“I like that,” said Bethany. She turned back to Ray. “What else?”
In the end, they decided on fuchsia moss roses with pale pink lilac, cream-colored dahlia, honeysuckle, and the golden acacia. They would have to return the bridesmaid’s dresses; the burgundy silk would clash. Bethany was relieved they were from a department store and that she hadn’t special-ordered. The flowers were the most important, she said with confidence, and Ray agreed.
As they stood up to go, I told them I would deliver the flowers at noon and return for the two-o’clock wedding. “I can adjust your bouquet at the last minute,” I told her, “if it needs anything.”
Bethany hugged me again. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “My greatest fear is that the roses will suddenly snap when the wedding music starts to play, and both my wedding and my good fortune will be shattered.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Flowers don’t spontaneously combust.” I looked from Bethany to Ray as I said it. She smiled. I was talking about Ray, not the flowers, and she understood.
“I know,” she said.
“Do you mind if I bring business cards?” I asked. “I’m just starting out here.” I nodded to the white walls.
“Of course!” she said. “Bring cards! And bring a guest; we forgot to tell you that.” Bethany nodded to my stomach and winked. The baby kicked; my nausea returned.
“I will,” I said, “bring cards—not a guest. Thank you.”
Bethany looked embarrassed, and Ray, flushing, pulled her to the door. “Thank you,” she said. “Really. I can’t thank you enough.”
Standing at the glass door, I watched them walk up the hill to their car. Ray wrapped his arm around Bethany’s waist. I knew he was comforting her, assuring her that the strange, solitary young woman with the magical way with flowers was happy to be having a fatherless child.
I was not.
4.
I bought a black dress in Union Square and four dozen purple irises from a bucket on Market Street. The black dress concealed my bulge and would lessen the brazen hands; the irises would become my business cards. I cut lavender paper into rectangles and punched a hole in each. On one side I wrote Message in a scripty, Elizabeth-inspired hand. On the other I wrote Victoria Jones, Florist, in my own plain print. I included Natalya’s phone number.
There was only one stumbling block, and it turned out to be more complicated than I had thought. I still had Renata’s wholesale card, but I couldn’t buy my flowers at the flower market. Grant was there every day except Sunday. It wouldn’t be possible to buy flowers on Sunday for a wedding the following Saturday. I had planned to drive to San Jose or Santa Rosa for the nearest wholesale market, but when I began to look, I learned there weren’t any others in all of Northern California. Florists drove for hundreds of miles in the middle of the night to buy flowers in San Francisco.
I considered buying the flowers at a retail shop, but after calculating the cost, I realized I wouldn’t make a profit this way; it might even end up costing me money. So, on the Friday before the wedding, I drove to The Gathering House, walked up the cement stairs, and knocked on the heavy door.
A thin girl with white-blond hair let me in.
“Anyone here need a job?” I asked. The blond girl walked down the hall and didn’t come back. A cluster of girls on the couch looked at me with suspicion.
“I used to live here,” I said. “I’m a florist now. I have a wedding tomorrow, and need help buying flowers.” A few of the girls stood up and crossed the room to join me at the dining room table.
By way of an interview, I asked the girls three questions, listening to their responses one at a time. The first question—Do you have an alarm clock?—elicited a solemn series of nods. The second—Do you know how to get to 6th and Brannan by bus?—eliminated a short, overweight red-head at the end of the table. She did not, under any circumstance, she told me, ride the bus. I flicked her away with my thumb and forefinger.
I asked the remaining two girls why they needed the money. The first to respond, a Latina girl named Lilia, rattled off a long list of desires, some essential, but many self-indulgent. Her highlights were growing out, she said, she was almost out of lotion, and she didn’t have any shoes that matched the outfit her boyfriend had given her. She mentioned rent as an afterthought. I liked her name but not her answers.
I couldn’t see the last girl’s eyes under her long bangs. When she occasionally wiped them off her face, she would leave her hand in their place over her forehead. But her answer to my question was simple and exactly what I was waiting for. If she didn’t make rent, she said, she would be evicted. Her voice choked as she said it, and she slid her face down into her turtleneck sweater until only her nose peeked above the knit. I was looking for someone desperate enough to hear an alarm clock at three-thirty a.m. and actually get out of bed; this girl would not disappoint me. I told her to meet me at the bus stop on Brannan, a block from the flower market, at five a.m. the following day.
