A BONTANIST

‘The Patient that really

grew on me.’

NOVEL
BY SEAN QUINN
 CHAPTER ONE

It was the first time I was truly emotionally attached to a patient.

Never in my entire career had I been connected with a patient with such
panache for the world, and for what he loved. I will always remember him
as the one who grew on me. His tendrils of unaffectionate manners were
what drew him closer to me, and what planted my seed of affection for
him.

I was not openly affectionate of course. God no! Could you imagine? The
looks I’d get from the people on my suburban street; the way they’d peep
through their ruled cube topiaries and the bushes of perfectly trimmed
roses; the way they’d sneer through the pickets of their white wash
fences. I am a mild mannered woman around my patients, and I make it
know that I respect their privacy, their needs and their status. Trust
me, I get them from all walks of life.

Once, only a year ago in fact, I was given a young boy; bucky teeth, so
overbitten that he could’ve been an apple on the pavement, through the
whitewash picket fence of his topiary gardened home; and thick glasses
too, you’d think they were picture frames, or television screens. Anyway,
this young boy was a strange little fella, continuously bring to every
session – Mondays and Wednesdays at 8:30am – a small token of gratitude.
Now, I say this term lightly, as it was not always a pretty gift. Some
of them were sweet treats, such as Milkyway Bars, or Caramel Slices that
his mother had baked. Or, on days when this little fellow felt in a bit
more of a comedic – or oppressed – mood, it could range from used toilet
paper to scabs he had collected.

That brings me to his other point. He was a difficult young man because
he scratched himself. Day and night, his parents would find him clawing
at his arms and legs, saying there were insects crawling around in his
pajamas. They brought me to him, and I was left with nothing but the
simple task of diagnosing – over the tedious seven months I saw him –
with schizophrenia. I eventually moved on from this recent patient, and
many of the others. But the one I remember of them all, including the
little boy with the teeth of a horse; was him.

Oh did he make me smile, did he make me laugh. I just couldn’t help but
want to cure this patient. But sadly, this one had no cure: young onset
Bipolar disorder. He wasn’t abnormal, but I wouldn’t say normal either.
Had quite the knack for changing the subject of conversation to something
that suited his interests. Often, we would chat, for hours it would seem,
on the topic of his love. And eventually, after these discussions, he
would look me in the eye, with his special sort of look, as if to say
‘go away now, I need to be alone’. And with that, I would collect my bag
and leave, with a simple, but genuine smile, nod, and a wave of the
hand.

It seemed so easy, at first, to work with him. Our first session seemed
as though he were a little standoffish – he was nervous to talk about
his problems, as anyone would be. But we worked very hard on that, and
eventually, I got him to open up, and the conversation flowed like river.

You probably wonder, who was this person, and why they needed my help.
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I will anyway. And thus, I
begin the tale of my favourite patient…

CHAPTER TWO

Grid; Jonathan Grid. Weirdest fellow you would ever meet, but the most
engaging. Not short, but still of moderate height, around six-foot. He
wore his hair simply, with the deep noisette locks lying in the same,
unchanged position to the right side of his head; never too long, never
too short. It seemed that this man, or boy – when I first met him – was
perfect. Lived in the perfect house, had the perfect education – or so
I thought.

His family were rich and had the most lavish mansion in the estate. As
suburban, whitewash picket fence as you can get. The garden was like a
topiary gallery, and had additions of stone fountains, mounted with
heroic – or angelic – statues. The garden path – a gothic European
cobblestone – wound its way to the birchwood front door, which cascaded
into a wide front room. On entry, you were greeted by the family dog –
Spaniel Retriever Cross named Star – who guided you into the labyrinthian
corridors of the palace. Soon you’d hear – and smell – the greeting from
mother – Rosemary, a fitting name for the family – as she prepared the
meal all four – five including Star – of us would share before Jonathan’s
session.

You see, I was on a different set of terms with the Grid family. It
seemed that I immediately built a network with their way of life. Myself
being a bachelor, it was always nice on the last four days of the week
– Thursday to Sunday – to receive a meal of gratitude, but also of
family. This was a patient that I always wanted to help beyond all
others, due to the fact that they too helped me in return, with their
generosity. Even though I survived well enough on the middle-class income
of suburban psychology, I managed to truly be paid with more than just
material, but instead meaningful currencies. I was never dissatisfied
with what I received from this family, and I hope too that they were
grateful for me.

