Jane In Bloom

by Deborah Lytton

Then she says, “I would feel exactly the same way if I was you.” She looks me directly in the eye. “I would be mad at the world.That’s how I was when my husband died. Mad at everyone and everything.”

  I don’t say anything. I just listen.

  “I let myself stay mad for a long, long time. Until one day, I realized I wasn’t mad anymore. I was just sad. And after a while, I wasn’t sad anymore either. But I still miss him. And think about him every day.”

  “If everything happens for a reason,” I say, “what was the reason your husband died?”

  “I’m still working on that one,” Ethel admits. “And one day, I’m certain I will understand it.”

  I take a long drink of milk and think about this.

  Ethel smiles at me, gently, then. She reaches out and pats my hand. “Everyone deals with these things in their own way.You’ll find your way. It just takes time.”

  After lunch, I decide to go swimming. Ethel follows me and sits down in a chair in the shade. She doesn’t say anything. But instead of her presence annoying me the way I thought it would, it feels good to have someone nearby. It makes me realize how lonely I’ve been. Kona tests the water, but she’s not ready to join me yet. Instead, she runs over to Ethel and jumps up, putting her paws on Ethel’s lap. Ethel picks her up and holds her close. I climb out of the pool and grab my camera so I can shoot a picture of the two of them.

  “This reminds me of my modeling days,” Ethel tells me as she poses with Kona.

  I try not to reveal my disbelief on my face. But it must show anyway.

  “I know. You wonder how I could have been a model, seeing as I’m so enormous today,” Ethel teases. “But I was. Oh, I was much younger then, and slimmer. I was a Breck girl.” She tells me this proudly. I have no idea what this is.

  Ethel realizes this. “You don’t know what a Breck girl is, do ya?”

  I shake my head no.

  Ethel grins. “A Breck girl was a model for Breck shampoo. It was all-American, beautiful. Like Cover Girl is today.”

  Oh. “Lizzie used to hang magazine pictures on her mirror, of people she wanted to be like,” I confess. “That’s what started all the trouble.”

  Ethel smiles at me. “Wasn’t the dream that caused the problem, darlin’. Was something inside of your sister. We live in a world filled with comparisons.We’re always being compared. Asked to conform to a certain size, a certain weight, a certain beauty. But we have to learn to live with what’s in here.” Ethel taps her chest. “Because we live with it forever. Believe me, beauty fades. But who you are inside, that’s who you can really depend on.”

  I think about her words. How can someone who looks so goofy be so completely profound? I wonder.

  Dad calls to check in. I tell him that things are fine. And I really mean it. I can tell from his voice that he’s relieved. At the end of the call, he tells me he loves me.

  “I love you, too, Dad,” I say. And a wave of emptiness washes over me. I feel so alone.

  I walk through the house with Kona tagging at my heels. And I find myself wanting to look at something that reminds me of what my life was like. Before.

  I head for the hallway closet. I pull it open and turn on the light. The Holden hallway closet is the place where things go when they don’t belong anywhere else.There are old ski jackets, umbrellas, picture frames, Christmas decorations, photo albums, and cartons of things we can’t throw away. I look for a box marked JANE in my mother’s rounded handwriting. I find it on the back shelf, behind a pair of pink-and-white bunny slippers. I sit down on the floor and open the box. Inside are papers my mother has saved over the years. All from me. Spelling tests, report cards, school projects made out of magazine clippings, book reports. In the bottom of the box are my early works. Crayon scribblings. Stick figures. And the picture I was searching for. A drawing of a garden. Flowers, in rainbow colors. Our secret.

  I leave the picture out and replace the box on the shelf.

  In the back of the closet, behind my father’s golf clubs, I find an empty gold frame. I slide the picture inside the frame and take it to my room. Then I go to the garage for a hammer and nail.

  I hang the picture next to my bed. Where I can see it every morning when I open my eyes. I lie down on my bed and look at the picture. I can still feel Lizzie’s hand around mine, guiding me.

  I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes again, it’s dark outside.

