Winter in Full Bloom

by Anita Higman

  “Yeah, maybe a little.”

  “I hope you find your sister. I always wanted one.”

  “Me too.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut for a second.

  I grinned. “You’re looking a little sleepy.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I cocked my head at her. “Classic symptoms.”

  “Good one.” She grinned. “Yeah, I’m going to sleep now.” She pulled the gum out of her mouth and held it out to me.

  I automatically reached out my hand and let Jenny drop her gooey glob of bubble gum into my hand.

  Jenny smiled. “Nighty-night. Thanks for telling me about your sister.” She pushed on her nose, making a little piggy face, and then snorted. “I guess you aren’t really running away, after all.”

  “Good night.” I had no idea in the world why I accepted used gum from a stranger in my clean hand, except that Julie used to pass me her gum when she was little. And I’d always hold out my hand in the same way. Reflex, I guess, and, well, wishful dreaming that it had been Julie.

  Jenny’s abrupt exit from our little exchange startled me. “Good night,” I whispered to her again. “Sweet dreams.” I was sorry to see her snuggle down onto her stack of Piglet pillows. Her chatter had kept me distracted, and even enchanted. I placed her gum into a tissue and wiped off my hand.

  Now I would be alone with my thoughts. As scary as it felt to look outside, I scooted over to the window seat and lifted the cover on the porthole. Wispy clouds whirled by as if the plane were spinning inside a cotton candy machine. Far below, America’s patchwork of farms became visible here and there.

  Soon the Pacific Ocean would heave and swell beneath me as if it were the great unknown, yet somehow I wasn’t as frightened at the prospect as I had been. I doubted I’d ever go to sleep, but maybe I could read a novel. Perhaps my journey wouldn’t be quite the hardship I’d imagined. Maybe Mother was right; I always picked the most potent spice in the rack when a little salt would do.

  Twenty-two hours later, after a tedious layover in LA, two sleeping pills that worked like espresso, more plane crash statistics from Jenny, a stiff neck, drool, a flight that lasted as long as the breeding cycle of small marine creatures, I finally landed at the Melbourne airport. Not well, but alive.

  Then after dragging myself through immigration, baggage claim, and customs I hailed a cab. My driver turned out to be Greek and proud enough of his heritage to give me all the details as we careened to and fro along the Tullamarine Freeway. The taxi smelled of cigars and baklava, and everything including the man’s laugh had a Greek accent.

  “Many, many people here are Greek. So, where is home for you?” the man asked.

  “Texas.”

  “Ahh. I love Texas. John Wayne is my favorite actor.” He exploded with laughter.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how John Wayne was connected to Texas, but the man seemed friendly enough, and he got me to my hotel without any real damage to me or the luggage.

  Later I checked into the River Loft Hotel and Apartments, and plunked myself down on the bed. The room looked clean and tidy, but maybe a little too barren for my taste, since it once again reminded me of my solitary life, without Julie and without a husband. I stared at my hands; they were cradling each other as if they were the hands of two lovers, holding each other. It’s probably something Eeyore would do if he didn’t have hooves. I laughed. Jenny would have liked that one.

  Moving on. Someone at the front desk had said that St. Paul’s Cathedral was just across the river. Sounded so easy, but what if my sister no longer attended there? What if it were the last clue in finding Camille? But if she did go to church there, someone would have information. Where she worked. Where she lived. Her family.

  Every pore of me wanted to sleep, but a flight attendant had warned me about jet lag—to stay awake until night, to trick my body into a new rhythm. And really, I didn’t want to wait to find my sister. No matter the level of exhaustion, I wanted to start the search right away. I changed into black slacks and a black silk shirt—apparently for now, black was the color of my life—and freshened up a bit. I wished now I hadn’t brought so many dark outfits.

  Once outside I felt revived again, although when a cloud shadowed the sun the breeze turned surly right away. What had someone warned me about on the plane—four seasons in a day? I untied my windbreaker from my waist, slipped it on, and then gazed down at the Venetian-style boats floating on the Yarra River. Outdoor cafés lined the streets, and people chatted as they sipped coffee. Pigeons took advantage of the free comestibles, and the sounds of live music and performers filled the streets. The city was alive with energy, and it was hard to imagine that Lily Winter could be a part of it.

