Forget-Her-Nots

by Amy Brecount White

  “No way.” Rose hopped off the desk to look.

  Laurel quickly cut the tape and pulled a leather-bound book out of shredded paper.

  “Excellent,” said Rose. “That looks vintage.”

  Laurel’s heart beat deeply as she ran her fingers across the familiar title embossed in gold. “It’s exactly like the one in the tower. The Language of Flowers.”

  “How does Grandma know you’re into flowers?” asked Rose.

  “I wrote her notes.” Laurel propped the book on her legs and opened it to the flyleaf. A list of names was written there, and a small card was stuck inside. She glanced up, but Rose wasn’t watching anymore. Laurel slid the card into the back pages.

  “Look at this.” She turned the book to face Rose and read aloud.

  Violet Evelyn Mitchell

  Rosemary Louise Simpson

  Cicely Jane Nelson

  Lily Rose Clark

  Rose squinted at the list. “Guess that’s your pedigree. Your ancestral line.”

  “I know what it means,” said Laurel. “But it’s yours, too.”

  “Nope. I don’t see my name on that list.”

  “Your mom probably has this book,” Laurel said. “In the attic or somewhere.”

  “Nope.” Rose shook her head. “She’s not into flowers.”

  “But we’re cousins.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re identical,” said Rose. “I have my own gifts.”

  Laurel’s heart skipped at Rose’s admission. “So, you really think I have a gift?”

  “I guess so.”

  Laurel closed the book but kept it on her lap. “If you have a gift, then you should use it, right? You said that when you were talking about what a waste case Everett is.”

  Rose reached for her backpack. “Maybe this is more complicated than I thought. It may be time to call in the experts.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Grandma’s pretty unpredictable. What about Ms. Suarez? She knows about flowers, right?”

  Laurel nodded thoughtfully. “I think she’s a kindred spirit.”

  Rose laughed. “Kindred spirit, I like that.” She mussed Laurel’s hair. “Hey, I thought of another flower myth.”

  “Which one?”

  “Persephone,” Rose said in a theatrical voice. “Daughter of Demeter, goddess of agriculture.”

  “About the seasons, right?”

  Rose nodded. “Persephone has to go to the underworld for half the year, so Demeter mourns, and that makes it winter. When Perseph comes back, spring is sprung.”

  “We read that one in middle school.”

  “But don’t forget the grown-up version,” Rose added. “Young Perseph was abducted by Hades when she was out picking flowers. She yanks up this beautiful bloom and out pops Hades in his chariot to deflower her.”

  “Deflower?” asked Laurel.

  Rose smiled. “‘Deflower’ is one of those quaint terms for losing your virginity. It probably has to do with pollination. In other words, Hades raped her. Nice story, huh?” Rose walked to the door. “Got to run. Fare thee well, kindred spirit.”

  Laurel quickly locked the door behind Rose and took out the card Grandma had sent with the book. The envelope contained a sepia photograph of a pretty young woman with her brown hair in a bun and a cameo pin on her high-collared dress. Laurel turned the picture over. Violet Evelyn, it said. 1889. She skimmed the note:

  Dear Laurel:

  Is it all happening again? My blessings.

  Love, Grandma

  “Blessings,” Laurel repeated. She could almost feel the hands and hearts of her mom, her grandma, and her great-and great-great grandmothers reaching out to her. Across the depths of time, across the chasm of death they stretched, offering her rare knowledge and the gift of flowers. She just had to find a way to take hold of their hands.

  Laurel picked up all the flowers she’d found around campus lately—more rosemary, myrtle, and fresh forget-me-nots—and bundled them together with floral tape. Now she wanted a ceremonial light. She found a small votive candle in the school-issued emergency kit, and some matches in her drawer. Standing on her chair, she lifted the top of her special stuff box and took out her mom’s letter.

  She shut her curtain, turned off the lights, and lit the candle. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the flickering glow at her feet. The antique flower book and the letter lay in her lap. Clutching the bundle of blooms in her right hand, she called out to the gifted generations before her.

