Chapter 16: The Century Plant
I need some good news for my lady.
She's coming up and wants to shine.
So if she needs the time to pause,
Just give her room because
She'll be comin' round the mountain in her time.
(You know) everything will grow in its own time.
-Melissa ManchesterThe weather is as dreary as my mood as I navigate the rain-slicked road. It’s been a long stress-filled day in the ICU; my stethoscope gently swings, hanging from the rearview mirror. I take a deep breath as I turn into the parking lot of Stanton Landscaping and Tree Farm. I chuckle to myself recalling the first time I came here was to pick up Kelli after her battle royal brawl here. To this day, I cannot imagine what that must have looked like.
It's been several months since Robin left. Life is routine again at work, although I think she left a permanent mark on our ICU, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ve been in touch with her and followed through with the trainer she recommended. It’s yet another commitment on my already cluttered schedule, but I think it’s worth it.
I feel slightly out of place walking through this dojo. It’s a simple concrete building that could have been mistaken for an industrial warehouse. The inside is even simpler with mats, fighting gear, and equipment strewn about. Posters of past legendary fight cards adorn the walls. Serious looking fighters go about their training routines. Some of them glance at me, a stranger in their midst, dressed in a T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.
“Can I help you?” a lean tightly muscled Latina asks, her washboard abdomen rippling beneath her sports bra.
“I’m here to see Austin,” I answer.“Right over there,” she says, pointing to a hulking figure, dressed in a workout tank top and gym shorts, his muscular arms folded confidently over his broad chest.
“You must be Kiva,” he says, extending a hand. His grip was firm but not overpowering.
A shiver of excitement runs down my spine as I take his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I manage, realizing that my voice is shakier than I would have liked.
“Robin told me about you,” he says. “She thinks very highly of you. She thinks you have a lot of potential.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she says you’re a very good striker but you need help with your grappling and submission holds. Is that true?”
“Well…yeah, I suppose.”“I can help you with that…I like training nurses. You’re already warriors. Wrestling as about controlling your opponent’s body. You’re already used to moving people with the least amount of effort. You do it in a way that doesn’t hurt them. Now, I’m going to show you how you can use you’re leverage to inflict pain.”
I think my face just went expressionless. He lets out a hearty laugh and winks. “Just kidding,” he chuckles. “Come this way and let’s get started.”The farm is bustling with activity despite the rain. Customers huddle under umbrellas searching for that perfect plant for their lawn or garden. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for as I meander through the aisles of young trees and potted plants in the large nursery. The rain has let up although the skies are still overcast. I love the scent of earth, leaves and blossoms here. It gives me a sense of serenity. Perhaps that is why I came here. My favorite part of the day is drinking coffee on my back patio, seizing a moment of tranquility before heading to the harsh and chaotic world of the ICU. I’m proud of my backyard landscape. I have silver oaks, crepe myrtles and sago palms, but lately, it feels like something is missing, a void that needs to be filled.
In the corner of the nursery, one exotic appearing plant in particular catches my attention. It is round in shape with long slender leaves arranged in a rosette. The blue-green leaves, about three feet long, are like thick and pointed swords with serrated edges pointing upward. I certainly never saw a plant like this in the northeast. A small sign at the base reads,
“Agave americana.”From behind me, I notice the shadow of a large woman approaching, followed by a strong but warm voice. “Ah, the century plant, one of my favorites.”
“Hi Mrs. Stanton,” I greet the tall plump middle-aged woman as her tan leathery face flashes a disarming smile. “What can you tell me about the plant?”
“Well,” the tree farm owner begins, “she’s called the century plant, she’s native to Mexico and Texas. She’s a tough girl, she don’t need much and she don’t ask for much. She can withstand tough times like heat and drought. Not much can kill her, except maybe neglect.” She chuckled, her laugh lines deepening around the eyes of her leathery face. “But you strike me as someone who knows how to keep things alive.”
“Well,” I respond, “I am an ICU nurse.”
“Yes, honey, I know who you are. And I think you and the century plant are a good match. You see, she has been taking care of people for thousands of years. She makes a sweet nectar that is used for food and medicine. Did you ever try agave tea?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, you should. Nothing is better for soothing a sore throat. And if you distill her nectar, you get tequila. Her leaves can be used for making rope and cloth. Yep, if you take care of her, she’ll take care of you. But she can defend herself. Don’t touch her the wrong way. Be careful with her spiked leaves, she can cut you up pretty good. She can be a bad ass but she’s got a big heart, kind of like you.”
“And when she blooms, she’s a sight to behold,” Agnes Stanton continues. “She makes a stalk that shoots up into the sky like a rocket, reaching about twenty to thirty feet tall almost overnight. Then, she puts out these beautiful yellow blossoms, and just stands tall like a queen, attracting all kinds of birds, bees, butterflies, and even bats.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I tell her. “I’ll take it. How many more days will it take for it to bloom.”
“Well, sweetie,” the tree farmer explains, her voice becoming lower. “There’s something important you need to know. There’s a reason she’s called the century plant. You see, it is said that she blooms in a hundred years.”
“Oh.”
“But don’t worry, it doesn’t really take that long. But it still takes a long time. She might bloom in ten years, or it could take twenty or thirty years. No one knows. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. She blooms on her own time. All you can do is take care of her and wait. When her times comes, everyone will know it. But it’s always on her own time.”
“Then, does she bloom every year?” I ask.
“Well, no dear. Actually, she only blooms once, and then she dies…But she doesn’t really go away. New sprouts called pups shoot out of her roots. You can replant them, give them to friends, whatever you want. The century plant just gives more of herself and the cycle starts over again.”
