The Language of Flowers (24 page)

A rose is a rose is a rose
.

Grant would understand, if not accept, that this was the end.

I would go back to the blue room; I would have the baby within its watery
walls. I knew this in the same way I knew that Grant was looking for me, without evidence and without doubt. Grant didn’t know the location of the blue room, but he knew enough to find it, I was sure. Until he had given up, I had to stay away. It could take months or most of the year. I was prepared to wait.

No longer squeamish in the presence of intoxicated teenagers, I moved back in to my garden in McKinley Square. I had a knife and a sexual past. They couldn’t attempt anything that hadn’t already been done, and, looking at my reflection in a gas station mirror, I doubted anyone would try. Feeling numb toward both my changing body and my homelessness, I didn’t change my clothes, didn’t seek out showers or wealthy neighborhoods. The weeks began to show on my skin.

I missed Renata, and missed my job, but I couldn’t go back to Bloom. It was the first place Grant would look for me. Instead, I hid under the heath bushes, which had grown and multiplied in my absence. The seeds of heath could exist in the soil for months or years—decades, even—before bursting forth new life, and the familiar plant comforted me as I curled up with Grant’s duffel bag beneath its branches. The rest of my things I left in my car, which I moved to a different street every day. If Grant saw the hatchback, he would recognize it—even with
the license plate removed and the blue box well hidden under my belongings—so I kept it far from Potrero Hill, in Bernal Heights or Glen Park, sometimes as far as Hunters Point. I had been sleeping in the park for weeks before it dawned on me that I could sleep in my car at night. But I didn’t want to. The smell of the soil, saturated from overwatering, entered my dreams and calmed my nightmares.

In mid-August, perched at the top of the play structure in McKinley Square, I spotted Grant. He was coming straight up Vermont Street, climbing the hill with his eyes scanning the modern lofts and old Victorians. He stopped and exchanged words with a painter on slanted scaffolding. Turquoise paint dripped from a brush and landed on a drop cloth near Grant’s shoe. He reached down and touched the wet paint, then called something up to the painter, and the man shrugged. Grant was three blocks down the hill, and I couldn’t hear his words, but I could see he wasn’t out of breath even after the steep climb.

I scrambled through the bushes, zipped my bag, and pulled it across the street and into the corner store. When I’d first moved back to McKinley Square, I’d told the store’s owner I was running from an abusive family. I asked him to hide me if my brother ever came looking. The owner had refused, but as time passed and I purchased every meal from his always-empty neighborhood store, I knew I would not be turned away.

The owner looked up when I ran in with my heavy bag and quickly opened the door behind him. I raced around the counter, through the door, and up a flight of stairs. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to the front window of the small, sparsely furnished apartment. The hardwood floor smelled like lemon oil and felt slick against my shins. The walls were painted bright yellow. Grant would not look up twice.

Crouching low under the bay window, my eyes peered over the sill. Grant had already climbed the stairs to the park and passed the swings, the empty seats swaying in the breeze. He spun in a circle, and I ducked down. When I lifted my head again, he stood at the edge of the grass, where thick green sod met the wild forest undergrowth. He pressed a boot into the trunk of a redwood tree before walking across the soft layer of duff and kneeling in front of the white verbena. I held my
breath as Grant looked around the sloping hillside, afraid he would notice the carved-out heath bush and the outline of my body, belly round, beneath it.

But he didn’t pause at the heath. He turned back to the verbena and bowed his head. I was too far away to see the delicate clustered petals in which he dipped his nose, too far away to hear his hushed words, but I knew he was praying.

My forehead pressed against the glass, and I felt my body being pulled toward him by the strength of my own desire. I missed his sweet, earthy smell, his cooking, and his touch. The way he placed his square palms over each side of my face as he looked into my eyes, and the way his hands smelled of soil, even after they had just been washed. But I could not go to him. He would make promises, and I would repeat his words because I wanted to believe in his vision of our life together. But over time we would both find my words meaningless. I would fail; it was the only possible outcome.

Closing my eyes, I forced my body away from the window. My shoulders fell forward, belly pressed against parted thighs. The sun warmed my back. If I had known how, I would have joined Grant in prayer. I would have prayed for him, for his goodness, his loyalty, and his improbable love. I would have prayed for him to give up, to let go, and to start over. I might have even prayed for forgiveness.

But I didn’t know how to pray.

Instead, I stayed as I was, folded over on the floor of a stranger’s living room, waiting for Grant to give up, forget about me, and go home.

“Six months,” Elizabeth said
.

I watched Meredith drive away. After visiting weekly for two months, she had finally decided to set a new court date. Six months away.

Elizabeth slipped an extra strip of bacon into a sandwich and set it in front of me. I picked it up, took a bite, and nodded. She hadn’t given notice, as I’d expected, but she was different than she’d been before the failed adoption, nervous and apologetic.

“The time will go quickly,” she said, “with the harvest and the holidays and everything.”

I nodded again and swallowed hard, wiping my eyes, refusing to cry. In the time since our missed court appearance, I had replayed scenes from the year before in my head endlessly, looking for clues to what I had done wrong. The list was long: cutting down the arm of the cactus, hitting the bus driver over the head, and more than one declaration of hatred. But Elizabeth seemed to have forgiven me for my violent outbursts. These, she seemed to understand. I’d come to the conclusion that her sudden ambivalence was because of my growing clinginess, or else my tears. Feeling my eyes well again, I shut them and folded over, my forehead pressed against the table.

“I’m really sorry,” Elizabeth said quietly. She had said it hundreds of times in the previous weeks, and I believed her. She seemed sorry. What
I didn’t believe, though, was that she still wanted to be my mother. Pity, I knew, was different from love. From what I’d heard of their conversation in the living room, Meredith had made my options clear to Elizabeth. I had her or I had no one. It was out of a sense of obligation, I decided, that Elizabeth hadn’t given notice. Finishing my sandwich, I rubbed my hands clean on my jeans.

