Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 12: Wait it out

Note: this chapter discusses emotional and sexual abuse (and is really long). 

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            “I thought this was supposed to be an easy assignment!” I shouted over my shoulder at Bast. He was a faster runner than I was, but when the guy we were tailing had turned toward us and started firing, he’d practically leapt between us and let me take the lead as we ran.

            “Yeah, well, the best-laid plans of mice and men, you know…” he yelled, and I could picture him grinning despite the seriousness of the situation.

            “You might be sanguine about being shot at and chased,” I threw back, “but I am definitely not ok with this.” Despite working out regularly, I was already starting to run out of breath. I risked a glance behind us on a straightaway between buildings, and saw there were now three guys chasing us, about fifty feet behind. Thankfully, they were too far away to shoot at us, but we did not have enough of a lead to try to hide anywhere.

            “Bloody manufacturing districts, all huge warehouses, tall fences, and locked gates,” I muttered to myself, turning a street corner and finding nothing but more businesses, empty in the fading summer twilight. “Where’s a convenient alley to duck into when you need one?”

            Two more figures barreled out of a cross street ahead of us; one pointed at us and the other dropped into a shooter’s stance, then I lost track of them as Bast grabbed my arm and yanked me across the deserted road. We raced across a massive, empty parking lot, staying out of the pools of lamplight in case any of our pursuers were expert marksmen. I could feel a stitch forming in my side and knew I couldn’t do this much longer.

            “A tree… Bast, get me to a tree…” I panted. He shook his head, running beside me now.

            “We don’t have time to wait for you to get into communication mode,” he protested.

            “Don’t need to. Trust me – ow – just find me a tree taller than you.” I was slowing down, holding my side as my breathing became harsher. Bast glanced behind us and muttered a curse.

            “Fine. Stay with me, I think there’s some this way.” He pulled me to the right and I heard the distant sounds of a busy highway, then a huge mountain of something pale loomed ahead of us, dwarfing the warehouses beside it. I tasted salt on my already parched tongue as we sped past it, then down a narrow aisle between two smaller hills, gleaming in the darkness.

            “Two sets of train tracks, then we’ll be at a couple trees.” Bast said, his breathing getting harder. Someone shouted behind us and footsteps echoed off the sloping salt walls. “And whatever you have in mind, I hope you can do it fast, because I don’t think these guys want to chat…”

            We burst out of the narrow aisle into open space and headed for a tiny strip of greenery sandwiched between Baltimore’s winter salt stores and twenty lanes of I-95 toll booths. We scrambled gracelessly over the gravel train tracks and I dredged up one last burst of energy to cover the last twenty feet of bare ground. A shot rang out and Bast swore; I grabbed his hand as he stumbled beside me then touched one of the trees, stepped inside, and pulled him in after me.

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Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 11: Cold case

Note: This was the story that started Sylvia Bishop, initially meant as a one-off, but it kept my attention. It's been tweaked slightly to fit into the overall timeline, but it's not wholly new. 

   “Good morning, Sylvia! Check your calendar: Ms. Mitchell set up a meeting for you and Bast at 8:30 in conference room two.” I smiled and gave Jess a thumbs up; Bast had already messaged me yesterday about it, but it never hurts to be polite. Half an hour was just enough time to review my inbox and answer a few simple emails before – this was all the meeting invite said – “April 4: Baltimore County Police, murder, cold case.”

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     “This is what we got out of him before he stopped talking,” Officer Castillo said, nodding to the paper he’d given us. “We’re used to people refusing to talk before confessing to a crime, but afterwards – that’s a bit odd. He started getting jumpy when we tried to push, but he finally agreed to draw us a rough sketch of where he was. After that, he refused to say anything further until we moved on to another one of his victims.” The officer sighed and stared at his cup, swirling his coffee around morosely.

     “The governor really wants us to close this one, since it made so many headlines at the time. That was what, three years ago? He says the body is in the state park so jurisdiction is a little muddy, but basically we called the Federal Park Police, the Pennsylvania State Police, and the local precinct, and they all basically told us the case is too old, they don’t have time or money for a body hunt from so long ago. I mean, they were nice about it, but that’s where it ended. I was getting ready to call the governor and let him know we couldn’t help him when Officer Gould suggested I talk to you guys. Said something about you specialize in odd…?”

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 10: Birthday

            Hey, do you have any plans this weekend? You said you don’t celebrate it, but lunch or dinner is on me for your birthday, if you want.

            Frowning, I set the phone down at arm’s length and picked up my screwdriver again. One of my regular clients wanted to expand their business; since I’d built the systems they were currently using, they asked me to make five more with the same specs. There was nothing on my calendar this morning, so I’d gone out and picked up the parts. Yeah, I could have ordered custom-made systems and had them delivered, but I enjoyed stepping away from computer screens and tinkering with hardware now and then. Three of the systems were built and waiting to boot up; this one just needed the graphics card mounted, and the fifth should be done – I glanced at the clock – well before five.

            The sun slanted in through the blinds, low and golden in the mid-October afternoon. It was cool enough that I welcomed the extra warmth on my back as I worked, and I made a mental note to talk to the landlord tomorrow about getting the heat turned on for the winter. I tightened the last screw on the case and set it next to the other three, then picked up my phone again.

            Propping one elbow on the table, I rested my chin on my hand and stared absentmindedly out the window, debating how to respond to Bast’s question. On the one hand, as he said, I didn’t really do birthdays. They’re not a thing in the plant world, although Frank had grasped the concept a few years ago and asked for extra fertilizer every spring, as an arbitrary birthday.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 9: Side trip

Edit/possible spoiler: It has come to my attention that this story may be confusing for people who aren't familiar with (apparently) obscure parts of fey lore. Similar legends exist in many cultures, but I learned about it in a book of faeries, so here it is. 

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             Work today had been more frustrating than usual. One of my regular clients had referred a friend to me for some basic home networking: set up multiple computers in a new house, establish parental controls for kids old enough to have their own systems, and build a home server for them to store and share music and videos on. Our meeting today was supposed to be going over the specs, the budget, and the timeline to get the project done; what actually happened was that the potential client handed me a list of parts and informed me that his brother – who doesn’t have a steady job, but is ‘really good with computers’ – told him that was all they would need, and he would not pay for anything except what was on the list.

            As a woman in the technology field, I am used to dealing with male attitude; I put on a professional face and do my best to ignore it. As a worker of any stripe in technology, I am also used to dealing with ignorance as to what is required to meet expectations, but this was a new level of stupidity, even for me. One of the four computers on the list was built like a beast: high-end everything, multiple hard drives, a fancy gaming mouse and keyboard and dual high-resolution monitors. The other three, presumably for the wife and children, were bottom-of-the-line setups; they would be able to get online and go to basic websites, but they were clearly intended to discourage anything resource-heavy, i.e., fun. I tried pointing out that, unless anyone in the family was trying to become a professional gamer, I could get them four decent computers and a storage system to back everything up for half the price. The man icily informed me that he would not take any attitude from “some consultant who thinks she knows computers better than my own brother,” grabbed the list out of my hands, and walked out. I mean, good riddance to bad rubbish, but it left me more than a little annoyed.

