The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel

by Fiadhnait Moser

  I must have flowers, always, and always.

  —Claude Monet

  “My mother used to say that,” whispered Floralie.

  Nino leaned in close to see, but Floralie snapped shut the book. “Never mind.”

  But the minute she said the words, Floralie’s eyes widened as if a match had been lit inside her. She opened the book back up again and read the photograph’s caption: Claude Monet and his gardener, May 21, 1905.

  A swarm of butterflies stirred in Floralie’s heart as she stared at the teenage girl. She knew those eyes. That’s my mother, she thought. That’s my mother. That’s my mother, that’s my mother, that’s my mother. And then she thought, And that’s Claude Monet. And that gardener is . . . She squinted closer at the book the man was carrying: La Floriographie Complète. Floralie dropped the book. She shook her head, suddenly abuzz, then grabbed Nino’s notebook—

  I know where to find Sylvestre Tullier.

  Mama left a lucerne flower at the circus one day. “For a life on edge,” she said. Mama was like a tightrope walker. She liked to walk on the edge of fate. The edge of reality, the edge of dreamlands. She tiptoed along that thin rope of life and death whenever she deepened her backbend, added an extra pirouette. Mama liked forgetting life. Forgetting that death was but one foot out of place, one step too close, one step too far. That, Floralie believed, was what made her seem so alive, the way she tiptoed along death. That was what made her so beautifully, unconsciously, fragile.

  The flower shop was alit with the bluebell lamp, even though the shop was closed on Mondays. Miss Clairoux insisted on walking Nino and Floralie home from the library as the dusk drew nearer, even though Floralie walked home alone from flower selling nearly every night. But when they neared the flower shop, shouts rattled down the street like tin cans.

  “Stay low,” said Floralie as they neared the shopwindow. Nino crouched down on all fours as Floralie peered through the window of the Dutch doors.

  “That voice . . . ,” whispered Miss Clairoux. “I know that voice from somewhere.”

  Grandmama was inside the shop, across from Tom at the front counter. Grandmama was pointing a wrinkly, bejeweled finger at Tom, her mouth taut and nose crinkled. Tom’s eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes tired, arms limp. Grandmama waved about a bill, then let it float to the ground.

  “She’s in there,” Floralie whispered to Nino as it dawned on her that Nino’s freedom was at risk. If Grandmama caught him, he would surely be sent straight back to her orphanage. And as much as Floralie wanted to burst in and shield Tom from Grandmama, she said to Nino, “You can’t be seen.”

  Tom and Grandmama flourished their hands in anger, and Miss Clairoux’s lips pursed, ear pressing against the wood of the door. When the clickity-clackity footsteps of Grandmama drew near, Miss Clairoux took Floralie’s and Nino’s hands and hurried them into the library.

  “What—where are we going?” asked Floralie, panic rising in her chest.

  “She mustn’t find Nino,” explained Miss Clairoux. “No, mon chér, I cannot let her snatch you back into that abuse. And, Floralie, I daresay, that woman wouldn’t be too tickled to find you sneaking about with a boy at this hour. Come, I know a place where you can hide.”

  “But—but why are you helping us?” stuttered Floralie as Miss Clairoux hurried them back toward the library, its windows now darkened, as it had closed for the evening just moments earlier.

  The flower shop’s Dutch doors behind them snapped open. Click-clickity-clack-clack, went the dreaded high heels. Floralie’s heart jolted as Miss Clairoux fiddled with her ring of keys to the library. “Quick! She’s coming!” urged Floralie. “Nino—Miss Clairoux, we’ve got to hide N—”

  But before Floralie could finish, Miss Clairoux had yanked open the library door and scuttled them inside. “Into the braille room. Quick! Quick!”

  Miss Clairoux flicked on a few lights and hurried them over to the mystery section and pushed the secret door open. Nino and Floralie tumbled inside, just as the chink of the library’s front door could be heard in the distance. But Miss Clairoux was still outside. “Do not worry, mes chérs,” came Miss Clairoux’s whisper from the other side of the braille room.