“It sounds fascinating,” I say. Privately, I’m thinking I’m not sure if I have the patience for a plant that might not bloom for decades. I might be in my old age by then. I don’t even know if I’ll be in the same house next year, let alone thirty years or longer.
“I think I’ll look at some more plants before making a decision,” I inform Mrs. Stanton.
“Okay, sweetie, if you have any more questions, I’ll be around.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stanton.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie. And call me Agnes.”
I wander over to the flowering garden bushes, breathing in the perfumed scents and greenery. The vibrant colors and foliage are completely alien to my world of beeping monitors and high stakes stress. I never tire of the sight and fragrance of lavender, as I peruse one lovely plant after another. My eyes land on a specific bush. It seems to be calling me, its rich shade of crimson pulsing with life. It’s a Floribunda rose. Unlike the century plant, they are known for their continuous blooming, and strong straight stems. I reach out to it, my fingertips grazing the velvety petals.
“You’ve got a good eye,” said Mrs. Stanton, who apparently had still been watching me. “That one’s a real fighter. Lost half her leaves in the last storm, but look at her now.”
“This would be a nice addition to my backyard,” I tell her.
“You know, roses are funny things,” she muses. “They need a good trim now and then but if you give ‘em the right care, they’ll keep blooming for you.”
“Then, we’ll get along fine,” I laugh. “I need a good trim to keep going too. I’ll take it.”
“Now remember, the roses like the sun, but not too much. And keep ‘em watered, but not soaked.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” I assure her.
“I know you will. I’ll meet you inside at the checkout.”
I pick up the large pot and place it in a wooden cart as Agnes walks off. I head to the checkout line, passing the century plant one last time as I pull my cart with my brand-new Floribunda rose bush. I let my mind wander as I admire the orange milkweed, yellow Carolina jessamine, and purple asters when a familiar but toxic voice jolts my nervous system.
“Well, if it isn’t Kiva.”
I don’t want to look her way, but I must. I want this interaction to be as brief as possible. “How nice to see you here,” she chirps with her usual fake politeness.
I turn to see Cynthia, looking perky and resplendent as usual, dressed in her signature red striped warm up jacket and jeans. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her glowing skin and perfect teeth exude charm and charisma.
“Hello Cynthia,” I manage to say without groaning. I can’t help but notice the thick blanket of gray clouds regathering, blotting out the sun, turning the light to a darker gray.
“It’s been quite a while,” she says. “Since Clarissa graduated to the older group, we don’t get to see each other much anymore. We should try to catch up some time.”
“Uh, sure Cythia, that would be wonderful,” I respond, lying through my teeth. “I’ll see you around,” I add as I grab the handle to my cart and begin to head off.
“Oh Kiva,” the former cheerleader star calls out. “I see you have a Floribunda rose bush in your cart. Am I to presume you’re buying that?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I see.” Now what the hell is she getting at, I’m wondering. “Well, I had my eye on it and was about to take it when I was interrupted to take a call on my cell phone. Josh and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary today. I think that rose bush would be the perfect symbol for us…So, would you mind handing it over to me?”
Oh shit! Why this? Seriously? Of all the flowers and plants in the nursery, Cynthia has to have this one? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t deny someone who had her heart set on an anniversary gift. But honestly, I don’t know if I believe her. I didn’t see her here earlier. Does she really want it or is this a test if I’m going to cave in to her? Let’s see how she takes this answer.
“Sorry Cynthia, this plant is mine. I was here first. There are many fine plants and flowers here you can use to commemorate your special day. Oh, and happy anniversary to you and Josh.”
“Well Kiva,” she says with a sterner voice. “I hoped you would have been more gracious. I’m sorry I gave you too much credit.”
“There will be more shipments of rose bushes coming. Order one with Agnes.”
“I know, but our anniversary is today,” she retorts. “That rose is a symbol of Josh and I, our life together. I mean, roses are symbols of love. I’m sure you really appreciate it, but I think it would be more appropriate for a woman who…you know, has a man.”
I knew it. Here come the digs.
I glare at her. “Stop wasting my time,” I growl.
“Look,” Cynthia continues, “I’m sorry about your separation. I’m sure you’re going through a very difficult time. But that’s no reason for you to be so selfish and unreasonable. There’s no need for you to get in the way of other people’s happiness. Let Josh and I have the roses.”
Now the gaslighting. “Thank you for your concern, Cynthia,” I snark. “Now if you’ll step aside, I’ll take my rose bush to the checkout line.”
“Okay, fine,” she snaps. “If you can’t be an adult about it, take it. I’ll find something else for Josh and I. As we’re celebrating tonight, you can just take your rose bush home and spend some quality time with yourself.”
Alright, I’m starting to get it. “This isn’t really about the rose bush, is it Cynthia. Your pride is still hurting from getting beat by Kelli, and you think you can take it out on me. You’re trying to prove your dominance over me and let me assure you, that’s not going to happen.”
Her facial expression says it all. I just scored a direct hit. “Dominate you?” she sneers. “I have no need to dominate you. I mean, your still just a nobody. You’re just a sad pathetic nurse. No wonder you couldn’t keep Tom. I guess he just got bored with your bedside manner. Good luck starting over.”
A jagged bolt of lightning illuminates the dark sky. The wind begins to whip through the tallest trees on the farm. I didn’t want this confrontation to escalate. At least not right now. It’s too late, that line has been crossed. I feel the blood rush to my face. “Me? A nobody?” I snarl. “That’s funny coming from a …” I didn’t expect my voice to stop. I’m not sure why it did. Cynthia approaches me, her fists clenched.
