The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel

by Fiadhnait Moser

  “How was he cured, though? There’s no cure for blindness . . . is there?”

  Miss Clairoux cracked a smile. “He said luck. I say angels. We never brought him to a doctor about it—didn’t want him reduced to experiments, et cetera. Now, where was I? Ah yes. As a child, I rarely took much curiosity in how things looked, for sight is such a strange concept to me—how can I imagine something I have never experienced? Color, such a perplexing idea. When I was little, I thought it just as unreal as magic. But as I grew older, and I gathered my braille books and read the most beautiful descriptions of colors—sunsets and moonrises, forests and villages—I began to feel a longing to know. I needed someone who understood what it was to both be able to see and not see.”

  “And your fiancé . . .”

  Miss Clairoux nodded. “Yes. I asked him what the world looked like. But he would not describe anything to me. He simply refused, saying the world was too monstrous for fragile things like me to imagine how it looked. Me? Fragile? Ha! He said I was better off blind, which I gave him a nice smack across the cheek for—that, I do regret, of course, but can you imagine? Your greatest love telling you you’re better off blind?” Miss Clairoux clucked and shook her head. “Of course, it was more complicated than that, but those are stories for some other days. I suppose, as they say, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “But what happened to him? After . . .”

  Miss Clairoux swallowed audibly. “He married.”

  “Oh,” said Floralie. “I’m sorr—”

  “Don’t be. Not for me. I am happy, and I like to believe he was, too. Today, though, I’ve been . . . second-guessing that.” Miss Clairoux sighed and patted Floralie’s knee. “All the same, I left him and never fell in love again. And that’s that.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  Miss Clairoux shrugged. “C’est la vie, ma chérie, c’est la vie.”

  They sat in silence for much time before Floralie finally said, “It was Mr. Tullier, wasn’t it?”

  Miss Clairoux squeezed Floralie’s hand. “Oui, ma chérie.”

  “So why would you want to see him again?”

  “I . . . he might not realize just yet, but . . . we have a similarity.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Miss Clairoux’s forehead wrinkled, silver eyes receded. “I lost a child. And he lost two.”

  “Oh,” said Floralie. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” said Miss Clairoux, and they sat in silence for some time.

  But Floralie had another question. “I thought you said you never married. The only man you ever loved was . . .” And then it dawned on her. “It was the same child—one of them, anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “He died?”

  “No. And ‘she.’”

  Floralie’s heart rattled against her rib cage. “So what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been told she . . . she had some trouble. I’ve been told she went mad.”

  A drop of sweat slid down Floralie’s forehead. “That’s impossible—how—Miss Clairoux—does this mean . . .? The letters . . . V.A.C.”

  Miss Clairoux nodded. “Viscaria Alice Clairoux.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  When she spoke, Miss Clairoux’s voice quaked. “Because I thought you would hate me. And you have every right to.”

  “Why—why on earth would I hate you?”

  “Viscaria was not born with that name, you know—I had named her Alice, after Alice in Wonderland. That was Mr. Tullier and my favorite book as children. Well, Viscaria took on this new name of hers when she ran away from home. From me. I was the exact way to Viscaria as your grandmama Laurel is to you. I wouldn’t let Viscaria do what she loved most—dance. I was more afraid for her future than for her happiness.

  “And so she left me, forever. She was only a little girl, your age perhaps. Ran away to her father—Mr. Tullier—believing he was simply a family friend. After Mr. Tullier’s wife died in childbirth, he employed Viscaria to take care of his other daughter. A newborn. The baby died soon after. But that’s all I know of that story.” Miss Clairoux’s other hand found Floralie’s, and she squeezed both of Floralie’s tight. “Floralie, I didn’t just come here to find the library, nor did I just come to find Mr. Tullier, not even Viscaria. I came here to meet my granddaughter.”

  Floralie couldn’t help but beam. She threw her arms around Miss Clairoux, breathing in the smell of ancient books and old lady soap and maybe even a hint of viscaria flowers. Miss Clairoux gave a laugh, running her hands through Floralie’s hair. Floralie’s eyes ached with tears, not of sadness, not of anger, but happiness. That had never happened before. “I’m happy I found you,” she whispered, pulling back from Miss Clairoux.

