The woman was locking up when I arrived. It was not yet noon.
“If you’re looking for another five dollars, you’re too late,” she said, gesturing to the truck with her head. It was full of heavy arrangements. “I could have used your help.”
I held out my bouquet.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Experience,” I said, handing her the flowers.
She smelled the mums and roses, and then poked the verbena, examining the tip of her finger. It was clean. Starting up the hill to her truck, she motioned for me to follow.
From within the truck she withdrew a nosegay of stiff white roses, packed close and tied with pink satin. She held the two bouquets side by side. There was no comparison. She tossed me the white roses, and I caught them with one hand.
“Take those to Spitari’s, up the hill. Ask for Andrew, and tell him I sent you. He’ll let you trade the flowers for your lunch.”
I nodded, and she climbed inside the truck. “I’m Renata.” She started the engine. “If you want to work next Saturday, be here by five a.m. If you’re even a minute late, I’ll leave you behind.”
I felt like sprinting down the hill, overcome with relief. It didn’t matter that I’d been promised only a single day’s work, or that the money would probably only be enough to rent a room for a handful of nights. It was something. And if I proved myself, she would invite me back. I smiled at the sidewalk, my toes jittering in my shoes.
Renata pulled away from the curb, then slowed to a stop and rolled down her window. “Name?” she asked.
“Victoria,” I said, looking up and suppressing a smile. “Victoria Jones.”
She nodded once and drove away.
The following Saturday, I arrived at Bloom just after midnight. I had fallen asleep in my garden with my back against a redwood, keeping watch, and I bolted awake at the sound of approaching laughter. It was a band of drunken young men this time. The nearest, an overgrown boy with hair past his chin, smiled at me as if we were lovers meeting at a prearranged location. I avoided his eyes and walked quickly to the nearest streetlamp, then down the hill to the flower shop.
While I waited I applied deodorant and gel, then paced the block, forcing myself to stay awake. By the time Renata’s truck turned up the street, I had checked my reflection in parked car mirrors twice and reordered my clothing three times. Even with all of this, I knew I was beginning to look and smell like a street person.
Renata pulled up, unlocked the passenger door, and motioned for me to get inside. I sat as far away from her as possible, and when I slammed the door it rattled against my fleshless hip.
“Good morning,” said Renata. “You’re on time.” She U-turned and drove down the empty street the way she had come.
“Too early to wish me a good morning?” she asked. I nodded, rubbing my eyes, pretending I’d just awakened. We drove in silence around a roundabout. Renata missed her turn and went around twice. “It’s a little early for me, too, I guess.”
She drove up and down the one-way streets south of Market until she pulled in to a crowded parking lot.
“Follow close,” she said, getting out of the truck and handing me a stack of empty buckets. “It’s crowded in there, and I don’t have time to waste looking for you. I have a two o’clock wedding today; the flowers have to be delivered by ten. Luckily, they’re just sunflowers—won’t take long to arrange.”
“Sunflowers?” I asked, surprised. False riches. It wouldn’t be my wedding flower of choice, I thought, and then rolled my eyes at the absurdity of the words my wedding.
“Out of season, I know,” she said. “You can get anything—anytime—at the flower market, and when couples throw money at me, I don’t complain.” She shoved her way through the crowded entry. I followed close behind, cringing as buckets and elbows and shoulders brushed my body.
The inside of the flower market was like a cave, hollow and windowless, with a metal ceiling and cement floor. The unnaturalness of the sea of flowers within, far from soil and light, set me on edge. Booths overflowed with seasonal flowers, everything blooming in my own garden but cut and displayed in bunches. Other vendors sold tropical flowers, orchids and hibiscus and exotic plants I couldn’t name, from hothouses hundreds of miles away. I plucked a passionflower and tucked it in my waistband as we rushed past.
Renata flipped through sunflowers as if they were pages of a book. She argued over prices, walked away, and returned. I wondered if she had always been an American, or if she had been raised in a place in which bargaining was a way of life. She had a trace of an accent I couldn’t place. Other people walked up, handed wads of cash and credit cards, and left with their buckets of flowers. But Renata kept arguing. The vendors appeared to be used to her, and argued only halfheartedly. They seemed to know that in the end she would win, and in the end she did. She stuffed bundles of orange sunflowers with two-foot stems in my buckets and raced to the next booth.