“Coming from a what?” she demands, her voice raised. I note that we’re now being watched by a small crowd. “What am I?”
My voice is stuck in my throat. She knows I was about to call her a has-been, a loser whose life is stuck reliving past glories from her college days. But I can’t get it out. It’s not from fear of her. It’s something more. Something deeper. It’s as if I’ve moved on from…something.
Her face is now just inches from mine. “Go ahead, Kiva, say it. Tell everybody here what I am. Do it! I dare you!”
“You’re a…a…” Oh no! What’s wrong with me? I’m looking weak. Cynthia laughs.
“We’ll, at least I taught you something about having better manners last time,” she mocks.
“You’re a fucking…” Oh Lord. I can’t say it. Why? Cynthia laughs louder.
“Does the cat have your tongue?”
“Ladies, ladies,” an assertive voice yells as a 200 lb. female form forces her way between Cynthia and I. “Break it up,” Agnes Stanton demands. “I can’t have you here causing a commotion in front of my other customers. I know all about you two, but you’re going to have to take this somewhere else.”
“No worries,” Cynthia says in a now calm and smug voice. “It was a little misunderstanding but I think we’ve settled it. Kiva obviously doesn’t want to fight. I think we’ve decided that I’ll be taking the rose bush home, as soon as Kiva hands it over.”
Fuck! I just got humiliated by Cynthia again. I couldn’t call her a has-been to her face. I backed down and lost the confrontation. I don’t understand it. Am I really afraid of her? Or is there more to it? It doesn’t matter now. I lost face and she knows it and now she’s playing it.
“Kiva, if you wouldn’t mind moving that Floribunda rose to my cart. Mrs. Stanton, I will meet you at the check out line,” Cynthia says with a smug tone.
Thunder grumbles in the distance. The air feels strangely charged, as if nature is holding its breath.
“Hurry up, Kiva. It’s about to rain again,” Cynthia demanded.
“Yes, Kiva,” Agnes urged. “Are you giving that plant to Cynthia, or do you want it for yourself?”
Cynthia’s arms are impatiently folded. Agnes is visibly irritated. Several bystanders who have been watching this spectacle have their eyes on me. They all know Cynthia has the upper hand and want to see if I am submitting to her will. My eyes fall from the women in front of me down to the rose bush in my cart. “Kiva, we need to know now,” Agnes urges. I lift the plant from my cart to chest level, stare at Cynthia one more time, then place rose bush back into my cart again.
“We will fight over it,” I boldly state, giving Cynthia my meanest stare. “Agnes, I didn’t realize you have a problem with snakes in the nursery.”
“Really?” Cynthia gasps with mock surprise. “You want to fight me again. Haven’t you learned your lesson last time. Kiva, you’re like a weed. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of her, she just comes back. Okay, if that’s the way you want it. Just remember, this was your idea.”
“Very well, ladies,” Agnes joins in. “The winner gets the Floribunda roses.” She bites her lower lip as in thought. “Ah, I have a battleground we can use that’s private. Come this way.”
Cynthia and I silently walk shoulder to shoulder, following the stout woman down a gravel path, our feet crunching with each step. I can’t believe I’m fighting Cynthia again. I knew I would someday. I just didn’t think it would be now. I know there’s a lot at stake. I still haven’t fully recovered from the aftermath of our first fight. This could seriously affect my future, but I don’t have time to think about it as we march to our battle. The sky has become dark, tentative rain drops tap on the ground around us, quickly turning to a steady drizzle. Agnes quickens the pace, seemingly eager to get to our destination. We pass a row of greenhouses, their glass panels reflecting the dark sky. “This way,” Agnes instructs us, leading us to the door of the final greenhouse.
“This where we’re fighting?” I ask. “A greenhouse?”
“That’s correct, sweetie,” she answers. “We just got seedlings in here, it’s closed off to the public for now.”
“But…it’s made of glass. People outside will see us.”
Agnes pulls out what looks like a remote control, one of many gadgets attached to her belt. “Watch,” she tells me.
The greenhouse glass slowly transforms from transparent to opaque black. “It’s smart glass, the latest in greenhouse technology,” she says. We can control how much light comes in and we can make sure no one can see what’s inside. You ladies can tangle without any prying eyes seeing ya. Let’s go in,”
As we pass through the greenhouse door, I’m immediately enveloped in hot humid air.
“It’s 30 by 96 feet. There’s plenty of room for your battle in the back. I’ll take you there,” Agnes explains. We walk past clusters of tropical plants with glossy unfurling leaves, clusters of bright flowers line us on either side, along with young saplings poking through the warm soil. The walls are lined with shelves of terracotta pots and gardening tools. The rain is now heavy pattering against the glass, creating a muffled cocoon around us.
We come to the back of the greenhouse. Agnes points to a large 20 x 30 foot patch of ground covered in soil. “This will be your arena,” she informs us.
“Here? In the dirt?” Cynthia asks.
“It’s fresh peat moss,” Agnes replies. Further back, we got a bed of topsoil overlayed with tree bark mulch if you prefer that. Personally, I’d recommend the peat moss. It’s softer like a cushion and it ain’t been seeded yet. Perfect for good ol’ fashioned hand-to-hand combat. We’ll just need to rake it again after you girls finish. You got room. You got privacy. So, let’s get down to it. Are you okay with it?”