  I joined the throngs of people that streamed over the bridge like the very river that flowed beneath us. Then I followed the crowds through the tunnel and up onto the other side. The people encircling me were foreigners who appeared to be from all over the world. Standing there, taking it in, I had never felt so alone and yet so invigorated in my life.

  After the light turned green, I crossed Flinders Street and headed east, trying to follow the directions from the hotel’s front desk. I walked awhile, admiring everything along the way—the unique dress shops, the hustle-bustle of shoppers, the Flinders Street Station, and the smells of bakery goods and open-air markets.

  When I looked up, suddenly it was there before me—the spires of St. Paul’s. The cathedral rose in front of me, grand and majestic, its pinnacles reaching toward the heavens as if they were hands raised in praise. I felt dwarfed in my humanness, but not dispirited. I wanted to shout to the bustling crowd, “Don’t you see it? How can you not be in awe?”

  This holy place would surely lead me to my sister. My pace sped up until I broke into a run and then raced up the concrete steps of the church. Someone opened the doors, and I breezed into the narthex. Off to the right was a cozy gift shop, and behind the counter stood an elderly woman who seemed happy to see me. I stopped to ask her the question I’d been practicing in my head for hours. “Hi. My name is Lily Winter. I’ve come all the way from Texas to find my sister. I heard she attends church here. Her name is Camille Daniels. Do you happen to know her?”

  The woman blinked, her face a parade of bemused expressions, and then said, “I’ve never heard of her before.”

  My spirit spiraled into an abyss I’d reserved just for this moment. “Really?”

  “Let me ask Rowan. He’s been here a lot longer, and he knows most of the members. Yeah.”

  “Thank you so much.” I clung to the slender cord of hope she handed me, but knew it could be cut off easily with a shake of Rowan’s head.

  The woman smiled and headed to the back room.

  In the meantime, I turned and glanced around the church, trying to revel in the majesty—the gothic archways of stone that stood like great sentinels of the faith, the old smells that whispered of ancient mysteries, the stained-glass windows lit with sun, and the holy awe of wonder it all instilled. But I would have to put off my awe and explorations for another day. In the meantime I counted the seconds until a man named Rowan would come out of the back room. Perhaps he would do no more than smile and wish me “G’day.”

  My foot woodpecker-tapped on the floor. The back room couldn’t be that large. Had she forgotten about me? Oh, please, God, let a man named Rowan know my sister.

  After waiting an eternity—which may have been encapsulated into a minute or two—an aged-looking gentleman, wearing a cardigan, a bowtie, and a benevolent expression, hobbled out of the back room. “Joyce told me you’ve come all the way from Texas to find your sister.”

  “Yes. Her name is Camille Violet Daniels, and she attends here.”

  The light in Rowan’s eyes dimmed under his bushy brows. “I’m so sorry. I can’t think of anyone by that name.”

  Rowan had no idea he’d just severed my lifeline. “Actually, she’s my identical twin, so maybe you’ve seen someone who looks a littl
e like me, or maybe a lot.”

  The older man studied me through watery eyes. “I hate to make you sad by saying this, but your face doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “I don’t know where else to go.” I realized how pathetic I sounded. “This was my only solid clue in finding her.”

  Rowan tugged on his bowtie. “Well, I could check the records just to make sure. I don’t know everyone who attends here. But I’m not able to do it right now. Perhaps in the arvo … uh, afternoon. Yeah.”

  “Yes, of course.” I reached out and touched the sleeve of his sweater. “Thank you for your kindness.” I wanted to ask him what was so pressing that he couldn’t have a quick peek right this minute, but I didn’t want to be rude. “If you come across anything at all I’ll be here for three weeks. Here’s my cell number and my sister’s name.” I handed Rowan the slip of paper with all my information.

