The Language of Flowers (25 page)

The day I felt the baby kick for the first time, I returned to the blue room. I lugged the duffel bag across the city to my car and drove to the apartment. Letting myself in the front door, I carried everything up the stairs in three trips. Natalya’s door was open, and I stood over her bed,
watching her sleep. She had recently dyed her hair again, and the pink had rubbed off in streaks on the white pillowcase. She smelled like sweet wine and cloves, and she didn’t stir. I shook her awake.

“Has he come?” I asked.

Natalya covered her eyes with her elbow and sighed. “Yeah, a few weeks ago.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that you were gone.”

“I was.”

“Yeah. Where’d you go?”

I ignored her question. “Did you tell him I was still paying rent?”

She sat up and shook her head. “I wasn’t entirely sure the money was from you.” She reached out and placed her hand on my stomach. In just the past few weeks, I had gone from looking fat to looking undeniably pregnant. “Renata told me,” she said.

The baby kicked again, its fingers and feet pressing into my internal organs, scraping the walls of my liver, my heart, my spleen. I gagged and ran into kitchen, throwing up into the sink. Dropping down to the floor, I felt the nausea ebb and flow with the motion of the baby. I thought I was past the sickness of early pregnancy; I also thought I had overcome the urge to vomit every time I was touched. One of my two assumptions was inaccurate.

Renata had told Natalya. If she had told Natalya, there was no reason to think she hadn’t told Grant. I climbed my way up the kitchen cabinets and threw up into the sink a second time.

There was a new sign in the window of Bloom. Shorter hours, closed on Sundays. When I arrived in the early afternoon, the storefront was dark and locked, even though the sign said it should be open. I knocked, and when Renata didn’t come, I knocked again. The key was in my pocket, but I didn’t use it. I sat down on the curb and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, Renata returned, the silver tube of a wrapped burrito in her hand. I watched the light reflect off the aluminum and
onto the walls of the buildings she passed. I stood up but did not look at her, even when she was standing directly in front of me. My eyes studied my feet, still visible beneath the curve of my stomach.

“Did you tell him?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know?” The shock and accusation in her voice pushed me backward. I stumbled off the curb and into the street. Renata steadied me with her hand on my shoulder. When I looked up, her eyes were kinder than her words had been.

She nodded to my stomach. “When are you due?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The baby would come when it did. I would not see a doctor, and I would not give birth in a hospital. Renata seemed to understand all this without me having to tell her.

“My mother will help you. And she won’t charge you anything. She considers it the work for which she was put on this earth.” I could hear Renata’s words coming out of Mother Ruby’s mouth, her accent thicker and her hands on my body. I shook my head.

“Then what do you want from me?” Renata demanded, her frustration escaping in short, punctuated words.

“I want to work,” I said. “And I want you not to tell Grant—that I’m back or that I’m having a baby.”

She sighed. “He deserves to know.”

I nodded. “I know he does.” Grant deserved a lot of things, all of them better than me. “You won’t tell him?”

Renata shook her head. “No. But I won’t lie for you. You can’t work for me, not with Grant asking me every Saturday if you’ve returned to your job. I’ve never been a good liar, and I don’t want to learn now.”

I crumpled onto the curb, and Renata sat beside me. When I checked my pulse underneath the wristband of my watch, the beat was imperceptible. I couldn’t get another job. Even before getting pregnant, the likelihood was slim, and it would be impossible in my current, increasingly visible, condition. The money I had saved would eventually run out. I wouldn’t be able to feed myself or buy whatever it was that made children so infamously expensive.

“Then what will I do?” My despair became anger as it left my body, but Renata didn’t flinch.

“Ask Grant,” she said.

I stood up to leave.

“Wait a minute,” she said. She unlocked the door to Bloom and opened the cash register. Lifting the cash drawer, she extracted a sealed red envelope, my name printed neatly across the front, and a stack of twenty-dollar bills. Walking back outside, she held out the cash.

“Your final paycheck,” she said. I didn’t count the money she handed me, but I could tell it was much more than I had earned. When I had put it in my backpack, she handed me the envelope and her unopened burrito. “Protein,” she said. “That’s what my mother always says. It builds the baby’s brain. Or maybe it’s the bones—I can’t remember.”

I thanked her, turning to walk down the hill.

“If you ever need anything,” she called after me, “you know where to find me.”

The rest of the day I spent in the blue room, fighting off waves of nausea as the baby fluttered inside me. The red envelope lay on the white fur floor like a bloodstain, and I sat cross-legged beside it. I couldn’t decide whether to open it or to slip it under the rug and forget about it.