  “Me too, ma chérie.”

  The two left the library, grandmother and granddaughter, hand in hand, happy, happy, happy.

  Floralie and Miss Clairoux returned to the inn and woke a rather sleepy Nino to tell him all they had shared at the library. After the shock of it all passed, Floralie and Nino watched the colors spew out from the horizon at the dusty window back at the inn. People bustled below, not like the bustle of Whitterly End, though. Here, people stopped and said hello, chitter-chattered, and kept their shops open for an extra ten minutes if someone was in need. They exchanged hugs and kisses, and my-oh-my, was Giverny lovely. Floralie had forgotten how lovely Giverny was.

  But then came the feather hat. The feather hat and the smell of prunes and sour lemons, wafting even upthrough the closed window. Floralie’s heart thundered and dread seeped down her body like sap, clinging to every rib. No.

  “She’s here,” she whispered. “Grandmama’s here.”

  Mama kept but one photograph of her wedding day. In it, she wore a floor-length veil and a lace dress amidst a garden of half-wilted dogwood flowers. Papa was dressed up in black beside her, and Grandmama stood beside him. Mama smiled with thin lips, but her eyes were scared. Grandmama scowled, and Papa eyed Mama cautiously.

  Whenever Mama told about the wedding, she said, “It was the best day of my life, second to your and Tom’s births.” But she said it with a clenched jaw and tight fists. Whenever Grandmama talked about it, she sneered, “That mother of yours was simply the beginning of the end. Of your father’s end. Of my end. Our whole family’s end.” She would cluck her tongue and shake her head, and Papa would mutter, “It’s best not to hold regrets.” But Floralie knew too well that he did.

  On the back of the photograph, Mama had written:

  There is nothing comparable to fear.

  It wraps itself around you, sinks into your skin, makes a house in your lungs, sprouts butterfly weeds around your heart. Every once in a while it will go out for groceries. You will believe you are free. You will get used to your lungs, soft breath; you will be okay.

  But then you will feel a tap on your shoulder, a whisper in your ear: “I’m home.”

  Grandmama glided down the street, peacock feather bouncing up and down atop her head, then stopped at the sight of the inn. Floralie and Miss Clairoux snuck back into the inn, and once inside, Floralie swished back her curtain and slid down the wall, concealed from the outside world. Please don’t come in, please don’t come in, please don’t come in . . .

  She came in.

  Nino and Miss Clairoux crouched over to Floralie. It’s going to be okay, wrote Nino.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Floralie as Miss Clairoux wrapped an arm around her and held her close. “I want to try Mr. Tullier again.”

  The doorknob jiggled. And then came the voice. “I know you’re in there. They’ve told me where you are, and I”—she banged the door—“intend”—she kicked it—“to find you!” The wood creaked with one final tug, but stayed closed.

  Floralie first considered jumping out the window, but it was a three-story drop. She heaved up the window anyway and poked her head out. Something was rusted—a glorious, rusted pipe,
traveling from head to toe of the inn, just in arm’s reach.

  “The drainpipe,” she said. “We can climb down the drainpipe.”

  Miss Clairoux’s mouth went slack, and Nino eyed Floralie.

  “It’s our only choice.”

  All was silent as the jiggling grew fiercer, but at last, Miss Clairoux said, “Oui, ma chérie. I trust you.”

  And so out the window they crawled, Miss Clairoux first, then Nino, then Floralie, swinging onto the drainpipe. Their fingers built calluses as they descended, flakes of rust jabbing into Floralie’s palms like thorns. Her arms quivered with the strength, and she pressed her heels into the pipe to stay balanced. When at last Floralie neared the ground, Miss Clairoux reached up and caught Floralie by the waist, pulling her to the cobbles.

  “Down you go,” said Miss Clairoux.

  “We’d better go,” said Floralie, “before Grandmama realizes we’re gone.”

  And so Floralie, Nino, and Miss Clairoux scurried down the lavender-scented, lamp-lit street to the flower house of Claude Monet. When they arrived at Mr. Tullier’s door again, he opened it, still wearing his tattered bathrobe and stony gaze.

