Zinnia and the Bees

by Danielle Davis

  Birch is here, pouring tea into those mugs.

  For a moment, my stomach feels like it capsizes, but then it flips right side up again. Despite the fact that I was running away from him the last time I saw him, I’m happy to see Birch. I’m getting used to him being around all the time. I’m even getting used to the bees being around all the time, which is pretty weird. That doesn’t mean I don’t still want them to buzz off though. Because I definitely do.

  “Coucou!” says Mildred. “I see you’re still wearing your disguise.”

  She waves her spoon at my hood, and I give her a look that says, stop talking about it. And she does. Because she’s Mildred.

  “Hi, Zinnia!” says Birch.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Would you like some tea?” asks Birch, stirring honey into one of the mugs.

  “Please,” I say. “No honey for me, though.”

  Birch looks briefly at my hood and winks. He must’ve picked up the winking thing from Lou.

  “I made rose ice cream,” says Mildred, swaying while her dainty hands work.

  “Wait a minute. We’re going to eat roses?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” says Mildred. “These are organic roses a patient gave me from her garden. She wanted to thank me for teaching her how to use a gum massager to control plaque between visits.”

  “Actually,” says Birch, “a number of flowers are edible. My mom makes tea from dandelions. And sometimes we eat salad with marigold petals thrown in.”

  Of course naturalist Birch eats marigold petals in his salad. “That sounds pretty weird. Must be a Redwood City thing.”

  “Hon, you can eat flowers anyplace!” chimes Mildred. “Pansies are magnifique! You can even eat zinnias!”

  I guess it’s two against one. And I guess it does smell pretty edible in here.

  Birch and I take a seat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and watching Mildred shimmy her hips here and there.

  “I’m giving this ice cream a trial run for when Viviana comes over for our date tomorrow night,” says Mildred.

  “I’ll be your ice cream date guinea pig anytime,” I say.

  “Who’s Viviana?” asks Birch.

  “She’s in my French class. This will be our third date.” Mildred does a little spin.

  “Well, rose ice cream seems very romantic,” says Birch, to which I look at him funny.

  “What movie do you two want to watch tonight?” Mildred asks.

  “Why don’t we watch Crowd Pleasers?” asks Birch.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a reality show.”

  “That’s not a movie,” I say.

  “No, but it’s really great. I’ve been watching it while Uncle Lou works with his clients. I think you’d like it.”

  “Birch, I’m sure your program is wonderful, but there are some rules around here,” says Mildred. “Only a few, but they’re important. Brushing and flossing for one. Dessert.” She joins us with pink bowls of pink ice cream. “And watching French films.”

  I nod my head, affirming Mildred’s rules.

  “Let’s make like root canals and dig in,” she says. “I made the ice cream pink by using beet juice!”

  I take an obedient bite. After the flower conversation, I know enough not to question ingredients.

  We don’t end up watching a French movie or any movie at all. Hyper after two bowls of ice cream apiece — delicious and approved for Viviana — we instead decide to play charades in the living room, where there are butterflies on the curtains and cat pillows on the couch. Practically everything’s yellow or pink. Adam used to refer to Aunt Mildred’s decorating style as “pink, sunshine, and kittens.”

  Mildred goes first. It’s pretty obvious what she’s acting out. To me anyway. She walks around on her knees like she’s a kid and reaches her hand up in the air, grasping at something. I know the something must be a balloon because I’ve seen The Red Balloon, one of Mildred’s favorite French films, with her and Adam a hundred times.

  Birch on the other hand has no idea what’s going on. Finally I can’t take it anymore so I shout the answer, then Mildred and I fill him in.

  Birch goes next. He unbuttons the first few buttons of his plaid shirt. This is starting out pretty weird, and I can’t help but laugh. Then he gets down on the floor and attempts a one-armed push up. He collapses, but we still get the idea. He’s Lou.

  It’s my turn next. I lie on the couch across the room from Birch and Mildred. I rest my chin on a pillow and breathe loudly through my mouth with my tongue out. I try to look as floppy as possible.

