Ванесса Диффенбау: The Language of Flowers

I’d left the vineyard only twice since tasting the grapes with my daughter, once to help Marlena with a five-hundred-guest wedding—our biggest yet—and the second time, just the day before, to pack up my things. After emptying the apartment, I’d driven to The Gathering House and knocked on the front door, offering free rent in exchange for work as a floral assistant. Two girls volunteered, and I hired them on the spot, driving them back to the apartment. Marlena had been waiting, nervous, and I watched as she showed the girls around and then went over the calendar. They listened quietly as she described the many tasks for which they would be responsible. Afterward, I turned to leave, confident I would not be needed in the near future, but Marlena pulled me aside, desperation in her eyes. “But they don’t know the flowers,” she’d whispered.

“Neither did you,” I’d reminded her, but she didn’t look entirely reassured. I promised her I’d be back, soon. I just needed a little more time.

Pulling Grant’s heavy green duffel bag to the third floor, I thought about the promise I’d made to Marlena. I loved Message, loved the look on my brides’ faces when I handed over their wedding scrolls, loved the thank-you cards that poured in every day with the mail. We were building something, Marlena and I. Bethany and Ray had already booked Message for their first, fifth, and tenth wedding anniversaries. Bethany credited me for the fulfillment she’d found in her relationship; I credited her with the growing success of my business. I would not let her down, and I would not let Marlena down, either.

It would be possible, someday, to have a business and a family, both. I would commute back to San Francisco in the mornings and return in time for dinner like any other working mother. I would pick Hazel up from Elizabeth’s and buckle her into her car seat, drive her back to the flower farm, and sit with her at the long dining room table. Grant would have dinner made, and we would chop Hazel’s food into tiny pieces and talk about our day, marveling over the growth of our businesses, our daughter, our love. On days off we would take Hazel to the beach, Grant carrying her on his shoulders until she was old enough to run safely among the waves, her footprints in the sand growing with each passing month.

One day, I would be able to do it all.

But not yet.

Right now, I knew it would require all my strength and attention to rejoin my family. Though she was worried, Marlena understood. The task ahead of me was great. I needed to accept Grant’s love, and Elizabeth’s, and earn the love of my daughter. I needed to never, under any circumstance, leave any of them again.

The idea filled me with equal parts joy and terror.

I’d lived with Grant before, and failed. I’d lived with Elizabeth; I’d lived with Hazel. Each time, I had failed.

This time, I told myself, looking around Grant’s old bedroom, it would be different. This time, I would take smaller steps, and enter our unconventional family in a way that I knew I could handle. From breast-feeding I had learned the dangers of throwing myself fully into something and risking a complete collapse. It was why I had decided, for now, to live in the water tower alone. Hazel would remain with Elizabeth, visiting more and more often, and for longer periods of time. As my fear eventually turned to trust—in my family, but mostly in myself—I would move in to the main house with Grant, and we would bring Hazel to live with us. Less than a mile away, Elizabeth would be our support. And the water tower, Grant promised, would always be mine for a brief escape, a moment of solitude. It was everything I needed to stay.

I unzipped my bag and began to transfer my belongings, stacking jeans and T-shirts and shoes in the corners, hanging blouses and belts on a row of rusty nails on the wall. Outside, the front gate squeaked open. I went to the window and watched Elizabeth push a stroller through the opening, returning to latch the gate. Hazel’s patent-leather shoes peeked out from beneath a wide canvas hat, pulled low to shield the sun from her face.

I found my only dress inside the duffel bag and shook it out. Undressing quickly, I slipped it over my head. The dress was a black cotton shirtwaist with a thin, cloth-covered belt of the same fabric. I pushed my feet into my dark red flats and fastened a crystal necklace Elizabeth had given me around my neck, one Hazel liked to grab.

Combing my fingers through my short hair, I returned to the window. Elizabeth had reached the bottom porch step, where she braked the stroller and pushed up the shade. Hazel squinted into the sunlight. Her eyes traveled up the water tower, and I waved from behind the third-story window. She smiled and reached up, as if wanting me to pull her out of the stroller.

Elizabeth saw her outstretched arms and leaned over to pick her up. With the baby on her hip, she reached under the stroller and pulled something out of a storage area beneath the seat, holding it up for me to see.

A ladybug-shaped backpack. Inside, I knew, were Hazel’s pajamas, diapers, and a change of clothes. Elizabeth’s face was joyful and determinedly brave; mine, I knew, was the same. Looking at my daughter filled me with a love I once thought myself incapable of feeling, and I thought about what Grant had said the afternoon I reappeared in his rose garden. If it was true that moss did not have roots, and maternal love could grow spontaneously, as if from nothing, perhaps I had been wrong to believe myself unfit to raise my daughter. Perhaps the unattached, the unwanted, the unloved, could grow to give love as lushly as anyone else.

Tonight, my daughter would spend the night for the first time. We would read books and rock in her rocking chair. Afterward, we would try to sleep. Maybe she would be scared, and maybe I would feel overwhelmed, but we would try again the next week and the one after that. Over time, we would learn each other, and I would learn to love her like a mother loves a daughter, imperfectly and without roots.

Abutilon ( Abutilon ) … Meditation

Acacia ( Acacia ) … Secret love

Acanthus ( Acanthus ) … Artifice

Agapanthus ( Agapanthus ) … Love letter

Allium ( Allium ) … Prosperity

Almond blossom ( Amygdalus communis ) … Indiscretion

Aloe ( Aloe vera ) … Grief

Alstroemeria ( Alstroemeria ) … Devotion

Alyssum ( Lobularia maritima ) … Worth beyond beauty

Amaranth ( Amaranthus ) … Immortality

Amaryllis ( Hippeastrum ) … Pride

Anemone ( Anemone ) … Forsaken

Angelica ( Angelica pachycarpa ) … Inspiration

Apple ( Malus domestica ) … Temptation

Apple blossom ( Malus domestica ) … Preference

Aster ( Aster ) … Patience

Azalea ( Rhododendron ) … Fragile and ephemeral passion

Baby’s breath ( Gypsophila paniculata ) … Everlasting love

Bachelor’s button ( Centaurea cyanus ) … Single blessedness

Basil ( Ocimum basilicum ) … Hate

Bay leaf ( Laurus nobilis ) … I change but in death

Begonia ( Begonia ) … Caution

Bellflower ( Campanula ) … Gratitude