Forget-Her-Nots (8 page)

Laurel stuffed the last orange slice into her mouth. “Kind of. I found out about it because of her—something she wrote me. And then I did some research.”

“Has anyone else mentioned it?” Ms. Suarez asked. “Anyone in your family?”

Laurel shook her head. “It’s so old-fashioned. Nobody even knows about it.”

“True,” Ms. Suarez said, frowning at the ground.

Laurel asked the next question on a hunch. “But
you
know all about it, right?”

Ms. Suarez rolled her napkin into a ball. “I’m familiar with it. But we should head back; it will be dark soon. How do you feel? You’re still pale.”

“Okay, I guess.” Laurel could focus better now, on a slim distant tree, on the persistent tapping of a woodpecker high above their heads. She stood up but had to step back to keep her balance.

“You sit. I’ll clean up.” Ms. Suarez shook out the cloth and repacked their things.

Laurel turned for a last glimpse of the orchid. What’s the queen’s meaning in the language? she wondered.

On the trek back they spoke only to direct each other’s feet. Questions simmered in Laurel’s mind, and images of the queen lady’s slipper flashed before her, but she had to concentrate to navigate the darkness. If she twisted an ankle, soccer season was history.

When they finally reached the conservatory, Ms. Suarez put a hand on her shoulder. “Sure you’re all right?”

Laurel nodded, but she wanted to collapse into bed. Her head was pounding.

“Can you walk back alone?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” said Ms. Suarez. “We’ll talk soon.”

Laurel was already underneath the evergreen branches when Ms. Suarez’s voice turned her around.

“Wait!” Ms. Suarez jogged toward Laurel. “I—I think it’s best for you to stay away from orchids. At least for now.”

“Why?” asked Laurel.

“They might make you feel dizzy, like the lady’s slipper did,” explained Ms. Suarez.

Like
all
the flowers. Laurel reached up to push a long-needled branch out of her face. “What kind of trees are these?”

“Cedars,” Ms. Suarez whispered. “Cedar for strength. Good night, Laurel.”

“G’night, Ms. Suarez.” Hidden by the cedars, Laurel watched the teacher hurry into the conservatory. She’s not afraid of any ghost, Laurel thought. The inside of the building lit up, until the tower shone like a lighthouse above the wind-tossed trees.

H
olding
the principal’s note that had unexpectedly summoned her out of class later that week, Laurel walked down the empty hallway. She heard voices in Mrs. Westfall’s office as she knocked.

“Come in,” called Mrs. Westfall.

Laurel’s mouth dropped open. Her dad, handsome in his navy blazer and a red-striped power tie, was standing beside the principal’s desk.

“Dad!” Laurel said. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a daddy surprise his little girl?” he said.

Laurel leaned into his open arms. His musky aftershave flooded her senses, but she hadn’t seen him since he’d moved her in, and she had no one to hug at Avondale. He kissed the top of her head.

Mrs. Westfall stepped around her desk. “Your father has business in Charlottesville this afternoon, so I’ve given him permission to take you out of classes. I’m sure you’ll make up the work promptly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Laurel speaks very highly of her teachers here,” said her dad.

She pursed her lips. He’s such a politician, she thought. What’s today’s agenda?

Mrs. Westfall smiled. “I understand she’s doing well in her classes.”

“I’m not surprised.” Her dad squeezed her shoulder.

The bell rang for the end of the period. “Let’s go
now
,” Laurel said. She didn’t want hundreds of hallway eyes fixating on them.

“You’ll want a coat,” said Mrs. Westfall. “It’s going to pour. April showers—”

“Bring May flowers,” Laurel finished.

Tara was the first to spy them at the lockers. “Hi, Laurel,” she said sweetly. “Is this your dad?”

Laurel felt only disgust at her phoniness, but her dad swallowed the bait.

“Are you one of Laurel’s friends?” He shook the hands of Tara, Nicole, and some sophomore whose name Laurel couldn’t remember. Her dad would have remembered. It was one of the reasons he was such a
good lobbyist, her mom always said. Most Saturday evenings Laurel had sat cross-legged on her parents’ bed while her mom slipped into silk and heels to dress for another “important” party.

“Every party’s important,” her dad said. “You never know
who
you’ll meet.”

“Whom you’ll meet,” her English-teacher mom corrected, and winked at Laurel.

With the guest list in hand, Laurel had often quizzed her mom. “Joe Mickleman.”

Her mom’s elbows thrust up as she fastened a strand of pearls. “Don’t tell me.”

“Want a clue?”

“Maisy,” her mom said. “Maisy Mickleman. Sounds like a character out of a Dickens novel, don’t you think?”

Laurel nodded. “Congresswoman Jeanie Gozanski.”

“Married to Al Doorman, who sells real estate in—oh, Timbuktu?”

Laurel fell back giggling. “It’s Al Bourman, Mom. Not Doorman. From Texas.”