  “Milkshake!” they both yell immediately.

  It’s odd, but I’m glad we’re having charades night instead of movie night. After all, things are different now.

  Mildred kisses me on the cheek and shakes Birch’s hand at nine o’clock on the dot.

  “I’m throwing you out like used dental floss,” she says. “Let’s soirée again soon, though!” She blows kisses at Birch and me as we walk out together into the balmy air.

  Birch and I go through the gate of Mildred’s apartment building. My breath still tastes like roses, and it smells like jasmine out here.

  “You must miss your brother,” Birch says out of nowhere, completely changing the mood.

  My breath catches for a second before I’m able to speak. “What do you mean?”

  “Adam, your brother. Lou told me he left the day we met, after you came over for lunch and ice cream.”

  “Oh.” I guess Dr. Flossdrop told Lou. Or maybe Adam told Lou he was going to leave when he borrowed those boxing gloves. That feels even worse.

  I start walking down the hill toward Sunrise Boulevard and the duplex again, focusing on the itchiness of the bees, which is slightly more pleasant than hearing that another big secret isn’t a secret at all.

  “Did he work at Starving Artists Movers?” asks Birch.

  “Are you a detective?” I ask, walking faster.

  “No. I thought that’s what you were — a detective on the hunt for her brother.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything then?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.”

  “Well, I don’t,” I say.

  “OK,” says Birch.

  I count mailboxes as we walk. Mailbox number one has a dolphin on it. Mailbox number two, minimal and metal. Three, four, and five are regular old mailboxes.

  I consider everything I know about Birch. How much fun charades was tonight. All the things we’ve shared by now.

  Finally I stop walking and look at him. Birch’s eyes still remind me of the ocean, even in the semidarkness.

  “OK. Can you keep a secret?” I ask.

  “Do birds fly?” Birch looks up as though he’s going to see one fly overhead in the murky night sky. “That is, except for some birds that don’t fly, like ostriches, penguins, turkeys…”

  “I get the idea.”

  I try to calm my firecracker heart. Here goes nothing. “Adam didn’t just leave. Dr. Flossdrop drove him away. They’d been fighting a lot this past year.”

  “Whoa. What about?”

  “Mostly about how Adam wanted to be an artist and how Dr. Flossdrop wanted him to be a doctor… or at least something useful. Maybe a teacher or a community activist.”

  “Wow.” Birch looks engrossed, like he’s never had a fight with anyone in his family and this is as fascinating as a baby eaglets’ nest.

  Then I do something really strange. Perhaps stranger even than having bees on my head. I sit down on the curb, and Birch sits down next to me. And I keep talking. About Adam and Adam leaving. About NML. I tell him they didn’t betray me like I said. Like I thought. That they sent me a note and charcoal-gray yarn. I even tell Birch about losing my dad before ever knowing him.

  I tell
him everything. I take steps toward him instead of away.

  Birch is so quiet it’s like I’m talking to myself. But in a good way. And then, when I’m done, he looks at me and nods. He doesn’t say anything. He’s the ocean again. Breathing in and out, there to catch whatever I throw.

  Bees

  HOPE? WHAT HOPE?

  We looked up from our glumness to find flowers right there in front of us. The princess of all flowers — roses! Exquisite, delicious, and even organic roses!

  We wasted no time; we rubbed our legs together to warm them up for revelry. Our senses awakened, and blood pulsed through our membranes.

  Then the realization set in. Those roses were no longer in the ground, fed by soil. They were just lying there, their stems sad, lifeless sticks. What was left of their pollen was probably stale.

  They would be a crummy snack and then what? We’d go right back to where we were. On the human’s head with no nectar and no honeycomb and no purpose. Why even bother?

  We began to wonder if we’d live out the rest of our days here, the last of our line. If we’d been delusional to ever think otherwise. If the risk we’d taken had been our downfall, a danger we should never have hazarded.

  We wondered if this was the only sad destiny we’d ever get. And if we had no one to blame but ourselves.

