April turned to May.
The courtyard was a jungle of green. The tomato plants were taller than Maya. The basil had spread to the edges of the soil. The morning glories covered the brick walls like a living curtain.
Maya spent her mornings there, drawing, watering, watching the bees. The solo exhibition at Mr. Kaplan's gallery was behind her – she had said no, and the decision felt lighter each day. Leo was busy with the new office. He left early and came home late. But on weekends, he sat with her in the courtyard. They didn't always talk. Sometimes they just sat.
Elena had settled into her routine. The bakery, the apartment, the garden. She came down most evenings to water the plants. "You don't have to," Maya said. "I want to," Elena said.
The drawing of Maya's father was finished. It sat in a portfolio, tucked behind the desk. Maya didn't look at it often. But she knew it was there.
---
On a Tuesday morning, her phone rang.
The screen showed a number she didn't recognize. Area code from Ohio.
She almost didn't answer.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Reyes? This is Rosa. Mr. Delgado's daughter."
Maya's heart tightened. "Is everything okay?"
"Dad passed away last night. In his sleep. Peacefully."
Maya sat on the floor. The studio was quiet. The desk lamp was off.
"I'm sorry," Maya said.
"He asked me to call you. He said you would want to know."
"Thank you."
"He also said to tell you – the garden will grow back."
Maya's throat tightened. "Thank you, Rosa."
"He loved you. Like a daughter."
"I loved him too."
They hung up. Maya sat in the silence.
---
Leo was at work. Her mother was at the bakery.
Maya went to the courtyard. The garden was bright. The morning glories were open. The bees were busy.
She knelt in the dirt. The soil was warm. The smell was sweet.
She picked a tomato. It was ripe. Red. Perfect.
She held it in her hand.
"Goodbye, Mr. Delgado," she said.
She took a bite. The juice ran down her chin.
---
That night, she told Leo.
He came home late. His tie was loose. His eyes were tired.
"Mr. Delgado died," she said.
He sat next to her on the floor. "I'm sorry."
"He's with Mrs. Patterson now."
"Maybe."
"On the roof. Watering the garden."
Leo put his arm around her. "That's a nice thought."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired of people dying."
"I know."
"I'm tired of saying goodbye."
"Then don't say goodbye. Say 'see you later.'"
She looked at him. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
She kissed him. The radiator hissed. The city hummed.
---
The funeral was in Ohio.
Maya couldn't go. The bus was too expensive. The timing was wrong. She sent flowers. Roses, because Mr. Delgado had once said he missed the roses his wife used to grow.
Rosa sent a photo. The casket. The flowers. A small crowd of people Maya didn't know.
She put the photo on the wall of the studio, next to the painting of the roof.
"He's gone," she said.
Leo stood behind her. "He's not gone. He's in the walls."
"That's what Mr. Chen said about Mrs. Patterson."
"Same walls."
She turned to look at him. "You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
May passed.
The garden grew. The tomatoes ripened. The basil was lush. The morning glories climbed higher.
Maya drew every day. She drew the garden in the morning, when the light was golden. She drew the garden in the afternoon, when the shadows were long. She drew the garden in the evening, when the flowers closed.
She filled sketchbooks. Page after page.
Dr. Vasquez called. "I have another opportunity. A group show. In Manhattan. Smaller gallery. No exclusive contract."
"When?"
"September."
"I'll do it."
"Excellent. I'll send the details."
Maya hung up. She looked at the garden. The morning glories were blue and purple and white.
"Mrs. Patterson," she said, "I'm doing it."
The wind blew. The flowers swayed.
---
June came.
The first anniversary of the wedding.
Leo came home with flowers. Not from the garden – from a shop on Nostrand. Roses. Red.
"These are beautiful," Maya said.
"They're not from the garden."
"I don't care."
She put them in a vase. The vase was lopsided – the one she'd made in a community class years ago.
They sat on the floor of the living room. The painting was on the wall. The string lights were on.
"One year," Leo said.
"One year."
"Are you happy?"
She looked at him. His face was tired. His eyes were bright.
"Yes," she said. "I'm happy."
"Me too."
He kissed her. The radiator hissed. The city hummed.
---
They went to the roof.
The roof of the Crown Street building. The sun was setting. The sky was orange and purple.
Maya stood at the edge. The city spread out below her.
"I never thought I'd be here," she said.
"Where?"
"Here. Married. An artist. A garden."
Leo stood next to her. "Life is strange."
"Life is good."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
He took her hand. "What's next?"
She thought about it. The group show. The garden. The apartment. The drawings.
"More of the same," she said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He kissed her hair. The wind blew. The stars came out.
---
The next morning, Maya called her mother.
"Can you come to the courtyard?" Maya asked.
"I'm at work."
"Take a break."
Elena was quiet for a moment. "Okay."
She came down twenty minutes later. She was still wearing her apron. Flour on her hands.
"What's so important?" Elena asked.
Maya pointed at the garden. The tomatoes. The basil. The morning glories.
"It's beautiful," Elena said.
"I know."
"Why did you want me to see it?"
Maya sat on the steps. "Because Mr. Delgado died. And Mrs. Patterson died. And I want you to know that I see you. While you're still here."
Elena sat next to her. "I'm not dying."
"Everyone is dying. Slowly."
"That's morbid."
"That's honest."
Elena put her arm around Maya. "I'm proud of you."
