Forget-Her-Nots

by Amy Brecount White

  “With powers like yours,” Ms. Suarez went on, “you need serious training. Soon.”

  “But my dad,” Laurel began. “I think he needs me to come home this summer.”

  Grandma turned back toward them. “Besides, you’ll be visiting me.” Her hand rested on Laurel’s arm. “Let’s go to the gardens—just us. I need to find you something.”

  “What an excellent idea, Cicely,” said Ms. Suarez. “Laurel can show you what’s blooming.”

  “I think I know what’s blooming,” Grandma said. “I’m not senile, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean—” began Ms. Suarez, but Grandma waved her apologies away.

  “Let’s go now!” Grandma threaded her arm under Laurel’s. “I’ve been cooped up for too long.” They walked out of the conservatory, careful with each other. Sunlight flashed through the cedar needles as Laurel held the branches out of their way. Cedar for strength, she thought. I’ll share mine with Grandma.

  “I haven’t been here for ages,” Grandma said when they reached the garden’s entrance, “but I think the plants I want are that way.” She led them down a path Laurel had never taken because the plants just looked like unkempt brambles.

  “There they are.” Grandma reached into a tangle of purplish branches and broke off a cluster of small white flowers. “Raspberries. Can we find a place to sit?”

  “Sure.” Laurel led her back to a stone bench where the sun shone golden on their shoulders and the garden around them buzzed. Nectar-drunk bees and butterflies with stained-glass wings flitted from flower to flower. Laurel had prayed and waited so long for this moment that it felt strange to speak. She had to start with something ordinary.

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes?”

  “My dad said you wrote a letter for me. Did you sign me up for Latin, too?”

  “Of course.” Grandma nodded. “The majority of botanical names are in Latin. You need to know them to master your gift.”

  “But you didn’t know I had the gift then,” Laurel pointed out. “Nobody knew.”

  “You’re right.” Grandma pursed her lips. “I suppose I still had hope. Sometimes hope keeps living—even when we starve it.”

  She swiveled toward Laurel and held up the raspberry branch between them. Laurel watched as Grandma raised her hand, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Bright cut flowers, leaves of green, bring about what I have seen.”

  A sudden breeze swirled Laurel’s hair from her neck. The hum of the garden—the bees, the butterflies—crescendoed and suffused her body.

  “Raspberry is for remorse,” Grandma said. “I’m ashamed that I neglected you, but I’ll make up for it.” She held out the branch to Laurel. “I promise.”

  Laurel’s hand wavered, because she knew Grandma’s Flowerspeaking would be irresistible. She wanted to voice her own thoughts first. She took the branch—its energy made her hand shake—and set it down between them. “But I don’t really understand. Why did you come today?”

  “It was time,” Grandma said. “Past time. Your lovely notes helped me see it’s not my time to die. And Geneva wrote, too. I guess the world still needs me for something.”

  Laurel hesitated. She didn’t want to inflict pain, but this might be the only time Grandma would answer. “But how could you burn your garden? I loved it.”

  Grandma’s head drooped. “You can’t garden when you’re dead inside.”

  Laurel shook her arm gently. “You’re not dead!”

  “No.” Grandma almost smiled. “And neither is my garden. My bulbs, the deepest ones, came up this spring. The green shoots poked up through the cinders and ashes.”

  Cinders and ashes, Laurel repeated in her mind as she looked at the raspberry branch between them. Warmer days would come soon, with sun enough to transform flowers into glossy fruit. She lifted the branch to her nose, and Grandma’s gift surged through her veins. Laurel squeezed her eyes against the muddy, churning depths of sorrow and regret. Her mouth twisted with an agony she never wanted to feel again.

  Then Grandma’s hands enclosed Laurel’s, and the sadness slowly ebbed. She was beginning to understand why Grandma hadn’t come to her earlier.

  “What flower is for forgiveness?” Laurel asked.

  Grandma shook her head. “Forgiveness takes time, child.”

  “Not always. Not if I understand.”

  “A white tulip speaks forgiveness.”

