Where Petals Fall

by Melissa Foster

  “Yeah, right,” Junie said to herself.

  When they were younger, Brian had treated Junie like she was nothing more than another little girl running around the house, getting in his way. He’d joked with her and he was cordial, but he also let her know when she annoyed him in a slightly less patient way than he had with Ellen.

  Ellen had adored her brother. Junie remembered the way pride illuminated Ellen’s dark eyes when Brian called her “squirt.” Junie had almost been jealous, back then, wishing she had an older brother to give her a sacred nickname, like Brian had for Ellen, but then again, she’d had a warm and attentive father, something Ellen never had—though Brian sure did.

  The teakettle whistled, and Junie quickly turned off the stove and poured herself a cup of tea. Her mother appeared in the doorway. Ruth’s hair was disheveled. The faded blue bathrobe that Junie had given her mother years earlier was worn so thin it was see-through in spots. The robe hung open, revealing her mother’s flowered nightgown. Ruth’s shoulders drooped; her cheeks hung heavily.

  “Pour me a cup?” she asked.

  “Mom? What are you doing up?”

  Ruth looked at her sideways.

  “Sorry. I’m sure it’s hard to sleep.” I’m so stupid.

  “I’m not used to him not being there. I roll over and the bed seems too big; the room’s too quiet.” She sat down across from Junie, her hands around the teacup. “I miss the sound of his breathing at night, the way the mattress sank, just a little, next to me.” She sipped her tea. “He was always so hot at night, like his body radiated heat. I just miss him.”

  “I know.” Junie didn’t know what else to say. Her heart ached for her mother. It ached for herself. “Daddy used to bring me hot chocolate at night when I couldn’t sleep.” She hadn’t thought of that in years, their late-night secret.

  “He did?” Ruth asked.

  Junie nodded. “He’d come into my bedroom and find me sitting up in bed. Just sitting there.” Junie looked away; the edges of her lips rose to a smile. “Come to think of it, I have no idea why I would be awake, or what I was thinking or doing. I wonder if”—she sipped her tea—“after the first few times, I would stay awake waiting for him to come in. You know, like Pavlov’s dogs?”

  Ruth laughed. “Now you sound like your father.”

  Ralph Nailon had been a science teacher. Everything in his life was likened to research or science in one way or another. Junie reached across the table and held her mother’s hand. “I miss him, too, Mom.” Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of her father. He wasn’t a verbose man, and he didn’t have a commanding presence, like Brian’s father did. No, Ralph was more demure; some might even say he was meek, but to Junie, he was smart, careful, and loving in his own quiet way. Junie wiped a tear from her cheek. She closed her eyes, trying to remain strong. The last thing her mother needed was to see her falling apart. Junie glanced outside at the lighted porch on the hill. The images of Ellen screaming flashed before her. Junie dropped her mother’s hand.

  Ruth lifted her eyes.

  “Mom, what do you think happens after we die?” Junie asked.

  “I never believed in that life-after-death stuff, but after Daddy…when he—” Ruth looked away and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “I thought, or maybe I just hoped, that I’d feel him right here with me.” She looked at the empty chair beside her. “Or, you know, know he was there, but now…” She shook her head, pulling her hand back from Junie’s.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Ruth tucked her cropped hair behind her ear, a motion Junie had seen hundreds of times before. When she was young, Junie had tried to mimic that movement, much like Sarah apes her movements—but as she matured, she found that it was not hers to take. “It’s okay. It’s life, Junie. I still have hope. I may feel him around at some point.”

  Junie’s heartbeat picked up. She needed to hear her mother’s take on what she’d seen. As selfish as it was, Junie needed her wisdom. “Something happened today, and I really need to talk to someone about it, but I don’t want to upset you.” Junie watched her mother draw in a breath and pull her shoulders back.

  “I’m okay, honey. What is it?”