“I guess so,” I respond.
“I don’t mind,” Cynthia smirks. She looks at me with her eyes gleaming like a predator. “We’ll have a place to bury Kiva when I’m done with her.”
I ignore her. My new trainer has taught me to stay focused, not to get caught up in the moment like the first time I fought Cynthia. I challenged her, she accepted. No need for trash talk at this time.
The air is hot and thick in here. “This greenhouse is for tropical plants,” Agnes confirms. “We’re set at 95 degrees and 90% humidity. You ladies are going to sweat buckets. I suggest you both strip down.”
Cynthia wastes no time removing her sweatshirt, revealing a red and white T shirt. I remove my baseball cap and light grey fleece jacket, exposing my Abercrombie and Fitch white crew shirt underneath. Her jeans drop to her ankles. She takes off her sneakers and steps out of them as I pull down my white shorts. A few seconds later, Cynthia is standing in pink lacy bra and panties I’m in a plain white full coverage nylon bra and cotton panties. We pause and eye each other. Her choice of undergarments suggests she was planning a romantic anniversary evening with Josh. At least she’s not wearing those silly red number 19 panties.
Already, I’m sweating under the greenhouse conditions. Sweat pools between and under my breasts. I reach around and unsnap my bra and pull it off, letting my girls drop and breathe unencumbered. Cynthia is already bare-chested, her breasts bouncing slightly as she tosses her bra to the floor. I try not to look too much. Cynthia is one of only a few women whose body can make me feel insecure about my own. She is an elite athlete and has the body to match. We stand on opposite sides of the soil bed and begin to loosen up. I’m distracted by the moisture between my legs.
“In this humidity, those girly panties will be soaking wet in no time,” Agnes tells us. “I suggest you settle your issues in full nude…bare kitty and titty against bare kitty and titty…Oh, and by the way, I got to get back to my customers. I messaged my girls, Carol and Sandy, to tend to your fight. They’ll be here in a minute…. You can wash off afterward with the overhead sprinklers. I’m leaving towels for ya here. Good luck, y’all. May the better woman win,” Agnes says before exiting the greenhouse.
Carol and Sandy? Now I remember. They must be the creepy employees Kelli mentioned. The greenhouse door swings open and two young women enter walking in lockstep with each other. Both of them petite with similar builds, posture, blank facial expressions and pixie hair styles. If they weren’t from different ethnicities, Carol is black and Sandy is a redhead, one might assume they were twins. Carol stands beside me on my corner of the dirt bed, while Sandy walks over to Cynthia. I take a deep breath and slide my panties down. Cynthia stares at me, her eyes widening as she pushes down her own pink lacy panties, revealing a perfectly manicured strip of brown hair compared to my bikini-waxed common black triangle.
Cynthia goes through her stretch routine like she did at our first fight. She moves with the grace of a cat demonstrating flexibility I can only dream of. She spreads her legs apart, dropping her forehead to the floor in front of her. She does back walkovers, twists and contorts in ways I didn’t know was possible. I just do the basic stretch stuff.
Carol and Sandy clap their hands together in unison and point to the middle of the “ring,” motioning Cynthia and I with their hands to come forward. Don’t these girls speak? The soil is warm and soft under my bare feet as I stand directly in front of Cynthia.
“First off, Kiva, you need to work on your look. You need to get more intimidating. You’re a pretty lady, I know. I’ve trained lots of pretty girls, but this isn’t a beauty contest. You can be a nice person, but when it’s time for business, you want a look that says, ‘If you fuck with me, you will have made the biggest mistake in your life.’ Use your eyes, direct your bad intentions at your opponent. Never, ever blink. And if you have a look that says the lights are on but nobody’s home, that’s even better.”Carol and Sandy hold up their ten fingers, then pull down a finger one by one. I guess this is a countdown to start our fight. Four…three…two…one…CLAP!
Cynthia and I rush at each other with a flurry of arms swinging and shoving. I’m usually more controlled than this at the start of a fight, but my emotions are high. “Bitch…loser!” Cynthia shrieks. We seize each other around the shoulders, swing in circle, our legs tangle, tripping both of us as we tumble into the peat moss. A cloud of dirt rises as we fall. We roll through the soil, punching and tearing at each other’s hair, nails digging into flesh. Cynthia’s aggression and athleticism puts me at a disadvantage as I find myself on the defensive fighting her off. She tries to mount me but I kick her off and roll away. I’m learning to be a better wrestler, but this is not practice. It’s an actual fight and I resort to what I do best. As I pull away from my enemy, and try to stand, I feel her nails rake down my back. “You fucking bitch,” I scream.
I get to my feet and back away, trying to get a quick breather. We are already sweating profusely in this stifling atmosphere. We are covered everywhere in dirt glued to our sweaty skin. My feet are so caked with the soil, I can barely see my toes. Our ponytails are undone, the humidity has caused my hair to curl and stick to my forehead, neck and shoulders. We both have scratch marks on our arms and I’m sure I have railroad tracks down my back. I can’t see this fight lasting long. Not in these conditions. The heat and humidity are oppressive making breathing difficult. We’ll be dehydrated in no time. The heat, heaviness of the air and sweat augments the scent of vagina in the air, mingling with the aroma of young trees and flower blossoms.
I approach Cynthia again, this time returning to my familiar boxer’s stance. We circle each other. I snap a hard left jab that connects with the side of Kiva’s face, causing a loud smacking sound. Cynthia backs off and I move in.
