DEDICATION
Thanks to Tara Weikum,
Debbie Edwards, Laurie Liss,
Brandie Coonis, Eve Coquillard,
Nancy Cole Silverman,
Robin Carr, Adam Greenberg,
Jeni McKenna, Emily Dickinson,
Gilda Block (in memory, always),
Jasmine, and Sam.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Part I: A Visitor in Marl
1. Miriam
2. Clark
3. Grant
Part II: Who influences Flowers
1. The Ghost
2. Black Jade
3. Casa Floribunda
4. Rainwater
Part III: Is as it had not been—
1. The Visitor
2. The Good-Bye
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Francesca Lia Block
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Until things started to fall apart, I had never questioned my desire to be alive. It wasn’t something I had to think about. Even though I didn’t have any close relationships at school and felt different from the other kids, even though I wasn’t always confident about how I looked or the things I could do, I never thought there was something really wrong with me; I was never very lonely or sad. I came from a line of strong women who were my best friends. My grandmother, Miriam, my mother, Rachel, and the house we lived in together: that was all I needed.
My mom bought the house in the Hollywood Hills with money from her writing job at the studios. It was built in the 1940s, Spanish style with a red tile roof, high ceilings, and bleached wood floors. She told me that when she walked down the drive lined with cypress trees, through the arched wooden door, into the empty rooms, she found there were tears on her cheeks and she knew that this was the house where she wanted to live until she died.
I felt the same way. My room was upstairs and overlooked the fig, lemon, and avocado trees that surrounded the pool tiled with La Sirena, Mexican mermaids. Banana trees, miniature palms, and birds-of-paradise crowded around like gossiping, lunching ladies, happy to grow there. Grapevines and honeysuckle and jasmine intertwined, draping over a small lattice arbor. When I came home to this house, even at the age of seventeen, I felt the way I did when I was a kid, sweaty and tired and hungry, excited to get a glass of milk and a cookie that my grandmother had baked, lie on the faded Moroccan rug with a book, and read aloud to her, as we waited for my mom to come home. I brought all my problems and worries to my grandma first, and then to my mom, and they were always able to take them away. Somehow I believed that the house helped as well, but it was really my grandmother who healed me the most.
When I was in fifth grade, I told her the names of the kids in my class, in order of popularity. I had made a careful list in which I was second from the bottom before Jerry Vetch, who was really smart, almost six feet tall, and hummed to himself all day. I did just as well in writing and spelling as he did, although not quite as well in math, and I was too quiet and shy to have any friends.
My grandma asked me, “What makes someone popular, my love?”
“They’re better looking.”
“Better looking, how?”
“They look like everyone else except better.”
“Bubela,” she said, “you’re a beauty. But you don’t look like everyone else.” She was referring to my nose, which is broader, my lips and hips, which are fuller, and my eyebrows, which are bushier, or used to be before I started plucking them.
“Then I can’t be popular,” I said. “Or beautiful.”
She looked deep into my eyes and asked me, “Are they nicer than other people?”
“No. They’re usually meaner to everyone except the other popular kids, except for Ally Kellogg.” She was popular, thin, and blond with a tiny nose and butt, and she had signed my yearbook Have a great summer, Luv always, Ally. But she was the exception.
“So why would you want to be popular?” my grandmother asked me. “You’re beautiful and nice. Are they smarter?”
“No,” I said. “Popular people try not to seem too smart.”
“So popular means you look pretty much like everyone else, you aren’t too smart, or pretend you aren’t, and you’re only nice to other popular people?”
I nodded. “And you don’t have the dreams.”