            I realized as I was driving home that it was still bothering me, despite the glorious fall weather and light traffic. After the third time of intentionally unclenching my jaw, I decided I’d go on a walk when I got home, despite it not being a scheduled exercise day. Over the past month, a couple of my coworkers at the agency had told me stories about surveillance cases where the target noticed they were being followed and got aggressive, followed by advice that being in shape enough to hightail it out of somewhere was a good idea. My apartment was in a neighborhood that was city enough to have sidewalks, but residential enough to have green areas and trees along the way. I resolved to walk more slowly and enjoy the scenery this time, instead of the usual “get the heart pumping” pace.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 8: A taste of everything

             “Welcome to the – oh hi, Sylvia, happy Thursday! How are you?”

            I smiled at Jess’ cheerful greeting and the sight of her head popping up from behind her cubicle wall.

            “Hey, happy Thursday to you, too. It’s been a rough morning with some obnoxiously know-it-all potential clients; it’s nice to see a smiling face for a change.”

            Jess grimaced in sympathy, coming around the wall. As usual, she was dressed in bright, cheerful colors: a red knee-length skirt, purple blouse, and bright blue jewelry, with a yellow flower in her hair and matching heels. I’d left the business formal behind, but still wore dark pants, black shoes, and a neutral-colored top. Fashion had never held much interest for me, so I stuck with the basics.

            “Sorry to hear that; clients who want to get too involved are the worst. Hopefully the afternoon will be more interesting for you, though. Ms. Mitchell wants you to help Olivia with some fraud cases today. She’s at the desk across from yours, I think I introduced you yesterday if you want to head over there?”

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 7: Getting set up

             The rain poured down my windshield as I pulled into my apartment’s parking lot. It was the end of August, and I could tell that the days were getting shorter; the squall that had blown in during the afternoon made it feel like the sun had set three hours early. I parked and turned the car off, then sat for a moment in the hopes the rain would slack off long enough for me to run inside.

            “Welcome home, Sylvia!” Frank exclaimed from the passenger’s seat. I smiled.

            “Hey Frank, you’re back early. Not as much gossip today?” He usually stayed out until sundown, chatting with the local flora.

            “Eh. Between the days getting shorter and the clouds rolling in, everyone shut down early today. The ones who haven’t already gone to sleep are doing their best to soak up the rain before fall gets here and things start to dry out.” His tone was still upbeat, but slower than it had been a month ago; I could tell the shorter days were getting to him, too.

            “Lucky them,” I said, peering out the window. The rain was, if anything, getting harder, and I resigned myself to getting wet on the way in. I twisted around to grab my stuff out of the back seat and glanced toward Frank. “See you topside?”

            He chuckled and wished me a safe run, then I felt him head upward through the car roof. We’d been taking field trips, as he called them, every other week for the last two months, and I’d gotten to the point where I could reliably locate where he was if he stayed within a hundred feet of me. One of our exploratory rounds of Marco Polo had been interrupted by a passing hiker who, obviously, hadn’t been able to sense Frank and thought I was an escaped mental patient. It was incredibly hard to come up with a reasonable explanation of why I was running around a meadow on my own yelling “there you are!” with Frank laughing hysterically behind me, but I finally convinced the lady to carry on without calling the cops.

            “We should probably start making longer trips, before the locals start rumors about the crazy lady who goes hiking with her plant and sees ghosts in the woods,” I muttered to myself, then jumped out and ran for the apartment building. The rain was not cold, but I instantly felt clammy and in need of a shower. I paused in the exterior stairwell long enough to grab my mail, the wind blowing a fine mist through the corridor, then hurried up the stairs to the safety of my front door.

            There was a small rectangle of linoleum just inside the doorway, a token entryway in the otherwise carpeted front room. I slipped my shoes off and left them there, then dumped my purse and bag on the floor against the couch as I peeled my raincoat off and hung it on the coat rack to dry. I debated showering before dinner, but I hadn’t gotten truly soaked, so I settled for changing into comfortable – dry – house clothes.

Coming back out to the main room, Frank greeted me again from his windowsill and started chattering about who he’d talked to before the rain came in. It had been a long day at the office, so I was only half-listening as I put together a plate of food and settled in at my computer desk to look over the mail. As usual, most of it was junk mail that I set aside to be recycled, but there was also a large, official-looking yellow envelope from the Maryland State Police. I opened it and pulled out a laminated card the size of a driver’s license; my face and the words “Private Investigator” stared back at me in bright, shiny colors.

“Well, I'm glad I don’t have anything important to say,” Frank sniffed, breaking through my bemusement, “because it’s pretty obvious you’re not paying attention anyway.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Frank. I promise I was paying attention until I opened this.” I held out the card in his direction. I felt him drift closer, curiosity lacing his thoughts as he spelled out the letters. Reading wasn’t easy for plants, because they don’t see the same way humans do, but Frank could work his way through a printed page with enough time and focus.

“Ooh! Is that your license?” he suddenly exclaimed. “I thought you said that would take three months to get back?”

“I thought so, too, to be honest. Maybe they’re ahead of schedule,” I said. It had been two months since Ms. Mitchell had accepted my consultant offer and we’d started the paperwork both for her hiring me and for my license. I had gone to the local police station to get fingerprinted, filled out a questionnaire basically detailing my life up to that point, and sent the package off into the void. The process was notoriously opaque; basically, you didn’t hear anything until you got the license or they sent you a reason for rejection. It appeared, however, that my life had been sufficiently tame – without mention of my skills, anyway – to make it through the process in decent time.

I grabbed my phone to send a picture to Bast. We hadn’t met up since lunch at the Inner Harbor, but we’d stayed in touch via phone. He had made actual phone calls a time or two while on stakeouts, but I much preferred text. Plant communication was heavily reliant on visuals and senses that don’t translate directly into words; speaking with humans in person at least provided nonverbal cues, but talking on the phone often left me confused as to someone’s true intent. Text, I’d found, was a much safer method of interaction, allowing time for thought between responses and follow-up questions for clarification.

Looks like I’ll be joining you shortly, I added, and sent text and picture together. A moment later, the reply popped up: Congrats! Let the boss know, she works late on Tuesdays! I grinned. Even over text, his excitement was infectious.

“Well, I guess life is going to get even more interesting now,” I said to Frank. “And just to check, you’re okay with this? Have I laid all your concerns to rest or will I come home to snarky comments every day?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he replied, drifting back toward his pot. “It helps that I can go talk to other plants so I know I won’t be bored while you’re gone, but you’re right, you did promise you’d stick with me. And you’ve been trustworthy so far… for a human.” I chuckled, rolling my eyes at him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I replied lightly. “I’ll do my best to uphold the honor of the human race.” He snorted at that, but didn’t rise to the bait, instead turning his attention to the rain outside. He’d mentioned before that it reminded him of the rainforest that was supposedly a memory from a many-times-great-grandplant. I left him to his contemplation to call Ms. Mitchell and figure out how we were going to make training work with both our schedules.

 

Three days later, I pulled into the parking lot between a multi-story, textured concrete building and a family diner with a peaked red roof in Catonsville, Maryland. I parked, walked inside, and punched the button for the fourth floor when the elevator cab arrived. The building looked well-cared-for, although I’d never been a fan of drop ceilings and florescent lights. I found the suite number that Mrs. Mitchell had given me over the phone and walked in an eight o’clock sharp. There did not appear to be a front desk, as such, but a head with light brown hair and teal glasses popped up over the nearest partition wall when I shut the door behind me.