  “You again,” he grunted. “I told you to scram.”

  “Please,” begged Floralie. “Someone is following us.”

  “Not my problem,” said Mr. Tullier.

  “Please just give us a chance. We need a place to hide. We won’t be a bother, we swear.”

  “No. Au revoir, petite fille,” and Mr. Tullier made to slam the door again, but before he could, Floralie grabbed on to it, holding it open with all her strength.

  And then Floralie remembered something from Viscaria’s letter. Something marvelous. You should know that Sylvestre was a great friend to me. So Floralie pleaded as quick as her breath would allow, “It’s about finding Viscaria!”

  Mr. Tullier let go of the door. He stumbled back, shoulders hunched and eyes glossy, filled with nothing but forget-me-nots and ghosts. “Viscaria,” he whispered, as if making a wish on a dandelion clock. Then his jaw hardened, and the ghosts in his eyes ebbed into the corners. “How do you know her?”

  Floralie crossed her arms, held up her chin. “She’s my mother.”

  Mr. Tullier’s lips parted, but no words came.

  “I need your help,” continued Floralie. “I’ve got to find her. She left me some flowers, and I’ve got to know what they mean. They’re in your flower language, and you’re my only hope. Please. I’m your granddaughter.” The last word hung in the air like perfume, wafting around them and putting all four of them in a daze.

  Mr. Tullier turned, slow as a rusted wheelbarrow, and muttered, “Well, come in if you’re going to. No reason to let the draft in.”

  Floralie’s heart fluttered, and she stepped into the house, followed by Nino and Miss Clairoux. The foyer was small and sickly yellow—the same color, Floralie thought, as Mr. Tullier’s teeth. She supposed the yellow would be pretty, if only the windows were not shuttered. At the end of the foyer hung a painting composed of wild strokes and dancing colors—Monet’s.

  As Mr. Tullier led them through a yellow corridor, Miss Clairoux walked between Floralie and Nino and took both their hands. Floralie had a feeling it wasn’t so much to steady herself, but to keep them safe, just in case. But Floralie was not afraid. Admittedly, Mr. Tullier could have given a warmer welcome, but she was here. She had found him, she was safe from Grandmama, and Mr. Tullier could find Mama. And then Mama could be free, and she could be with Floralie, together at last.

  Something was not quite right about the walls, though, and it wasn’t the yellow paint. Every now and then, something would brush up against Floralie’s ankle or shoulder—vines. They grew from tiny cracks in the walls, between the floorboards, from under the shutters. The hallways twisted and sloped like tree roots, and how curious it was that the farther they ventured into the house, the more vines appeared. A few flowers bloomed in the dull light, appearing more frequently until the corridors became an aurora borealis of colors—zinnias, roses, tulips, azaleas, lilies, morning glories, violets . . . It was as if the place had been abandoned for years, left to nature’s devices.

  At last, they arrived at a door made of glass. Floralie knew this not because she could see the glass—it was covered in flowers—but because of the golden light blazing through from between the cracks in the petals and the vines.

  However, just when Floralie thought Mr. Tullier was going to open the door, he strode right on past it. As they passed, Floralie dared ask, “What’s that room?”

  Mr. Tullier grunted, “That’s off limits, is what that room is. No one goes in there, understand?”

  Floralie and Nino nodded vigorously, but curiosity tugged at Floralie’s mind. She felt close to something . . . She felt close to her wonderland, and she wanted to find out what was behind that door. No, she thought, I am not a child anymore. Grown-ups do not give in to their wonderlands. Grown-ups don’t even have wonderlands.

  Floralie’s eyes stayed fixated on the door until Mr. Tullier turned a corner, and the door went out of view. Finally, he stopped at another door—though this one was rather ordinary compared to the last.

  He pulled it open, a rack of pots rattling from inside. It was a small sitting room, painted entirely blue—walls, counters, tables. Mr. Tullier crossed through it, pulled open a second door, and led them into another dim, yellow-walled room. A lemony table set with fourteen chairs stood in the center of a red-and-white-tiled floor. Mr. Tullier gestured for them to sit.