  She’d seen Ruth draw strength for her so many times that Junie had come to expect it even during such a traumatic time. She knew she was being selfish, burdening her mother with her worry, but who else could she ask? Brian had already dismissed her, and she was asking enough of Shane by leaving him with full responsibility for the bakery. As Junie opened her mouth to speak, she secretly hoped that one day she could show that strength for her own daughter, and somehow, she felt she’d already fallen short of that wish.

  “Do you know anything about Ellen’s disappearance? I mean, anything that maybe I wouldn’t have heard about as a kid?” Junie watched her mother’s face soften, the worry in her eyes replaced with empathy.

  “Oh, honey. Why didn’t I see that Daddy’s death would unearth this for you? Of course this would bring Ellen’s disappearance rushing back. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s that. It’s just…I saw her today. I mean, I didn’t see her, see her. I saw an image of her, outside, when I was playing with Sarah.”

  “A memory,” Ruth said, plain and simple, as if it explained everything. Her typical pragmatic response.

  “That’s the thing. I can’t ever remember seeing Ellen so frightened. She was terrified, screaming.”

  “Death does all sorts of things to the living,” Ruth said.

  Junie’s head snapped up. “Death? We don’t know if Ellen is dead. You can’t know that.” The desperation in Junie’s voice was palpable. “Don’t…don’t assume that.”

  “Oh, Junie, I didn’t mean Ellen. I meant your father’s death.”

  “But what if it was something more? What if they missed something all those years ago? What if it’s a sign of some sort?”

  “Oh, Junie, I really don’t think—”

  “I know. I know. Neither do I, really, but all I know is that she disappeared. I can’t remember the last time we even talked about her. It’s almost as if she had never existed at all.”

  “We talked about her at your wedding. Remember?”

  Junie nodded, remembering the passing comment among the excitement. I wish Ellen could have been here. She’d been too wrapped up in her own reverie to give Ellen’s memory the careful thought it deserved.

  “You had such a difficult time with her disappearance. You were so young, just seven, remember. You refused to believe she wasn’t coming back and, well, after a while, I guess you realized that maybe she wasn’t, and eventually you just went on. We all did. It was a very difficult time for everyone. You might not remember, but Ellen’s disappearance changed everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when a child disappears like that, everyone comes under scrutiny. People say things they don’t mean, things they’d never say under different circumstances. Suffice it to say, it’s not a time anyone wants to rehash.” Ruth got up and put her teacup in the sink.

  Junie followed. “Who came under scrutiny?”

  Ruth turned to her, letting out a loud sigh. “Junie, I love you, but I’m exhausted. I have to go to bed.”

  Guilt chased frustration around Junie’s body, tightening like a robe around her middle. Another of her mother’s pragmatic traits—dismissing her daughter in a gentle, loving way, putting an end to an uncomfortable discussion, and leaving Junie wanting more.

  Chapter Eight

  Junie woke up at four thirty, too restless to fall back to sleep. She spent the night tossing and turning. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ellen’s frightened face or heard her father’s voice. Her chest tightened, as if a thick blanket of doom were lying over her. She closed her eyes against a wave of sadness and pushed herself from the bed. Brian slept beside her. Junie pulled on her sweatpants and headed for the kitchen, thinking of Ellen.
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  She pulled cake flour, sugar, and three pans from the cabinet above her mother’s refrigerator. She’d learned long ago to keep her mother’s shelves stocked with must-have baking items. She’d taken one too many midnight trips to Walmart to grab the necessary supplies to satisfy her sudden urge to bake. At least they carried Wilton products, which made it easier than hunting down supplies. She always packed a few not-so-readily available items, and the rest she kept on hand.

  Junie measured the sugar and water, watching it rise to a boil, waiting for the dark amber color to appear. She heated up the whipping cream before removing the boiling sugar mixture from the stove. She never imagined that her father’s death would smell so sweet. In fact, she had never imagined her father’s death at all. She should be baking funeral cookies or something equally as demure, more appropriate for mourning. She knew that Selma and Mary Margaret would see to Ruth’s house being filled with foods for the gathering after the funeral, but Junie needed to bake. She also knew that she could no sooner bake a dessert that didn’t match her father’s love of sweets than she could accept that he was gone and she’d never see him again. A dark chocolate caramel cake seemed the perfect Band-Aid for her pain.