  After the rose incident, despair swept the hive.

  The queen gave inspirational speeches. She ordered her attendants to tell jokes.

  But it was too late.

  Heads hung. Mandibles drooped. Compound eyes dulled.

  We slept. We slept only to be unconscious. To escape.

  18

  OPERATION MILKSHAKE

  When I arrive at Dr. Flossdrop’s office to pick up Milkshake for his daily walk — my never-ending punishment for the Ronny yarn bomb — he looks worse than usual. His tongue hangs farther out of his mouth, and he lies on the pink carpet even more pathetically.

  I attach the leash to Milkshake’s collar, and he looks disappointed that I’m the one here to walk him again this morning. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.

  Before I can coax Milkshake out of his position on the floor, a man bursts in, holding his face with both hands.

  “May I help you?” I ask. While I don’t work here, I am related to the dentist and dental assistant. Plus I’m the only other person in the waiting room.

  “I’m in a lot of pain. A lot of pain,” says the man.

  Somehow having sensed someone in need, Mildred barrels through the saloon doors. She whisks the man back through them. I can still hear him talking about pain as they move farther down the hall. Pain when he eats, pain when he sleeps, a painful bubble on his gum that started oozing pus this morning. Gross.

  I want to get out of here as soon as possible, which means convincing Milkshake to actually stand up, but Milkshake is wheezing. I mean, even more than normal. This is more like a wheeze-cough, like he’s a cat with a hairball stuck in his throat instead of a small, asthmatic terrier.

  Milkshake looks up at me, his tongue more grape than strawberry like it usually is. His eyes are dark and glossy and suffering. And the coughing’s getting worse. A lot worse.

  I remove the leash and pick him up, pretending he’s a ball of yarn instead of Milkshake. He’s surprisingly soft while somehow also being bony and damp. His body quakes and yes, he dribbles a little urine onto the sleeve of my hoodie.

  I run to the exam room.

  Dr. Flossdrop stands above the man in pain, shining a small, mirrored light into his mouth. The man lies back in the chair, jaw agape. Mildred, in her scrubs adorned with champagne glasses, crouches next to the patient, giving his shoulder a tender squeeze. Classical music reverberates through the room.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re busy. It’s just… Milkshake. Something’s wrong.” I hold him out like a platter.

  Dr. Flossdrop takes one look at Milkshake and, waving her tiny flashlight in the air, pronounces, “Asthma attack!”

  Mildred and the man burst into chaotic action. Mildred runs to soothe the dog. The man takes off his paper towel bib and offers it in Milkshake’s direction as though it’s a dog inhaler and not a useless paper towel bib.

  Dr. Flossdrop’s action is clear and has purpose, though. She starts telling me what to do.

  “Zinnia, go to the vet. I’m counting on you. I have to stay here and perform an emergency root canal or this man’s infection could spread to his jaw or neck.”

  The patient, who was refastening his paper towel bib, freezes when he hears this information.

  But I don’t freeze. I go forth with my mission while Mildred finishes refastening the man’s bib, trying to convince him an emergency root canal won’t be as bad as it sounds.

  I carry Milkshake’s shivering body like I totally know what I’m doing. I have so many thoughts at once:

  Dr. Flossdrop will disown me or curse me to a life of purposelessness if anything happens to her precious Milkshake.

  Since I have bees on my head, I’m kind of part of the animal world and owe it some protection.

  Perhaps because Milkshake is Adam’s replacement or because of all the time we’ve spent together on walks, I might actually care what happens to Dr. Flossdrop’s dog.

  It seems like I walk blocks and blocks, way past the meadow, before the vet’s office appears before me across the street. But finally, there it is: CREATURES LARGE AND SMALL VETERINARY HOSPITAL.

  I start to cross the street, but about halfway there, I trip over a little crater in the asphalt. The only thing I pay attention to is Milkshake. I can’t drop this dog. And I don’t. But I do collapse on the pavement and bang my elbow really hard.