“They were right about you, Kiva. You got good striking technique. Be efficient. Remember, it’s all about precision. Think of it like giving a medication. Too much, too little, wrong timing – it could all mean disaster. But hit that sweet spot, and it’s lights out…Good! Now let’s add some speed and power. Imagine you’re pushing your way through a code blue.”I shoot for the tender spots. A right hand hits her kidney, followed by a stiff left to the solar plexus. I will methodically take her apart. Cynthia winces, I know she is feeling it. But the cheerleading coach is not going to stand there and take it. She dodges and weaves and does her best to make herself a moving target. Leaning on her speed and agility, Cynthia dives for my legs and I feel myself falling backward onto ground. Just like that, I’m on my back again with Cynthia on top of me.
Cynthia goes on the attack, forcing me into a defensive position again. I use my legs to block her from locking in a body scissors and my arms to block her blows. We grunt and curse as she swipes her nails, creating new scratches on my arms and boobs. I slap and swing at her to fight her off, until I connect with a hard slap across the face and push her off to the side. She tries to regain her advantage but I block her by grabbing her arms. Gasping and grunting, we struggle on the ground, dirt clings all over our bodies. Our hair is matted with sweat and soil and my vision is impaired. Cynthia wraps her legs around my waist and uses her strong thighs to swing me down on my back again. This time she succeeds in straddling me and I’m at a serious disadvantage.
She starts throwing slaps and fists at my face. I block most of them, but a few are getting through. More shots hit as her blows become more precise. I think my nose is bleeding as I can feel and taste it in the back of my throat. I’m in trouble. I’m hyperventilating. I try to keep my bearings and not…panic.”
“Panic is your enemy, just like it is in the ICU,” Austin instructs. “You can escape this, but you need to stay cool, stay focused. Let’s walk through the escape steps.”I push against Cynthia’s thighs with my arms, feeling the strain in my shoulders. I withstand a few blows, but manage to create some space. I feel my body shift.
“That’s it, Kiva! Now, bridge up with your hips. That’s it! Arch your back. Push off with your feet. Great! Now shift your weight.”The sudden shift causes Cynthia to momentarily lose her balance, I swing my arm up and slap her in the face. I twist again and elbow her in the ribs. She yelps in pain and covers up her torso as I slither away.
I stagger to my feet, my soil-caked body aching, my lungs gasping. My eyes are watering as I wipe away a trickle of blood from my nose. The rain outside has picked up, heavy drops pelting the glass roof and walls. A flash of lightning shoots overhead, followed by a boom of thunder.
Cynthia is standing, her eyes wide with fury, her fists clenched. She charges forward. Again, I fall victim to her speed and agility. I barely have time to brace myself for the impact. Her knee plows into my abdomen doubling me over. Cynthia takes advantage of my vulnerability and throws a barrage of fists at my head. Using my new wrestling skills, I go low, wrap my arms around the bitch’s waste, lift, twist, and slam her on her back with me landing on top of her. Just like in practice.
She hits the ground with an “umph” sound forced from her mouth. She furiously bucks her hips and flails her limbs. We roll around again in the peat moss. I more than hold my own on the ground and manage to mount her. For the first time, I see a look of fear on her face. I grab her throat and squeeze.
“It’s over, bitch. You are not superior to me,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. Her eyes bulge. I can see the flush of redness in her face through the soil and tangled wet hair. My own sweat is profuse, dripping down on her face. I know we are both already dehydrated in this suffocating atmosphere. I lift her head up by the throat, then slam it back down again. “This is for all the times you tried to make me feel small. It’s over! Give up.”
Cynthia bucks harder. Her feet suddenly appear in front of my chest, her ankles lock together. Already, I’m off balance. Fuck! She did this to me the last fight. How did I fall for this again? How did I not consider her extraordinary flexibility? I’m determined to stay on top. I release her throat and grab her legs, trying to pry her ankles apart. It’s too late. Her legs push me off to the side. I manage to break her locked ankles and try to reclaim my position. Cynthia lifts her shoulders up and makes a throwing motion, flinging a handful of dirt in my face.
I choke and sputter. My eyes burn. Cynthia scrambles away, her labored breath gasps, “You…you bitch.”
My eyes burn with the salt of sweat and specks of dirt. I blink and rub my eyes with my dirty, sweaty, bloody hands. That makes it worse. I try to stand but my legs slip beneath me. I clear my eyes just enough to see Cynthia, her legs coiled, getting ready to spring and pounce.
The impact is like being hit by a small truck. Cynthia’s body slams into me, sending my flying backward, off the peat soil arena, onto the tile and crashing backward into a nearby shelf. The sharp edges of the shelf dig into my back as I fall in pain. Ceramic pots and clay containers topple to the floor, falling around me, breaking into many pieces. I get up to my hands and knees. Things are starting to look blurry. I know that dehydration is setting in.
Through the chaos, I can feel Cynthia’s hand seize my hair and pull. She leads me like a dog, my knees getting cut by the broken shards of pots as she pulls me back to our peat moss arena. Like a predator, she drags me by the hair to the center of our soil bed and delivers three kicks to the side and belly. I can barely see anything. I feel myself fading but I’m not going down easily. I fight my way to my feet, but I realize I just played into Cynthia’s hand.
With a grunt, Cynthia hip tosses me over, sending me flat on my back. I instinctively roll over, but the former campus queen pounces on my back, straddling me. “You think you’re better than me?” she spits. “Let me show you what a real winner looks like.” And with that, she pushes my face down into the peat moss, the warm earth filling my nose and mouth.