“Hello, welcome to the Mitchell Agen- oh! You must be Sylvia Bishop, right?” The voice matched the smile on the woman’s face: not terribly thrilled about it being morning, but friendly nonetheless.

“That’s correct,” I responded carefully as she came around the cubicle wall to meet me. I’d erred on the side of caution and worn business formal attire, but I suddenly felt overdressed. The woman was wearing a vibrantly yellow top, an ankle-length skirt in peach and green swirls, and blue flats. I put on my best polite business face and shook the hand that she’d extended to me, encircled by several colorful bracelets. “Ms. Mitchell told me to bring in some documents and that I could start on training today?”

“Of course! Well, welcome to the company; my name is Jessica, but you can call me Jess,” she said cheerfully, then started walking deeper into the office. “Come with me, I’ll set you up in a meeting room and le her know you're here, then you’ll probably end up with me this afternoon for training. Do you need coffee or tea or anything first?”

“No, thank you. I wasn’t sure what the setup would be, so I brought a water bottle,” I replied, patting my shoulder bag. She shook her head in disbelief, but kept walking.

“I don’t know how you do it – I need a cup or two of coffee to feel at all human in the morning. I’ve been trying to make it myself lately, instead of going to an expensive coffee place, but it’s just not the same, you know? It’s so much easier to stop by on the way in and have an iced coffee handed to you on these warm summer days.” I nodded, wondering if everyone who worked here was extroverted, or if I had somehow happened to run into the two most chatty employees – Bast definitely qualified – by chance. She seemed nice enough, but definitely the sort that you could get started on a topic and let her go for a while.

She led me into an empty conference room occupied by a table and four chairs, and told me to have a seat while she got Ms. Mitchell. A minute later, another woman walked in with a thick sheaf of papers. She had a short afro and was wearing a blue business suit that complemented her warm, dark brown skin. She moved calmly but purposefully, and the expression on her face showed she knew what she wanted and was going to make it happen. She set the papers on the table and held out one hand.

“Sylvia, thank you for coming in; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said as I shook her hand. I responded in kind and, as I’d suspected from our previous conversations, she sat down and immediately got down to business. 

 

Two hours later, with the paperwork out of the way and copies of everything weighing down my bag, Ms. Mitchell brought me back to the front of the office.

“Jess, I have a meeting in a few minutes,” she said, looking over the chest-high partition wall. “Can you show Sylvia around, get her set up in Tom’s old cubicle, and have her shadow you for today?” She waited for Jess to nod agreement, then turned to me, said, “Welcome aboard,” and strode back down the hall. I turned to Jess with my eyebrows raised and she laughed.

“You get used to it,” she advised, standing up and stretching. “She doesn’t mean it personally, she’s just very focused on keeping the business going, and an intense person all around. We’ve gone out for company dinners a few times, and she’s like that even when not on the clock.

“Anyway, like she said, welcome aboard! Let’s get you situated.” She led me down the aisle bounded on one side by a solid wall and on the other by a row of cubicles – large cubicles, with high partitions, but still cubicles – and stopped at the next-to-last one before the exterior wall of the building. The other desks were occupied with paperwork and personal memorabilia, but this cubicle was almost clinically bare, with only a computer and an empty inbox sitting on the desk.

“You can drop your stuff here if you want, and I’ll show you where everything is. I'd say half the office is out in the field today, but I’ll introduce you to everyone else.” I tucked my bag under the desk, mentally gritted my teeth, and set out to do one of my least favorite activities – meeting new people whose names I almost assuredly would not remember in an hour. Thankfully, Jess seemed to catch on to my reticence and gave only brief introductions as we walked, chattering the whole time so I wouldn’t have to attempt small talk.

“Everyone who sits between you and me is out working, so we don’t have to backtrack. Ms. Mitchell said you’ll be working mostly with Bast; he’s in the cubicle to your left, against the windows, so that will be handy. Eddie sits on this side – I’ll bet he’s in the kitchen right now; we’ll find him in a minute. Here’s Anya, she’s a real sweetheart and your go-to if you need anything involving minors or Child Protection Services.

“This section is our legal team: Michael and Penelope. Hey, is your son doing better Michael? Glad to hear it, poor kiddo. Summer is the worst time to get the chickenpox and be cooped up indoors. Moving on, the bathrooms are here, right next to the supplies and printing room, and if you head back up toward the front, it’s Ms. Mitchell’s office and three conference rooms. I’ll show you how to book those so there’s no overlap if you ever need to meet with clients.

“The most important area is this way, though: the break room! And I was right, here’s Eddie!” The man standing in front of the sink looked up and flashed a brilliant white smile from beneath a neatly-trimmed black beard.

“Jess! Hello again! And who is this?” he asked, turning to me and holding out a hand. He was about my height, medium-brown skin and short, curly, black hair. He wore a white button-down and charcoal slacks, but had a muscular build that spoke to extensive physical exertion rather than training in a gym. Despite that, his handshake was gentle, as if he was confident in his strength and did not need to prove it to anyone.

“This is Sylvia – Bast told us about her a couple months ago, remember? She’ll be with us all day today, half-days next week to train, and then she’ll only be in on a per-case basis.

“Sylvia, this is Eddie. He’s been here the longest, and is a fantastic all-around resource if you have any questions. If you ever can’t find him, it’s a good bet he’s in the kitchen here making a snack or a drink or something. And if you’re at all interested in obstacle racing, he will happily talk your ear off about it.” Eddie had been grinning as Jess talked, and laughed heartily when she finished.

“It’s true, I do love a good obstacle course,” he agreed. “I keep trying to convince everyone here that it’s a good backup to have when a case goes sideways and it becomes prudent to leave quickly, but alas, I haven’t made any converts yet. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me? There’s a small one next week – only three miles and 15 obstacles?” I chuckled and waved a hand at myself depreciatingly.

“Thank you, but I’m not really in shape for anything like that. My other job is in IT – I’m much better at firewalls than climbing walls,” I replied.

“Ah, well, I had to ask. Someday, I’ll find someone to join me,” he said without rancor. He glanced at the clock, hanging above the doorway to the hall. “But for now, I have to get ready to meet with a client. Sylvia, a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the agency!” He grabbed a full shaker bottle from the counter and walked out with a wave, leaving us alone in the kitchen.

“Soooooo… I don’t mean to be pessimistic,” I said cautiously, “and I’m certainly not asking you to air dirty laundry to the newcomer, but… how is everyone here so nice? I’d always heard that every office has a toxic person, but everyone so far seems laid back and friendly. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Jess laughed easily.

“Oh, I hear you. Every place I worked before this had at least one person that no one wanted to talk to or be around.” She thought for a moment. “I think it’s because of Ms. Mitchell, honestly. Most jerks don’t make it past an interview with her – you might have noticed she doesn’t slow down much?” I nodded, remembering our phone interview. “She has no patience for anyone who doesn’t pull their own weight or who tries to start interoffice bs, and she’s really good at ferreting that out in a face-to-face meeting. I think we had one person who came in and lasted a week before he started trying to foist his responsibilities off on everyone else. Ms. Mitchell gave him one warning, then fired him the next day when he tried it again. I know she seems tough, but she’s always open to talk if you’re having problems. She’s got a vision of how she wants the company to run; anyone who doesn’t match that doesn’t make it.”

