Vanessa Diffenbaugh - The Language of Flowers

I asked the remaining two girls why they needed the money. The first to respond, a Latina girl named Lilia, rattled off a long list of desires, some essential, but many self-indulgent. Her highlights were growing out, she said, she was almost out of lotion, and she didn’t have any shoes that matched the outfit her boyfriend had given her. She mentioned rent as an afterthought. I liked her name but not her answers.

I couldn’t see the last girl’s eyes under her long bangs. When she occasionally wiped them off her face, she would leave her hand in their place over her forehead. But her answer to my question was simple and exactly what I was waiting for. If she didn’t make rent, she said, she would be evicted. Her voice choked as she said it, and she slid her face down into her turtleneck sweater until only her nose peeked above the knit. I was looking for someone desperate enough to hear an alarm clock at three-thirty a.m. and actually get out of bed; this girl would not disappoint me. I told her to meet me at the bus stop on Brannan, a block from the flower market, at five a.m. the following day.

The girl was late. Not late enough to hinder my ability to complete the arrangements on time but enough to make me worry. I didn’t have a backup plan, and I would rather leave Bethany at the altar without a bouquet than risk seeing Grant. Every time I thought of him, my body ached and the baby squirmed. But the girl arrived, sprinting and out of breath, fifteen minutes after we had agreed. She had fallen asleep on the bus and missed her stop, she said, but would work fast and make up the time. I handed her my wholesale card, a stack of cash, and a list of flowers.

While the girl was inside, I patrolled the outside of the building, fearful that she would try to make a run for it with the money. The many emergency exits worried me; I hoped they were alarmed. But half an hour later, the girl emerged, her arms full of flowers. She handed them to me with the change, and then went back inside for the second half. When she returned, we loaded the flowers into my car, driving back to Potrero Hill in silence.

I had covered the downstairs floor with thick painter’s plastic. Natalya said I could do whatever I wanted with the downstairs during the day, as long as it didn’t interfere with her band’s ability to practice at night. The vases I had purchased on sale at a dollar store were lined up in the center of the room, already filled with water, and a roll of ribbon and pins sat beside them.

We set to work on the ground. As the girl watched, I demonstrated how to de-thorn roses, trim leaves, and cut stems at an angle. She prepared the flowers while I began the arrangements. We worked until my legs began to cramp, the weight of my body heavy on the floor. I went upstairs to stretch, and retrieved the acacia and honeysuckle I had gathered. It sat on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, next to a package of cinnamon rolls and a gallon of milk. I gathered everything and carried it downstairs, holding the pastry box out to the girl.

“Thanks,” she said, taking two. “My name’s Marlena, in case you forgot.”

I had forgotten. There was little memorable about Marlena. Everything about her was plain, and even her plainness was hidden by long hair and baggy clothes. She shook her head and blew forcefully over her upper lip so that her bangs parted and settled on either side of her brown eyes. Her face, which I could finally see, was round, with smooth, unblemished skin. She wore an enormous fleece sweatshirt that hung almost to her knees and made her look like a lost child. When she finished eating, her bangs fell onto her face again; she didn’t move them.

“I’m Victoria,” I said. I handed her a tall iris from a vase by the table. She read the card.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “A businesswoman with a baby on the way. I don’t think many of us are going to make it like you have.”

I didn’t tell her about my months in McKinley Square, or the dread I felt every time I remembered that the churning mass growing inside me would become a child: a screaming, hungry, living thing.

“Some will, some won’t,” I said. “Same as everywhere.” I finished my cinnamon roll and started back to work. Hours passed, and occasionally Marlena would ask a question or compliment my arrangements, but I worked beside her in silence. My mind was full of memories of Renata, my first morning with her at the flower market, learning to buy flowers, and later that same day, sitting at her long table, the nod of her approval punctuating each bouquet I assembled.

When we were done, Marlena helped me put the flowers in my car, and I got out my cash. “How much do you need?” I asked.

Marlena was prepared for the question. “Sixty dollars,” she said. “To pay rent on the first. Then I can stay another month.”

I counted out three twenties, paused, and gave her a fourth. “Here’s eighty,” I said. “Call me at the number on the card every Monday. I’ll tell you when I have more work.”

“Thank you,” she said. I could have taken her home—the wedding was only a few blocks from The Gathering House—but I had tired of company. I waited for her to walk around the corner before climbing into the car and driving to the beach.

The wedding was perfect. The roses did not snap; the honeysuckle draped but did not tangle. Afterward, I stood at the entrance to the parking lot and handed an iris to every guest. No one touched my stomach. I did not attend the reception.

I hadn’t told Natalya about my business, so I rarely left the house and always answered the phone. “Message,” I would say into the receiver, my intonation a mixture of question and statement. Natalya’s friends would leave her a message, and I would tape notes to her bedroom door. Customers would introduce themselves and explain their events, and I would pinpoint their desires through a chain of questions or invite them downstairs for a consultation. Bethany’s friends were wealthy, and no one, even once, asked the price of a flower. I charged more when I needed the money, less as my business began to grow.

As I waited for the phone to ring and my appointment book to fill, I made two additional sets of boxes. I didn’t like the idea of strangers sitting at the table, fingering my blue box, and I needed a box organized by flower, as Grant’s had been. From the negatives I’d kept, I printed new photographs, mounted them on plain white cardstock, and filed them in shoeboxes I scavenged. One set I placed on the downstairs table, the second set I gave to Marlena, telling her to memorize every card. My blue box I returned to my room, safe behind the row of deadbolts.

I was called for a baby shower in Los Altos Hills, a toddler’s birthday party in a wood-floored flat on California Avenue, and a wedding shower in the Marina, across the street from my favorite deli. I had three holiday parties and a New Year’s party at Bethany and Ray’s. Everywhere I went, I brought a silver bucket of irises, all tagged. By January, Marlena had made enough to pay first and last months’ rent for her own apartment, and I had sixteen summer weddings scheduled.

I didn’t take requests for anything for the entire month of March, and my February engagements made me nervous. Four plastic one-gallon containers of dittany sat in the corners of the blue room. Without light, the plant would never bloom. I kept the light off and tried to delay the inevitable.

But the baby within me, despite my dread, continued to grow. My stomach was so big by late January that I had to tilt the seat of my small car as far back as it would go. Even then, there was only an inch between my belly and the steering wheel. When the baby jabbed an elbow or a foot forward, it felt as though it was reaching out to take control of the car. I wore men’s clothes, T-shirts and sweatshirts that were too big and too long, and elastic-waist pants pulled low over my stomach. Occasionally, I passed as overweight, but most of the time I still fell prey to curious hands.