  From inside the dim room, Floralie could hear Grandmama’s voice, like the snarl of a coyote hunting its prey: “You said she came here at what time?”

  “Early this morning,” replied Tom’s voice. “She’s been here ever since as far as I’m concerned. To be frank, I was rather pleased she was taking interest in literature at all.”

  There was a pause, and then Grandmama said, “When I came to visit you, the lights in this library were turned off. But now they are on. Curious, don’t you think? A library that opens at night.”

  “As far as I know, it closes at five every evening. Three on Sundays.” said Tom.

  Footsteps echoed, and then Grandmama screeched, “Who’s there? We know you’re in here.”

  Floralie bit her lip, squeezed Nino’s hand twice. “You’ll be okay,” whispered Floralie, but she could feel Nino’s pulse pounding in his palm.

  And then Grandmama let out an ear-shattering shriek: “If you don’t reveal yourself immediately, I am calling the police.”

  Then came Miss Clairoux’s voice. “Hello? Oh, there you are. I’m one of the librarians, just doing a quick cleaning before heading home. Pleasure to meet you. May I help you find—”

  “A child, yes,” barked Grandmama.

  “Ah yes, you’re the orphan collector, are you not?” said Miss Clairoux to both Nino’s and Floralie’s surprise.

  Grandmama’s lip curled. “Her name is Floralie Laurel,” said Grandmama. “Puny little thing, knotted hair, but fair complexion when she bothers to bathe.”

  Miss Clairoux gave a false cough and said, “And what, exactly, gives you the position to claim her?”

  “I am her grandmother.”

  Miss Clairoux’s face drained of all color.

  “And,” continued Grandmama, “I demand you present Floralie to me immediately if you know of her whereabouts, which I have an inkling you do.” She paused, then said, arms crossed, “Now, if you do not reveal the child this instant, my grandson here will call the police.”

  There was a long pause before Miss Clairoux uttered, “So be it. Call. This child is not going home with you.”

  Floralie squeezed tight her eyes. She couldn’t let Miss Clairoux take the fall for her. She burst out from the secret room. Nino scuttled back into the shadows of the braille room, and Tom’s eyebrows jumped.

  “I’m here. Sorry, I—er—I was reading fairy tales. I’ve learned my lesson, though, and I vow never again to spear my eyes with such fantastical nonsense.” Floralie choked on her own words, but still managed to spit them out.

  Grandmama descended on Floralie and tilted Floralie’s chin with fingers that smelled like wilting hyacinths. “Floralie, my dear, rebellion does not suit your pretty little face. Just remember, you will be under my supervision within two days. Pack lightly. I’ll be keeping my eyes and ears peeled for you, so don’t you try any funny business again.” Grandmama’s attention shifted to the half-opened mystery bookshelf, then flicked her gaze to Miss Clairoux. “I do not trust you,” she said, and nothing more was said about the subject. Grandmama yanked Floralie by the arm and led her home. She tipped her feather hat and bid Tom good night, then left in her shiny black car off to her dreaded orphanage.

  “Are you afraid, my wildflower?” Mama asked.

  Downstairs, Grandmama could be heard snapping a wooden spoon in half. “Not as if she ever bothers to cook anyway!” she shouted. “Not as if she does anything useful for this family at all.”

  Floralie turned to Mama and replied, “Yes.”

  Mama handed Floralie a branch of a French willow and said, “That’s what makes you human.”

  After Grandmama left, and Floralie skittered up to her bedroom, stripped of all its magic, a knock came at her door. Floralie gave no reply, but the visit
or entered nonetheless. Tom kneeled down to Floralie’s bedside, two cups of tea in his hands. One was painted with red roses and rimmed with gold—Mama’s—and the other was decorated with blue and turquoise stripes—Papa’s. Floralie took Mama’s and sipped the honeyed chamomile. Tom stroked Floralie’s hair, not bothering to even detangle the knots.

  “We’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ll be just fine.”

  Fine, thought Floralie. She tucked the word into her pocket, and felt the familiar wrinkles, creases, brittle edges of the word upon her skin. She knew that word by touch, by heart, an heirloom from Mama.