I nodded, remembering some of the customers I’d turned away for similar reasons.

“Anyway, the fact that you’re here means she thinks pretty highly of you, and I have work that both of us can do, so let’s head back and get started,” she said. “Oh – real fast, before we go. The fridge, toaster, and microwave are open to anyone, though we do ask you not leave food in the fridge for more than a few days. The mini-fridge under here has soda and water that you’re welcome to help yourself to, and there’s tea and coffee in this cupboard. Do you need anything before we get started?” I shook my head, cautiously pleased at the atmosphere and friendliness I’d experienced so far. Jess grabbed a soda from the mini-fridge, and I followed her out the door.

 

“Hey, Sylvia, it’s almost quitting time. How was your first day?” I looked up from my monitor and saw a head peering over the partition corner.

“Oh, hey, uh…” my mind blanked, as I knew it would, and I could feel my face turning red as the silence drew out. Thankfully, the owner of the head took pity on me and filled in the blank.

“It’s Eddie,” he said kindly. “And don’t worry – I know meeting everyone at a new place is tough. We all only have to remember one name, but you get at least a dozen thrown at you in less than an hour.”

“Sorry, but you’re right: that was a bit much,” I agreed gratefully. The tension left my shoulders and I glanced at my phone, sitting on the desk next to the computer; I hadn’t realized what time it was. “Thank you for the heads up on the time. The first day was good – I learned how to pull information for background checks and Jess taught me some of the red flags to look for. It’s definitely… informative.” 

“Ha, yeah, you learn a lot about people and their proclivities in this job,” he said. “One thing I warn all new hires about is not to get jaded – we often see the worst side of people here. Keep in mind that most people are still decent folks.”

“That makes sense,” I replied thoughtfully. “I run an IT consulting practice, and it’s very easy to start thinking everyone else is woefully inept with computers. I keep reminding myself that without such people, I would be out of business.”

“Oh nice, I wondered why you were only with us part-time. That’s not something Ms. Mitchell’s done before, other than with interns or work-study programs. You must have really impressed her.”

I waved a hand dismissively, not wanting to discuss the real reason she hired me.

“I was just in the right place at the right time,” I said lightly. “I’m sure Bast gave an enthusiastic endorsement, and Ms. Mitchell said you guys were getting busy. I don’t want to drop my business entirely, but investigating did seem like an interesting break from staring at a computer screen all day.”

Eddie grinned at my comment.

“You might find they’re pretty similar, actually. I asked Ms. Mitchell if you could help me on a vandalism case I’ve been putting off for a bit – it’s basically staring at a bank of security cam nighttime recordings until you see someone heading for the area in question, then try to get a good shot so we can id them or figure out how they got in. They're all low-tech cameras with no motion-sensors, unfortunately, so we have to fall back on good old human eyeballs. You game for that on Monday?”

“Mm, exciting. You sell the job so well, how can I say no,” I replied drily, then smiled to temper the sarcasm. “I knew it wouldn’t always be as glamorous as reading background reports, and it still beats looking for a wayward semicolon in security code, so sure, I’m happy to help. I will be in around one o’clock if that works for you?”

“Sounds good,” he said with a thumbs up over the partition wall. “Well, Sylvia, it was a pleasure to meet you, but it’s five o’clock, and there are trails in need of running, so I’ll be off. Have a great weekend!” I smiled and responded in kind, then gathered up my papers and notes to turn over to Jess, who happily told me all about her weekend plans to hang out with her friends as she packed up for the day. When she asked about my plans, I mentioned that a friend and I were planning to go out to the mountains, glossing over the fact that the friend was a potted plant; no point in making things weird on the first day.

 

It was nice, if a little draining, to have other humans around while working, I reflected as I got in my car. Everyone I’d met seemed pleasant to be around. If only because they don’t really know you, yet, whispered the insidious voice of self-doubt in the back of my head.

“Hush, you,” I said firmly, pulling onto the main road during a lull in traffic. “You couldn’t stop me from building my business, and you can’t stop me from this endeavor either.” There was silence as it retreated back into my subconscious, and I drove home feeling quite pleased with the day.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 6: All work and no play

            “Thank you for calling Mitchell Agency, this is Ms. Mitchell speaking.”

            “Hi, Ms. Mitchell, this is Sylvia Bishop. Is this still a good time to discuss your offer?”

            “Hello, Ms. Bishop. It is, thank you for calling on time.” She didn’t need to know that I’d been sitting by the phone for the last five minutes, notepad and pen nearby, to ensure I wouldn’t be late. “From your email, you said you’d gotten a general idea of what we do from Sebastian, but you still have some questions for me?”

            I silently took a deep breath and blew it out, reminding myself yet again that this was just another business call; there was no need to get overly nervous about being on the phone with someone who knew more about me than I did of them.

            “Yes, please. I looked up the process of becoming a licensed private investigator in Maryland, and other than the background check, it appears I have all the required qualifications. Do you have any educational or other requirements for employees, and what are you looking for as far as a time commitment?”

            “Good, I’m glad you did your research. I do not have any additional education requirements for my employees; I’ve found that different backgrounds bring diverse insights to the job rather than everyone being trained the same way. My people work in pairs on most cases, and I have a legal team that provides requirements on each case when it’s assigned, such as what is admissible in court. There are some basics you’ll need to know about Maryland laws, but I can teach you that.” Good; I had one degree in Information Technology already and wasn’t interested in getting another one.

            “As far as time commitment - Sebastian said you were hesitant to give up your business, and from what I found of you online, I can respect that. You’ve built a solid niche for yourself, which speaks to your work ethics.” Bast had warned me that his boss was up front about things; her tone of voice wasn’t quite brusque, but it did not contain any patience for people who couldn’t keep up. “I need another full-time investigator, though. I don’t like pushing my people past forty hours a week, especially since cases often have to be worked outside of normal business hours. I’m getting to the point where my employees are putting in overtime, and I don’t like to put that stress on them. The background check usually takes about ninety days, so hiring you now means you’ll be coming on right when I need you.”

            I frowned, annoyed at the implied assumption that I’d be willing to drop everything for this job offer.

            “Typically, I have my people work in the office two to three days a week from nine-to-five and out in the field the rest of the time. As I said earlier, I prefer to keep my employees right around forty hours a week, but field hours can range from early morning to late night depending on what the case calls for – you need to keep your schedule open and be flexible to do this job.” My frown deepened. I’d gotten accustomed to some attitude from clients, but I was not pleased at having someone dictate my life for a job I hadn’t even taken. I opened my mouth to decline out of principle, but she continued before I could speak.

“Sebastian told me you have some skill similar to his speaking with animals. I won’t lie, I didn’t believe him at first, but he’s solved several cases that had the rest of our team stumped. I have no other explanation for how he’s gotten the information he has at times, so I’ve taken his claim as truth. He refused to tell me what, exactly, your skill is, though. Are you willing to tell me so that, if you do take the job, I can assign you cases that play to your strengths?”