  Ethel is in the kitchen. She’s making me her “famous” mac and cheese. And is it ever good. If Ethel realizes I’ve spent the afternoon in bed, she doesn’t say anything about it. At dinner, she doesn’t talk about anything serious. Instead, she decides we’re going to play a game while we eat. We each have to make up funny reality-show ideas. Her best is So You Think You Can Be a Clown. My best is American Mouse.

  After dinner, I decide to show Ethel some of my photographs. I don’t show her the ones of Lizzie.

  “They’re real good. You’ve got a gift.” Ethel laughs at one of Kona leaping in the air, her paws going every which way. “I like this one the best.” Then she hands the pictures back to me. She rubs her chin. “Looking at these pictures gets me to thinking. Would you like a job?”

  A job. I had planned on getting a job this summer. Before . I would like to make some extra money, though. My allowance is definitely not going to support photo paper and colored ink for long.

  “What kind of job?” I ask her.

  “I have this hobby—well, it’s turned into more than just a hobby. It’s sort of a passion of mine, growing roses,” Ethel begins. “I’m entered in the fall competition for the President’s Trophy. So I’m gearing up for it. And I’d like to have some pictures of my babies. Some real good pictures. I think you could take them. And I’d pay you.”

  “I’m not very experienced,” I tell her. “I don’t even know how to use all the buttons on my camera.”

  “But you’ve got a good eye. And that’s all that matters,” Ethel assures me. “Anyway, you’ll take better pictures than me, that’s for sure.”

  I think about it. How hard could it be to shoot some flowers?

  “Okay,” I tell Ethel. “You just hired yourself a photographer.”

  “Do you want to start tomorrow?” she asks.

  I nod and smile. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

  Chapter 12

  The next day, bright and early, Ethel buckles me and Kona into her silver sedan and we zoom over to her house. I say “zoom” because Ethel drives fast. Very fast. Hold-on-to-your-hat fast. But at least Kona and I arrive in one piece, and Kona only throws up once.

  Ethel’s house is this little yellow cottage in an older, quiet neighborhood. The house is bordered by a white picket fence and the most gorgeous rosebushes you could ever imagine. And these aren’t even the competition flowers. Those she keeps in a special area in her backyard. They are all in separate containers. Ethel tries to explain it all to me, but after fifteen minutes on rose varieties, my eyes start to cross. It’s like some kind of convoluted math equation.

  The only thing I do need to understand is that Ethel has to produce one rose at each stage of bloom. One as a bud, one in opening bloom, and a third in full bloom. She has all these varieties with royal-sounding names like Lady Banks and Princess Grace.They are all different colors and each one of them is beautiful.

  Ethel tells me to give her photographs of each and every flower. She will pay me $100 for the shoot. We shake on the deal and I get to work. Kona plays around on the grass while I adjust the pots to capture the best of the morning light. I shoot a few frames to test the color. Then I choose my first flower. It is a sunshine-yellow rose. I know Ethel called it a Lady Banks, but secretly, I call it Queen Lizzie. The color of the rose reminds me of the feeling I used to have when Lizzie would smile at me. The petals bend outward as if extending an offer of friendship. I step in to fill the entire frame with the flower. The autofocus tries to do its job, but something isn’t right. I back up and then
refocus. This time the beep sounds to let me know the picture is in focus. Only now I see the ground behind the flower. I try to stay where I am and zoom the lens in on the subject. This time when it beeps, I have the entire flower in frame and in focus. I click the button to capture the shot. I shoot a few more frames, just to be sure I have it.

  I turn to a fully opened ruby rose. The petals are so rich and velvety that I have an overwhelming urge to touch them, to see if they feel as soft as they look. But I remember my mother telling me once that if you touch the petals of a flower, it can die. I certainly don’t want to hurt any of Ethel’s prizewinning flowers. The crimson color of the petals deepens at the edges where the petals ruffle up and turn dark maroon. It is captivating. I bend so that I come in just above and to the left of the rose. That way, I will capture how each petal lies back, revealing an amber-colored center.

