The Language of Flowers

sending me drawings of flowers, the scientific name printed neatly in the bottom right-hand corner. She sent dozens before following with a simple note that read, ‘Do you know what I’m telling you?’ ”

“Did you know?” I asked.

“No,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head as if remembering her adolescent frustration. “I asked every librarian and teacher I could find. But it was months before my roommate’s great-grandmother, visiting one day, saw the drawings on my wall and told me about the language of flowers. I found my own dictionary in the library and sent my sister a note immediately, with pressed flowers, not drawings, because I was a hopeless artist.”

Elizabeth walked into the living room and returned with a stack of books. She set them on the kitchen table. “For years it was the way we communicated. I sent poems and stories by connecting dried flowers on strings, intertwined with typed words on little slips of paper: and, the, if, it. My sister continued to send drawings, sometimes whole landscapes, with dozens of floral varieties, all labeled and numbered, so I would know which flower to read first to decode the sequence of events and emotions in her life. I lived for those letters, checked the mailbox dozens of times a day.”

“So, how will this help you win her forgiveness?” I asked.

Elizabeth had started toward the garden but stopped suddenly and whirled to face me. “I’m forgiving her,” she said. “Don’t you forget that.” After a deep breath, she continued. “But I’ll tell you how it will help. Catherine will remember how close we were; she’ll remember how I understood her better than anyone else in the world. And even if she’s too remorseful to answer the phone, she’ll answer with flowers. I know she will.”

Elizabeth went outside. When she returned, she held a bouquet of three flowers, all different. Retrieving a cutting board from the counter, she set it on the kitchen table, the flowers and a sharp knife arranged on top.

“I’ll teach you,” Elizabeth said. “And you’ll help me.”

I sat down at the kitchen table. Elizabeth had continued to teach me flowers and their meanings but not in a formal or structured way. The day before we’d passed a handmade purse at the farmer’s market, the fabric printed with small white flowers. Poverty for a purse, Elizabeth had said, shaking her head. She pointed to the flowers and explained the defining features of clematis.

Sitting next to her now, I was thrilled at the prospect of receiving a formal lesson. I pushed my chair as close to Elizabeth as possible. She picked up a walnut-sized dark purple flower with a yellow sun center.

“Primrose,” she said, twirling the pinwheel-shaped flower between her thumb and index finger before placing it, face up, on her smooth white palm. “Childhood.”

I leaned over her hand, my nose only inches from the petals. The primrose had a sharp scent, sugared alcohol and someone’s mother’s perfume. Pulling my nose away, I pushed the air out of my nostrils with force.

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t like the smell, either. Too sweet, as if it was trying to mask its true, undesirable smell.”

I nodded in agreement.

“So, if we didn’t know this was a primrose, how would we find out?” Elizabeth put down the flower and picked up a pocket-sized book. “This is a field guide of North American wildflowers, divided by color. Primrose should be with the violet-blues.” She handed me the book. I turned to the violet-blues, flipping through the pages until I found the drawing that matched the flower.

“Cusick’s primrose,” I read. “Primrose family, Primulaceae.”

“Good.” She picked up the second of the three flowers, large and yellow, with six pointed petals. “Now this. Lily, majesty.”

Searching the yellows, I found the drawing that matched. I pointed with a damp fingertip and watched the water mark spread. Elizabeth nodded.

“Now, let’s pretend you couldn’t find the drawing, or you weren’t sure you had found the right one. This is when you need to know about flower parts. Using a field guide is like reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book. It begins with simple questions: Does your flower have petals? How many? And each answer leads you to a different set of more complicated questions.”

Elizabeth picked up a kitchen knife and sliced the lily in half, its petals falling open on the cutting board. She pointed to the ovary, pressed my fingertip against the sticky top of the outstretched stigma.

We counted petals, described their shape. Elizabeth taught me the definition of symmetry, the difference between inferior and superior ovaries, and the variations of flower arrangements on a stem. She quizzed me using the third flower she had picked, a violet, small and wilting.

“Good,” she said again, when I had answered an uninterrupted stream of questions. “Very good. You learn quickly.” She pulled back my chair, and I slid down. “Now go sit in the garden while I cook dinner. Spend time in front of every plant you know, and ask yourself the same questions I asked you. How many petals, what color, what shape. If you know it’s a rose, what makes it a rose and not a sunflower?”

Elizabeth was still rattling off questions as I skipped toward the kitchen door.

“Pick out something for Catherine!” she called.

I disappeared down the steps.

13.

Renata looked surprised to see me sitting on the curb at seven a.m. when she parked her truck on the empty street. I had been up all night, and looked it. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.

“Stay up waiting for Santa?” she asked. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the truth?”

“No,” I said. “No one ever did.”

I followed Renata into the walk-in and helped her pull out the buckets of red roses, white carnations, and baby’s breath. They were my least favorite flowers. “Please tell me this was at the request of a dangerous bride.”

“She threatened me with my life,” she said. We shared a disdain for red roses.

Renata left, and when she came back with two cups of coffee, I had already finished three centerpieces.

“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the paper cup.

“You’re welcome. And slow down. The faster we finish, the more time I’ll have to spend at my mother’s Christmas party.”

I picked up a rose and cut off the thorns in slow motion, lining up the sharp spikes on the table.

“Better,” she said, “but not quite slow enough.”

We worked with exaggerated sluggishness for the rest of the morning, but we were still finished by noon. Renata picked up the order and checked and double-checked our arrangements. She set down the list.

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” she said, “unfortunately. Just the delivery and then the Christmas party—you’re coming with me.”

“No thanks,” I said, taking a final sip of cold coffee and putting on my backpack.

“Did that sound optional to you? It’s not.”

I could have fought her on it, but I was feeling indebted for the bonus, and I was in the mood for holiday food if not holiday cheer. I didn’t know anything about Russian food, but it had to be better than the processed ham I had planned on eating right out of the package.

“Whatever,” I said. “But I have somewhere to be by five.”

Renata laughed. She must have known it was inconceivable that I had anywhere to be on Christmas.

Renata’s mother lived in the Richmond District, and we took the longest route possible across the city.

“My mother’s too much,” Renata said.

“In what way?” I asked.

“In every way,” she said.

We pulled up in front of a bright pink house. A Christmas flag flew on a wooden pole, and the small porch was crowded with glowing plastic creatures: angels, reindeer, chipmunks in Santa hats, and dancing penguins with