  Tom went to sleep early that night, and Floralie listened patiently for his breaths to slow so she would know he was asleep. As she waited for her escape, Floralie thought of Mama. She thought about the way she knew her mother by heart the same way Miss Clairoux knew her library books by heart. The day before Mama left, Floralie had made sure to memorize some things. All the things she loved.

  Ballet was number one. Mama said it made her feel both young and old, wise and carefree, soft and loud, powerful and small. Floralie had never quite understood that when she said it, but when Mama danced, Floralie understood everything. Or perhaps she understood nothing, but she didn’t need to when Mama danced.

  Number two was Papa. Every night after supper, Mama would tear him away from his numbers and client letters and teach him how to dance the Charleston while jazz roared from the record player. She retaught him that same dance every night for months, but he never quite got it right.

  Number three was country air. Mama never had enough space. She once broke Grandmama’s antique grandfather clock while pirouetting through the house. That was why she loved the air—it gave her more space. Floralie wondered if her mother ever got to go outside anymore, if she ever got to breathe the smell of lavender or dance in the wildflowers.

  And then she thought of what Mama had hated; they were the same things. Ballet. Waddling around the house like a penguin with her feet turned out 180 degrees, even if her face went red with the pain in her knees. Wrapping an old and fraying measuring tape around her waist each morning. Crying on the floor of the studio, crumpled up like a dying rose; Floralie had never found out why.

  Papa. She called him an armadillo because whenever she suggested to go out, have some fun, he would tell her: “Work comes first.” But if Floralie were to write those words in a poem, they would look more like WORK COMES FIRST, in capital letters, because for Papa, work always came first. It came before Tom and before Floralie, and it even came before Mama. Mama didn’t like that too much.

  Air. Mama’s lungs craved it. But there was something in her brain, or her legs, or maybe just her toes that kept her wanting to stay shut up inside. She loved the air when she was outside; she adored it. But the thing was, she began not to want to go outside. This was one thing that Floralie had never understood about her mother.

  And there was one other thing. Flowers. Mama never threw away flowers herself—she always had Tom or Papa do it when they got too wrinkled. But one day, she tossed every flower in the house out the window, left them on the back porch for the crows. She left Floralie that day, too.

  Floralie repeated the words over and over and over in her mind. Ballet. Papa. Air. Flowers. Ballet. Papa. Air. Flowers. Ballet. Papa. Air. Flowers . . .

  When at last Tom’s breaths came in long, sleepy heaves, Floralie crept out the barren wonderland, down the rickety staircase, through the back door, and down the cobbled road to the flower shop. Once inside, she scurried up to the attic to find Nino asleep behind an emptied crate labeled, LES TULIPES FOSTERIANAS.

  Floralie shook Nino awake by the shoulder, and he jolted upright before sighing back into himself. He grabbed his pen and paper and wrote, What are you doing?

  This, wrote Floralie, laying a hand on the crate.

  Tulips? wrote Nino.

  Look at the address. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the name when I found the letter. We get all our flower orders from this address. When I saw that Claude Monet photograph, I just . . . remembered. See?

  Floralie’s fingers traced the address on the wooden crate:

  84 Rue Claude Monet

  Giverny

  France

  The flowers are shipped from Monet’s manor, wrote Floralie. And that man in the photograph beside Monet was Mr. Tullier, I know it. Sylvestre Tullier was Monet’s gardener. He was holding the floriography.

  And then the word “home” somehow stuck onto the page like residual sap on a maple branch. I lived around there, she wrote. My house was a few roads away from Rue Claude Monet. This is where we have to go.

  Claude Monet? wrote Nino. The artist? You’re joking. You must be joking. Does he really live there?

  Did. Floralie sighed. He’s dead now. Died this past December. He kept to himself mostly, though. Hardly anyone ever saw him leave his garden. Anyway, it’s not him we’ve got to see. It’s this Mr. Tullier, whoever he is.

  Do you know how to get there?

  I might.

  A crooked grin spread across Nino’s face. I feel like a thousand fireflies have gone alight!