When I was really little, I started having dreams that scared me so much I’d wet the bed. I sometimes still had them, even in fifth grade. My mom had taken me to a therapist but I didn’t like him—he never smiled, my mom called him “dour”—and the dreams only got worse, so I stopped going. My grandmother was the person I would go to when the dreams woke me. She didn’t always tell my mom. It was my grandma who changed the sheets and let me climb into bed with her. Sometimes I walked in my sleep, too. More than once she’d found me standing in her doorway and she’d lead me back to my room. I never remembered doing it nor did I remember the dreams, except as little flashes of fear. Eventually my grandmother bought me a Native American dream catcher and hung it above my bed. It was supposed to catch the nightmares in its web and slide the good dreams down its feathers to reach me. Since then the nightmares were more infrequent, but I still had them sometimes.
“You’re very special, Julie,” my grandmother told me. “Don’t forget that. You have gifts.” I didn’t see how nightmares were gifts, but when she kissed me, I smelled the sweet and slightly bracing fragrance of lavender, and I was comforted. She wore the oil on her skin, put silk bags of the dried flowers everywhere around our house, bought air sprays and soaps with pictures of lavender plants embossed on them.
“I’d rather be like Ally Kellogg,” I said.
“Oh, the world never changes, does it? You have to start appreciating yourself for who you are. Promise me that, star shine.”
My grandmother reached into her dresser drawer and took out a large photo album covered in red velvet that had faded to pink and was worn away in patches; the carved gold wood medallions on the front were chipped. When she opened the album, I saw that the spine had pulled away and was still attached only by threads. Inside, cardboard frames held browning, faded photographs of men with long beards and women with severely combed-back hair—small sprigs of curls sprouting at the tops of their foreheads—wearing high-collared, wasp-waisted dresses. Some sat in parlors on chairs with claw feet beside potted ferns, and others on wicker benches under misty garden bowers. There was a small, stern-faced girl in black holding a blond doll in white lace that was as big as she was and, weirdly, more alive looking. A young man with a broad face, flared nostrils, a perfect curlicue mustache, and a silk ascot. He looked like he could have been a Russian ballet dancer. Wedding pictures of stout grooms gripping fading, lace brides.
And there was one picture of a young woman, wearing a fur stole with the fox head still attached, sitting at a table with a candelabra, leaning on her elbow. She had my broad nose, full lips, and bushy eyebrows. And, in her own way, I recognized that she was beautiful.
“You see?” my grandmother said.
She went to her closet and came back with a beaded lace dress, which she told me to put on. I spun in front of the mirror, the blush-colored lace making my skin glow. The dress was a little big, but it gave me my first glimpse of myself as a woman.
“Look in the bodice lining,” Grandma said.
She had placed a tiny note there. Your body is electric, was what it said.
Later that day, Grandma Miriam had me read Walt Whitman aloud to her. “I Sing the Body Electric.”
Over time, after spending so many hours with Grandma Miriam, after ingesting the words of poetry, after
working the magical talisman gifts of her vintage clothing and jewelry and shoes and gloves and purses into my wardrobe, I began to feel better about myself, even though I never became popular and I still didn’t have any real friends to hang out with except her and my mom. I knew I was okay then. But what I didn’t yet realize was that my well-being depended on one strong spirit in a fragile, much too temporal body.
1. MIRIAM
Six years after the conversation about popularity, everything in my life changed. It took just one afternoon.
“I love your outfit!” my grandmother said, kissing me when I came into her room. I was wearing the strands of pearls, pointed satin pumps, and pink-and-black tweed jacket she had given me, along with a pencil skirt, a men’s white T-shirt, slouchy socks, and my black-framed geek-chic glasses.
“Thanks, Grandma. I wore it for you. And thanks for the note.” I took out the tiny peach-colored envelope, embossed with my grandmother’s initials and a wreath of flowers, that she had placed in the pocket of the jacket. It said, You are a thing of beauty in this, my love.
“The pearls were from your grandpa Maury!” she said, touching them where they lay, warm on my collarbone. “They are just costume but a nice quality, on sale at Loehmann’s. Oh, those shoes hurt my feet!”
“Speaking of which, can I give you a pedicure?” I held up the Seashell nail polish I had bought with her in mind. My mother was going into the office, and my grandma and I had the whole day to do whatever we wanted.