  “You must have a large family,” said Floralie.

  Mr. Tullier glared at her. “Non,” he spat. “It’s just me.”

  Floralie wanted to say, Well, you have me, but she thought that would be rather forward. So she bit her lip and skipped across the tile floor, avoiding the white tiles like always.

  Mr. Tullier narrowed his eyebrows. “Mon Dieu, you’re just like her.”

  “Sorry—” started Floralie, confused. “Who?”

  “Your mother. She used to do that skipping thing, too. Drove the cat mad staying out of her way.”

  Nino led Miss Clairoux over to the table, and they took their seats. Floralie sat beside Nino as Mr. Tullier grabbed an iron pot from the stovetop and poured a watery black liquid from it into four mugs.

  “Here,” he said, sloshing them around the table. Floralie took a sip from hers, and then stifled a cough as the lukewarm, bitter coffee slithered down her throat. She placed the mug back on the table.

  Mr. Tullier lit a candle in the center of the table, and its glow beat gently like an unsteady heart against his wizened face. He and Floralie stared at each other for a moment before Mr. Tullier blurted, “Well?”

  Floralie gripped the side of her chair and cleared her throat. “Well—we—I mean, I just need to know about your floriography. That’s all, then I’ll leave, honest. I found this box of flowers from my mother, and I’ve got to decode them to find her. That way, I can live with her instead of my nasty grandmother, and I can set her free. Here, see?” and Floralie pulled the box of flowers from her bag. She opened it and handed Mr. Tullier the letter.

  Mr. Tullier adjusted his spectacles and read. When he finished, he stretched out a hand and slid the box closer to him. Carefully, he inspected the flowers before saying: “Tell me, now. Whatever happened to her? Viscaria?”

  “I—I’d rather not tell, actually,” said Floralie.

  Mr. Tullier’s lip curled. “Well, how about this: I don’t tell you about my floriography until you tell me about Viscaria.”

  Floralie took a breath. “Okay. Okay, fine. But you should know that I don’t really know. Not everything, anyway. I mean . . . What I know is—” She bit her lip and glanced to Nino. “She was a ballerina. And the year before she left, she started getting sad, and sometimes angry and forgetful. She broke down onstage one performance, and that’s all I really know, because my father made me leave the theater. I only saw her once after that, and she wouldn’t even talk,
she just let me hold her hand.” Floralie remember how fragile her mother’s hand felt, like the bones were made of paper.

  “And you have no idea where she went after that?” pushed Mr. Tullier, taking a swig of coffee.

  “That’s why I’m here, remember? All I know is—well, all I think is that she’s in an asylum somewhere, but I don’t know where or which one. She’s not sick, though, or mad, I swear it. She was just different. And maybe she was sad, but she would never hurt someone, cross my heart,” and Floralie crossed her heart. She squeezed shut her eyes, and then added ever so quietly, “But maybe if I found her, maybe I’d be able to get her out of there. And maybe we could be together again. Just the two of us. Maybe she’d start a new ballet company, and maybe she’d help me sell some art, and maybe we could send Tom to university and have a nice house in the country like we used to, except it wouldn’t have to be as big; it could be really, really small, and that would be okay, if only she was . . .” Here. The word stuck to the back of her throat like molasses.

  Mr. Tullier’s forget-me-not eyes clouded over. He lowered his coffee mug and said, “So, essentially, what you’re telling me is my daughter ended up in a nuthouse?”

  “No—” shot Floralie, but then she lowered her eyes, a curl slipping out from behind her ear, across her vision. She had her father’s curls, but her mother’s color. And as she stared intently at the daisy-blond strand, she whispered, “Kind of . . . yes.”

  “Hmph,” said Mr. Tullier. He wrapped his bathrobe tighter as if the words gave him a chill. “And your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t be smart with me, girl; what happened to him?”

  “He—” Floralie paused. She didn’t want to tell about the alcohol. She didn’t want to tell about the funeral. “I don’t have contact with him anymore.”

  Nino narrowed his eyes at her.

  “He worked as a banker for as long as I knew him,” said Floralie. “My brother and I moved away from him, and that’s all I know.”