  Junie held the warm cream above the caramel, holding the measuring cup at arm’s length and turning her head before pouring it in. She cringed as she twisted her wrist, anticipating the hot splatter that would follow. Junie loved making caramel, but she feared the burn that she’d experienced the first time she’d disregarded the advice to turn her face. She reached up and touched the dip in her skin where the splatter had left its mark.

  Next, she added the butter and stirred until it was well blended. Her nightmares fell away with each added ingredient. She tucked the bowl into the refrigerator, moving in smooth procession from one task to the next.

  She greased the pans, focusing on the spread of the Crisco as the white disappeared into a clear film before her eyes, reminding her of how easily Ellen had disappeared. She wondered if Ellen had been there, would she be up in the middle of the night baking alongside Junie, comforting her? She’d like to think so. Junie boiled water, then poured it over unsweetened cocoa powder in a small bowl, whisking it until it formed smooth chocolate.

  She thought of her father, hanging over her shoulder while she baked, waiting for his turn to taste her creation. A lump formed in her throat. She whisked harder, faster, as if she could whisk away her longing to see him one more time. She wiped a tear from her eye with her forearm and set the bowl down, mixing the other ingredients in a separate bowl and wishing she’d splurged on the stand mixer for her mother’s house.

  Junie beat the butter and sugar, thinking of Brian and the way he’d pushed for an emotionally unstable diagnosis for Sarah. How could he do that? She cracked the eggs one at a time, plopping them into the mixture, added a splash of vanilla, and mixed until her arm ached.

  Sarah hadn’t asked to be different. Why did everyone feel a need to magnify her issues with a quick diagnosis rather than a valid one? Junie lowered herself into a chair, the bowl in her lap. Flour and sugar decorated her sweats. She looked outside. The sun had yet to rise, but the dark of night was lifting. She closed her eyes against the image of Ellen’s face. She pushed herself up from the table, setting the bowl on the countertop. What was happening to her? Was this what happened when you lost someone you loved—problems grew so large that you could barely breathe? She had to pull herself together—get the confusion out of her system. How could she face her mother—and her father’s funeral—with all that stuff wallowing around in her head? She wished she had someone to talk to. Damn it, Brian. If only she were back home and it was a more reasonable time, then at least she could talk to Shane. She debated calling him now, then thought better of it. No need to upset him, too.

  Junie eyed a bag of pecans on a shelf. She grabbed the bag, turning it over in her hands, then took a rolling pin from the drawer. She smoothed a clean baking cloth on the counter, spread a thin layer of pecans on the cloth, then pulled the cloth over the top. Junie leaned the weight of her frustrations onto the rolling pin, crushing the pecans with a satisfying crunch.

  “Yeah, that feels good,” she whispered to herself. “You think I’m going nuts just because I see my missing friend? We’ll see about that,” she said to no one. She pushed and rolled the wooden pin until the pecans were broken into tiny bits.

  The morning sun peeked through the window as Junie poured a thin layer of cake batter into the pan, then added a sprinkling of nuts, burying them under another thick layer of batter. She repeated the process with each of the three pans.

  An hour and a half later, Junie used a leveling tool to remove the uneven pieces of the cake and layered a thick swathe of caramel across the top of two layers, then assembled the cake, sealing it with a thin layer of rum ganache. By the time she went upstairs, she’d sealed her burdensome thoughts deep inside the cake.

  Chapter Nine

  Junie changed Sarah’s sheets without any emotion whatsoever. She was focused on the event that lay ahead: her father’s funeral. How could he be gone? This was it. They were going to bury her father, the man who taught her to ride a bike and secretly brought her hot chocolate. The man who, when Junie spoke of being afraid of sharks at the seashore, rattled off statistics and convinced Junie that she was more likely to get a bee sting than be bitten by a shark, and she still played in the grass, didn’t she?