“First, let’s eat! Chocolate chip rugelach?” It was her family recipe and our favorite thing to have when my mom wasn’t there to tell us it wasn’t a healthy breakfast choice.
While the pastries baked, glazing the air with the scent of butter and sugar, I took off my grandmother’s slippers and tucked a piece of toilet paper between her toes. I painted on the thin sheen of polish, careful not to tickle her.
We ate the crescent-shaped pastries, the chocolate still melting inside, though my grandmother mostly only nibbled hers. Then we cleaned up and I modeled some other outfits for her. She had stories about all of her old clothes. I never got tired of hearing them, but that day she seemed quieter and stopped midsentence a couple of times, forgetting what she had just said.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” she told me when I asked if she was okay. “But will you read to me now, Julie? Emily, please. ‘A Visitor in Marl.’”
So I sat at her feet and read a particular Emily Dickinson poem she wanted to hear. The book was heavy and gray with yellowing pages and that comforting old-book smell. When she was in college at NYU, my grandmother had faintly underlined some of the titles in pencil, including this one.
“What does ‘marl’ mean anyway?” I said. I usually loved Emily Dickinson, but that day the poem gave me a graveyard chill that made me pull my sweater sleeves down over my hands and I wanted to stop reading.
“It’s a kind of stone. Marlstone. A visitor in stone.”
My grandmother sat in her rose velvet armchair, lace doilies on the arms, with her feet propped on the stool. She was dressed in a gauze tunic and pants and Native American turquoise, her white hair piled in a bun, with loose strands falling down around the shell-like bones of her face. I hadn’t realized how thin her face was and I wondered if she’d lost weight. She frowned and began to rub her arm.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“There’s something I must tell you, darling,” she said.
Her eyes were staring right at me, big and bright green, full of wonder like a child’s. She put her hand to her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” I could feel a small siren flashing in my chest. “Grandma!”
On that late-summer afternoon, with the sun still shining soft and dustily through the tall arched windows, she put her hand to her heart. And before there was anything I could do, my grandmother slumped in her chair. I took her in my arms and lay her down and opened her mouth and, gently as I could, held her nose closed so I could breathe air into her.
There was already a darkness pooling around her eyebrows, under her skin. She was cold. But when I leaned back to call 911, I noticed that a pale lavender radiance hovered over her body like light through an amethyst, and I could hear music playing, something soft and baroque and strange, otherworldly.
I called 911 and then I called my mom. I don’t remember what I said. I held my grandma in my arms, and I watched the lavender light. I could smell the dry powdery sweetness of a lavender plant when you crush the leaves between your fingers, and I could hear the last faint strains of the music, but by the time the ambulance came, my grandmother’s body was stiff like a doll’s, her eyes now blank, lightless, and empty, and the scent and the sound and the shine around her were all gone.
I didn’t tell my mom about the color I saw or the sounds I heard. I figured that the last thing she needed after losing her own mother was to have to take me to the doctor and worry about a diagnosis of some weird neurological condition that was probably only a temporary reaction to grief anyway.
I didn’t even tell my mother about the words my grandmother had said, but I thought about them a lot. There’s something I must tell you, darling. Did she know she was about to die? Was there something important she needed to let me know?
MY MOM AND I held hands as she rang the buzzer in front of a small brick building on the far east end of Melrose. A very tall young man in a loose-fitting black suit let us into a waiting room. He was handsome except for his pasty complexion and teeth that were discolored and protruding. After he offered us coffee, which we declined, he had my mom fill out a form and then went upstairs. I wondered what it was like up there, then tried not to imagine it. Even the downstairs room smelled like death—the burn of formaldehyde and the sick sweet of rot—no one had even bothered to cover up the odor, although they had taken the time to put fake, red plastic roses in a vase and hang framed acrylic seascapes on the walls as if this was just any tacky office. Maybe they didn’t smell anything anymore. I remembered the delicate, comforting fragrance that accompanied my grandmother’s departure; it filled me with despair to think of it now.