Now Laurel punched her hand through the sleeve of her raincoat. Did that happen before or after the diagnosis?

“She’s a great wing, Mr. Whelan.” Kate bumped Laurel playfully, and Laurel realized she’d zoned out.
Again. “Bring me back something edible,” Kate added.

“Ka-ate?” Tara called from down the hall. “Are you coming?”

Her dad held out his arm, but Laurel waved it away. She almost pulled up her hood as they started across the grass toward the parking lot but stopped herself. She’d spoon-fed Tara enough material already, over the last few weeks.

“My car’s there.” Her dad pointed to a red convertible, illegally parked in the front circle.

Laurel stopped walking. “When did you get a new car?”

“Last week. She’s nice, huh?” Her dad shrugged. “I’ll put the top up.”

Suddenly aware of a scent even stronger than his aftershave, Laurel turned in a slow circle, looking and sniffing for its source. She spotted a large bush in front of the domed building. Although it was leafless, its branches were entirely covered by coral flowers. When she leaned in, its blooms smelled like fresh peach juice running down her chin.

“Come here!” she yelled to her dad. “This bush smells amazing.”

Her dad reached for a branch and then shook his hand. “Ouch,” he said. “It’s armed.”

“But the flowers, aren’t they delicious?”

Her dad leaned in cautiously. “I don’t smell a thing, honey.”

“But it smells like—” Laurel hesitated. Ms. Suarez must be right about her nose, her gift. She felt giddy with the fragrance. “Do you know what kind it is?”

He shook his head. “That was your mom’s department.”

Heavy raindrops began to dot the sidewalk, and they sprinted for the car. Her dad was uncharacteristically solemn as he navigated the curvy road to a nearby diner. Glancing at his profile, Laurel wondered again why he’d come.

“Hey, did you sign me up for Latin?” she asked as they entered the diner.

“Latin?” Her dad shook his head. “You filled out your own schedule. I trust you to do that stuff.”

“But I didn’t pick Latin. I thought it was required.”

“Maybe it was a mistake.”

“Maybe.” Soon they were seated in a booth and ordered omelets. The silence felt awkward, until her dad reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

“Hey, I ran into Anna’s mom on the Hill,” he said. “Anna hasn’t heard from you in ages. Did you all have a fight?”

Laurel shook her head. Anna had been one of her best friends in her old life. But she went to a different school,
and Laurel wanted a new life. New friends. “We don’t have much in common anymore.”

“But you’ll see her at home this summer. I’ll forward her new e-mail to you.”

“Fine.” Once again the silence between them expanded until the waitress set down two mugs, and Laurel wrapped her hands around the steaming hot chocolate. Her dad took a sip of his latte.

“Earlier—” He cleared his throat. “When you stopped to smell those flowers, you reminded me so much of your mom. She couldn’t walk by a flower without sniffing it.”

Laurel ripped off a piece of her napkin and rubbed it into a ball. Her heartbeat quickened with her question. “Why did Mom like flowers so much?”

“Beauty. Fragrance. They seemed to have a certain mystique for her.”

“Mystique?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

Her dad took another sip of coffee. “After your mom first convinced me to buy that rickety farmhouse, I used to sit outside and read the Sunday papers, beginning to end, while you napped in your stroller. We’d roll you into a shady spot, and Lily would wander off to find something in bloom. Then she’d tie the flower upside down above your head, like a talisman.”

Laurel couldn’t help smiling. “A talisman?”

“A good luck charm. Your mom was full of old-fashioned quirks like that.” He seemed to look past her. “Some days she would just disappear into that garden.”

Chocolatey warmth flowed down Laurel’s throat as his memory became hers.

“Sometimes I called out her name, but she wouldn’t answer. I’d look, but I couldn’t find her.” He shook his head. “It was like she became one with that garden.”

Her dad met her eyes. “But as soon as you let out the tiniest whimper, she was there. Leaning over you and stroking your cheek.”

The waitress set their meals on the table.

“Thank you.” Her dad turned his plate halfway around. “Mothers have a way of materializing when they’re needed.”

Laurel stared at her plate. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d desperately wanted her mom in the past year. “Not if they’re dead,” she whispered.

“Laurel,” her dad chided. “She’d give anything to be here.”

“But she’s not.” And she told me nothing about talismans, nothing about the flower language. Laurel picked up the salt and shook it over her eggs, but she’d lost her appetite. There was a pungent smell in the air, strong yet familiar. She scrunched her nose and glanced at the vase,
but the flowers were fake. The only plant nearby was a bunch of leaves artfully arranged next to her omelet. She picked up the herb and sniffed. It was definitely the source.

“I’m glad to see you’ve made friends,” her dad went on. “I was . . . concerned.”

Laurel shrugged as she rolled the herb between her fingers. “Yeah, a few.”