Getting back to walking in; you walk in and bam! There’s mum, and then
you see the luscious green lawn, stretching out through the large double-
glazed glass arch window at the back of the expansive dining and
entertaining room. On the walls, a large screen TV – which was alarming
at first when I visited on Wednesdays, after being witness to the boy
with the large glasses every morning – and of course, the large family
photo, suspended over the – disappointingly – electric fire place. It
was then that I would see him; Johnathan, who would look at me with his
casual, but slightly cold, smile, and would rise from the circular brown
leather couch he had been traversed upon.
“Hello Helena” he would always say in his calming, convoluted tone. I
use this term lightly, as it was always difficult to tell what Johnathan
was truly thinking, and really came down to the way he would lead me to
the location of our session after the meal had finished.

We would talk in the most fascinating areas, sometimes the pool deck,
sometimes the “observatory” and even sometimes his own bedroom. But the
place that he loved the most; was his greenhouse.

Johnathan was an aspiring, and eventually an admirable botanist. His

fascination with plants was an unending world of liberated thinking;
ideas sprouted from his brain as though fueled by superhuman fertilizer.
The understanding of the intricate manners in which plants were formed,
and how they developed, each of the different types; Johnathan could go
on for hours about these things. It was a river of reverie to listen to
him prattle about the formation of chloroplasts and the attempts at
representing these with gestures was often quite humorous. We of course
would laugh, but really I knew that Johnathan had something serious to
talk about, and these “ploys” to avoid the negativity were often used
to great effect. But, as I got to know him better, I began to understand
his racing identity.

Johnathan was Bipolar.

CHAPTER THREE

And I don’t mean the Bipolar that every teenage boy – or girl –
experienced as a developing human, I mean the extreme kind that can lead
to severe breakdowns and eventually obscene cases of suicides, homicides
and even other crimes against humanity. Johnathan however was different.
He began to explode with ideas of mental reconstruction; he saw, that
in redefining the manner in which we use plants, we could redevelop the
ability to revive those who had passed away – i.e, bring people back
from the dead. I know at first, you’d think he was the new Victor
Frankenstein, who had crazy ambitions, and would go so far as to complete
these outrageous tasks. Johnathan, wouldn’t.

He would paint, for hours and hours, he would sit in the specially
designed art studio in the left wing of the house – connected to his
bedroom. He used to take me there often, to show me about the dreams and
plans he had. This room had a specific layout, which Johnathan had chosen
himself. It consisted of four large glass walls, and a transparent roof,
all looking out across the large garden which ran behind the studio,
overlooking the various flowers, ferns and fruit vines that ran though
the endless lines of gabled gates and plant beds.

In prime position, rooted on a suspended block, was a large canvas, and

an easel seated behind it. Next to this, numerous tubs of coloured paints
stood, like a small flower bed. He would use, and only in his selectivity,
the same (type) of paint palette used by the famous European artists.
His style ranged from classical paintings to abstract collages of manic
greens and hues of jaunty jaune. Each night, after I left, he would paint
how he felt before the next day, and when I left on Sunday, he would
allow me to take one of his paintings with me in my little HONDA. I
always chose the obscure ones, because they were the most fitting style
for Johnathan. He was an Oddball of the arts, and we loved him for it.

CHAPTER FOUR

I will never forget however, the conversation that I had with him the
first time I went around. We were both cautious, I was extremely by-the-
book and professional, which would’ve put anyone off guard. He took me
to the small room, on the opposite side of the house to his studio, and
we sat down, on the white, office-style chairs – which swiveled with
modernism. I noted the location as somewhere that Johnathan would take
someone just to make them feel as uncomfortable as he was.

“So, Johnathan. How are you?”

“Fine. Same as always.”
“You want to tell me how you’re feeling right now? I understand that
you’ve been on a roller-coaster of emotions at the moment.”
“Yeah, right. It’s just been hard lately.”
“How so?”

There was an awkaward silence, as he fidgeted a little with nervousness.

“It’s alright. You can trust me.”

And with sudden rage and angst, he erupted.

“That’s all you can say to me. <<You can trust me>> ha! I can’t even
trust myself!”

That was when I realised that he was different. Before, my patients had
not done anything but huddle up and cry, wallowing in their own self
pity. There, in that very room I was given a message. A message that
someone needed help, desperately, and that they knew how I could help
them, only if I tried.

I had never been spoken to like this, and at first my professional mind
was shocked and offended. But then, the humanity of my conscience
readjusted to his frame of mind, and I relaxed. I saw too that he began
to relax.

We got chatting, and I began to find out many conflicting details within
this reserved yound man. He was sixteen, born with nine fingers – one
missing from his left hand – and had different feelings about his
sexuality. He at first stated that he liked girls, but hen said that he
wasn’t really attracted to them. We discovered – together – that he was
in fact asexual, which explained his fascination with the plant-world,
which thrived on asexual reproduction. He was an honest figure, even in
his timid stages