The girl was late. Not late enough to hinder my ability to complete the arrangements on time but enough to make me worry. I didn’t have a backup plan, and I would rather leave Bethany at the altar without a bouquet than risk seeing Grant. Every time I thought of him, my body ached and the baby squirmed. But the girl arrived, sprinting and out of breath, fifteen minutes after we had agreed. She had fallen asleep on the bus and missed her stop, she said, but would work fast and make up the time. I handed her my wholesale card, a stack of cash, and a list of flowers.
While the girl was inside, I patrolled the outside of the building, fearful that she would try to make a run for it with the money. The many emergency exits worried me; I hoped they were alarmed. But half an hour later, the girl emerged, her arms full of flowers. She handed them to me with the change, and then went back inside for the second half. When she returned, we loaded the flowers into my car, driving back to Potrero Hill in silence.
I had covered the downstairs floor with thick painter’s plastic. Natalya said I could do whatever I wanted with the downstairs during the day, as long as it didn’t interfere with her band’s ability to practice at night. The vases I had purchased on sale at a dollar store were lined up in the center of the room, already filled with water, and a roll of ribbon and pins sat beside them.
We set to work on the ground. As the girl watched, I demonstrated how to de-thorn roses, trim leaves, and cut stems at an angle. She prepared the flowers while I began the arrangements. We worked until my legs began to cramp, the weight of my body heavy on the floor. I went upstairs to stretch, and retrieved the acacia and honeysuckle I had gathered. It sat on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, next to a package of cinnamon rolls and a gallon of milk. I gathered everything and carried it downstairs, holding the pastry box out to the girl.
“Thanks,” she said, taking two. “My name’s Marlena, in case you forgot.”
I had forgotten. There was little memorable about Marlena. Everything about her was plain, and even her plainness was hidden by long hair and baggy clothes. She shook her head and blew forcefully over her upper lip so that her bangs parted and settled on either side of her brown eyes. Her face, which I could finally see, was round, with smooth, unblemished skin. She wore an enormous fleece sweatshirt that hung almost to her knees and made her look like a lost child. When she finished eating, her bangs fell onto her face again; she didn’t move them.
“I’m Victoria,” I said. I handed her a tall iris from a vase by the table. She read the card.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “A businesswoman with a baby on the way. I don’t think many of us are going to make it like you have.”
I didn’t tell her about my months in McKinley Square, or the dread I felt every time I remembered that the churning mass growing inside me would become a child: a screaming, hungry, living thing.
“Some will, some won’t,” I said. “Same as everywhere.” I finished my cinnamon roll and started back to work. Hours passed, and occasionally Marle
na would ask a question or compliment my arrangements, but I worked beside her in silence. My mind was full of memories of Renata, my first morning with her at the flower market, learning to buy flowers, and later that same day, sitting at her long table, the nod of her approval punctuating each bouquet I assembled.
When we were done, Marlena helped me put the flowers in my car, and I got out my cash. “How much do you need?” I asked.
Marlena was prepared for the question. “Sixty dollars,” she said. “To pay rent on the first. Then I can stay another month.”
I counted out three twenties, paused, and gave her a fourth. “Here’s eighty,” I said. “Call me at the number on the card every Monday. I’ll tell you when I have more work.”
“Thank you,” she said. I could have taken her home—the wedding was only a few blocks from The Gathering House—but I had tired of company. I waited for her to walk around the corner before climbing into the car and driving to the beach.
The wedding was perfect. The roses did not snap; the honeysuckle draped but did not tangle. Afterward, I stood at the entrance to the parking lot and handed an iris to every guest. No one touched my stomach. I did not attend the reception.
I hadn’t told Natalya about my business, so I rarely left the house and always answered the phone. “Message,” I would say into the receiver, my intonation a mixture of question and statement. Natalya’s friends would leave her a message, and I would tape notes to her bedroom door. Customers would introduce themselves and explain their events, and I would pinpoint their desires through a chain of questions or invite them downstairs for a consultation. Bethany’s friends were wealthy, and no one, even once, asked the price of a flower. I charged more when I needed the money, less as my business began to grow.