  My next subject is a pristine bud. It looks like it was supposed to be white, but at the last minute tricked Ethel as little veins of color trickled through the petals, turning the flower ever so slightly pink. The stem holds the bud aloft in a graceful arch. There is something in the way the solitary bud extends high that makes it seem independent—defiant. I try to translate this to the picture. I think I have the shot framed right, but I have a problem with the color of the rose. It is so pale, it comes out white in the first few shots. I think maybe the brightness of the sunlight is washing it out. I move the pot. Resting fully in the shade, the true color of the rose comes through.

  After this, I choose a heavy sunset-colored rose laden with petals, its lavender edges crinkling like a ribbon curling around a present just waiting to be opened. There is a single drop of dew, shining like a jewel, hidden inside. The petals hang sideways, so I have to lie down and rest my elbows on the ground to keep the camera from moving. I try to focus, but the camera is not still. I take a deep breath and hold it in, willing my body to be still long enough to get the image. I click the button and hope for the best. I’ve always known roses were complicated flowers. But I had no idea how complicated.

  It is late afternoon when the sound of a lawn mower breaks the silence and interrupts the solitude of my work. I glance over the fence and am surprised to see none other than Hunter Baxley mowing the lawn. My first instinct is to duck. But he’s already turned off the mower, and he’s walking toward me. I consider my options:1. Run.

  2. Hide.

  3. Say hello.

  The first two, while most appealing, should probably only be used in situations where the boy has not already spotted you. Which leaves me with option three. I force my feet to stay put and inwardly practice saying hi.

  Hunter walks right up to the fence and we talk over the top of it.

  “Hey, Jane,” Hunter begins.

  Okay, he knows my name. Which is surprising given that he only started school midyear and we’ve only had actual contact one time. One very embarrassing time. I know he moved here from somewhere in the Midwest and was instantly popular, which is impressive to me, since I’ve been at school with all the same kids since kindergarten and only managed to have two friends.

  I realize he’s staring at me. So I answer. “Hi.”

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” Hunter says with a wide smile. I notice that he has matching dimples in both cheeks.

  “No, I haven’t been here before. I’m helping a friend,” I say. I hold up my camera. “I’m taking pictures for her.” Okay, so it’s a partial truth. But do I really have to tell him that she’s my babysitter?

  “This is my grandparents’ house,” Hunter explains. “I live with them.”

  He’s so open, I almost feel guilty for being secretive about Ethel. “I didn’t know you lived with your grandparents,” I say lamely. Just then Kona wakes from her nap in the shade and comes running over to meet a new friend.

  “This is Kona,” I say. “My dad and I just got her.”

  Hunter reaches over the fence to pet Kona’s head. “Hi, Kona,” he says to her. She licks his hand.

  “So what kind of pictures are you taking?” he asks me.

  “Flowers,” I stammer. I wish I could just act normal. “Roses.”

  “Cool.”

  I nod and smile. I’m surprised to find that Hunter is friendly. In fact, he seems really nice.

  “I’m really sorry about your sister,” Hunter offers.

  “Thank you,” I say automatically. I look down at my shoes.

  “I know how it feels,” Hunter shares. “My parents were killed in a car accident. Eight months ago yesterday.”

  I’m shocked. So that explains why he moved in the middle of the school year. “I’m so sorry.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. Neither of us speaks. Our eyes just lock. And we understand each other.

  Then Hunter breaks the silence. “Well, I better get back to mowing.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Well, not mowing . . . flowers,” I stammer.

  “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure,” I respond. And I return to the roses.

  But I don’t see him later. I am lost in the beauty and art of my work. The slope of a pale lavender petal, the curve of a silky closed bud, the hopefulness of an open bloom reaching up to the sun mesmerize me. I work until dusk. And then Ethel takes me home.

  We eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. “I never knew there were so many names for roses,” I confess to Ethel. “Or that each one could look so different. They almost have personalities. And they smell so good.”

  She smiles at me. And then in a singsongy voice recites:“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet.”

  She pauses for dramatic effect. Then, “Mr. William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. I know it doesn’t sound all fancy the way I say it,” Ethel admits. “But the meaning is the same. He’s telling us that roses smell heavenly, no matter what we call them.”