Finally, I decided I had to know. It would be hard to read Grant’s words but even harder to go through the pregnancy without knowing if he had guessed the reason for my abrupt parting.

But when I opened the envelope, it was not what I had expected. It was a wedding invitation: Bethany and Ray, the first weekend in November, Ocean Beach. The wedding was less than two weeks away. I was invited, Bethany wrote on the back, as a guest, but would I also do the flowers? What she wanted most, she wrote, was permanence, and after that, passion.
The opposite of the cherry blossom
, I thought, cringing at the memory of the afternoon in Catherine’s studio and everything that moment had become. I would suggest honeysuckle, I decided,
devotion
. The very strength of the vine suggested a permanence I had never experienced but hoped Bethany would.

Bethany had included her phone number and asked me to call by the end of August. The date had long passed, and she had likely found another florist, but I had to try. It was the only foreseeable source of income in what would be a long, idle winter.

Picking up on the second ring, Bethany gasped at the sound of my voice.

“Victoria!” she said. “I’d given up! I found another florist, but that woman is about to lose a job, deposit or no.”

She and Ray could meet the following day, she said. I gave her directions to my house.

“I hope you’ll stay for the wedding,” she said before she hung up. “You know, I credit your bouquet as the beginning of everything.”

“I will,” I said. And I would bring something resembling business cards.

I asked Natalya if I could meet with Bethany and Ray downstairs, and she agreed. Early the following morning, I bought a card table and three folding chairs at a flea market in South San Francisco. They fit inside the back of my car, the hatchback tied down with a rope. In addition to the furniture, I bought a rose-colored cut crystal vase with a discreet chip for a dollar and a white lace tablecloth with a pink plastic liner for three. I wrapped the vase in the tablecloth and took the side streets home.

Before Bethany and Ray arrived, I set up the card table in the empty office space. Covering it with the lace cloth, I set the crystal vase in the center, full of flowers from my garden in McKinley Square. Next to the vase sat my blue photo box. I checked and rechecked my alphabetization while I waited for the door to open.

Finally, it did, and Bethany stood in the empty doorway more beautiful than I remembered, Ray more handsome than I imagined. They would make a breathtaking couple, I thought, draping honeysuckle in long lines through the white sand.

Bethany opened her arms to hug me, and I allowed it, my belly a ball between us. Looking down, she gasped and placed her hands on my
stomach. I wondered how many times I would have to endure this in the coming months, from acquaintances and strangers on the street. Pregnancy seemed to remove the unspoken societal laws of personal space. I disliked it almost as much as the feeling of another human being growing within my body.

“Congratulations!” Bethany said, hugging me again. “When are you due?”

It was the second time I’d been asked in two days, and I knew the frequency would increase along with my size. I counted the months in my head.

“February,” I said. “Or March. The doctors aren’t sure.”

Bethany introduced me to Ray, and we shook hands. Motioning to the table and chairs, I asked them to sit down. I sat across from them, apologizing for taking so long to call.

“We’re just so glad you did,” Bethany said, squeezing Ray’s thick arm. “I’ve told Ray all about you.”

I pushed the blue box toward the couple. It glowed under the fluorescent office lights. “I can do anything you want for your wedding. Nearly everything is available at the flower market, even out of season.” Bethany opened the lid, and I cringed as if she was again touching my body.

Ray picked up the first card. In the years that followed, I watched many men squirm in front of my flower dictionary, the fluorescent lights casting a sickly shadow on their nervous faces. But Ray wasn’t one of them. His bulk was deceiving; he discussed emotions like Annemarie’s lady friends, with loquacious enthusiasm and indecision. They got stuck on the first card, acacia, as Grant and I had, but for completely different reasons.

“Secret love,”
he said. “I like that.”

“ ‘Secret’?” Bethany asked. “Why secret?” She said it with mock offense, as if he was suggesting they hide their love from the world.

“Because what we have
is
secret. My friends, when they talk about their girlfriends or wives, complaining or bragging, I just keep quiet. What we have—it’s different. I want to keep it that way. Untouched. Secret.”

“Mmm,” Bethany said. “Yes.” She turned over the card and viewed the photo of the acacia blossom, a feathery golden sphere-shaped flower hanging on a delicate stem. There was more than one acacia tree in McKinley Square. I hoped they were in bloom. “What can you do with this?” she asked.

“It depends on what else you want. Acacia isn’t a centerpiece flower. I would probably drape it around the edge of a nosegay, half concealing your hands.”

“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.

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.