  My hood drops back a little, but my only concern is keeping Milkshake cradled in my arms. He seems unperturbed. I think he’s fallen asleep. Or passed out. Or worse.

  Then one of his eyes opens, and he looks up at me before I have a chance to fix my hood. And with that one eye open for a couple of seconds, I see Milkshake see the bees. Now it really feels like we’re in this thing together.

  I scramble to my feet and push open the door once I reach it.

  “This dog is having an asthma attack. Can you save this dog?” I ask the veterinary helpers in the reception area. They wear scrubs like Mildred’s, but not as colorful.

  Someone quickly lifts Milkshake from my arms and whisks him back to an exam room. I take a seat. It’s much quieter and calmer here than Dr. Flossdrop’s office. There are dim lamps on the desk. Some kind of nature music with birds chirping is playing. Of course, I think of Birch.

  This is not a typical veterinary office. It’s so peaceful it’s making me drowsy.

  I slump in a chair and close my eyes.

  A long time later I feel a mysterious hand tap my shoulder.

  It’s the veterinarian’s hand. She wears jeans and a maroon lab coat over a stretchy cotton shirt. She sits down next to me and, clearly thinking Milkshake is my beloved pet, keeps her hand on my shoulder as she speaks to me in a soft voice.

  “Your dog is going to be OK, but he’s in bad shape right now. I’ve run some tests.”

  “What do the tests say?” I ask, my own hands trembling in a way that reminds me of Milkshake himself.

  “It’s not an asthma attack. Milkshake’s breathing problem has to do with his windpipe. We can probably avoid surgery by treating him with medication and acupuncture.”

  For a second all I can think about is how weird it is to hear that Dr. Flossdrop was wrong about something. But then I process what the vet said.

  “You mean you’re going to stick needles in him? In his throat?”

  “Yes, needles. No, not in his throat. Don’t worry,” she says, reassuring me, “the acupuncture needles don’t hurt.”

  I guess I looked worried. I guess I was.

  “Will it
help?” I ask.

  “We sure hope so.”

  I look around at the lamps. More nature music is playing, this time a river lapping at rocks and spilling over a waterfall.

  “Go ahead and treat Milkshake,” I say.

  “All right. Just relax,” she assures me.

  And seconds later, I’m alone again.

  “Come to Mama!!” Dr. Flossdrop oozes in her sugary, reserved-for-Milkshake voice, lifting the now normally breathing (aka steadily wheezing) dog from my arms.

  I try to hand over the medicine Milkshake is supposed to take, but Dr. Flossdrop is too busy celebrating. She holds the dog up in the air like he’s a victorious athlete after a canine competition. Mildred stands nearby, holding one tiny hand to her heart.

  “Zinnia! You saved my baby!” Dr. Flossdrop squeals, looking from Milkshake to me. Apparently she doesn’t notice the strangeness of calling the dog her baby in the presence of her actual child.

  “It was really the veterinarian,” I say. “She used acupuncture to help calm Milkshake’s breathing. There’s medication too.”

  Dr. Flossdrop marches over and gives me the biggest hug I have ever received from her. It’s not exactly what you’d call a cinnamon-roll hug, but it’s not quite as stiff as a metallic robot-dentist either.

  “Thank you, Zin. You rescued Milkshake. I’m so proud of you.”

  I shrug, even though a tight smile tugs at my lips. It feels good that she’s treating me like a dog-saving hero, but I can’t help but wonder what she’d say if the mission hadn’t succeeded, if I hadn’t turned out to be useful today.

  Despite usefulness being her number one concern, Milkshake’s not even a little bit useful and Dr. Flossdrop doesn’t seem to care. I wish my mom were ever half as excited about me as she always is about Milkshake. One thing’s for sure: Dr. Flossdrop loves that do-nothing little dog.

  19

  ZINGER

  Maybe this is what Dr. Flossdrop feels like when she does neighborhood action. A big, satisfying sense of accomplishment. Even though it was Milkshake I helped and not, like, a more developed lifeform. Say a lizard or houseplant.