Flash Fiction 3rd Place: Container Gardening with Nicolas Cage by Nikki Davison

Days like today when the winter sun glares, I can’t see him. I worry that by the time afternoon clouds drift into position, he’ll have faded away. I’ll disappear too, without him. Those wild eyes of his are the only ones that see the girl trapped inside this wrinkled, useless old body of mine. And there’s such curiosity in that off-kilter expression. He’s wondering why this girl had to surrender her greenhouse, her vegetable garden and her daydreams to be shoehorned into a disinfected, beige, square room. Certainly he questions why her passion for nurturing plants is so contained — to endure as 5 plastic plant pots on a postage-stamp balcony.

‘You’re not to fret,’ Shelley, my nurse tells me as she closes the balcony doors. ‘Your pots and Mr Cage aren’t going anywhere, but you, my dear, are going to let your hair down.’ Protesting is futile. Shelley dispatches me into a wheelchair and navigates corridors to the catatonic abyss of the dayroom. Today it’s apologetically decorated with a few heart-shaped balloons. Themed events are gruelling here at Hazeldene and Valentine’s Day brings a greasy-haired crooner offering plastic roses to our circle of high-backed chair unfortunates.

I close my eyes and whisper ‘Nicolas, rescue me,’ and see his defiant half smile register my request. He wastes no time. Launches himself through the large shop window, glass shattering in all directions as he lands on the pavement, facing Hazeldene. There’s an explosion. The crooner and his blooms blast into the air — Nicolas has breached the dayroom walls. Through flames, smoke and falling roses, he struts towards me. 

‘You’re leaving, Irene.’ He commands, wrapping his snakeskin jacket around my shoulders and lifting me into his arms. At this point inevitably there will be gunfire and car chases — Shelley tells me he’s one for getting into scrapes. But we escape, find refuge in my garden, under the oak tree. I recount the first time I saw him, I was with Shelley on the balcony planting cuttings — stems plucked from this very garden, expected to thrive on a care home balcony overlooking a derelict Blockbuster video store.

 ‘Look Irene, Nicolas Cage is watching you.’ Shelley had scoffed.

And there you were, a beguiling cardboard figure, propped against the window of the empty store. He smiles, lifts me up and twirls round and round, the leaves from the trees stroking my hair.

I’m being lowered into bed as I open my eyes.

‘You fell asleep, Irene,’ Shelley explains; ‘Valentine’s Day was a bit much for you. But your admirer, Nicolas, has left you something.’ She winks, pointing to a real red rose on my bedside table.

Once the sun and Shelley have gone, I haul myself out of bed, propping my weight against the balcony door. I’m no fool; I know the rose is Shelley’s doing. But, as I inhale its scent and look across the street, two faded reflections transform into a vibrant horticulturist and an enigmatic movie star.