  Tulips were past blooming, but Laurel vowed to find some white ones. “You have to help me,” she said. “I want to use my gift. I want to be who I’m supposed to be.”

  “Who you’re supposed to be,” Grandma echoed. “Mmm. Your mother was supposed to be one of the great ones, but she—”

  Grandma’s voice caught, and Laurel sensed the weight of grief descending. Slipping to the ground, she knelt before Grandma and grabbed hold of her hands. The bluish veins were prominent, pulsing her fragile life.

  “Do you know the story of Demeter and her daughter Persephone?” Laurel didn’t wait for an answer. “Demeter was the Greek goddess of the harvest, and she wanted to die when Persephone was kidnapped into the underworld, but she couldn’t. She had to make the world flower and grow again every time her daughter returned. There had to be food and trees and flowers. This world has to keep living and blooming no matter what.”

  “Yes.” Grandma’s voice was husky with emotion.

  “You have to teach me all about Flowerspeaking.” Laurel gently shook her hands. “I have to know everything about the gift and the magic.”

  Grandma looked past her into the garden. “Whenever anyone gives anyone else flowers, there’s magic.”

  “But mine are different,” Laurel insisted.

  “Yes. From what Geneva has told me, your gift will be exceptional. Like Lily’s.” Grandma paused and raised her eyebrows. “She also mentioned the debacle last night.”

  Laurel’s shoulders dropped. “Ugh—I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “Of course not. All of us make mistakes,” said Grandma. “But it sounds like there was no permanent damage.”

  Unless it’s with Justin, Laurel thought. “Will you help me use my gift? The right way, I mean?”

  “We’ll all help you,” said Grandma. “There are Flowerspeakers in every country of the world, and each has a special mission.”

  “Really?” said Laurel. “What’s mine?”

  “That, my dear, you will have to discover yourself.”

  A familiar laugh, high and musical, wafted toward them, and Laurel stood up quickly. The voices grew louder as the Featherstones turned a corner and came into view.

  “Sheila?” Grandma’s eyes widened. “Sheila Spenser?”

  A large white flower was perched above Mrs. Featherstone’s ear, and she held more blooms in the arm draped over the professor’s. “Cicely! I didn’t know you were here.” She took Grandma’s outstretched hands and kissed her cheek. “It’s been too long! What a surprise. I was just telling Luke a story about Great-grandma Gladys—but you haven’t met my husband, have you?”

  “Your husband?” Grandma stood up to shake the professor’s hand. “My congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Featherstone. “Laurel made a beautiful flower girl at our wedding.”

  Grandma tilted her head at Laurel. “I really do have to catch up.”

  “Isn’t Gladys’s garden lovely today?” exclaimed Mrs. Featherstone. “If only she could see it now.”

  The professor nodded. “This garden is one of my favorite spots on earth.”

  “Mine, too,” Laurel said.

  After the Featherstones walked on, Grandma sat back on the bench, a smile lighting her face. “Now that is something. Sheila has found love at last.”

  “I gave her flowers,” Laurel said. “For happiness and romance. My very first tussie and a few other bouquets.”

  “Really?” Grandma reached for Laurel’s hand again. “It’s a wonderful thing to coax love into this world. The ghost of Glady
s is happy at last,” she said half to herself.

  “What?” asked Laurel.

  Grandma waved her hand. “It’s just something we used to say when I was a schoolgirl here. Whenever something strange or bad happened, we’d blame the ghost of Gladys. But your gift has brought happiness to her great-granddaughter at last, and her garden is alive and lovely. Gladys must be ecstatic.”

  Tree leaves, young and green, billowed above her head while Laurel waited for Justin near the bus stop. Many of the spring blooms had withered, but it was too early for the fullness of summer. Laurel was going back and forth about what to tell him. She could say that her mom was dead, that their bond had been flowers—that the world had possibilities he hadn’t imagined. But he might not understand.

  Grandma had gone out to dinner with Rose and Robbie, and Laurel had promised to meet them later. When Laurel had led her cousin to the bench where Grandma waited, Rose was truly astonished. Together they would keep Grandma from descending into melancholy again.