I scream but my voice is muffled. I struggle beneath my hated rival’s weight but it hurts trying to draw a breath. I thrash my head from side to side, but Cynthia’s grip is unrelenting, her fingers dig into the back of my head as she holds me down.
The rain outside is now a torrent. The sound of it hammers against the glass walls of the greenhouse, like a rhythmic backdrop to the battle and pain searing through my body. Cynthia, firmly entrenched on my back, changes tactics. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs tightly holding on to my waist. Her hands interlock under my chin, pulling back with all her might using her muscular arms, applying a painful reverse chin lock with all the vindictiveness inside her. I feel my throat constrict. Pain builds in my neck.
I thrash wildly, trying to break free from this excruciating hold. My hands flail, desperately scratching at the earth as if searching for anything that could help me escape. But Cynthia is relentless as she pulls back harder. My legs kick in futility. My body is contorted in agony. My mind races.
“Give up!” Cynthia growls.
Suddenly, she releases my chin and my head falls to the earth. Did she think I submitted? For a second, there is a brief respite of pressure in my neck. I feel Cynthia pull back on my arms and place them over both her knees straddling my back. She regains her grip on my chin and pulls back again. My spine bends at a horrible angle as she transitions the chin lock into a camel clutch. I’m in more pain than ever and even less mobile. “Let’s see how you handle this?” Cynthia snarls. “Give up!”
My vision is fading, my limbs growing heavy and useless. Panic rises within me. The fight or flight instinct screams at me to do something. But I’m trapped, my body pinned beneath Cynthia’s, being pulled apart in way nature never intended. Dirt is in my nose and mouth. I can barely breath. I feel as if I am being buried alive.
My thoughts are becoming fuzzy, consciousness is starting to blur. The pain in my neck and back is unbearable, I feel my very essence being crushed. Thoughts and disjointed images of my life flash by me like a dying woman. I see a parade of my patients, my estranged husband, my daughter, my house with the lonely bedroom. A sense of dread swallows me, the realization that this is it, Cynthia broke me once and for all.
A cold wet sensation falls onto my face. I feel it on my limbs. Water drops on the soil around me. It’s everywhere now, like a deluge from the heavens. It’s confusing. It’s raining inside as if the roof disappeared. The downfall of water increases in intensity, as if it intends to provide life to my trapped twisted body. The pressure on my neck lessens as Cynthia also seems confused. I quickly grab her wrists and pry her hands off of my chin, coughing and gagging as I free my face.
The sprinkler system. That’s it. The overhead sprinklers had turned on. Carol and Sandy stand still unfazed. Did they turn it on? Was the sprinkler system set to an automatic timer? The water is cold and shocking but it feels so sweet. I squirm beneath Cynthia. She momentarily relents, apparently surprised by the sudden shower. I turn over onto my back and fight back. The soil clinging to our bodies mixes with the water to form a thick muddy paste.
It also provided a new source of ammunition. Desperate, I scoop up a handful and fling it into Cynthia’s face. With her brown hair plastered to her face, Cynthia sputtered and spat, her eyes momentarily blinded as I escape from beneath her.
Our fight is renewed. The two of us slide and stumble in the mud. The water continues to spray from above, washing away much of the dirt, but making our skin slippery and difficult to grab onto. The greenhouse arena is slick with mud as we struggle to maintain our footing.
We grapple and swing at each other. I slip and fall and am suddenly vulnerable. I try to rise quickly but my legs tremble. Cynthia rushes in. Our wet bodies slap together. We fall to the muddy earth, and roll around, both of us fighting for dominance. Our hair, faces, and bodies are covered with mud. Cynthia again takes advantage, and holds onto me tightly enough to flip me on my back. She tries to pounce, but the slipperiness of the ground and my body allows me to roll away. I get to my feet as Cynthia is about to lunge.
Suddenly, the former star athlete slips, her legs shooting out from under her. I take the opportunity to jump on her, wrapping my legs around her waist, taking her down. We land hard in the mud, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through my spine. I throw my arm around her neck, feeling her carotid pulse on my bicep. The carotid pulse.
“No, Kiva. I am not going to teach you sleeper choke holds,” Austin firmly tells me. “At least not now. You’re not ready. Choke holds are very dangerous and in the wrong hands can have very serious consequences. You need to respect that. And when you learn them, never ever use them without professional supervision.”*****
But I’m a nurse. I know all about the carotid arteries. I know how to find them. I’ve been coming here during my breaks at night. My faculty badge grants me access to the simulation lab. We use this room to teach students. The cardiovascular dummy has a heart and arteries that pulsate. I sit the dummy up and position myself behind it. There it is, the carotid triangle in the anterior part of the neck. It’s the space bordered by three muscles: the sternocleidomastoid, the omohyoid, and the digastric. Together, they form a triangle containing the jugular vein and the carotid artery.
I tuck my right forearm under the dummy’s chin, wrapping its neck tight. Then I put my left hand under its head. My right hand grabs my left bicep. I got both triangles. Now apply pressure, cutting off circulation of both carotid arteries. Now, apply pressure.Cynthia’s body tenses and writhes beneath me. My right bicep presses into one side of her neck and my forearm squeezes the other side. My left arm is behind her head applying pressure downward as I tighten up, using my legs to immobilize her body. She fights. She is strong. But she is fading. Finally, her body goes limp. I know all about the risk of strokes and seizures. I release her. Her motionless unconscious body, drops into the mud.