  “Violet, Rosemary, Cicely, Lily,” she whispered, and raised the tussie. “Come . . . teach me to Flowerspeak.” Then she said her words—the words which her mom must have taught her, words which now belonged to her.

  A gust of wind shook the windowpane, and Laurel threw her arms wide as her body began its pleasing hum. She closed her eyes and saw . . .

  The luminous dream angels dancing their circle again. They danced to the humming, to a music that sang through the universe. The world around them was icy and barren, but they sang on, casting their light and harmony until a green shoot broke through the ice. Tiny leaves unfurled and stretched toward the rising sun. Higher and higher, the leaves offered up their bud, which opened into gossamer petals. Laurel leaned . . .

  But something bumped behind her. Out of place, out of rhythm, it dragged her back. Laurel shut her eyes tighter, but the humming had stopped.

  “Laurel? You in there? I’ve got brownies.” It was Kate’s singsong voice, but Laurel didn’t want her, not now. Her arms fell to her sides, aching.

  Sighing, Laurel blew out the candle and reread Grandma’s note. Then she dialed Grandma’s number by heart. The line rang and rang, but no one answered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Flashlights in the Garden

  The next morning Laurel dug up the courage to face the hallways and found them less hostile than she’d expected. Only two girls canceled their requests for flowers, though Laurel assumed that Tara had and she didn’t run into Susan. Kate even asked her to go to a movie at Willowlawn on Friday.

  After dinner on Thursday she ran to the garden to gather purple lilac and lily of the valley for herself and Kate. She’d save hers until she was face-to-face with Justin. The Saturday track meet was home, so she was hopeful he’d be at movie night. On the way back from the garden, she stopped by the conservatory, but it seemed eerily dark. Ms. Suarez clearly wasn’t working on the wedding tussie, and Laurel couldn’t bring herself to go inside alone. Not at night.

  By Friday morning, though, her spirits began a spiral descent. There was still no word from Ms. Suarez about the wedding bouquet, and time was running out. She doesn’t want me, Laurel thought. When she got back from practice, she was stunned to see a single white iris outside her door. She scooped it up and hurried inside.

  An iris meant “message.” From Ms. Suarez, Laurel thought, and sat down heavily. If Ms. Suarez was working on the wedding bouquet, she had to be in the conservatory or the gardens. But if Laurel ran to find her, she’d miss the bus with Kate. And if she didn’t show, Ms. Suarez might think she wasn’t serious about Flowerspeaking.

  Kate wasn’t in her room, so Laurel wrote a note and slid it under her door. She wrapped Kate’s tussie in a wet paper towel and tucked it into the corner. Kate would get over her absence, but Laurel couldn’t miss the chance Ms. Suarez offered. Miss Spenser was getting married only once. Laurel pulled a sweatshirt over her head and sprinted toward the cedars.

  As her feet pressed the fallen needles and her hand swept aside the branches, a soft and piney scent enveloped her. She felt a surge of calm and confidence, but she didn’t see any flowers nearby. Up ahead the conservatory seemed dark again, as if deserted.

  “Ms. Suarez?” Laurel opened the door and leaned into the darkness.

  “Finally!” said a familiar voice from the shadows. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  “I just got your message,” Laurel said, panting. “Soccer practice took forever. You want
me to turn on the lights?”

  “No.” Ms. Suarez was standing behind a table covered with white vases. “I have a better idea.” She disappeared into a storage closet.

  Laurel walked toward the table. Two dozen identical vases were lined up. Each one had a single bloom or frond of greenery in it and an index card with the flower’s name scrawled across it. She had time to read only a few before Ms. Suarez emerged carrying a large and tarnished candelabra.

  “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way,” said Ms. Suarez. She set the candelabra at one end of the table and handed Laurel a box of ivory candles. Laurel placed a candle in each arm while Ms. Suarez lit them.

  “I love candles,” said Ms. Suarez softly.

  Laurel could feel herself calming down. “It’s like we’re on an island of light in the middle of a great darkness.”

  Ms. Suarez seemed to freeze.

  “What?”

  Ms. Suarez rubbed her arms. “Déjà vu. I just had a flashback—to a moment when your mom and I were girls.”

