Pam hated it that she could never say what she wanted. She said "I can't" when she meant "Me, too." She said, "We'll always be friends" when she meant "I'm dying inside." It was a way of avoiding difficult moments, arguments. She could never win arguments with her mom or her bossy sister, and with Roy it was a lost cause. He never argued, he just did whatever he wanted and whined later if she didn't like it. Or he'd totally ignore any real issues between them and reduce them to a tickle contest. Or he humiliated her in public and trashed a bar in a fit of jealous rage.

So she'd never learned to say exactly what she meant, because no one listened when she did. She retreated into art, where her hands could speak for her. And when the art was not enough, she took her mom's advice and tried gardening. "Work with living things," her mother said that summer. Good advice. The breakup with Roy had left her raw and sensitive, too sensitive to reach out to make new friends (and she would not, could not think about her best friend) but she needed contact with something besides oils and paints and stains. Something that would grow and change independently of her.

She tried orchids at first, because their waxen perfection looked so permanent. She bought a white Phalaenopsis at Wal-Mart, but it looked stark and lonely on her kitchen window. It also bloomed very slowly. She wanted change, more color, more life.

"Try African violets," her neighbor, Mrs. Dittman said one morning. They had met at the trash bin, when Pam was taking out her garbage. Mrs. Dittman lived two doors down in the apartment building. "You have to make sure they have plenty of humidity, and don't ever mist them; they don't like water on their leaves. But they're like all plants. Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need."

That weekend, Pam went back to Wal-Mart and found a brilliant purple African violet. She immediately liked the velvety texture of the dark green leaves, the splash of color, the yellow center. The plant looked both humble and exotic. She took it home. It died within two weeks.

"What am I doing wrong?" she asked Mrs. Dittman. She had knocked on her neighbor's door and been invited in. Mrs. Dittman's living room was done in brown plaid, but plants in riotous bloom covered every table, every surface. Pam handed the dead African violet to her.

"Hmmm." Mrs. Dittman eyed the plant, hefted it in one hand. "Did you put it in plenty of sunlight?"

"No. I thought violets liked shade," Pam said.

The older woman shook her head, handing the plant pot back to Pam. "Nah. They're not really violets, despite the name. They like light. If they don't get much sunlight, the leaves get thin and dark, like these. You can put them under a grow light if you need to and they'll be fine."

Pam sighed. "I had no idea it was so hard to grow plants."

Mrs. Dittman shrugged. "They're living creatures. They react to other living creatures, to light, to water. Nothing lives in isolation."

Pam went back to Wal-Mart and bought two African violets, one purple and one pink. She bought a grow-light for them and picked up a book on indoor gardening. When she got home, she set up the grow-light on a table in her living room, changed into flannel pajamas, and curled up on her couch with the book. When she woke up the next morning, the book had slipped to the floor and she had a hell of a crick in her neck, but she knew a lot more about gardening.

Two weeks after she brought the second set of plants home, the leaves began to turn pale and to curl. The brilliant flowers withered, turned brown, fell off. She paged through her book, but the symptoms could have been for either overwatering or for lack of fertilizer. She sat down and peered at the plants long and hard.

"Tell me what you need," she muttered.

Well, what would make her droop and turn pale, she wondered. Lack of company, came the instant answer, but she dismissed it. Hunger, was her next thought.

She went to Wal-Mart for fertilizer. The checkout clerk greeted her by name. Back home, she measured the granules, mixed them with water, carefully watered the plants, making sure not to wet the leaves.

Patience, she told herself. They won't bloom overnight. Still, she couldn't help it. Every morning before work she checked for new blooms. The day she saw the first new bud, she walked into work with a spring in her step that had Michael grinning at her all morning.

When she came home, the bud had opened into a new blossom. "Well done," she said approvingly. She refused to worry about what someone might think about her talking to a plant. They were living things, she reminded herself. Nothing lives in isolation, not even a plant.

That night she said goodnight to her plants, as if they were roommates. In the morning, she greeted them and bid them goodbye as she left for the day. She didn't think twice about what anyone else would say. As time went on, she grew used to talking to them.

"Heck of a day at work," she would say as she closed the door behind her. "Michael scheduled overlapping meetings and Meredith passed out in both of them. And that stupid outside extension kept acting up again. I have told those repairmen time and time again that it's out of order, and they don't pay any attention. And Jim ..." She couldn't talk about him. Not to herself, not to anyone. She leaned over the plants, which now included three aromatic herbs, basil and oregano and mint. She inhaled deeply and smiled. "I hope your day was quieter."