            I sat for a moment, surprised at the unexpected consideration – both from Bast for keeping my secret and from Ms. Mitchell, who had seemed downright presumptuous a moment ago. Then the penny dropped: I had projected myself onto her. I would only be that blunt if I knew the other person well and was already sure of their answer. She wasn’t assuming I’d accept, she was simply telling me what I’d need to know if I did.

            “I apologize for my silence, Ms. Mitchell. Bast – Sebastian – is the first person I’ve told about my skill in over ten years, and I am unused to discussing it with anyone.” I hesitated, then figured what the hell. If she had accepted Bast’s skill, it was unlikely that she’d mock me for mine; maybe it was time to get past my learned habit of secrecy.

            “He is right, our skills are similar. He can talk to animals, and I… can communicate with plants.” There was silence for a moment, and I wondered if I should explain myself further.

            “Plants. Got it. Any plants?” She sounded unsurprised, as if she were asking routine interview questions, and it threw me for a moment.

            “Uh, yes. Well, typical flora, at least – trees, bushes, annuals, perennials, and grasses. I haven’t tried communicating with molds or fungi, because there are usually better options to talk to nearby in the wild, and I don’t want mold in my house.”

            “Ok. Any restrictions I should know about?”

            “Communication isn’t fast. It takes a couple minutes for me to establish a conversation, and the older the plant, the slower it communicates. I can’t run by and snap out ‘which way did they go’ type questions.” I heard a pen scratching in the background and took a moment to think of what else might be pertinent.

            “They – the plants – are not very precise about telling humans apart. They usually get a general impression of relative height, shape, and temperament, but if you had two people who looked similar, they probably wouldn’t be able to distinguish which was which unless they’d spent a lot of time around one person.”

            “A lot of time, how so? Days? Months? Years?”

            “Mm, depends on the plant, really. Houseplants, probably a week or two to become familiar with someone who’s home most of the day, a month for someone who works outside the house. Trees on a main route – not going to happen. They’d need continued interaction with a single person for an hour or so every day until it sinks in that it’s the same human. A tree could tell you that someone went by after dark, but not who it was or what time it was. Time is a human construct; plants don’t have much reference other than the sun.”

            More pen scratching, but I remained silent. I couldn’t think of anything else that would be important, and I was getting a little worn out by her questions and the conversational pace. Bast was energetic and friendly; this woman took energy to interact with. And with that, I realized I’d already made my decision on the job offer.

            “Alright, anything else I should know?”

            “That’s pretty much it as far as my communication skill goes. And,” I continued, before she could take the reins of the conversation again. “I appreciate the opportunity, but I will have to decline on the full-time job offer. As you mentioned earlier, my business is doing well, and I am proud of what I’ve created. I do not want to give that up. I would, however, like to extend a counteroffer.”

            “Go ahead.” She rolled with fast changes much better than I did, her voice level and unruffled.

            “I do enjoy my side ‘lost-and-found’ business, and helping Ba- Sebastian complete his case piqued my interest. Would you be amenable to a consultant-type setup, where you call me in to apply my skills as needed, rather than having me as a direct employee?” There was a short pause before her reply.

            “Let me run the numbers and look into the legal side of things and I’ll get back to you. I should have an answer for you by Thursday.” I smiled. I might not be able to handle her personality well, but I definitely appreciated someone who set clear expectations.

            “Sounds good. Again, thank you for the opportunity, and I look forward to hearing from you.” She said goodbye and the line immediately went dead. I let my breath out slowly and slumped back in my chair. The clock showed quarter past the hour, but I felt worn out.

            “Some people are just so intense,” I told the ceiling. “I wonder if that’s how trees feel when they talk to me – like how on earth can this being do so much, so fast, and not be exhausted?” I shook my head and straightened up. If she went with the consultant setup, it would be an interesting boost to the side job, but I wasn’t going to waste time pondering what-ifs. I’d budgeted half an hour for the call with Ms. Mitchell before I had to head out for the next client meeting. I used the extra fifteen minutes to catch up on work emails, then hung the “Out of Office” sign with my phone number on my door and drove off to talk to some lawyers.

 

            I pulled into my apartment’s parking lot at half past five, heaving a sigh of relief at being done with the workday. My office was comfortable enough, and sitting in traffic wasn’t horrible, but there’s something about coming home, changing out of work clothes, and knowing you can be your entire weird self without thinking about who might see you. Speaking of which…

            After turning off the ignition, I sat for a moment in the car, slowing my thoughts down into communication mode. I reached out and ‘searched’ the area around me to see if Frank was loitering for another surprise welcome home. I was a bit surprised to realize I could hear the bushes off to one side; they had to be a good ten feet away, and my range was usually smaller than that. Perhaps talking to Frank so much over the weekend had made them focus their thoughts more. Either way, I did not hear my errant green companion, so either he was being uncharacteristically quiet, or he was still off on his travels. I got out of the car, minding my head cleared the doorjamb just in case, and went home.

            The conversation with Bast’s boss had replayed in my brain as I was driving home, and I realized I was hoping she’d call back and accept my offer. It had been fun working with Bast, and he’d mentioned going to more places on the job than he did in his social life. That idea appealed to me, since I’d have a reason to go check something out and a reason to leave again, rather than a vague social sense of “hanging out” somewhere for an indeterminate amount of time. I paused as I reached the top of the stairs, displeased with how heavily I was breathing after climbing the same three flights I had to use every day. Maybe it was time to resume working out, regardless of Ms. Mitchell’s answer on the job.

            Frank came back as the sun was going down, around nine o’clock. I was curled up on the couch with a book when I heard a ‘hello?’ from his windowsill.

            “Hey Frank, welcome back! How’d your day go?”

            “Ahhh, hey Sylvie. It was a good day. It is really nice to be back in my pot after a day out.” I laughed, thinking how closely that resembled my earlier thought about getting home.

            “Does it feel different, being out?”

            “Hmm. Yeah, it does. Sort of like… like I have to concentrate somewhat to keep who I am together, if that makes sense. Like since I don’t have my leaves and roots to keep me together, I have to have a small part of me remembering who I am so all of me makes it back. Then when I come back, I can stop thinking and relax. Take pleasure in the sun and – ahem – the mist on my leaves and just feel for a while.” I chuckled at his not-so-subtle request, and got up to grab the mister.

            With no pressing concerns on my mind, I enjoyed the misting nearly as much as he did; his mental bursts of delight were similar to a warm cat purring on ones lap: comforting and relaxing. Afterward, I sat with my back to the wall beneath his windowsill, enjoying the moment and watching the sunlight fade in the apartment. Frank broke the silence once twilight was complete.

            “Ah, thank you. That feels so nice after being out. Is that how a shower feels to you when you get home?”

            “I mean… I don’t really know how a misting feels, but I’d guess so. Sort of like a break from the outside world and a reminder that you’re home?”

            “That sounds about right. Oh, how’d your meetings go today? The ones with the lawyers and that new guy’s boss?” His mental tone turned snippy on the last comment; despite my reassurances, he still had reservations about Bast’s animal communication tempting me.