  “Tell me about it,” Laurel pleaded. “Please.”

  Ms. Suarez’s watery eyes shone in the candlelight. “I have to set the scene. Lily—your mom—was interested in a particular boy at Willowlawn . . . .”

  “Not my dad,” said Laurel. “He didn’t go there.”

  “No,” said Ms. Suarez. “Lily wanted a specific flower for a dance. Somehow she got it into her head that the bloom would be most potent if picked precisely at midnight.”

  “Weren’t there curfews back then?”

  “Of course, even stricter than now.” Ms. Suarez gave her an exaggerated frown. “Mrs. Fox wouldn’t appreciate me telling you this. You might get ideas.”

  Laurel raised her right hand. “I solemnly swear that I won’t get any ideas from your story about my mom. None at all. Whatsoever.”

  Ms. Suarez smiled. “Guess I can’t stop now.”

  Laurel tapped the table with her fist. “No, you can’t. So my mom wanted a flower at midnight and . . .”

  “And we couldn’t go out the front doors of the dorm, because they squeaked horribly and our dorm mother was a light sleeper. We climbed out a first-floor window and ran to the garden. When we found the flower, Lily said something just like what you said. Something about our flashlights making an island of light in the darkness.”

  Laurel felt the story sink into her. “What flower was it?” she asked.

  “I wish I remembered.” Ms. Suarez sat down next to her. “When I first came here, your mom and I ran into each other in the garden all the time, but it took us months to discover we both had the gift. We felt so dense afterward.”

  “So, did it work?” asked Laurel wistfully, wondering who Justin was hanging out with at movie night. “Did she take the flower and get the guy?”

  Ms. Suarez shrugged. “I don’t remember. Lily must have moved on quickly.”

  Will he even notice I’m not there? Laurel thought, as she pulled a vase toward her nose. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Yes, but I reserve the right not to answer. We’ve got to get going.”

  Laurel’s eye traced the tattered edge of the flower in the vase. “Have you ever used Flowerspeaking to get a guy interested in you?”

  Ms. Suarez’s head tilted. “And you said you weren’t going to get any ideas.”

  “I didn’t,” protested Laurel. “I mean, I already had that idea—about guys.”

  Ms. Suarez laughed. “We all do.” She straightened one of the index cards on the table. “Have you ever tried using flowers to bring about your own desires?”

  Laurel shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

  “Then you know it’s a delicate business. The flowers don’t always ‘speak’ the way we want if we use them only for ourselves.”

  Tell me about it, Laurel thought.

  Ms. Suarez turned a vase between her hands. “It seems like it should be so easy, to make another person love us forever. But then we might have perfect lives, and no one’s life is meant to be perfect, is it?”

  Her eyes were solemn as she met Laurel’s. “I believe our gift is meant for others, not just for ourselves. And speaking of others, we’ve got to get to work on Sheila’s bouquet. I don’t want to keep you up till midnight before your flower girl debut.”

  Laurel’s sigh made the candlelight waver. Tara will have no mercy. Ms. Suarez came back carrying a leather book—just like the one in the tower, just like the one Grandma had sent—and laid it on the table between them. The sight of it jarred Laurel’s memory.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she began. “I finally heard from Grandma.”

  Ms. Suarez clapped her hands together. “Oh, Laurel! I’m so, so happy. Maybe she’s ready to take her place again—with you and with all of us. What did she say?”

  “Not much, but she sent me my mom’s flower book. Is this one yours?”

  “It belongs to the conservatory. I found it hidden with Juan José’s journal.”

  “But you have one of your own, don’t you?” Laurel asked.

  Several silent moments passed. “I did,” Ms. Suarez said, “but someone stole it.”

  “Who?” Laurel asked in astonishment. “Why?”

  “My ex-husband.” Ms. Suarez raised her index finger. “And that’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t deserve another word.”

  Laurel felt like she could erupt with questions, but she held them in. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone spoil the magic of this evening.

  “Now,” said Ms. Suarez, “we’re going to make this a learning experience.”

  Laurel sighed dramatically. “Must we?”