  Laurel heard the bus before she saw it and was gripped by doubts. He changed his mind. He’s not coming. When he stepped off, her insides seemed to cartwheel.

  “Hey.” Laurel held her breath to slow her reckless heartbeat.

  Justin was wearing an untucked red polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a ponytail. “Hey.” He stopped about three feet away and slipped his hands into his pockets.

  “Want to take a walk before dinner? If you’re not starving now? The dining hall’s pretty crowded until later.” Laurel giggled nervously.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Justin shrugged. “I haven’t seen a lot of Avondale.”

  “It’s really beautiful,” Laurel said. An image of the gazebo and kissing couch flashed into her mind, but she dismissed it. That’s not me, she thought. She pointed beyond the conservatory toward the path she’d taken with Ms. Suarez to see the wild orchid. “There’s a great view of the mountains that way if you don’t mind a hike.”

  “I like hikes,” said Justin.

  “Great.” Laurel pointed out her dorm window as they walked across the quad.

  “What’s that?” Justin asked when they emerged from the cedars.

  “The conservatory,” said Laurel.

  “Awesome architecture,” said Justin. “It looks like a cathedral.”

  A cathedral for flowers. “See the gargoyles?” Laurel said. “Aren’t they cool?”

  When they reached the uphill path, Justin walked at her side, occasionally electrifying her arm with an accidental touch, but he didn’t reach for her hand.

  “When’s your first—” She stopped herself. Geek alert! She’d been about to ask for his exam schedule. “When’s your next cross-country meet?”

  “Next Saturday,” he said.

  “Is it home?”

  “Yeah, but they’re pretty boring for spectators, except right at the finish line,” he said. “Not like soccer.”

  “Maybe I’ll come,” Laurel said, hoping for an iota of encouragement. Her heartbeats were almost painful with aching to feel his touch, but she couldn’t take his hand. She’d hoped the daylight would throw everything into clarity, but it felt so different from the dance floor. I knew more about him in the dark, she thought.

  They reached the crest of the hill, and Justin raised his hand to block the low sun. “Awesome view. Do you come here all the time?” he asked, his eyes roaming.

  “I should . . . .” But Laurel turned a circle until she found the source of a fresh and energizing scent. Mountain laurel, her plant, had finally come into bloom. She broke off a cluster of the cup-shaped flowers that looked like striped peppermint candies.

  Scampering up some rocks, she found a spot with room enough for Justin, but he didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes traced the rise and fall of the blue-gray horizon. Soon the sun would slip down, releasing its arsenal of colors between the tatters of cloud.

  “I’m really sorry you had to leave prom last night,” she started. “I had no idea that would happen.”

  Justin turned to face her. “That’s just it. What happened? I remember dancing and catching some flower, but it’s kind of like a dream. Some guys are saying the punch was spiked. Did you have any?”

  “No.” She tried another tack. “So, did Ms. Suarez say anything about that flower? On the way back?”

  Justin shook his head. “Is she always that weird? She made me tie it up in a plastic bag and promise to wash my hands. I felt like I was five.”

  “She’s certainly unique.” Laurel forced a laugh, even though her high hopes were crashing. Justin didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in touching or kissing her now. It was all the orchid. His feelings weren’t real.

  He turned back to the view. “Did I tell you I’m going to New Zealand for the summer? My uncle’s there doing some research, and I’m going to hang out with him.”

  “Cool.” Laurel hugged her knees to her chest. There was no point in starting a relationship now, with school ending in a few weeks and him headed to the other side of the world. She twirled the flowers between her fingers. Mountain laurel for ambition.

  Small stones skittered down the mountainside as Justin sat on the edge of the rocks closer to her. “Yeah, he’s got a boat and . . .”

  Justin talked on, but she lifted the mountain laurel to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled its vibrant aroma. She felt her spirit rise up and up, like a red-tailed hawk gliding, sailing on wind currents in the cloud-marbled sky, and crying out. I can do anything . . . .

