The Language of Flowers

a waterfall, maybe, or a band of bees.

Finally, I heard Elizabeth on the stairs. I pulled the covers over my head and around my ears so that I couldn’t hear her footsteps. Startling, I felt her sit lightly on the edge of my bed. I peeled the blanket an inch away from my ears but did not uncover my face.

“My mother didn’t like me, either,” Elizabeth whispered. Her tone was gentle, apologetic. I had an urge to peek out from underneath the covers; the voice that burrowed through the down was so different from the one that had held me over the sink that for a moment I didn’t think it belonged to Elizabeth.

“We have that much in common, at least.” Her hand rested on the small of my back when she said this, and I arched away from her, pushing my body into the wall that lined the side of the bed. My face pressed into the slab of ham. Elizabeth kept talking, telling me about the birth of her older sister, Catherine, and the seven years of stillbirths that followed: four babies total, all boys.

“When I was born, my mother asked the doctors to take me away. I don’t remember this, but my father told me it was my sister, only seven years old, who fed, bathed, and changed me, until I was old enough to do it myself.” Elizabeth continued to talk, describing her mother’s depression and her father’s devotion to her care. Even before she had learned to speak, Elizabeth told me, she had learned exactly where to place her feet as she tiptoed the hallways, to avoid the squeak of the old wood floors. Her mother didn’t like noise, any noise.

I listened as Elizabeth spoke. The emotion in her voice interested me—I had rarely been spoken to as if I was capable of understanding another’s experience. I swallowed a bite of meat. “It was my fault,” Elizabeth continued. “My mother’s illness. No one kept that a secret from me. My parents didn’t want a second daughter— girls weren’t believed to have the taste buds required to discern a ripe wine grape. But I proved them wrong.”

Elizabeth patted my back, and I could tell she had finished speaking. I took my last bite of ham. “How was that for a bedtime story?” she asked. Her voice was too loud in the quiet house, pretending an optimism I knew she did not feel.

Poking my nose out from underneath the covers, I took a breath. “Not great,” I said.

Elizabeth laughed once, a sharp exhale. “I believe you can prove everyone wrong, too, Victoria. Your behavior is a choice; it isn’t who you are.”

If Elizabeth really believed this, I thought, there was nothing but disappointment in her future.

8.

Renata and I worked most of the morning in silence. Bloom had a tiny storefront with a bigger work space in back, a long wooden table, and a walk-in refrigerator. There were six chairs around the table. I chose the one closest to the door.

Renata placed a book in front of me, titled Sunflower Weddings. I thought of an appropriate subtitle: How to Begin a Marriage Steeped in the Values of Deceit and Materialism. Ignoring the book, I created sixteen matching table arrangements with the sunflowers, lilies, and a tangle of wispy asparagus fern. Renata worked on the bridal-party bouquets, and when she finished those, she began a floral sculpture in a corrugated metal bucket longer than her legs. Every time the front door squeaked open, Renata ducked into the showroom. She knew her customers by name and chose flowers for each without direction.

When I was done, I stood in front of Renata and waited for her to look up. She glanced at the table where the full vases sat in a straight line.

“Good,” she said, nodding her approval. “Better than good, actually. Surprising. It’s hard to believe you haven’t been taught.”

“I haven’t,” I said.

“I know.” She looked me up and down in a way I disliked. “Load up the truck. I’ll be done here in a minute.”

I carried the vases up the hill two at a time. When Renata had finished, we carried the tall vase together, laying it down gently on the already-full truck bed. Walking back into the shop, she removed all the cash from the register, closing and locking the drawer. I expected her to pay me, but instead she handed me paper and a pencil.

“I’ll pay you when I get back,” she said. “The wedding is just over the hill. Keep the shop open, and tell my customers they can pay next time.” Renata waited until I nodded, and then walked out the door.

Alone in the flower shop, I was unsure of what to do. I stood behind the manual cash register for a few moments, studying the peeling green paint. The street outside was quiet. A family walked by without pausing, without looking in the window. I thought about opening the door and dragging out a few buckets of orchids but remembered the years I’d spent stealing from outdoor displays. Renata would not approve.

Instead I walked into the workroom, picked stray stems off the table, and tossed them in the waste bin. I wiped down the table with a damp cloth, swept the floor. When I could think of nothing else, I opened the heavy metal door of the walk-in, peering inside. It was dark and cool, with flowers lining the walls. The space drew me in, and I wanted nothing more than to unpin my brown blanket petticoat and fall asleep between the buckets. I was tired. For an entire week I’d slept in half-hour stretches, pulled out of sleep by voices, nightmares, or both. Always, the sky was white, steam from the brewery billowing above me. Each morning, minutes passed before I pulled myself from panic, smoke-filled dreams dispersing into the night sky like the steam. Lying still, I reminded myself I was eighteen and alone: no longer a child, with nothing more to lose.

Now, in the safety of the empty flower shop, I wanted to sleep. The door clicked shut behind me, and I slunk onto the floor, leaning my temple against the lip of a bucket.

I had just found a comfortable position when a voice came muted through the walk-in. “Renata?”

I jumped to my feet. Running my fingers quickly through my hair, I stepped out of the walk-in, squinting into the bright light.

A white-haired man leaned against the counter, tapping his fingers impatiently.

“Renata?” he asked again when he saw me.

I shook my head. “She’s delivering flowers to a wedding. Can I help you with something?”

“I need flowers. Why else would I be here?” He waved his arm around the room as if to remind me of my occupation. “Renata never asks me what I want. I wouldn’t know a rose from a radish.”

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“My granddaughter’s sixteenth birthday. She doesn’t want to spend it with us, I’m sure, but her mother is insisting.” He pulled a white rose from a blue bucket and inhaled. “I’m not looking forward to it. She’s turned into a sulky one, that girl.”

Mentally, I scanned the flower choices in the walk-in, surveyed the showroom. A birthday present for a sulky teenager: The old man’s words were a puzzle, a challenge.

“White roses are a good choice,” I said, “for a teenage girl. And maybe some lily of the valley?” I withdrew a long stem, ivory bells dangling.

“Whatever you think,” he said.

Arranging the flowers and wrapping them in brown paper as I had seen Renata do, I felt a buoyancy similar to what I’d felt slipping the dahlias under the bedroom doors of my housemates the morning I turned eighteen. It was a strange feeling—the excitement of a secret combined with the satisfaction of being useful. It was so foreign—and decidedly pleasant—that I had a sudden urge to tell him about the flowers, to explain the hidden meanings.

“You know,” I said, attempting a casual, friendly tone, but feeling the words catch in my throat with emotion, “some believe lily of the valley brings a return of happiness.”

The old man wrinkled his nose, the expression a combination of impatience and disbelief. “That would be a miracle,” he said, shaking his head. I handed him the flowers. “I don’t think I’ve heard that girl laugh since she was twelve years old, and let me tell you, I miss it.”

He reached for his wallet, but I held up my hand. “Renata said to pay later.”