We moved into our dream home less than a month before having our first child. My husband Ben and I agreed the place was nearly perfect, if not a little dated.
There’s a cozy living room built around a stone fireplace, an airy kitchen, and a gorgeous patio overlooking the yard. That yard is the one thing Ben and I always disagreed on.
We both loved the lush ferns, lilipad ponds and flowerbeds bursting with life. Ben’s love stopped at the property lighting. There were these old-fashioned lampposts everywhere, with funky colored lightbulbs. I thought they were Halloween decorations someone forgot to take down.
But no.
The former owner called them his “ULTRA-violet lights,” bathing the grounds in an eerie shade of purple.
I found them comforting, especially on those late summer nights when I had to rock our newborn back to sleep. The plants seem to like them too, with each growing toward the closest surreal bulb.
Ben always hated them. He wanted to replace them on day one. But the old owner begged us not to. He was a gardener by trade. “Anything that grows under their glow will be bountiful, wild and, well—a little weird,” he explained. “But if you take it away, they’ll wither.”
The garden was half the reason I wanted the place: endless flowering plants, trees, and shrubs — all in bright shades of pink. A private jungle.
So the lights stayed.
As the garden thrived, so did our little family. We had our baby girl, Tracie. She started walking at four months, running and climbing at five. Much sooner than we expected. I was so proud.
But her early mobility posed some challenges. Mainly, keeping Tracie safely in her bed. I’d often wake to giggles coming from the baby monitor in the middle of the night.
I’d poke my head inside her room, and find her pressed against the window, peering out at the pastel plants.
We would put her back down to bed, and chalk it up to childish curiosity.
I didn’t worry when her hair fell out. The parenting books told me this was perfectly normal. But when it grew back looking like matted Spanish moss, we took her to a pediatrician.
They sent a sample to a lab, and ordered tests to see what was wrong with her skin. We didn’t notice until we were under the buzzing fluorescents of the waiting room, but her it had turned sickly blue. The doctor thought it was Argyria, silver poisoning.
“Could she have gotten into something around your house?” He asked. “The garage, or shed maybe?”
Ben and I both racked our brains, trying to think. Tracie was an escape artist, sure; exploring the house faster than we could baby-proof it. But neither of us ever discovered signs she’d eaten or touched something toxic.
This wouldn’t be her first unsettling change. But by the time we started connecting the dots, it was too late.
When Tracie’s irises turned the same color as the garden flowers, Ben taped trash bags over the nursery windows.
When Tracie tore them to shreds with her new jagged black fingernails, Ben smashed the damn lights with a bat.
When the garden itself shrieked in protest, and Tracie withered like a prune, I called the house’s previous owner.
“I told you, whatever grew in their light would be different,” he scolded me, as he screwed in the replacement bulbs. “Told you what would happen if you took it away.”
The plants forgave our transgression. Tracie didn’t. She bolted for the back door the first chance she had. Clawed the shit out of Ben’s face when he tried to stop her. We’re still not sure whether he’ll see out of his right eye again.
Tracie lives outside now, filthy and feral. I sometimes see her, always at night. Sometimes I hear scratching at the doors and windows. But that’s quieted down.
I cried until it hurt. I don’t sleep, as much as I black out from exhaustion. So many questions to answer. What do I tell my parents when they ask to see their granddaughter? The pediatrician when I’m due for a follow up?
All I know is, we can’t stay here, in this house. I know it probably sounds insanely irresponsible and selfish, but we put the place back on the rental market. We’re in a great location. At the price we’re offering, we’re hoping someone can put up with those THINGS in the garden.
We’ve had a few bites on the ad so far. My husband and I are at odds over what to tell them. The full story would probably get us laughed at. I think I’ve settled on something simple:
“No kids, no pets.”