
“I don’t think so.” This iris was close to three feet, he estimated, and abnormally top-heavy. Maybe he’d added fertilizer too late and that’s why none of the stems were strong enough.
“But this website has a section called ‘Starting Iris in Pots.’ Why doesn’t it say ‘Starting Irises in Pots’? Maybe it’s a typo and they left out a word—‘Starting an Iris in a Pot’—oh, that’s two words. And adding an extra s. So, unlikely to be accidental.”
“You can close that. I just wanted you to hold the phone for a second so it didn’t get dirty while I finished this.” Patrick reached for another stake, which David handed over.
“I know, but it gets boring holding things.”
“So you took up copyediting?”
“I think this whole site is AI. There’s a page comparing iris gardening to online casinos. You should do your research elsewhere.”
“I will. I am. I have other tabs open too.”
“Or you could just ask your mother.”
“I don’t want to ask my mother. I don’t want to bother her.” Patrick scooted another few inches and turned his attention to a yellow flower that threatened to snap at the neck soon.
“Right. Marcy Brewer, famously bothered by the onslaught of botanical questions from her only son.”
“I know it sounds silly.”
“Yep. May I go back to languishing in the shade? I am rapidly developing eye crinkles without my sunnies.” David laid the remaining stakes just outside Patrick’s reach and turned away before he could protest. “I’m taking your phone,” he called over his shoulder.
Patrick knew it sounded silly. It wasn’t that he thought his mother would be bothered necessarily. It was more complicated, and he couldn’t explain it. She had maintained a bed of irises along the sunny side of their house for decades now. She was proud of them and always had several varieties and colors, which she swapped with the neighbors as she thinned them. Once, walking home from the park as a kid, Patrick had even overheard one older woman ask another if she knew “Marcy from the Iris House.” So she was a little famous. But not for being stingy with her gardening tips.
He planted his patch of irises without telling her, but it wasn’t a secret. It’s just that he wanted to do things on his own. He liked that they reminded him of her, but that didn’t mean he wanted her involved. She’d see them eventually, but it would be after the plants established themselves better. Hopefully, these brown spots would resolve themselves before then. And certainly that weird smell that the white ones were emitting would disappear soon.
“The brown spots are still there,” Patrick said to David a few days later, between episodes of Welcome to Wrexham. He was having trouble keeping his focus on the show, even though he was comfortably spread out on the couch, his feet in David’s lap.
“What are you talking about? A banana?”
“My irises. The stakes seem to be holding them up well, but those spots on the leaves of the yellow bearded ones looked worse this afternoon.”
“Call your mom, maybe.” David rubbed his ankle reassuringly, but he returned his eyes to the television.
“Someone on Reddit said it could be a fungus—I posted a photo—because the spots have ‘watery margins.’ But the good news is that’s not fatal.”
“Just disgusting. What a repulsive term.”
“It might mean they need more sunshine. Should I transplant them, maybe move them over by the tomatoes?”
“Easier than moving the sun.”
“But then you wouldn’t be able to see them from the road, and I like that you can.”
“I’m going to rewind so I can see the beginning of this episode while you ponder that silently.”
The irises were supposed to need six hours of sun. Patrick timed it on four separate days, and they were currently getting between six hours and fourteen minutes and six hours and nineteen minutes, except for the three caramel-colored ones on the end. He should have planted those in a better spot.
“Maybe I have been overwatering them,” Patrick said as he handed David the bag of chips. “Should we take the sandwiches outside or eat in here?”
“Will it make you feel better to be out there supervising the irises and making sure they don’t die while your back is turned?”
“You think they’re dying?”
“No, but you seem even more worried today than usual.”
“I don’t understand because they are supposed to be easy to grow. And all my vegetables grow just fine. Even cilantro, which everyone told me wouldn’t survive here. Mine’s thriving! So why are the irises being so difficult?”
“You’re taking this rather personally.”
“No, they’re plants. I know.” It was irritating, but he knew it wasn’t that they disliked him. He returned the mustard to the refrigerator and picked up his plate. “So, outside, then?”
“You want to be the best gardener around, and they aren’t cooperating.” David opened the back door. “Maybe you’re even jealous that your mother is better at it than you are.”
“That’s not fair. I know irises are her thing. I like all plants, but my thing is vegetables. We’re not competing.” Patrick stepped past him and onto the deck.
“Oh, right, your thing is vegetables.”