As I waited for the phone to ring and my appointment book to fill, I made two additional sets of boxes. I didn’t like the idea of strangers sitting at the table, fingering my blue box, and I needed a box organized by flower, as Grant’s had been. From the negatives I’d kept, I printed new photographs, mounted them on plain white cardstock, and filed them in shoeboxes I scavenged. One set I placed on the downstairs table, the second set I gave to Marlena, telling her to memorize every card. My blue box I returned to my room, safe behind the row of deadbolts.
I was called for a baby shower in Los Altos Hills, a toddler’s birthday party in a wood-floored flat on California Avenue, and a wedding shower in the Marina, across the street from my favorite deli. I had three holiday parties and a New Year’s party at Bethany and Ray’s. Everywhere I went, I brought a silver bucket of irises, all tagged. By January, Marlena had made enough to pay first and last months’ rent for her own apartment, and I had sixteen summer weddings scheduled.
I didn’t take requests for anything for the entire month of March, and my February engagements made me nervous. Four plastic one-gallon containers of dittany sat in the corners of the blue room. Without light, the plant would never bloom. I kept the light off and tried to delay the inevitable.
But the baby within me, despite my dread, continued to grow. My stomach was so big by late January that I had to tilt the seat of my small car as far back as it would go. Even then, there was only an inch between my belly and the steering wheel. When the baby jabbed an elbow or a foot forward, it felt as though it was reaching out to take control of the car. I wore men’s clothes, T-shirts and sweatshirts that were too big and too long, and elastic-waist pants pulled low over my stomach. Occasionally, I passed as overweight, but most of the time I still fell prey to curious hands.
I met with clients as little as possible in the final month of my pregnancy, and delivered flowers well before guests arrived, leaving the bucket of iris behind. My ever-sloppier appearance was out of place among the well-dressed women, and I could see, though they pretended otherwise, that it made them uncomfortable.
Mother Ruby began to appear with frequency, only halfheartedly making excuses for her visits. Natalya was looking thin, she told me the first time, and she had baked a tofu casserole. Neither Natalya, who was not looking thin, nor I ate it. Tofu was one of the few foods I couldn’t stomach. When Natalya left to go on her first monthlong tour—the spread of her fan base had widened—I threw the casserole away in its heavy glass dish. Alone in the apartment, I began looking out the window before leaving, and if Mother Ruby sat on the sidewalk below, I would return to the blue room and lock all six locks.
Renata had told her mother of my pregnancy, I knew. Natalya wouldn’t have invited the frequent visits, and Renata, despite firing me, cared about my well-being, and had, inexplicably, from the moment we met. In the early mornings, as I arranged flowers on the downstairs floor, I would see her drive by, her truck heavy on the way to her shop. Our eyes would catch, and she would wave, and sometimes I would wave back, but she never stopped, and I never stood up.
In preparation for the baby, I gathered minimal newborn supplies: blankets, a bottle, formula, pajamas, and a hat. I couldn’t think of anything else. Wrapped in a numb paralysis, I purchased it all without anticipation or anxiety. I was not afraid of childbirth. Women had given birth since the beginning of time. Mothers died, babies died; mothers lived, and babies lived. Mothers raised babies and abandoned them, boys and girls, healthy and defected. I thought of all the possible outcomes, and not one seemed more tolerable than any of the others.
On the twenty-fifth of February I awoke swimming in water, and the pain started immediately after.
Natalya was still touring, and I was grateful for that. I had imagined biting pillows to muffle the sounds of childbirth, but there was no need. It was a Saturday, the adjacent office buildings were closed, and our apartment was empty. I opened my mouth at the first wavelike contraction, and a low growl came from somewhere within me. I did not recognize my voice or the burning pain in my body. When it passed, I closed my eyes and imagined myself floating on a deep blue sea.
I floated for a minute, maybe two, before the pain returned, sharper than before. Rolling onto my side, I felt the walls of my stomach like steel, closing in around the baby, pushing it down. The fur floor came out in wet clumps under the grasp of my fingers, and when the pain passed, I drummed angry fists against the bare patches.