She liked the way the plants added color to the room. The pale, aloof orchid, the exotic, colorful violets, the humble kitchen herbs: they added ... life. One night after watering them, she went to get her sketch pad and her pencils. She spent the rest of the evening trying to get the shape of the orchid's petals just right. She didn't succeed, but it didn't feel like time wasted. It felt like time spent with a friend.

On a snowy Sunday afternoon, a knock on her door woke her from a nap. Mrs. Dittman held two plant pots in her arms.

"Oh, come in," Pam said, and held the door wide. The other woman stepped, looking around.

"I can't stay, we're on our way out of town. I was wondering if you'd baby-sit these two gardenias." Even as she spoke, the heady, rich smell of gardenia was filling the room. Pam felt intoxicated. "My son's wife went into labor early, and we have to get to Baltimore right away. I'm afraid these two will go dry if we're gone more than a few days. They need high humidity, and you know how dry this winter air can get. Can you keep them until I get back?"

"Sure," Pam said, taking the pots. The small, glossy green leaves looked almost leathery, but the creamy white blossom on each plant smelled like heaven. "I'm not sure what to do, though."

Mrs. Dittman dug into the pocket of her overcoat. "Oh, don't worry. I wrote it all down here for you. Take care of these, sweetie, and I will really owe you one." She smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the corner.

Pam smiled back. "I'll do my best, Mrs. Dittman."

"Thank you so much, dear," Mrs. Dittman said. "And call me Jackie! See you soon!"

When she had gone, Pam stood for a moment, inhaling the scent of gardenia. It was like smoke, swirling around inside her head, making her feel relaxed and dreamy and warm. She put the two pots on the table (which was now looking rather crowded, if jaunty) and bent down to rest her chin on her arms, looking at them.

"Now what shall I name you?" she said. "Something exotic. Maybe Italian?" She smiled. "How about...Romeo and Juliet?"

Unsurprisingly, the plants made no answer. Still, Pam found herself smiling the rest of the day. And inhaling deeply whenever she passed through her living room. That night she slept deeply and dreamed sweet dreams of childhood laughter.

Three days later, however, she came home to find the white gardenia blossoms had turned brown and fallen to the tabletop. Anxiously, she plunged a finger into the soil of each pot, testing the soil moisture. It seemed fine. She got out her pH strip and tested the acidity of the soil--all within limits. But the leaves of the gardenia and the begonia were drooping.

Pam frowned. She was doing the best she could. Why weren't these plants thriving? She pulled up a chair, sat with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and stared at them.

They'll tell you what they need.

"So. Tell me," she muttered. "What am I doing wrong?"

The fallen petals were dark. Dark, she thought. Dark because ... not enough light? She'd been turning the light off at night because it kept her awake. That night she left it on, and closed her bedroom door instead. It made her bedroom into a retreat, a cocoon, an incubator of dreams. She slept deeply in the dark, like a seed waiting for spring.

Three days later the gardenias had revived and were putting forth new buds. Pam felt like she'd saved a nation from death. She breathed in the friendly, warm scent: it smelled like triumph. "We did it!" she said to the gardenias. "Thanks for telling me what you needed! We're a team." She kissed Romeo, then Juliet, then the nameless orchid.

Mrs. Dittman knocked on her door that Sunday afternoon. "How was your trip?" Pam asked.

"It was fine. Oh, look how nice these gardenias are! You really have a talent for growing things, Pam!" She turned, holding out one of the pots. Juliet, Pam thought. "Would you like to keep one?"

Pam smiled. "I'd love to. Thanks!"

Mrs. Dittman left with Romeo, waving goodbye. Pam closed the door, cradling Juliet in her arms. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Juliet, separated from her lover.

Nothing lives in isolation.

She sat down slowly on her couch, looking at her apartment. Flowers were everywhere, the scents filling the room, from the green, homely smell of mint to the exotic, heady fragrance of the baby jasmine and gardenia. The fragrance marked her territory, her place. Not her parents', not Roy's, not a roommate's. It was all hers. A place where she could speak her mind, make her art, make it all hers, be herself.

Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need.

What did she need? Like the plants, she thought, she needed light and warmth and food. And more than that, she needed attention. Love. She needed love. How long would she, could she, live without it? No one was going to come and nurture her, she thought. No one would be coming by to bring her food and water, to see that she had enough light. She would have to find that sustenance for her heart on her own.

And she knew where to find it, if she would only listen. If she could only speak.

The next day she took Juliet to work. She placed the plant on her desk, carefully siting it so that it didn't block her view of the room. She bent over to smell the creamy, silken white blossom. Smiled.

Waiting for Romeo to come to work.