When I caught up with her, she held dozens of dripping calla lilies, tightly rolled petals of pink and orange. The water from the stems soaked though the thin sleeves of her cotton blouse, and she threw the flowers in my direction as I approached. Only half landed in the empty bucket; I folded over slowly to gather the fallen flowers.
“This is her first day,” Renata said to the vendor. “She doesn’t yet understand the urgency. Your lilies will be gone in another fifteen minutes.”
I slid the last flower into the bucket and stood up. The vendor was selling dozens of varieties of lilies: tiger, stargazer, imperial, and pure white Casablancas. I brushed a bead of pollen from where it had fallen on the petal of an open stargazer, listening as Renata negotiated the price of her purchases. She was spewing numbers far below what the surrounding customers had paid, barely pausing for a response, and stopped suddenly when the vendor agreed. I looked up.
Renata pulled out her purse and waved a thin stack of bills in front of the vendor’s face, but he didn’t reach for them. He was looking at me. His eyes traveled from the top of my stiff hair down my face, flitting around my collarbone and heating my covered arms before resting on the sticky brown pollen on my fingertips. His gaze felt like an invasion. I squeezed the lip of the bucket I held, my knuckles white.
Renata’s hand jutted into the still quiet, her cash flapping impatiently. “Excuse me?”
He reached out to grab the money but did not pause in his bold exploration of my body. Continuing down my layers of skirt, he studied the stripe of leg visible between my socks and stretch pants.
“This is Victoria,” Renata said, flicking her fingertips in my direction. She paused, as if waiting for the flower farmer to introduce himself, but he didn’t.
His eyes snapped back to my face. Our eyes met. There was something unsettling in them—a flicker of recognition—that captured my attention. Looking him over, my first impression was of a man that had struggled as much as, if differently than, I had. He was older than me, I decided—five years, at least. His face had the dusty, lined look of a manual laborer. I imagined he had planted, tended, and harvested his flowers himself. His body was lean and muscular as a result, and he neither flinched nor smiled as I examined him. His olive skin would be salty. The thought caused my heart to race from something besides anger, an emotion I didn’t recognize but which made the core of my body warm. I bit the inside of my lip and pulled my eyes back to his face.
He withdrew a single orange tiger lily from a bucket.
“Take one,” he said, handing it to me.
“No,” I said. “I don’t like lilies.” And I’m no queen, I thought.
“You should,” he said. “They suit you.”
“How do you know what suits me?” Without thinking, I snapped the head of the lily he held. Six pointed petals fell, the flower’s face examining the hard floor. Renata sucked in her breath.
“I don’t,” he said.
“I didn’t think so.” I rocked the full bucket of flowers I carried, dispersing the
heat radiating from my body. The motion drew attention to my shaking arms.
I turned to Renata. “Outside,” she said, motioning toward the front of the building. I waited for her to say more, sinking with dread at the thought of being fired on the spot less than an hour after starting my first job. But Renata’s eyes were fixed on the growing line at the next booth. When she glanced back and saw me unmoving, her eyebrows pinched together in confusion.
“What?” she asked. “Go wait by the truck.”
Pushing through a thick crowd, I made my way toward the exit. My arms strained under the weight of the full bucket, but I carried it through the parking lot without stopping to rest. At Renata’s truck I set the bucket down, sinking, exhausted, onto the hard concrete.
7.
From behind the dark windows, Elizabeth watched. I was sure of it, even though I couldn’t see the outline of her body behind the glass. The back door remained locked. Shivering, I watched the sun drop out of sight. I would have ten minutes, no more, before I was left to root for the spoon in darkness.
I’d been locked out before. The first time I was five years old, my protruding stomach empty in a house with too many children and too many bottles of beer. Sitting on the kitchen floor, I had watched a tiny white Chihuahua eat her dinner from a ceramic bowl. I inched closer, overcome by jealousy. It was not my intention to eat the dog’s food, but when my foster father saw me, my face only centimeters from the bowl, he picked me up by the back of my turtleneck and threw me out. Act like an animal, be treated like an animal, he’d said. Pressing my body against the sliding glass door, I’d absorbed the heat of the house and watched the family prepare for bed, never imagining they’d leave me there all night. But they did. My body quivered, cold and afraid, and I kept thinking about the way the little dog shook when she was scared, her triangular ears vibrating. My foster mother sneaked downstairs in the middle of the night and tossed a blanket through a high kitchen window, but she did not open the door until morning.