            “The lawyer one went well; I took the job. I’m going in to their office on Friday and Saturday to get familiar with their layout and setup remote access and security, then I should be able to handle that with a couple hours of work per week from my office. Thankfully, they don’t work late or on weekends, so emergency calls would only be between 8:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. during the work week – not horrible, and the pay is a nice boost.” An extremely nice boost, actually.

            “Great! And the… other meeting?” I chuckled.

            “Frank, I told you I’m going to be here for you, how many times now?” He humphed, quietly. “It went professionally, I suppose. She was overwhelming – even on the phone – and there’s no way I could work with someone that driven on a daily basis. I turned down her offer of a full-time job, and made a counteroffer of being called in for specific cases. She didn’t reject it immediately, and I’m guessing from someone like that, it means it’ll happen.”

            “Sigh. And that means you’ll be hanging around that guy more, right?” There was still some sting in the comment, but an undertone of relief as well.

            “Mm, not daily or anything like that, but yeah, we’ll see each other now and then.” I leaned my head back against the wall and looked up at Frank. “Remember how it felt to be stuck in your pot, with no one but me to talk to? That’s what it feels like to have to hide talking to you guys. There’s a whole side of me that I have to keep away from other humans in order to interact with them smoothly, and it gets old.

            “Having Bast around to talk about this is like you getting out of your pot and reconnecting with other plants. There’s someone else like you, who knows what you’re talking about.” He didn’t feel convinced, so I searched for a better explanation. “How about all the times you’ve tried to explain how you eat sunlight to me, and got frustrated that I wasn’t really getting it?”

            “Ugh, yes. It’s so obvious!” His answer was shaded with humor, though. We’d been over that topic so many times, but I was clearly still missing something. He accepted my limitations, but still teased me about it now and then – usually when I’d managed to mangle a recipe.

            “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, grandpa,” I teased back. “Seriously though, isn’t it nice to get out and talk to other plants, who get what you’re saying? That’s how I feel with Bast, regardless of your opinions about his skills and my curiosity. It’s nice to know you’re understood.”

            “Fine, fine. I guess I’ll have to find a way to deal with someone stealing you away from me!” He huffed at me in mock exasperation. I swatted one of his leaves, chuckling.

            “You’ve said that every time I’ve found a new friend or boyfriend, you nut, and I’m still here.”

            “That’s because I’m better than they are – I know you better and I can anticipate your every move.”

            “Oh yeah? That’s why you were so worried I’d take this job and throw away my own business, right?”

            “Heh, alright, alright. I make mistakes every now and then. But still, you know I’m right,” he ended, his tone a mix of reconciliation and teasing. I stuck my tongue out at him because he was probably right, whatever that said about my life.

            “Anyway, moving on,” I said, changing the topic with my usual conversational grace. “Since I have to work on Saturday, I was thinking about taking a half day off on Thursday. The Patapsco River has some parking areas only a couple minutes away from here – would you be interested in going and checking it out with me?”

            “What? Yes! Of course I would! Really? Is it big? How big is it? Thursday is in like three days, right?”

I laughed delightedly – he sounded exactly like an excited kid being told they’re going to Disneyland, and I was glad he couldn’t actually bounce around on the windowsill the way his mind was bouncing from question to question.

            “Ha ha, yes! Thursday is three days away. The river itself isn’t huge, relatively speaking. Most areas are too small for boats, but it’s got a decent flow rate.” He listened to my answers practically radiating excitement, then crowed with delight, his voice circling the room around me. That surprised me; I would have said that excited movement was strictly a physiologically muscle-contained response, but perhaps not?

            “What on earth was that, Frank?”

            “Eeee- what? What was what?”

            “The… whatever you just did, going around the room like that?”

            “Oh, that. Hm, I’m not really sure. I did that a couple times over the weekend, too, when I found a new copse of trees to talk to. It feels… right? Excitement and anticipation in the plant world doesn’t happen often, because who tells us things that will happen in the future? Other than maybe a day or so of weather prediction, we live in the now and remember the past; not much point in looking forward.

            “But this! Getting to go to a new place and knowing about it ahead of time? This is exciting! And there’s nothing to do with that energy – I can’t throw out a new leaf or root to take advantage of it. I’ve seen you and other humans move around more when you’re excited, though, so it sort of… seemed right.” There was a moment of silence, and I felt something moving around the room, like a breath of air that wasn’t touching me.

            “Hm, yup. That feels right,” I heard next to me, then he continued zooming around the room, showering the whole place with happy feelings. I laughed and let him run around; after a few minutes settled back in his pot.

            “All better?”

            “Hee! Yes, thanks. So, when are we going?” I wondered how many times I’d hear this in the next three days.

            “I figured I’d work in the morning, then come home for lunch and we could go out in the afternoon. I will have to figure out how I’m going to transport you, though. You’re not terribly compact anymore.” When we’d moved into this apartment, he’d had one or two vines about three feet long. Now, his vines blanketed the four-foot windowsill and more had grown up along a string to reach the top of the glass opening as well. His pot was only eight inches across, but dirt is heavy, and transporting that and a huge tangle of vines wouldn’t be easy.

            “I’d say we have two options. One, I could put you in a large box and sort of pile your vines around and on top of you like I did when we moved here, or two, I could trim you back.”

            “Oof, really? I guess I have spread out over the years, but this is a good window.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “Any chance you could, I don’t know, drape my vines over you and carry my pot? I’m quite proud of how much I’ve grown here.” In response, I sent him an image of what I’d look like if I did that, and how other people would react to some fruitcake wrapped in vines wandering through the woods, holding a pot.

            “Fine, never mind. If we’re going to do this frequently, it would probably be best to cut me back. This pot is starting to get a bit small, so if you trim me down, it will last a few more years. I can always throw out more vines later.”

            “Ok. Do you want me to do that tonight, or wait until Thursday? And do you want any offspring this time?” I remembered the first time my mother had trimmed back the previous philodendron, and I was worried about throwing the cut leaves into the trash. The next time I saw my grandma, I asked her if we were killing baby plants by throwing away the extra leaves. She told me that plants only gained a consciousness that we – or other plants – could talk to after they started sending out roots, so throwing away trimmings was not something to lose sleep over.

            “Can we wait until tomorrow night? I’ll spend the day enjoying the sunshine and then be ready for pruning in the evening. And no, thank you, on the offspring.” He’d declined every time I asked, but this time he explained his reasoning. “I don’t want a child who has my memories of talking with you to be stuck in a house where they have no one to communicate with. Maybe once I get more comfortable with being out-of-pot, and I can teach the next plant how to do it as well… but for now, no. That would be too cruel.”

            “Good point, I hadn’t even thought of that.” I wondered what had happened to the two indoor plants grandma had kept; I had declined adopting either one, as they’d reminded me too much of her. I shook my head to clear the memory of her house, looked up, and realized it was after ten o'clock: time to turn in. I heard Frank zoom around the living room a few times as I went through the evening routine, but everything was quiet again by the time I crawled into bed and turned out the light.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 5: Getting to know you

 Chapter 4: link.

“Do you have to be close to an animal to talk to it?” I asked, curiously. We’d kept to mundane conversation during lunch, and finished eating right as the lunch rush really started – a ploy I’d used before to get out of awkward meetings. It was a glorious day, so we decided to walk along the Inner Harbor together.

