I was in my grandparents' garden in Oregon, WI when Tansy dropped a bombshell on me - a life-altering, college-plan-changing, relationship-with-my-mom-ruining bombshell. That day started out as a normal, if bittersweet one. I was visiting my grandparents' house both to rekindle a relationship and to say goodbye. At age 18, I had not seen my grandparents in 12 years, and now I never would again. Grandma Juniper had just died, following Grandpa Tim to the grave after only six months of widowhood.

  When I was little, my grandparents and I were close. My mom, a CPA, has a busy career, and it was a boon to her that her parents were willing to provide free childcare when I was small. It was a boon to me as well, because my grandparents' house felt nothing short of magical. Their home and garden were alive with plants and animals, nothing like the sterile, well-decorated, middle-class home my mom and stepmom were raising me in.

  Maybe "sterile" gives the wrong idea. Mom and Jo are artsy, and the decor is kitschy and eclectic yet tasteful, but the home and yard aren't bursting with life the way my grandparents' Victorian home and one-acre lot are. Or at least, our home wasn't bursting with life aside from all of the "friends" I brought home (and still do): snails, frogs, turtles, every stray kitten in the neighborhood, plants of all kinds. My mom grits her teeth and tolerates my love of nature but Grandma and Grandpa shared that love with me. Kindled it within me. And now that I'm headed for University of Wisconsin-Madison in the fall to study either Horticulture or Animal and Veterinary Biosciences (or a double major in both?), I think my mom has lost the battle for good.

  My visits to Grandma and Grandpa ended the day I chose my name, Angelica. My given name is Megan. Megan Moore. Can you get any more basic than that? What was my mother thinking? Actually, nevermind. My mother is committed to being as basic as possible. She's a CPA for Pete's sake. She wears Ann Taylor suits every day to work and she drives a Subaru. Of course she named her only daughter Megan.

  Anyway, that day six-year-old me was sitting with Grandma Juniper, choosing which herbs to put in our tea. I was learning to read, so she had me sound out the names of herbs on the Mason jar labels. "L...lem...lemon...b...lemon balm," I read. Then I read the next jar, filled with what looked like small blue-green balls the size of peas. "Juh... Juhn...Joon...ip...er... Juniper!" I looked at Grandma Juniper's face, seeing brown hair, fair skin, and green eyes just like mine. "Grandma Juniper!" I cried in glee, "There's a plant named after you!"

  "Darling girl," she replied with an amused grin, "I am named after a plant. I'm afraid juniper the plant existed long before I did." She then explained that Grandpa Timothy and my mom are named for plants too. Both my mom's names. She goes by her middle name, Holly, but her first name is Laurel. And my grandparents' last name, Buckthorn, is also a plant. Mom and I have Jo's last name. Moore. Not a plant.

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  "Is Megan a plant?" I asked hopefully. I imagined what kind of beautiful flower a megan could be. "No, darling child," she said. Seeing the sadness in my face, Grandma Juniper suggested we go out to the garden and choose a proper plant name for me. By the time my mom came to pick me up in her tailored grey pantsuit afterward, I only answered to the name Angelica.

  For reasons I still don't understand, my mother was furious. Not at me, but at my grandmother. "We'll discuss this later," she hissed. "Meg- fine, Angelica- get in the car."

  After Mom took me home, Jo made me dinner, and mom left again. Jo played with me, read me stories, and put me to bed. "Your mom and grandma are talking," was the only explanation Jo would give. I heard my mom come home about 30 minutes later, still irate from the sound of the clipped footsteps of her high heeled shoes on the tile downstairs and the tone of the whispers I heard between her and Jo. Jo's tone sounded calm and understanding.

  The visits to my grandparents stopped after that. I hoped that one day I would get to see my grandparents again, or at least find an explanation for what happened. My hope for the former died a week ago when Grandma's life ended. If I had a different mom, I might be able to get the latter out of her, but Holly Moore is a woman who can keep a secret. And hold a grudge.

  Deciding it was better to ask for a forgiveness than permission, I slipped Grandma Juniper's keys out of the envelope on Mom's desk, told my mom I was off for a long hike at Devil's Lake with my best friend Crystal, and drove from our house in Madison's Atwood neighborhood to Grandma and Grandpa's. If mom got the chance to clean out their house, she might deprive me of a relationship with them in death as well as in life. I needed to get there first.

  Arriving at their home, a wave of memories and grief washed over me. I took a deep breath, smelling the lavender as I inhaled. I felt the sun and wind on my skin and heard Grandpa's familiar wind chimes and the sound of a goldfinch wondering why the birdfeeders had remained empty for a week. I was six years old again. Determining the house could wait until I reacquainted myself with the garden, I walked among the herbs, fruit trees, vegetables, and flowers.

  Grandma's lobelia - a bright red variety known as cardinal flower - was blooming early. It was only June. What the--? Cardinal flowers grow wild around Madison, and when I see them, I know it will soon be time to go back to school. Back to school doesn't happen in June.

  I bent over to get a closer look at the flower, as if that would explain why it bloomed over a month early, when a ball of black fluff brushed against my legs. "Tansy!" I exclaimed, petting her. Had my grandparents' cat, a long-haired black cat with white boots, been living here alone for the last week? "Has anyone fed you?" I asked, as if cats speak English.

  "No," a voice responded in my head. "I've been providing for myself with rodents since Juniper's passing. I would like some wet food please."