  A sign on the counter, publicizing one of their services, caught my attention. Evensong—perhaps I could attend at some point. I had never been Anglican, so I didn’t know what the word evensong meant, but it seemed as pleasant as a spring breeze, and because my sister may have had some connection with the church I wanted to experience the worship she’d known here. I would participate in evensong and I would imagine where she always sat and sang or took communion or read from the prayer book.

  Rowan raised his hand. “You never did say how you and your twin got separated.”

  “I don’t know really. My mother didn’t explain it to me.” I squeezed back the tears, determined not to shed a single drop until I was on my way.

  “Oh?” He scratched his head.

  “Thank you again.” I left Rowan standing there and fled out the door before he could ask any more questions.

  I felt a need to walk off my disappointment, and the folks at the hotel had mentioned a garden not far from the cathedral. As wearied as I felt I couldn’t seem to slow down. I kept up my brisk pace in the direction of the gardens, crossing the Yarra River again and the busy streets. The church bells rang out in the distance. Perhaps it was a reminder for me not to give up.

  I passed a group of men playing the bagpipes of all things, a museum on the other side of the street, and then I came to a sign that read The Royal Botanic Gardens. I slowed my stride to an amble as I gazed around. The city’s playground of greenery turned out to be grand, full of exotic trees and flora unknown to me. I’d caught the gardens in the midst of embracing spring and every shade of heaven.

  A pathway curved its way here and there through gasping beauty. My favorite—eucalyptus trees—grew everywhere. The leaves chattered like children. I had no idea what they were saying; I just breathed in their scent and strolled on. Julie would have loved these gardens. I fingered the bracelet she’d given me and wondered what she was doing. Was she eating enough? Had she made college friends yet? Did she miss me as much as I missed her? I hoped not, since I didn’t want her to live like I had—as if her wings were clipped.

  The wound of my lonesomeness, though, felt gaping and ready for more salt, and I was usually the person with the shaker who could do the job thoroughly. I couldn’t imagine anything softening the pain, except maybe finding my sister. And yet now my hope dangled on a rope so thin it felt like a worn thread.

  A bird let out a mad shriek in a nearby tree, startling me, and then a young woman brushed by me, wearing a balloon-bottom skirt, fishnet hose, and a floppy hat. Interesting attire. I imagined myself in an outfit like that and chuckled.

  After I passed another flower-laden hedge of yellow, a lake came into view with a vast lawn in the foreground. The pond glistened like diamonds strewn on the water, and swans—black and sinuous-looking—glided across the surface as if they were duchesses in search of their tiaras. People were scattered like random bits of confetti on the green, where they played and chatted and soaked up the sun. And in the distance a couple decked out in their wedding clothes posed for cameras. Lovely.

  I removed my jacket and sat down on one of the wooden benches. The tears I’d saved were on the verge of spilling over, but instead of weeping I opened my purse and pulled out a bag of marshmallows. On a defiant whim I stuffed a big puffy confection into each cheek. Pillows of sugar. Ahh. They were sweet and soft and amiable, and all the things that empty nest was not. Of course, if I kept eating wads of them I’d eventually resemble one. For some reason that thought opened the floodgates, so as I chewed, tears streamed down my full cheeks. I lived a sad little life that no longer made sense. What was I doing here? Was I on a fool’s errand?

  “Want to talk about it?” someone said from behind me.

  I jumped at the male voice near my ear and whirled around to see who spoke with such familiarity. “Excuse me?” My voice got muffled through the sugary fluff.

  “My friends say I’m a good listener. Yeah.” The man sat down on the other end of the bench even though the park appeared to be full of empty spots. Then he set some sort of music case down on the seat between us.

  I finished chewing. “You’re a stranger, so—”

  “And your mum told you never to talk to strangers.” He gave me a decisive nod. “Good advice, Love.”

  The man probably expected me to grin over his Aussie endearment, but I daubed at my eyes and blew my nose instead. The stranger didn’t appear to be hideous, now that I’d had a chance to give him the once-over. He seemed to be early forty-ish, and he had a nebulously attractive thing going—sort of an older James McAvoy look with a scruffy five-o’clock shadow. Not too bad. But I was in no mood for banter. “I’m not used to perfect strangers being so familiar.”