The sight of Cynthia’s naked muddy battered body is equally gratifying, but highly disturbing. I just used a lethal hold I had never considered before. I instruct Carol and Sandy to move her away and allow her to breathe and wake up. They each grab an arm and drag her across the wet peat moss, her heels creating tracks in the mud. The oddball pair deposit my fallen foe on the bed of the more dry tree bark mulch.
I take a few moments to catch my breath and grab some water to drink. I need electrolyte replacement as soon as possible. I know I will feel thrilled over my victory, but right now, I’m preoccupied with recovering and getting cleaned up. It was my first fight since my formal wrestling training started and the results were mixed. I have much more to learn. My attention returns to Cynthia. It is critically important that she wakes up and I feel nervous.
Cynthia lies on her back, her face and hair caked with mud. Her bare chest rises and falls with each breath. Her eyelids flutter, then snap open. She appears confused; I’m relieved she’s regaining consciousness. She moans and begins to move her arms and legs, at first without purpose, then begins to wipe mud away from her eyes. Oddly, she slaps her ankle as if she swatted a mosquito. Then, she takes a swipe at her thigh, creating a smacking sound. Then she strikes herself with her palm again on her thigh, then on her belly. She twists and squirms in the mud, her arms frantically hitting and clawing at her own body. I’m getting scared. Did I somehow damage her brain?
The former cheerleader suddenly sits upright, her face a mask of sheer horror. She lets out a loud piercing scream as her arms and legs flail in a desperate attempt to do…something. I don’t understand this and I’m starting to fall into complete panic.
I take a few steps closer and call her name. Her body contorts and flops as she continues to scream. I see something strange. The dirt on her skin appears to be moving as if it has a life of its own. Like hundreds of specks of brown coffee ground that have tiny legs. It’s as if she’s being attacked by…
“FIRE ANTS!” I scream. “HOLY FUCK!” Cynthia’s being attacked by fire ants. This nursery has fire ants!”
Cynthia’s eyes widen in horror. “Josh!” she screamed in terror as if her very life was in jeopardy. The swarm of insects ascend up her legs, her thighs, her belly, a few advancing higher. She tries to stand, but the ants are everywhere, biting and stinging, their tiny mandibles digging into her naked skin. She stumbles as she tries to brush off as many as possible, losing her balance, then falling back into the dirt. Carol and Sandy are off to the siding expressionless…and just watching.
“What the fuck, you two!” I bark at the strange pair. “Goddammit! Do something…Get the garden hoses!”
The two weirdos snap out their apparent hypnotic spell, each grabbing long green garden hoses, crank the faucets and approach my tormented adversary. Water shoots out of both nozzles with a blast that would have knocked over a small child. The jet sprays hit Cynthia’s tortured nude body with a loud thwack sound. The dirt and the ants begin to scatter. Carol and Sandy turn up the water pressure and approach their target like firefighters putting out a blaze. Cynthia again tries to stand. I can barely see her through the massive dispersion of water hitting her body and spraying in every direction. The force of the water is too much and she falls back into the dirt which is now a pool of earth mixed with the bodies of countless ants. The blasting water jets seems to create a new agony for Cynthia, stinging her already red and inflamed skin.
“Stop!” I shout. “Turn the pressure down!” Carol and Sandy reduce the jets to a fine spray, aiming at the ants still clinging to Cynthia’s skin. The water washes many of them away as Cynthia’s screams begin to die down. “Get her the fuck out of here,” I demanded.
On cue, Carol lifts Cynthia’s arms and Sandy seizes the ankles as they lift her off the hellish soil and carry her toward the front of the greenhouse before depositing her bare back down on cool tile.
Cynthia’s eyes are squeezed shut and her breathing is rapid and shallow. Tears fall down her face as she sobs uncontrollably. Carol, Sandy and I pick off the remaining ants until what felt like an eternity, the last ant was gone. Cynthia looks awful. Her hair is caked in mud. Her body is a mess of mud, scratches, and welts. I pause to contemplate the cruelty of nature, how creatures one millimeter long can act together to reduce a beautiful human female body to a mass of grotesque meat. I ask Carol to throw a blanket over her. I’m aware that fire ant bites are rarely fatal. Most deaths are from anaphylactic allergies. I figure that Cynthia would have had one by now. The pain usually subsides in a few days, then turn to itching which can be intense. The bites generally resolve completely in about 10 days. Still, I offer to take Cynthia to the ER, but she declines.
“I’m calling Josh,” she gasps out. “Just go.”
Fine. I really can’t do much for her anyway. I instruct the creepy girls to help Cynthia get cleaned up and dressed. I walk toward back to the peat moss battlefield and see the sprinkler head high up. This one has a manual switch. The water feels wonderful spraying on my hair. Immediately, mud runs down my neck and shoulders. Rivers of dirty water roll down my belly and thigh, falling to the floor around my feet. I turn up the pressure and let the water fall on my face. I feel a strange sense of elation as I let it cleanse me. The force of the water stings my face, but I enjoy it. I feel different inside, as if I’m no longer the same person I was yesterday. Something has changed, like I’m about to have a new beginning. The water bounces off my skin. I throw my arms up high as if reaching for the heavens. I’m reminded of Andy in
The Shawshank Redemption, throwing his face and hands upward to receive the downpour of rain after he escaped through the prison sewage system to begin a new life. The dirt disappears from me like the unpleasant things from my past.
My epiphany comes to an end. I hose off my feet, grab a towel, dry off and redress, minus the bra and panties. I look behind me and see that Cynthia is now sitting up and drinking water. I’m not sure if I trust her being alone with Carol and Sandy. The idea has crossed my mind that they dropped her on the fire ant nest deliberately, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. After I pay Agnes for the Floribunda roses, I’ll stop back and check on her.