  “We must.” Ms. Suarez said with a little smile. “I’ve given you an array to choose from. You can look up the meaning of each bloom, inhale its fragrance, and then I want you to make a recommendation to me: should we include it or not?”

  “Is this a test?” asked Laurel.

  “Not at all. It’s an excellent way for you to gain experience. Now that you’ve aroused the love between Miss Spenser and the professor, what emotions, what feelings will help their love last until death-do-us-part?”

  Laurel skimmed the first index card and opened the book to A. Alyssum’s sweet scent was for “worth beyond beauty.” She jotted that down, starred it, and moved to the next vase. Ms. Suarez hovered nearby, busying herself at the edges of candlelight.

  “Ms. Suarez?” Laurel said when she was nearly done.

  “Yes?”

  “Are Flowerspeakers magic?”

  “Magic?” Ms. Suarez pursed her lips. “Not exactly. The flowers have the magic. The power to awaken and arouse. The power to remind. You release those powers.”

  Laurel’s eyebrows drew together. “How?”

  “Precisely? No one knows. We’re few and don’t want much attention—no extended scientific studies. It’s been so since the beginning of time, among people who have ever walked the gardens of the earth. When the gift is weak, people call it a green thumb. Some Flowerspeakers—the strongest—have influenced the decisions of kings and queens. Some have made potent arrangements for White House dinners.”

  “Really? Wow.” Laurel phrased her next question delicately. “So, when you give someone flowers, do you say anything? Like special words?”

  Ms. Suarez shook her head. “I don’t, but your mom did. My family hums.” She began the familiar strain of “Ode to Joy.” “We choose a melody that expresses what we want to happen, and we hum to bring forth the magic.”

  “I feel like my whole body is humming when I’m with flowers!” Laurel said.

  Ms. Suarez nodded. “Your gift is potent, but that means you have to be careful.”

  “But the magic doesn’t work unless I say my words, right?” Laurel asked.

  Ms. Suarez frowned. “That’s a good question for Cicely. Your flowers are unlikely to work for other people without your words, but your nose is very sensitive. The strongest scents might affect you anyway. Which is why I want you to take th
is slowly, so you can figure out these things. Okay?”

  Laurel nodded as she moved to the next vase.

  Ms. Suarez put a hand on her shoulder. “One more piece of advice: be sure to choose a flower for faithfulness.”

  Laurel glanced sideways, wondering again about her teacher’s ex-husband.

  Ms. Suarez checked her choices. “Good . . . good . . . interesting . . . good . . . yes. Sheila will have quite a bouquet of lovely wishes.”

  “But there’s room for one more flower, isn’t there?”

  Ms. Suarez pushed away the vases Laurel had rejected. “Which one? You’ve recommended an armful.”

  “Lily of the valley, for the return of happiness,” said Laurel. “It’s blooming now.”

  “But her happiness has already returned,” said Ms. Suarez. “She’s happy now.”

  “Yeah, but—” Laurel struggled to articulate the urgency she felt. “But lily of the valley was in the first tussie I ever gave her, and it’s the flower my mom chose to introduce the language to me. I feel like we’re supposed to include it.”

  Ms. Suarez shrugged. “There’s no harm, I guess.”

  Laurel rubbed her palms together. “Good. Can we get some right now from the garden? We could take flashlights.”

  Ms. Suarez threw her head back. “Not going to get any ideas? Yeah, right.”

  Minutes later they were winding down a garden path, the beams of their flashlights bobbing in front of them.

  “Did you know some flowers release their scent only at night?” asked Ms. Suarez.

  “Really?” Laurel sniffed, but the fragrance of some nearby pines masked all others.

  “Here we are,” said Ms. Suarez. Their flashlights illuminated sprays of bell-shaped white blooms clinging to their stalks.

  “Yesss,” said Laurel. The return of happiness.

  “Another island of light,” whispered Ms. Suarez as she went down on one knee. “How many do we need? You should always arrange blooms in odd numbers.”

  Laurel crouched next to her. “Is that one of our ancient wisdoms?”

  “No.” Ms. Suarez grinned. “I saw it on a cable gardening show.”