When the man handed my mother the green jade urn with carvings of cranes and peonies, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” as if he had said it a thousand times.
But no one else had lost her.
How could a person you loved be reduced to this? I wondered, looking at the urn. How did a person you loved come to be out of nothing? I thought of my grandmother’s baby picture that my mom kept by her bedside. That little girl with eyes the color of the urn I held, and pale hair, the smile like a candle flame. Where did she come from? Where did she go? How was it that I couldn’t still touch her or hear her voice, when I had been able to do these things my whole life?
We kept my grandmother’s ashes in the urn on the mantelpiece. She had purchased the urn in Chinatown years ago and liked to put fresh pink peonies in it in the spring. My mother and I planned to scatter the ashes in the sea, the way Grandma and my twelve-year-old mother had done with my grandfather Maury’s ashes, but I guess neither my mother nor I wanted to make my grandmother’s death that real, touching her remains with our hands. So we left her there in the urn. And we left her room exactly as it was, unable to go through her things just yet.
But then everything changed so quickly, as if without my grandmother a spell of protection had been broken, the spell of my never really feeling lonely, even without friends, the spell of my independent mother, the spell of our lovely house where we were planning, in many, many years, with the old trees as witnesses, to peacefully die ourselves.
It began a week after my grandmother’s death. Mom came home from her office on the Paramount lot looking a mess, mascara stains on her face and white blouse. And I noticed a gray color around her, a dull haze. I wanted to tell her, but what could I say? You look gray, Mom?
I still hadn’t even been able to tell her about the lavender light surrounding Grandma Miriam. Was this the same kind of thing? What was w
rong with me?
We had plans to order takeout and watch a movie (our comfort drugs of choice), but she’d brought a bag of groceries instead. She took out cold cuts and a loaf of bread.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I thought it was Pad Thai slash Cocteau night.” Then we were going to do our nails Bitter Blue and deconstruct the movie and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s simultaneously.
She plopped down at the kitchen table in our sky-and-sunflower-tiled kitchen and stared at the food. I could see a little pinkish liquid around the meat inside the clear plastic packet.
“I lost my job.”
“What?”
“I got fired. They’re not bringing the show back.” She fanned her face and bit her lip as if to keep from crying, but it didn’t work. My mom wrote for a supernatural TV drama called Ghost in the Machine. Or, used to write for it. The ratings weren’t great, but I didn’t know it was in danger of being cancelled.
I put my arms around her thin shoulders. I could feel the blades and I realized why they were named after a weapon. “I’m so sorry, Mom. We’ll be okay. You’ll get better work.”
The tears fell freely then and she shook her head so that her hair covered her face. I noticed that the ends were frayed and a few wiry gray hairs popped up at the roots; she must not have seen her stylist in months.
I sat down next to her, my body suddenly heavy, like a packet of ground meat.
“I didn’t want to upset you. I haven’t paid the mortgage in months. I thought I’d be able to catch up, but the bank is going to foreclose. They won’t negotiate. And now I get fired! It’s too much. It’s too much for one person.”
She was sobbing, not even trying to hide it from me. I’d never seen her like this. I was an in vitro baby, born to a single mother who had never depended on a man. All she told me about my father was that he was over six feet tall, full-blooded Cherokee, and had a master’s degree in psychology. My mom had wanted a baby and so she paid for a sperm donor and got pregnant. She’d never said anything was too much for her to handle. But we’d always had my grandma. Even when things weren’t great, when I was lonely or felt bad about myself, I always had my grandma, my mom, and this house—my light-dappled bedroom, my cool-sheeted bed, the joyful trees. Coming home after another day at school to the scent of fresh herbs and lemons. My grandmother waiting with poetry and pastries. I wanted to tie myself to the door of the house so that the bank would have to let us stay. I couldn’t stand the idea of another loss.
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