  Floralie giggled at Nino’s poetics, and her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

  Nino looked up, smile fading. He reached out a knobby-fingered hand and gently pulled Floralie’s hand away from her mouth. Floralie bit the inside of her lip to keep her mouth closed from the laughter.

  Floralie Alice Laurel, the gaps in your teeth are the gaps in Sappho’s poems. Your smile is as perfect as one of the greatest works of ancient art. I like your smile, and I like your laugh. You don’t have to cover it up.

  Floralie thought Nino sounded like Mama. Mama broke a vase once, just for the sake of it being broken. Papa made her glue the pieces back together, but the cracks were still visible, scars in the glass. Mama hadn’t called them cracks or scars, though. All she said was, “Floralie, this is Notre Dame stuff,” and she had been right. The broken vase did resemble the stained glass of Notre Dame, each shard forming part of the bigger picture. But Floralie was not a vase. She was not a window in Notre Dame. She was not a poem. Those only had pieces of them broken.

  Nino, wrote Floralie, but she didn’t write anything else for a few minutes. All the while, Nino waited patiently until Floralie was ready. Nino, it’s not just my teeth that are flawed. It’s everything. Tom, Grandmama, Mrs. Coffrey . . . I’ve failed them all. She bit her lip again, this time, not to hold back laughter, but tears. Tom—he was supposed to go to university. But he gave it up. He gave it up to look after me and earn enough money for me to go to school. He sacrificed his dream for me to go to Mrs. Coffrey’s, and I blew it. I got expelled, and I wasted his dream. I’m ugly in every sense of the word.

  Nino shook his head, but Floralie kept writing, I am, Nino. Your poetry is lovely, but it’s not real. The real world doesn’t have time for imperfections. It moves too quickly, and if you’re too broken, then you just get left in the dust. Trust me.

  Nino looked down. I do trust you, he wrote, and then after a moment, but I don’t agree with you. Nino stared at Floralie for a long time, but when she did not write anything else, he added, Well, we’ve got a firefly to catch, haven’t we? When shall we leave for Mr. Tullier’s?

  Floralie’s eyebrows rose. My grandmother will be taking me away in two days.

  So tomorrow?

  We’d need ferry tickets and taxi money—goodness—we’d need money. How could I ever explain this to Tom?

  The edges of Nino’s lips curled up. You have my complete faith, Floralie.

  Floralie made a “tuh” sound, but then sighed. I’ll do my best.

  The vase was not the only thing Mama broke and repaired. When the top button of Mama’s favorite coat tore off, she replaced it with another. But this one was not the same round black button that had fallen off. This one was in the shape of a citron flower, white and centered with a shock of yellow. Mama said, “It’s pretty, no? It’s broken, too.”

  The nex
t evening, after a long day of selling tulips and roses in the village, Floralie returned to the flower shop attic to find Nino giving Philomenos his supper. Floralie knelt beside Nino and dropped her flower basket between them, which was now speckled with silver coins. Nino’s eyes lit up, and together they counted. Regrettably, it did not take long.

  This’ll barely cover the taxi ride, wrote Floralie. She slumped against a crate of crocuses and pulled the flower box from out from her shoulder bag. She opened it up, flicked through the flowers, and then closed it again.

  It was completely and utterly inevitable—she was leaving for Grandmama’s tomorrow, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least we tried.

  Are you honestly giving up? wrote Nino, eyes bulging in astonishment.

  Well, what am I supposed to do, steal from Tom?

  Nino simply stared, head tilted.

  I can’t—I could never, wrote Floralie. I’d get in such tr

  “Floralie?” The voice sounded from far away, but still sent shivers down Floralie’s spine.

  Tom.

  Floralie and Nino exchanged looks of horror.

  “Floralie, are you up there?”

  Footsteps.

  Go—hide! wrote Floralie, and Nino snapped shut his notebook. He scooped up Philomenos and wildly began to search for a hiding place.

  Floralie shoved the flower box back into her bag and whispered, “Quick—in here.” She heaved open an old tulip crate large enough to hold a small person.

  The footsteps grew louder. Nino’s eyes flashed toward the door, and he scrambled into the box—