The smell of dittany and damp soil seemed to be beckoning the baby, and all I wanted was to leave. It would be different on the cold cement sidewalk, I thought, amid traffic and noise. The baby would understand that there was no space in the world for a gentle entrance, nothing soft or welcoming. I would walk to the Mission and buy a donut, and the baby would get high on chocolate glaze and decide to remain unborn. Sitting in a hard plastic booth, the pain would stop; it had to.
Crawling out of the blue room, I tried to stand up. But I couldn’t. The contractions were a sweeping undertow, pulling me down. On all fours, I crept to the stool pushed against the kitchen counter, my neck dangling on the low metal bar. Perhaps my neck would snap, I thought with some optimism. Perhaps my head would roll off, severed, and this would be over. I opened my mouth and bit down on the metal as the next contraction overwhelmed me.
When the pain released, I craved water. Sliding across the wall to the bathroom, I bent over the sink, turned on the faucet, and cupped handfuls into my open mouth. It wasn’t enough. I turned on the water in the shower and pulled myself into the bathtub, the steady stream running into my mouth and down my throat. Turning around, I let the water soak through my clothes and down the length of my body. I stayed that way, the top of my head against the wall and the pressure drumming my lower back, until I ran out of hot water and stood, shivering, in dripping clothes.
Outside the shower, I leaned over the sink and began to swear, my voice deep and angry. I would hate my child for this. Mothers must all secretly despise their children for the inexcusable pain of childbirth. I understood my own mother in that moment as clearly as if we had just been introduced. I imagined her sneaking out of the hospital alone, her body split in two, abandoning her perfect swaddled baby, the baby she
had exchanged for her own once-perfect body, her own once-pain-free existence. The pain and sacrifice were not forgivable. I did not deserve to be forgiven. Looking in the mirror, I tried to imagine my mother’s face.
The searing of the next contraction caused me to double over, my forehead pressed against the curved metal faucet. When I lifted my head and looked back into the mirror, it was not my imagined mother’s face I saw but Elizabeth’s. Her eyes were glazed, the way they got during the harvest, wild and full of anticipation.
I wanted, more than anything, to be with her.
5.
“Elizabeth!” I called.
My voice was frenzied, desperate. An early moon rose above Perla’s trailer, and the low rectangular structure cast a dark shadow up the hill to where I stood. Elizabeth responded to my voice immediately, turning to race along the edge of the shadow. She slipped in and out of the darkness until she stood before me. Moonlight illuminated the few silver hairs curling around her temples. Her face, in shadows, was a compilation of angles and lines accented by two soft, round eyes.
“Here,” I said. My heart beat audibly. I held out a single wine grape, polished it against my damp T-shirt, and held it out to her again.
Elizabeth took the grape and looked at me. Her mouth opened and closed. She chewed once, expelled seeds, chewed, swallowed, and chewed again. Her face changed. The strain lifted, and the sugar from the grape seemed to sweeten her skin; she flushed a youthful pink, smiled, and, without a moment’s hesitation, enclosed me in her strong arms. My great accomplishment expanded into the air around us until we were enveloped, protected in a bubble of our mutual joy. I leaned into her, proud, glowing, wrapping my arms around her waist, my feet still and my heart racing.
Holding me at arm’s length, she looked into my eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Finally.”
We had been searching for the first ripe grape for nearly a week. A sudden rise in temperatures had caused a spike in sweetness so sudden it was impossible to accurately evaluate the thousands of plants. Elizabeth, frantic, began to order me around as if I was an extension of her own tongue. Acres went untouched while Elizabeth and I split up and went row by row, sucking out centers, chewing skin, and spitting seeds. Elizabeth gave me a pointed stick, and in front of every vine I tasted I was to draw an O or an X, her symbols for sun and shade, followed by my sugar-tannin count. I started by the road: O 71:5, moved to behind the trailers: X 68:3, and then climbed the hill above the wine cellar: O 72:6. Elizabeth paced acres far from where I tasted but eventually came back to retrace my steps, tasting every second or third row and comparing it to my notes.
The Language of Flowers Page 20