  Brian walked by the bedroom, glancing at Junie with a look that translated into, Again?

  Junie turned her back, unable to deal with his chastising of her mothering skills—not today.

  Ruth moved through the house in silent procession. Junie didn’t know what to say to ease the tension, so she said nothing. She bathed and fed Sarah and put on the black dress that she knew she would discard after the funeral. She couldn’t bear the thought of walking into her closet and seeing the dress, a daily reminder of her father’s passing.

  When they finally made their way to the car, Sarah insisted on hanging on to her blanket, her thumb planted firmly in her mouth.

  Brian reached for the blanket.

  “Don’t,” Junie said from the passenger seat.

  “Junie, she’s four years old. Come on. She doesn’t need it in public.”

  “Just leave it. It’s a hard enough day. Mom doesn’t need there to be a tantrum, too.”

  Brian turned away, grinding his teeth.

  The cemetery was only a few miles from the house, but it seemed like a different world altogether. Ten acres of flat, even grass, row after row of headstones, reminders of how often people leave our world. Junie’s heart sank, realizing that nothing in life could prepare her for losing her father, just as she hadn’t been prepared to lose her best friend.

  The parking lot was full of familiar cars. Selma and Phil’s blue Toyota Corolla was parked next to Mary Margaret’s Subaru Forester in the closest spots. They would have been the first people to arrive.

  Junie stepped from the car, staring at the blue canopy with rows of chairs beneath it, the ominous hole in the earth below her father’s casket. She eyed the mound of dirt on the ground beside the hole. It seemed unfair, cruel, like a rush to the finish line. Hurry up, because we have to get on with our lives. Junie’s stomach turned. Couldn’t they bring in the dirt later, or cover it? She reached behind her for Sarah’s hand.

  Selma, Phil, and Mary Margaret were seated in the second row of chairs. They stood as Ruth and Sarah exited the car. Brian rushed to take Sarah’s hand.

  “I’ve got her.” Brian reached for Sarah again.

  Sarah pulled back, wrapping her tiny fingers around her mother’s skirt and casting her eyes downward.

  Brian’s mouth formed a tight line. He bent down, looking Sarah in the eyes. “Come on, honey. Let’s give Mommy a break. Hold Daddy’s hand.”

  Sarah hid behind her blanket.

  “It’s okay,” Junie said, reaching for Sarah’s hand. She was glad Brian was stepping up to the pla
te, trying to do the right thing by giving her the chance to support her mother instead of taking care of Sarah. It pained her, knowing how much Sarah’s rejection hurt Brian. Why Sarah preferred her over anyone else, she had no idea. Brian was a good father. He adored Sarah. She knew he did, even if that adoration was clouded by the effects of her regression. From the time Sarah was born, Brian had changed her diapers, sung to her, even read to her at all hours of the night when she couldn’t sleep. It was only during her regression that Sarah had fallen out of her father’s good graces. If only Junie could figure out what had sparked the change—what caused her happy daughter to reject those around her? Sarah’s rejection had ignited a negative reaction from Brian. He no longer doted on Sarah. He’d pulled away from their daughter, and Junie knew that it was caused by the way Sarah had pulled away from him. Maybe she would answer the questionnaire, if only to get some answers herself.

  “Ruth.”

  Junie turned at the sound of her father-in-law’s voice and watched Peter Olson embrace her mother.

  He turned to her. “Junie, I’m so sorry.” He pulled Junie close.

  Junie had known Peter all her life. Before Ellen had disappeared, their house had been like a second home to Junie; her parents had been a second family. Her memories of Peter included him arriving late in the evening, clad in a suit and carrying a thick briefcase, or holed up nightly in his office, which she could see from her bedroom window. She had vague memories of him talking about Brian’s life as if it were a given: bright future, Ivy league, scholarship, lawyer. It wasn’t until she was older that she became aware of the discrepancy in how Peter hovered over Brian and nearly ignored Ellen.