"I know."
"Do you know how proud?"
"Tell me."
Elena was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I'm proud of you for staying. For fighting. For building a life when I couldn't."
Maya leaned her head on her mother's shoulder. "You built a life. You just built it differently."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
They sat in silence. The bees hummed. The morning glories swayed.
---
July came.
The heat was oppressive. The courtyard was a sauna. Maya watered the garden twice a day.
Leo worked long hours. The new office was busy. He came home exhausted.
"You need to rest," Maya said.
"I can't. There's too much to do."
"The work will always be there. You only have one body."
He looked at her. "You sound like Mrs. Patterson."
"I learned from the best."
He sat on the floor. "I'm tired."
"Then rest."
He leaned his head on her shoulder. "Just for a minute."
"Take all the minutes you need."
---
August came.
The tomatoes were abundant. Maya made sauce. She made salsa. She gave bags of tomatoes to the neighbors.
The morning glories were still climbing. They had reached the top of the brick wall.
Elena came down every evening to water. She talked to the plants. "You're growing so fast," she said. "You're so green."
Maya watched from the window. Her mother, in the garden, talking to the basil.
"Mrs. Patterson would have liked her," Maya said.
Leo was reading on the couch. "Who?"
"My mother. Mrs. Patterson would have liked her."
"They would have argued about game shows."
Maya almost smiled. "They would have been friends."
---
September came.
The group show was in two weeks.
Maya had selected ten pieces. The water tank. The painted eye. The garden in the summer. Mrs. Patterson on the milk crate. The roof at dawn. The roof at dusk. The self-portrait. Three new drawings of the courtyard.
Dr. Vasquez came to the apartment to see them.
"These are your best," the curator said.
"They're different."
"More confident. More alive."
Maya looked at the drawings. The courtyard in the rain. The morning glories in the morning. The broken birdbath in the snow.
"They're home," Maya said.
"That's the theme."
"That's my life."
Dr. Vasquez nodded. "That's why they're good."
---
The show opened on a Friday night.
The gallery was small. White walls. Wooden floors. The crowd was small too – friends, family, a few strangers.
Maya stood in the corner. Her hands were cold. Her heart was fast.
Leo stood next to her. Marco was there. Jasmine was there. David was there. Mr. Chen had taken the bus from Florida. Vanessa was there.
Her mother was there.
"You came," Maya said.
"I wouldn't miss it."
They hugged. Her mother was thin. Her shoulder blades pressed against Maya's hands.
"The drawings are beautiful," Elena said.
"They're sad."
"They're honest."
Maya looked at the crowd. A woman in a blue dress was staring at the drawing of Mrs. Patterson. Her hand was over her mouth.
"She's crying," Maya said.
"Your work makes people cry."
"That's not good."
"It's real."
---
After the show, they went to the courtyard.
The garden was dying. The tomatoes were slowing. The basil was turning brown. The morning glories were dropping their seeds.
Maya sat on the steps. Leo sat next to her.
"It's almost over," she said.
"The garden?"
"The summer."
"It'll come back."
"In the spring."
"In the spring."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired."
"Then rest."
"I can't. There's too much to do."
He put his arm around her. "The work will always be there. You only have one body."
She closed her eyes. "You sound like me."
"I learned from the best."
---
The next morning, Maya went to the studio.
She opened the drawer. She took out the drawing of her father.
She looked at it for a long time.
Then she picked up her pencil. She signed it.
For Mr. Delgado. For Mrs. Patterson. For everyone who taught me that home is not a place.
She put the drawing in a portfolio. She closed the drawer.
---
That afternoon, she called Rosa.
"Thank you for letting me know about your father," Maya said.
"Thank you for the flowers."
"I drew him. A portrait. Would you like to have it?"
Rosa was quiet for a moment. "Yes. I would like that."
"I'll mail it."
"Thank you, Maya."
"He was a good man."
"He was a stubborn man."
"Same thing."
Rosa laughed. It was a sad laugh. But real.
---
Maya mailed the drawing the next day.
She stood at the post office, holding the tube. The paper was thick. The address was written in her best handwriting.
"Goodbye," she said.
She dropped it in the box.
---
October came.
The garden died. Maya cleared the soil. She turned the dirt. She covered it with a tarp.
The courtyard looked empty. Barren. The broken birdbath stood in the corner.
Leo came down. He stood next to her.
"It'll grow back," he said.
"In the spring."
"In the spring."
They went upstairs. The apartment was warm. The painting was on the wall.
Maya sat on the floor. Leo sat next to her.
"I've been thinking about my father," she said.
"What about him?"
"I don't want to see him again. But I don't want him to die alone."
Leo was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to call him. Just once."
"Then call him."
She picked up her phone. The number was saved in her contacts. She had never called it.
She pressed dial.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Hello?"
It was his voice. Thin. Weak.
"Dad. It's Maya."
A long pause. "Maya. I didn't think you'd call."
"I didn't think I would either."
Another pause. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just wanted to hear your voice."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm dying."
"I know."
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"I'm sorry. For everything."
She closed her eyes. "I know."
They sat in silence. The phone hummed.
"I have to go," she said.
"Okay."
"Goodbye, Dad."
"Goodbye, Maya."
She hung up.
Leo took her hand. "Are you okay?"
"No."
"Me neither."
They sat in silence. The radiator hissed. The city hummed.