“And the soccer team—exercise is so important,” he said. “It helps everything: your schoolwork, your emotions—”

“You sound like a pamphlet about teenage health,” Laurel interrupted sarcastically. She felt a ripple of irritation, because she wanted him back on the topic of her mom and flowers. “Do you remember the rhymes Mom used to say when I was little?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Not like normal rhymes, but ones she made up. Do you remember those?”

“Not off the top of my head,” he said.

“But she used to give people flowers all the time, right?”

Her dad nodded as he speared a piece of omelet. “When we first dated, she’d slip a flower into my buttonhole or petals into my pocket.”

Laurel sat up straighter. “Really? What kind?”

“Yellow ones and red—I’m not much good at their names. I used to tease her.”

“Who else did she give flowers to?” she asked.

“Almost everyone. She was always generous with her garden.”

Or maybe she knew people
needed
her flowers, Laurel thought. Like I know.

Her dad wiped his mouth. “You should ask Cicely about it. She brought a whole bushel of flowers from her own garden to the funeral, remember? She wouldn’t let us throw the florist’s onto the casket even though we’d already paid for them.”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea,” her dad said dismissively. “Have you heard from her at all?”

“No.
Nada
.”

“Damn. I was really hoping you would.” He folded his napkin and set it next to his plate. “I didn’t tell you this because you had enough to worry about at the time, but after the funeral Cicely went home and burned her garden.”

“What?”

“She set every last plant on fire,” her dad said. “A neighbor called the fire department, but most of the garden was ashes by the time they arrived. They could only save a few big trees.”

Laurel was speechless. Photographs of Grandma’s garden had appeared in national magazines, and she had shelves full of gardening prizes. She’d given tours every spring and designed a special “touch and smell” section for elementary kids to visit.

“Cicely should be on antidepressants,” her dad said. “I’ve tried to call her, but I haven’t heard back. Not since she wrote that letter.”

“Letter?” Laurel’s stomach dropped. “What letter?”

Her dad pushed his plate away. “I told you about that, didn’t I?”

“No. You
didn’t
.” Laurel pressed the leaf between her fingers. Its scent seemed curiously stronger.

“Last fall I FedExed her a note saying that you were interested in Avondale, so she wrote a personal letter to Mrs. Westfall. They don’t usually allow midyear transfers. She must have some clout as an alumna.”

Laurel felt a flare of anger. “You
never
told me that.”

“I thought I did,” he replied.

“But you didn’t,” Laurel said, savoring the strange rush of emotion. Her blood was pulsing at her temples. “And it’s totally important. You never tell me anything!”

Her dad frowned. “That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“No, it isn’t. You didn’t tell me about this letter or the flowers at the grave or Grandma torching her garden.
How am I supposed to connect with her if I don’t know what’s going on?”

Her dad’s forehead creased. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be trying to shelter you, but God knows you’ve had to deal with enough already.”

“More coffee, sir?” asked the waitress.

Her dad smiled up at the young woman—too widely, too happily, too handsomely for Laurel to take. She pushed her plate away. Her anger had never felt so pure and precise, like something she could aim.

“Grandma probably
tried
to call you,” she said. “You’re probably never home, and she hates answering machines.”

Her dad turned his mug around. “Well, it’s no fun coming home to an empty house.”

“Empty?” Laurel said, mockingly sweet. “I’m sure you have all kinds of
friends
sleeping over now that I’m out of the way.”

“What?” There was a warning edge to his voice. “You know I wanted you to stay with me.”

“But your life is sooo much easier without me, isn’t it? You can just cruise around in your hot little convertible and pick up—”

“Stop it, Laurel. This isn’t what I came to do.”

“What
did
you come to do?”

“Look. Can’t we have a decent conversation without
accusations?” he whispered. “This is getting nowhere. Iris said—” He stopped himself, but it was too late.

“So that’s why you’re here.” Laurel’s anger flashed through her like a purifying fire. “Aunt Iris told you you
had
to come.”

“That’s not it. I’ve wanted to come. Truly.” Her dad folded his hands together. “Please, Laurel. Life’s too short to argue. Your mom wanted us both to keep living, to move on. I—I’m trying to do that.”

Laurel tossed the mutilated herb onto her plate. “
Eventually
move on, Dad. Not immediately.”

“Look.” Her dad’s voice was infuriatingly calm. “I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has offended you, but I am going to live my life as I see fit. Understand?”

Laurel’s insides were boiling, but she felt sharp and potent. “And I’m going to live my life as
I
see fit.”

Her dad shook his head. “You never used to be like this. Are you seeing the counselor like I suggested? Maybe you should ask her about antidepressants.”

Laurel took a deep breath and screamed so that every head in the restaurant turned to look at them, “I DON’T NEED ANTIDEPRESSANTS!”

Her dad dropped Laurel off in the circle just as classes were changing. Her heart still beat fast, and her skin felt hot. She felt energized and powerful, because she’d said
everything she
really
felt, the things simmering under the surface . . . the things she’d been afraid to say.

Justin was less than ten feet away before she noticed him. Her stomach clenched, and she stopped walking. What was he doing here
today
?