  Then Ethel teaches me about floriography, the language of flowers.

  “All flowers have a meaning,” she explains. “It was mostly used during Victorian times,” she explains. “If a gentleman sent a lady a red rose, she knew he was saying he loved her.”

  I’m fascinated. I want to know more. “What about other colors?” I ask.

  “A white rose stands for innocence and friendship. Light pink for admiration and sympathy. Yellow with red tips, falling in love.Violet, love at first sight. Red and white together meant unity. And orange—passion.” She says this last word like it’s her favorite one in the English language. She draws out the sounds of the letters as if tasting each on her tongue.

  I take all of this in. It’s incredibly romantic. To think of people choosing the color of rose for someone to give them a secret message.Then I realize she hasn’t mentioned the color of my Queen Lizzie rose.

  “What about yellow?” I ask.

  “Dying love,” she answers. Her voice echoes in my head. I hear her words over and over. “Dying love, dying love, dying love.”

  I meet her eyes with mine.We are silent then. She knows. I know she can’t possibly hear my innermost thoughts.Yet, somehow, this woman I barely know understands. And so she says nothing more. But it doesn’t feel like the silence when my parents and I were all thinking about Lizzie, but not talking about our feelings. This silence feels comforting. As though we are remembering her and honoring her silently. It’s different. Peaceful. And pure.

  That night, I am uploading all of today’s photographs when Dad calls. He tells me his trip has been extended for two more days. I assure him that I’m okay and that I’m taking good care of Kona, and Ethel is taking good care of me. I admit to him that he was right, and it is good to have someone here with me.

  After we hang up, I decide to call my mom. I’ve been avoiding her calls for the last two days. But after talking to Hunter today, I feel lucky to have both of my parents. I want to hear my mother’s voice.

  She’s really happy to hear from me. She tells me she
misses me. I think she really means it. She asks me again if I want to come to Sun City. She is worried about me home alone. I tell her that I’m not alone, I have Ethel—and Kona. There is a silent moment on the phone then. I tell her I love her and then I hang up and go to sleep.

  I wake up from a nightmare. Sweaty and tired. It’s just before sunrise. No one is awake but me and the birds. I can hear them singing outside my window. Kona is curled into a little ball on the pillow next to mine. I’ve dispensed with Dad’s crating system. Kona likes it better in my bed.

  I’m afraid to go back to sleep, so I sit cross-legged on the floor and try some yoga breathing.

  Breathe in peace, breathe out anger. Breathe in love, breathe out fear. I stretch forward and lay my head on the floor. Then I stand and lean forward for downward dog. I stay like that as long as I can, then I bend into child’s pose. And up again into downward dog. All the time, I remind myself to breathe in, breathe out. I finish by lying on my back on the floor and closing my eyes. I focus on the light between my eyes. And I let my mind drift. I imagine a flock of white birds lifting the gray weight of a boulder from my shoulders. Ropes attached to the feet of the birds wrap around the boulder. The birds fly away. Taking my boulder with them. Over the horizon. Away from me.

  I open my eyes and breathe in. I feel different. Rested. And maybe even a little bit peaceful. I stand and head for the computer. I click on the folder of Ethel’s photos and I’m excited all over again to see each one appear on the screen. Looking at my work close up, I have to admit I’ve done a really good job.The roses are breathtaking. Each one is more beautiful than the last. And each stage of bloom is different. By the time I print them out, Ethel is calling me for breakfast. She has made waffles with whipped-cream happy faces and cherry noses.

  Ethel loves the photographs. She compliments each one, pointing out the way I captured the dew on the petals or the simplicity of the blossom. I tell her I have at least one more day of work before I get all of the flowers.We plan to go over to her house again today. After breakfast, I go back upstairs and get dressed. Today, I don’t feel like wearing my old cutoffs and blue T-shirt. I want to wear something special. I open my drawers. The trouble is, all I have are shorts and T-shirts, soccer uniforms, one going-to-church dress, one pirate costume, and the funeral dress.