“If you’re done,” Elizabeth said, “wait for me on the tractor. I’ll clean up and meet you out there.”

Outside, I leaned against the tall tire, surveying the vines. It was turning out to be a good year. Elizabeth and I had thinned and fertilized in just the right amounts; the grapes that remained were fat and starting to sweeten. I’d spent all fall working beside Elizabeth on the vineyard, writing three-paragraph essays on seasons, soil, and grape growing; memorizing field guides and plant families. In the evenings, just as I had the autumn before, I accompanied Elizabeth on her tasting tours.

I checked my watch. We had a long night of tasting ahead of us, and I was anxious to start. But Elizabeth didn’t come, not after five minutes, and not after ten. I decided to go back inside. I would drink some milk and watch Elizabeth finish cleaning the kitchen.

When I reached the front porch, I heard her voice, half angry, half pleading. She was on the phone. All at once I realized why Elizabeth had kept me waiting by the tractor, and just as suddenly I realized that the failed adoption was not my fault. It was Catherine’s. If she’d shown up, if she’d responded with words or flowers, if she hadn’t left Elizabeth so alone, everything would have been different. Elizabeth would have gotten out of bed and tightened the ribbons on my dress and driven us to court, Grant and Catherine in tow. Filling with rage, I stormed into the kitchen.

“I fucking hate that woman!” I shouted.

Elizabeth looked up. She moved her hand to cover the mouthpiece. Springing forward, I ripped the phone out of her hand. “You fucking ruined my life!” I shouted, and then slammed it against the base. The call disconnected, but the phone bounced off the hook, hitting the hardwood floor and then dangling an inch above the ground. Elizabeth folded her head into her hands and leaned against the counter. She appeared
neither surprised nor offended by my unexpected outburst. I waited for her to speak, but she was quiet for a long time.

“Victoria, I know you’re angry,” she said finally. “You have every right to be. But don’t be mad at Catherine. I’m the one who messed up. Blame me. I’m your mother—don’t you know that’s what mothers are for?” The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, a wry, tired smile, and she met my gaze.

Squeezing my hands into fists, I rocked backward on my heels, begging myself not to attack her. Even in the height of my anger, I understood that above all else, I wanted to stay with Elizabeth.

“No,” I said, when I’d calmed enough to speak. “You’re not my mother. You would have been, if Catherine hadn’t ruined my life.”

Storming over to the stairs, I was startled by a flash of motion out the front window. A truck sped up the driveway. In profile, I saw Grant hunched over the steering wheel. Brakes squealed and gravel flew as he parked in front of the house.

I sprinted upstairs at the same time Grant pounded up the front porch. At the top, I leaned against the wall, out of sight. Grant didn’t knock and didn’t wait for Elizabeth to come to the door.

“You have to stop,” he said, out of breath.

Elizabeth crossed the room. I imagined her standing in front of him, only the screen separating their bodies.

“I won’t stop,” she said. “Eventually, she’ll accept my forgiveness. She has to.”

“She won’t. You don’t know her anymore.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Just that. You don’t know her.”

“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice barely audible over a persistent tapping. It sounded like Grant’s foot on the porch, or his knuckles on the frame of the screen. The noise was nervous, impatient.

“I only came over to tell you to stop calling—please.” There was silence between them.

“You can’t tell me to forget her. She’s my sister.”

“Maybe,” Grant said.

“ ‘Maybe’?”
Elizabeth’s voice rose suddenly. I could picture her face flushed, hot. Had Elizabeth been stalking the wrong woman? Was Grant even her nephew?

“All I mean is, she isn’t the sister you knew. Please believe me.”

“People change,” Elizabeth said. “Love doesn’t. Family doesn’t.”

There was silence again, and I wished I could see their faces, to see if they were angry, or indifferent, or on the verge of tears.

“Yes,” Grant said finally. “Love does.” I heard footsteps, and I knew he was leaving. When his voice reached me again, it was from far away. “She keeps filling jam jars with lighter fluid. Lining them up on the kitchen windowsill. Says she’s going to burn down your vineyard.”

“No.” Elizabeth did not sound shocked or afraid, only disbelieving. “She wouldn’t do it. I don’t care how much she’s changed in fifteen years. She wouldn’t do that. She loves these vines as much as I do. She always has.”

His truck door slammed. “I just thought you should know,” he said. The engine started, a quiet hum, and it idled there, in the driveway. I imagined Grant’s and Elizabeth’s gazes meeting, each searching the other for the truth.

Finally, Elizabeth called out to him. “Grant?” she said. “You don’t have to leave. There’s leftovers from dinner, and you’re welcome here.”

Wheels turned in the gravel. “No,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come, and I won’t come again. She can never know.”

I waited a second month, and then a third, just to be certain, slipping
rent under Natalya’s door when it was due. By the end of October, the nausea had lessened. It returned only when I didn’t eat enough, which was rare. I had plenty of money for meals. Grant’s cash and my own savings would have kept me well fed throughout my pregnancy, but I knew I wouldn’t have to wait that long.

As the leaves fell, I became sure that Grant had given up. I imagined looking through the windows of his water tower and watching him box up the romantic poets and cover the orange box with an opaque cloth, the calculated actions of a man with a past to forget. And soon, I told myself, he would forget. There would be many women at the flower market, women who were more beautiful, exotic, and sexual than I would ever be. If he hadn’t already found one, he would. But even as I tried to convince myself, Grant’s image passed through my mind, his hooded sweatshirt pulled low over his forehead. Not once had I seen him look up at a woman passing his stall.