  “Well, I’ve never been called perfect before, so I thank you.”

  I frowned. How could he possibly think that was funny? Hmm. I was a breath away from getting up, but before I left he needed a lesson in manners. “If a woman looks sad and she’s sitting by herself, conventional wisdom says you should walk on by because she wants to be alone with her thoughts.”

  “Yes, true, but I’m not all that conventional.” He rested back on the bench with a lounging manner and then crossed his legs at the ankles.

  Still I didn’t gift him with my smile, since it was obvious that he’d benefit more from a good smack on the head. Being the fine Christian woman that I was, though, I restrained myself.

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye again. Even though he looked wrinkly, his shirt and slacks weren’t too shabby. Maybe I’d stay for a moment longer. It was the first real conversation I’d had with an Australian man, so I hated to get a dull view of the male population right off. “You’re not representing your Aussie countrymen very well.”

  “You’re American, aren’t you? Guessing from the accent, you’re from Texas. You’re on your own, but you’re not here on holiday. Something else entirely has brought you to Melbourne. Yeah.”

  “Yes, it is something else entirely … and it’s entirely none of your business.” Like the box turtles I befriended as a child, I pulled back inside my armor.

  “Maybe it would help my cause if I introduced myself. I’m Marcus Averill. Although some people around here tend to call me Avers. Aussies like to shorten things up.”

  The only thing that needed shortening was the conversation, but since I didn’t want to be thought of as a rude American, I shook his hand. “I’m Lily Winter.”

  “Lovely name. Yeah. By the way, the lily is an emblem of beauty and virtue.”

  “Thank you.” I cleared my throat from all the sticky sugar. “You didn’t pronounce the city as Mel-born like I did. Why is that?”

  “Because here we say Mel-bun, not Mel-born.”

  “I’ve noticed that people pronounce things differently, especially the word yeah.”

  “True. It’s like Aussies invented some new vowels just for that one word.”

  Exactly.

  He gazed over the gardens. “Soon the park will be in full bloom. You’ll see colors that even artists have trouble re-creating on their canvas.”

 
“Oh?”

  “You know, every winter it’s hard to imagine how it will be … all those tightly closed buds just waiting for a little spring. And a bit of love and attention.”

  Time to amend the conversation. “So, what are those yellow flowering trees I saw all along the freeways? They’re everywhere. I saw one of the blooms up close, and it made me think of tiny fuzzy tennis balls.”

  Marcus grinned. “It’s the wattle, the national flower. In fact, that’s where we get the national colors … green and gold.”

  “Oh.” I loosened the grip on my purse. “You said you had a cause. What did you mean?”

  “Well, it was my personal campaign to meet you.”

  “Oh.” Well, at least he seemed consistent in his audacity. “So, I’m wondering … are all Australian men so forward and rude?”

  “I reckon. Truthfully, they can be a bit rough around the edges sometimes, although you’ll see more of that in the bush than in the city. But then I’m not from Australia. Or as they say here … Stralia.”

  “If you’re not from here, where are you from?”

  “Texas.”

  “You’re kidding. Right?”

  “Born in Dallas.” He stared up at the sky as if there were some revelation written there. “Just look at those clouds off to the west … a wash of Prussian blue near the horizon. It’s the color of deep twilight or … the color of a storm brewing.”

  For a moment I saw the layers of blue and coasted with my own thoughts. Before I could catch myself, I murmured, “I wonder what’s just beyond the horizon.”

  “Well,” Marcus said. “We’ll just have to use our imaginations… won’t we?”

  Back to reality, I pushed on past the weather report. “You don’t seem to have any Texas accent.”

  “Pity, isn’t it?” He looked at me over nonexistent glasses.

  That time a smile crept out before I could filter it. Now he’d made me curious, so I set my purse down and stayed a bit longer to ask, “So, why Australia?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Texas is on the other side of the world. Not a random choice to come here.”