  “Laurel?” Justin’s voice summoned her back to earth. “Hey!” His hand pressed and gently shook her knee.

  She blinked up at him.

  “You still with me?” he asked. “Where’d you go?”

  “Sorry. I—um—daydream sometimes.”

  “Me, too.” Justin shook his head. Strands of hair were falling out of his ponytail.

  “Whaaat?” she said.

  “You know, you’re kind of hard to read.”

  Laurel smiled mischievously. “Lots of good poetry is.”

  Grinning, Justin took the mountain laurel out of her hand and gently tucked it behind her ear. His hands were warm as he pulled her to standing, as his fingers twined with hers. He was so close that every cell in her body pulsed . . . warm . . . waiting. He hesitated, his black eyes solemn and honest. So honest she wanted to stare into them always. He smelled of fresh grass and mint and possibility. His head tilted, and she closed her eyes to capture the sweet press of his lips.

  EPILOGUE

  Feast of Flowers

  “In the cherry blossom’s shade there’s no such thing as a stranger.”

  —KOBAYASHI ISSA, JAPANESE HAIKU POET, 1763–1828

  Winding through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ms. Suarez’s compact car passed farms and fields turning rusty and gold with autumn. Laurel didn’t know where they were going, but she trusted Ms. Suarez. At the end of the summer, the teacher had welcomed her back like a dear friend. Avondale felt like home, but so did Grandma’s cottage, and so did her dad’s row house. If Laurel felt at home within herself, she was home everywhere.

  “Cicely and I have a surprise for your birthday,” Ms. Suarez had said when she invited Laurel. This day, her fifteenth birthday, promised to be perfect in nearly every way that her fourteenth hadn’t been. At four o’clock she was meeting Justin for a hike. After months of e-mail-only contact from opposite sides of the world, they were both a little shy. But between practices, papers, and tests, they were finding some time together, and Laurel was beginning to introduce her world of flowers to him.

  So far, sophomore year was substantially better than freshman. Except for Tuesday afternoons when she met Ms. Suarez in the conservatory, she hung out with Kate and Ally, and sometimes Nicole and Tara. Three of them—Laurel, Kate, and Nicole—had called a truce and powwowed whenever Tara got up to her usual tricks. It wasn’t perfect, but Tara seemed to be trying, and Laurel didn’t feel like she was a lone target anymore.

  Ms. Suare
z’s car turned down a long driveway lined with symmetrical, red-leafed trees. They arrived at a brick, Federal-style house and circled around to the rear to park, but Laurel saw no signs of life at the manor.

  “What is this place?” She closed her car door.

  Ms. Suarez raised her eyebrows and handed Laurel an empty basket. “You’ll see.” Their path was lined with thick boxwood shrubs whose musty scent made Laurel think of antiques stacked in an attic. Tiny stones crunched under their footsteps. Over the summer break Laurel and her dad had toured five Virginia estates and their gardens. Her dad was attentive to the history and lineage of each place while Laurel didn’t miss an heirloom bloom. Madeleine came along twice, and Laurel was gradually accepting her as the woman her dad needed in his house, in his life.

  The boxwoods ended, and the garden opened out against a backdrop of autumn mountains. Laurel and Ms. Suarez followed a straight promenade toward a stone fountain where water was sparkling high into the air. A white-haired woman sat at the edge of the fountain. Laurel dropped the basket and ran.

  “Grandma!” Laurel threw her arms around her neck. Grandma had grown stronger over their summer month together, more substantial and firmly rooted in this life. By the end of their visit, the three of them—Rose, Robbie, and Laurel—had managed to replant much of her garden. It would take years, but her garden would be itself again.

  Grandma held Laurel’s face between both hands and kissed each cheek.

  Laurel felt giddy with anticipation. “Who lives here?”

  “A friend.” Grandma patted the seat beside her, and Laurel sat down. Ms. Suarez placed the empty basket at their feet.

  “First,” said Grandma. She took an envelope out of her purse. “I have kept this a secret, but it’s time to share. Your mother entrusted me with the letters she wrote to you. Happy birthday, Laurel.”