“No, and that’s come in quite useful a time or two,” Bast replied. He was wearing almost the same outfit as when I first met him – jeans and a t-shirt – but with black sneakers instead of hiking boots. His cowboy hat attracted some odd looks from the city dwellers and tourists, but he wore it comfortably. I’d dressed similarly, though without a hat, and I squinted against the mid-day sun as I looked at him quizzically, inviting him to elaborate.

“I was out hiking one day not long after I moved out here,” he continued. “I wanted to check out the Appalachian Trail, because it’s usually not very busy, so you get to see lots of animals instead of humans. I was paying more attention to the birds in the canopy than where I was going when I suddenly heard something… it’s hard to describe, but – that feeling you get when you’re chatting with a stranger at a bar and suddenly they smash a bottle on the bar and face you down? It sounded like that feeling of ‘oh crap, this is bad.’”

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 4: TGI-Frank

Chapter 3: Link

            Frank was still distracted when I said goodbye the next morning, but at least he was still around, as it were. Before going to my workplace, I visited the small business that wanted a network overhaul and was pleasantly surprised to discover that they knew exactly what they wanted and it was a reasonable request – a rare occurrence in consulting practices. I walked away from a two-hour consultation meeting with a solid budget, a plan, and a promise to have it done in three weeks. I could probably have done it in two, but I like to leave room for errors and avoid working crazy hours when crunch time came. I’d made it through college without having to pull an all-nighter, and saw no reason to break that streak for a job.

            Back at the office, I spent some time clearing out my inbox. I set up an appointment for another lost-and-found request, and put together a quote for some basic IT troubleshooting for a semi-regular client who knew just enough about technology to mess things up. It was somewhat frustrating, but I couldn’t complain since he always paid his invoices on time, never quibbled about the hours, and did make the effort to learn more each time I went out. He was also extremely outgoing, and referred me to people at the drop of a hat. Since I abhor having to self-promote – an unfortunately necessary part of being in business for yourself – his customer referrals easily outweighed his tendency to poke at things he oughtn’t.

            It looked like he’d been at it again. One of the emails was a proposal from a small, local law firm that wanted a dedicated, on-call technician. They didn’t have enough work to warrant hiring even a part-time employee, but when systems go down at a law firm, there are a lot of expensive employees wasting billable hours. It was an attractive proposal, but I didn’t want it to interfere with my other work, so after a few back-and-forth emails with the owner, we set up a meeting the following week to hash out the terms. I’d rather not get called out of bed at 11pm because someone’s laptop went down in the middle of a drawn-out council meeting; if we could avoid that, though, it would be a nice boost to my business.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 3: Meet Frank

Previous Chapter 2

             The sun was going down as I parked my car and climbed the stairs to my apartment. It wasn’t much: a small, one-bedroom place, and the neighbors could get a little loud on weekends and sports nights, but it was mine. I hung my keys and purse on the hat rack by the entrance, shut the door, and dropped onto the couch. On the rare occasions that people visited, they always remarked on how empty the main room looked. Next to the door was a small shoe rack and a couch, a small tv on an end table stood on the wall opposite, the computer desk was tucked into the corner by the kitchen, and a catch-all project table with storage underneath it occupied the wall on the far side of the front door. That left the majority of the floor space empty, meaning I had plenty of room for me to pull out a project, work on it, and then put it away, leaving the place clean and open once again.

            I pulled my shoes off and put them on the shoe rack, then sat back on the couch and let myself relax. As much as I had enjoyed talking with Bast, being around high-energy people is always draining, and I needed some quiet time. Thankfully, the neighbors seemed to agree; I couldn’t hear any parties or sports games going on, so it would probably be a decently quiet night.

            After a few minutes, I got up and walked over to the sole plant in my apartment, sitting on the window ledge by the tv. It was a philodendron I’d named Frank, taken as a clipping from the first plant I ever spoke to when I was a kid. It’s amazingly easy to judge when to repot and when to cut a plant back when it can tell you exactly what and when it needs, so the vines growing out of the pot covered every inch of the window sill beside the tv.

            “Hey Frank. How’s it going?” I said. We had ‘spoken’ with each other for so many years that we had gotten used to speaking-style thought patterns; I didn’t have to focus as much to chat with him unless there were a lot of distractions nearby. This time, though, all I got was silence. I frowned. We hadn’t had a disagreement lately – yes, thank you, you can have a disagreement with a plant – so I wasn’t sure why I didn’t get a response. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and dropped into the deeper communication mode I used with unfamiliar plants.

            “Frank? Everything ok?” I queried. I caught snatches of a distant conversation, then, almost as if he were shouting from far away, came, “Yes, hang on, I’ll be with you in a moment!” and the conversation continued.

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 2: Two jobs well done

Link to previous Chapter 1

            After a short drive, Bast pulled into a concrete parking lot around what looked like a one-story country house with pale grey siding and red awnings over the windows. Inside the front door, there was bar-style seating along an old-fashioned Formica countertop to the left; through a doorway to the right stood tables and booths with bright, red-and-white checkered tablecloths. The whole place smelled delicious, like coming home to something simmering in a crockpot after a long day. A waitress appeared and led us to a booth, dropping laminated menus in front of us and taking our drink orders – water for me and iced tea for Bast. I picked up the menu to peruse their offerings, but Bast left his on the table and sat back comfortably.

            "Come here often, do you?" I asked. 

            "No, not really, but when I do, I know what I'm getting. Their fried chicken is amazing, you should try it!" he responded, happy to share his expertise. I shrugged in agreement, since I wasn't specifically in the mood for anything in particular, and scanned the available side dishes. 

            "Huh. They're surprisingly heavy on the vegetables, for a rural restaurant." I said. "Including, wow, pickled beets? That's unusual."

Sylvia Bishop - Chapter 1: Lost-and-found

My name is Sylvia Bishop, and I found out when I was young that I can interact, in a way, with plants. Plants can sense what's going on around them, and they can transfer those impressions to me. It's not always easy to decipher, since it's not eyes-and-ears sensory input, and, just like people, it comes with overtones of each plant's opinion. Trees, since they live longer than shrubs and smaller plants, can be a pain to talk to, since they react more slowly, and flowering plants are vain as can be during their seasons, but overall, I've learned to work with them well.

     What was harder to learn was how to get them to understand me. Talking to plants isn't done with the vocal cords, although I slip up and speak out loud now and then when I'm under pressure. I've been told that, in communicating with animals, it's all about body language and posturing. With greenery, it's more along the lines of forming concepts in your mind and pushing them out towards the target to communicate. If you've ever heard anyone say that plants have an "energy" to them, they're half right- they're picking up on the plant's communication, they just can't understand it fully, somewhat like being in a quiet room and hearing murmuring: you know something's going on, but can't make out the details.

     I was lucky in that my first experience with my skills was a positive one, and I was able to develop them without any mental trauma, thanks to an open-minded and supportive family. Having been raised with a pretty strong sense of ethics and moral code, I found myself inevitably being drawn into using my unusual abilities to help people, and, as lots of people before me have discovered, this ends up making your life a little difficult.