Sitting on Elizabeth’s steps, I ate the pasta and tomatoes from my pockets and thought about whether I would look for the spoon. If I found it and gave it to Elizabeth, she might still make me sleep outside. Doing as I was told had never been a guarantee that I would get what I was promised. But I had glimpsed my room on the way downstairs, and it looked more comfortable than the splintering wood steps. I decided to try.
Slowly, I meandered through the garden until I came to the place I’d tossed the spoon. Kneeling under the almond tree, I felt around with my hands, thorns cutting my fingers as I reached through the thick brush. I parted tall stalks and pulled petals off thick shrubs. I tore leaves, broke branches. Still, I didn’t see it.
“Elizabeth!” I screamed, growing frustrated. The house was quiet.
The darkness was becoming thick, heavy. The vineyard seemed to stretch in all directions, an inescapable sea, and all at once I was terrified. With both hands I reached for the trunk of a dense bush, thorns piercing my soft palms as I pulled as hard as I could. The plant uprooted. I continued, pulling up everything I could grab, until the earth was bare. In the overturned soil the spoon lay alone, reflecting moonlight.
Wiping my bloody hands on my pants, I grabbed the spoon and ran toward the house, tripping and falling and picking myself up without ever letting go of my prize. I bounded up the steps, pounding the heavy metal spoon against the wooden door relentlessly. The lock turned, and Elizabeth stood before me.
For just a moment we looked at each other in silence—two pairs of wide, unblinking eyes—then I launched the spoon into the house with as much strength as I could gather in my thin arm. I aimed for the window over the kitchen sink. The spoon flew just inches past Elizabeth’s ear, arched high toward the ceiling, and bounced off the window before clattering into the porcelain sink. One of the small blue bottles teetered on the edge of the windowsill before it fell and shattered.
“There’s your spoon,” I said.
Elizabeth took a barely controlled breath before lunging at me. Her fingers dug into my lower rib cage, and she transported me to the kitchen sink, all but throwing me inside. My hip bones pressed against the tile countertop, and my face hovered so close to the shattered glass that for a moment the whole world was blue.
“That,” Elizabeth said, lowering my face even closer to the glass, “belonged to my mother.” She held me completely still, but I could feel the anger filling her fingertips, threatening my descent into the glass.
With a jerk she pulled me out of the sink and set me down, letting go before my feet touched the ground. I fell backward. She stood above me, and I waited for her hand to fall on my face. All it would take was one slap. Meredith would return before the mark could fade, and this final experiment would be over. I would be declared unadoptable, and Meredith would stop trying to find me a family; I was ready—past ready.
But Elizabeth dropped her hand and stood up straight. She took a step away from me.
“My mother,” she said, “would not have liked you.” She nudged me with her toe until I stood up. “Now get yourself upstairs and into bed.”
So, I thought, disappointed, this is not the end. My body filled with a palpable dread, heavy and overwhelming. It would end. I did not believe there to be even the slightest possibility that my placement at Elizabeth’s would be anything but short, and I wanted to have it over right then, before spending a single night in her home. I took a step toward her with my chin pushed forward in defiance, hoping my proximity would push her over the edge.
But the moment had passed. Elizabeth looked over my head, her breathing even.
With heavy steps I turned away. Pulling a slice of ham off the table, I climbed the stairs. The door to my room was open. I leaned for a moment in the empty frame, taking in all that would be temporarily mine: the dark wood furniture, the circular pink rag rug, and the desk lamp with a pearly stained-glass shade. Everything looked new: the puffy white eyelet comforter and matching curtains, the clothes hung in neat rows in the closet and folded into stacks in each dresser drawer. Crawling into bed, I nibbled the ham, salty and metallic-tasting from where my bleeding hands gripped. Between bites I paused to listen.
I had lived in thirty-two homes that I could remember, and the one thing they all had in common was noise: buses, brakes, the rumbling of a freight train passing. Inside: the warring of multiple televisions, the beeping of microwaves and bottle warmers, the doorbell ringing, a curse uttered, the snap of deadbolts turning. Then there were the sounds of the other children: babies crying, siblings screaming upon separation, the yelp of a too-cold shower, and the whimper of a roommate’s nightmare. But Elizabeth’s house was different. Like the vineyard settling in the dusk, inside the house was silent. Only a faint, high-pitched buzz traveled through the open window. It reminded me of the squeal of electricity on wires, but in the country I imagined it to come from something natural, 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 year
s 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.
The Language of Flowers Page 4