Betty's (Little Basement) Garden by Laurel Dewey Page B

gonna go ‘medicate.’ Cannabis is a plant. Terms like ‘medicine’ and ‘medicating’ makes it sound like it’s just another Big Pharma drug. I prefer to say, ‘I’m going to take my herb’ because it reminds me that this is still a plant and not a pill.” He put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Betty, cannabis can help a lot of people. Really help them. Pain, anxiety, insomnia, just to name three.” He pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Betty. Pay attention. I’ll teach you how to grow the plant and how to add it to your chocolates. I can set you up with some patients – people I know that would love to have someone like you growing for them and making them quality edibles.”
    Betty’s jaw dropped for the second time that night. “You really are stoned right now if you believe that’s going to happen. Why in God’s good name would you think I would ever be open to such an enterprise?”
    â€œSimple. Out of the gate, you’re a prize-winning gardener and an incredible cook. Right there, you have the talent needed in spades. But you’ve also got something else. You’ve got heart. You’re a natural caregiver. I saw it when you were talking to my aunt today. You really care. There’s no faking that. And I think helping people makes you feel…” He searched for the right word. “Useful.”
    Betty looked at him, stunned. How in the hell could some kid who used marijuana every day have this kind of insight into the way she operated?
    â€œAnd when you don’t feel useful,” Peyton continued, “you lose your purpose in life. And that’s a dangerous place for any of us to go.”
    Through the haze of the pills and bourbon, Betty found herself in agreement with Peyton. But the second she felt the concurrence, she stiffened. “No. This goes against everything I’ve ever –”
    â€œYou can also use a little extra cash,” he quickly added.
    Betty tossed him a snobbish glare. “I beg your pardon. Does this look like the home of someone who is in need?”
    â€œYes. Actually, it screams it. Over on that table where you’re leaning –”
    â€œIt’s not a table. It’s a credenza.”
    â€œWhatever. I saw the outline of two candlestick holders that had probably been occupying that space for years. And over there,” he pointed to where the antique chair used to sit, “you didn’t vacuum out the grooves enough where that chair used to be.”
    â€œI moved the candlesticks, and the chair is out for repair.”
    He peered at her from his seat at the table. “Nah. I don’t buy it. You’re too defensive when you say it. Your garden out front is lush and your house feels thin. I can almost feel the dining room table trembling, wondering if it’s the next to go on the auction block.”
    Betty wasn’t about to give in. “You have a very potent imagination, young man.”
    â€œThat sweater you wore yesterday? You kept messing with the cuff. You know, the one that was unraveling?”
    She remained stoic. “So what?”
    â€œIt’s just another piece of your puzzle that gives you away. You carry yourself with a lot of pride. Somebody like that would have a different sweater to go with every outfit, and they’d never have one that had a cuff unraveling. They’d throw that one out or keep it to wear around the house. But you wore it and you tried to hide the cuff. You don’t want people to think you’d wear something that was unraveling…maybe ‘cause you’re unraveling?”
    Betty stared at him, taken aback.
    â€œYou know what?” he continued, “under the surface, we’re all unmade beds searching for the perfect comforter.” He watched her intently. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, okay? I want to