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     "Well," the little girl said, "I still don't like how veggies taste, but you make a good point. Would it be possible to try some new things, and try to make them at least a little more palatable?" The mother, thrilled that she was making headway, agreed, and together they sat for hours, looking up new recipes. The mother and the little girl tried out many things, some good, some immediately dubbed a failed experiment (it turns out that peppermint and spinach is not a good combination), but they eventually made up a list of recipes that the little girl would consent to eating.

     While the girl never came to love vegetables, per se, she appreciated that her mother had been honest with her, and grew up to be a great negotiator. Whenever she succeeded in talking an armed gunman into letting hostages go, or getting a potential suicide to back down and take a new look at life, people would ask her where she got her skills and open-mindedness from. But she would just think of her mother, smile, and tell them to eat their vegetables, so they could grow up to be strong adults.

Moral of the story: Treat people with honesty and integrity, and you'll both go far. 

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     "Well," the little girl said, "that's very interesting, and I see your point, but I still don't like how they taste. Thank you for making the effort though." With no other choice left, the mother went back to the good witch, and asked for the potion that would mask the taste of vegetables. The good witch looked at her sadly and said, "Are you sure? For every magical cure, there's a price." The mother didn't even hesitate and said she would gladly pay it if she could guarantee the health of her little girl.

     The good witch gathered up some ingredients from her kitchen, put a pot on the stove, and added in each ingredient very carefully. Just as it came to a boil, she asked the mother for a hair from her head, and, when supplied with such, dropped it into the mixture. She let it thicken for half an hour, then turned the heat off, and poured the brew into a bottle. The good witch told the mother to use all of it (it had boiled down to a pleasant-smelling brown sauce) with the next meal, and ensure that the girl got her share. The mother went home, clutching the bottle, excited that her fight with the little girl would finally be over.

     That night, the mother made steak and potatoes for everyone, using the magic potion as a sauce on the meat. She made sure that everyone got an equal share, so the little girl would not be suspicious, and was relieved when everyone cleaned their plates. The next day, she was surprised when, as she was getting supper ready, the little girl wandered into the kitchen and asked if there would be vegetables with the meal. The mother was so happy that she hugged the little girl fiercely, and promised that yes, there would be.

     They sat down to eat, and the little girl immediately wolfed down all of her vegetables, and asked for a second helping. The mother thought nothing could make her happier, and that things were finally looking up. Then she started to eat her own meal, and realized that the vegetables tasted... odd. Kind of, well, green. Like eating a green crayon, or tripping and getting a mouthful of leaves. She hesitated, looking around at everyone else happily eating their greens, and remembered what the witch said: for every magical cure, there's a price...

Moral of the story: be careful what you ask for. 

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     "Don't worry," the good witch said, "there are plenty of ways to get her to eat her vegetables. If she is as smart as you say, appeal to her intelligent side, and teach her about nutrition and how bodies grow.  If that doesn't work, I can try to make a potion that will mask the taste of vegetables in dishes, and you can try that."

     "I'll see what I can do," the mother said, doubtfully. She went home and spent a couple days on the internet doing research, putting together slides and information, and then sat the little girls down. The carefully reviewed how vegetables have unique nutrition qualities, and the importance of macro- and micro-nutrients in childhood and puberty, and recommended servings of veggies per day. The little girl listened to all of the information very solemnly, and then looked at her mother.

     "Well," she said...

If the little girl choses to eat her vegetables like a responsible adult, click here.

If the little girl still won't eat her veggies, click here. 

6

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     "Well," the mother said, "I wanted to lose some weight, so I figured I'd make myself a diet shake instead of eating food that's bad for me. Do you want to try some?" The little girl looked at the ingredients on the counter, thought for a moment, and nodded. "It looks pretty tasty, I'll give it a try."

     The mother was delighted that her ruse had worked, and that her little girl was getting the vitamins and nutrients she needed. One day, however, the little girl caught her eating a cake, and demanded to know why she was ruining her diet. The mother, already having a bad day and in dire need of some peace and quiet- and chocolate cake- admitted to the lie, and pointed out that the girl was feeling much better since she had started eating the shakes.

     While the little girl couldn't deny that she felt better, she was also pretty mad about her mom telling lies, and stopped drinking the shakes to teach her mother a lesson. And from then on, nothing the mother said or did could get the little girl to eat fruits or veggies.

Moral of the story: Little white lies can hurt. 

Story #1

     Once upon a time, (in a galaxy far away), there was a little girl who didn't want to eat her vegetables. Her mother always told her that if she didn't eat her vegetables, she would grow up weak and sick, but she just wouldn't eat them. Dinner time turned into wartime, with her mother trying to hide veggies in meatloaf, or chicken soup, but every time, the little girl would find the vegetables, pick them out, and pile them on the side of her plate. The mother tried threats, grounding the little girl in her room, and taking away her toys, but the little girl just accepted the punishment, and didn't eat her vegetables. The mother tried offering treats as a reward for clearing her plate, with apple pies, coffee cakes, and fudge brownies waiting in the kitchen, but the little girl just shook her head and said all that sugar would be worse than not eating veggies.
     The mother didn't know what to do, so she sought out the advice of a good witch. The good witch listened to what the mother had to say, and shook her her head. "Don't worry," the good witch said...

If the good witch gives the mother advice on how to eat her veggies, click here.

If the good witch tells the mother that there are alternatives, click here. 

3

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"Don't worry," the good witch said, "vegetables are important, but there are other ways of getting the nutrients she needs in a non-veggie diet."

     The good witch handed the mother a list of vitamin- and mineral-rich fruits, and a separate list of supplements. The mother went to the store, bought the suggested items, and went home, still a little nervous. "What if she knows what I'm doing?" she thought. "My little girl is a pretty smart cookie- if she keeps being stubborn, I'm worried that she'll get sick!"

     When she got home, she put some of the fruits into an old blender they had, added some milk and ice, and started making a smoothie. The little girl came in, curious as to what the noise was, and asked her mother what she was doing. "Well," the mother said...

If the mother lies to the girl so that will drink the shake, click here.

If the mother tells the truth, click here. 

9

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"Well," the mother said, "I'll be honest. I went to the good witch, since I was worried about you, and she gave me alternatives to veggies, so that you can still get all the stuff you need to make you a healthy, growing girl, without having to fight about you actually eating your vegetables." The mother watched the little girl carefully, to see what effect her words had, but the little girl's face remained curious. 

     "This is a fruit shake, with a couple vitamins added in. I was going to try it before I gave you one, to see if it tastes okay; I don't want to just trade one fight for another. Would you like to try it with me?" the mother asked. The little girl thought about it for a moment, her eyes taking in all the stuff laid out on the countertops, and nodded her head, cautiously. The mother turned the blender off, poured what was inside it into two cups, and raised her glass in a silent "cheers" movement. The little girl solemnly did the same and took a sip.

     Her mother watched in concern as the little girl's eyes got wide, and then relief swept through her as the little girl continued drinking. Setting the cup down with a happy sigh, the little girl smiled at her mother and said, "That was delicious! Thank you so much! Could we maybe make another one with some of the pineapple I see on the counter, too?" The mother gave her an answering smile, and the two of them spent the afternoon making smoothies, content in the knowledge that dinner time would no longer be a fight, and the little girl would grow up healthy.

Moral of the story: Consider alternatives.