I tie back my soaking wet hair and try to stuff as much as I can under my baseball cap. I put on my sunglasses. I look like crap and I ache everywhere. Inside, though, I feel fantastic. I feel like I’ve just excised a dark part of my life and the future is bright again. I reclaim my rosebush and head back up the gravel path.
The sun is shining brightly again as I step outside. I enjoy the sound of birds and the earthy scent of the place as I head back up the gravel path. Customers are regathering at the tree farm. I approach the shop and realize I have no choice but to mingle among other customers. I hope no one recognizes me.
“Hey there, kiddo,” a familiar man’s voice calls. Oh no, it can’t be.
“Josh!” I return the greeting, trying to hide my face as much as possible, hoping he won’t notice signs of the fight. Does he know about the fight? Did he come for Cynthia?
“So nice to run into you here,” he cheerfully says.
Nice? Is he kidding?
“How about this crazy weather we’re having,” Josh continues.” It reminds me of the time we played the Miami Hurricanes in Florida. One minute we’d be playing in a typhoon, the next minute, the sun is shining again. I remember it well. The field was nothing but mud. We were down by ten points in the third quarter and the coach took me aside and…”
“Excuse me, Josh,” I interrupt, lest I hear his stories for several more hours. “Um…did you come here for…I mean, did you come here to pick up…?”
“I sure did, kiddo. I’m here to pick up a gift for Cynthia. It’s our anniversary today and I thought I’d leave work early and get her a little something.”
“That’s very nice, Josh. Happy anniversary.” Should I tell him? I should. He’ll find out soon anyway.
“Uh, Josh, I think there’s something I should tell you. It was a coincidence seeing you here, but now that you’re here, I should probably let you know.”
“What is it, kiddo?” he asks earnestly, his eyes reflecting a genuine concern in his heart.
“Well, you know how Cynthia and I have had a lot of conflict and tension,” my words stumble.
“I know,” he says softly, almost with sadness.
“Well. I just want to say that…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I need to tell you…” Why is this so hard? Why can’t I tell him that I rendered his wife unconscious and left her nude body in the dirt to be ant food?
Josh walks over to me, places his hand on my shoulder, then with a gently voice says, “You can tell me, kiddo.”
Tell him, Kiva, I say to myself. Be direct. Tell him you fought his wife and she was lying in a heap just 120 yards away, full of bruises, scratches and ant bites. I’ll tell him about the fight, but first, I feel I need to resolve something.
“Josh,” I look at him through my sunglasses. “I said some things in the past and called you some names that were very unkind, and…none of it was true…You’re not a has-been. You’re not a loser…You should be very proud of your football career…You’re a good man, there’s so much more to life than football,” my voice chokes. “You didn’t deserve those things I said about you…I am so sorry.”
“Oh kiddo,” Josh whispers as his arms embrace me and pull me to his chest. I can feel his cell phone vibrating on my breasts. He doesn’t answer it. His full attention is on me. “I know you didn’t mean any of it, darling. Believe me, I’ve been called much worse things. People say things sometimes in the heat of a moment. Now do me a favor and promise me you will stop beating yourself up over it. Don’t let your pretty little head ever give it another thought. Can you promise me that?”
“I promise,” I whisper back as tears flow down my face.
The phone stops vibrating. Josh holds on to my shoulders and pushes me back slightly to make eye contact. “And,” he adds, “just for the record, I never thought for one second that you were a nobody. No ma’am, you are anything but that.” We hug one more time. I feel more short vibrations that seem like they are from a series of text messages. “Are we good now?” he asks.
“We’re good,” I say with a sniffle.
A sudden impulse comes upon me. “Josh,” I say. “I know a perfect gift for Cynthia. It’s this Floribunda rose bush.”
“Really? It looks like you were ready to buy it.”
“No, really. You should have it. Cynthia will love it. I think there’s something else here that’s more suitable for me.”
“Are you sure? Well, okay. Thanks…Now who keeps calling me?
The former college football star pulls his cell phone out from his shirt pocket. His face transforms into a mix of surprise and puzzlement. “What the… Cynthia has frantically been trying to contact me. Her voice message said to come here immediately. She sounds upset. This is really strange. Where is she?”
“Josh,” I tell him. “I know where Cynthia is. She is down that gravel path inside the last greenhouse. You can find her there.” He gives me a confused but coy look, as if he knows. He’s been around enough female catfighters to know that what transpires between us sometimes stays between us. “Did you and Cynthia…?”
I nod silently.
“Well okay, I better get down there.”
“One last thing, Josh,” I add as I rummage through my handbag before retrieving a bottle of ibuprofen. “Give this to her…and here, here’s a tube of hydrocortisone cream. It might help for the itching she’s going to have later.” He gives me a weak smile. He turns and I watch his athletic form turn and walk away down the gravel path.
“Congratulations Kiva,” Agnes says as she approaches. “I was hoping you would win. Now, if you want to bring me your roses, I’ll check you out…No, I’ll give it to you for free. Where is it?”
“Well actually, Agnes,” I tell her. “I’ve decided to take the century plant instead.”
“Changed your mind, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply as I look over at the beautiful agave leaves. “Something tells me this girl is ready to bloom any day now.”
The characters of Agnes Stanton, Carol and Sandy were created by FyreCracka and first appeared in Fyre’s Fight Journal Chapter 35: A Kissin' Kitty Catbrawl
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