“Stop rolling your eyes, please.” Patrick wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel it. He must have been right because David didn’t argue.
“Remember that time there were aphids on my kale and we could see those tiny puncture marks on the leaves?”
“No. What are you looking at?” David leaned over Patrick’s shoulder to see what was on the laptop screen. “Ew. Is that a giant slug on that flower?”
“I think so, but it’s confusing. This is a list of things that can go wrong with irises, and this section’s on insects. But slugs aren’t insects, and it doesn’t even mention slugs.”
“Do we have those? Never mind, please stop talking about them.” David shuddered.
“Have you seen any puncture marks on my iris leaves?”
“I have not. Maybe you shouldn’t get your advice from a website that can’t illustrate its content correctly.”
“Okay, but I don’t know what else to do.” Patrick pushed the laptop away and laid his head on the table.
“Perhaps you could call your mother. Or text.”
“I don’t know, I don’t want to ask her for some reason.”
“Probably because mothers never like to tell their children what they know.”
“That’s not it.”
It was just—Patrick didn’t know, couldn’t say, but sometimes it felt too complicated to call home. He hadn’t talked to his parents in a while. Not like before, when they didn’t know about David yet, it wasn’t like that. But he had been distracted with spring cleaning at the store and getting plants in the ground before the summer, so their recent contact had been limited to sporadic texting. They would expect him to catch them up on everything, which was tiring. He couldn’t call solely to ask for advice, could he?
“I can’t call and ask about the irises, I don’t think,” he said as he pulled back the sheets to get into bed that night.
David put down his book. “No, not now—she’s probably already asleep.”
“No, tomorrow. Or whenever. I can’t call and talk irises without involving other things.”
“Is that the problem? What are you avoiding discussing with her?” David’s eyebrows moved closer together in concern. And maybe a bit of alarm.
“No, no, don’t worry.” Patrick laid his hand on David’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze. “Nothing in particular. I haven’t been checking in with them much, just in general. So, to call because I want something seems . . . rude, maybe?”
“I am only vaguely aware of normal parent-child dynamics, but from what I’ve gleaned from watching Grace and Frankie and the occasional Brewer, it is common for a mother to be happy to hear from an adult child. No matter the reason for contact.”
“Yes. Fine.” Patrick suddenly felt embarrassed. Why was he making such a big deal about this?
“Remember when I wondered if the Apothecary should be on Bluesky? I could have done some searching myself, but instead I called Alexis. She spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between starter packs and feeds, and she sent me seventy texts of links? I think it made her month.”
“And that’s why we now follow three hundred fashion accounts and have dozens of mutuals in something called ‘Smoothiesky.’”
“I have no problem with posting a monthly Meadow Harvest snapshot in order to stay in the good graces of that community. But that’s not the point.”
“No, I get it.” He sighed and adjusted his pillow.
Patrick got it. He just didn’t like it. He’d gone to sleep resolved to call his mom the next chance he could, but now, the next morning, he felt guilty and sheepish again. He should have paid more attention to the irises when he was younger so he wouldn’t have to be asking questions now. “This could all be in my past. I could be an expert by now, if I’d only started learning these things years ago,” he complained as he folded towels.
David looked up from his phone and took a pointed sip of coffee before he responded. “You’d be an expert by now if you’d just called your mother the first time you had a slight concern. It was weeks ago! She could’ve happily told you everything she knows and you could’ve already implemented all her advice.”
“I just wanted to do it right.” He heard the whine in his own voice and hoped David wouldn’t comment on it. He busied himself with straightening his dishtowel pile.
“Right doesn’t mean all by yourself.”
“No. True.”
“Patrick. Your mother would be glad to hear from you. She knows irises and would love to chat about them. She doesn’t expect you to be perfect, and she’s not going to think badly of you. Trust her. Trust me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Patrick looked at the time. It was almost ten. He pictured his mother. She could be cleaning up the kitchen if his parents had made breakfast together, as they did sometimes. Maybe she was looking out the window, watching the kids across the street. Maybe she had started the dishwasher and was now sitting down in the armchair, taking up her book or her quilting. He knew she wasn’t waiting around for him to call—she had her own life—but she wouldn’t be upset to be interrupted. He imagined her phone ringing and her saying, excitedly, “Oh, it’s Patrick!” to herself or to his dad.
“Okay,” he said, finally. “I’ll go out by the irises and call her from there.”