The Language of Flowers

Stumbling down the stairs, I squinted in the bright light. Marlena burst though the doors. “She must be enormous!” she exclaimed. “What’s her name?” She flew up the stairs, and I followed slowly behind. When I got to the top, Marlena was spinning in a circle in the living room, the emptiness of the apartment settling over her. She looked at me, her eyes holding a single question.

“I don’t know,” I said, answering her spoken question but not her unspoken one. “Her name. I didn’t name her.” Marlena’s eyes did not move from my body, the question they held the same: Where is she?

I started to cry. Marlena came to me, placing a soft hand on my shoulder. I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know that the baby was safe, and would be loved, and might even be happy.

Minutes passed before I could speak, and when I did, I told the story simply, without embellishment. I left her with her father, who would raise her. I wasn’t able to be the mother I wanted to be. The loss was incapacitating, but I had made the best decision for my daughter.

“Please,” I said when I had finished. “Let’s not talk about her again.” I walked across the room for a box of tissues and my appointment book. I scrawled a short list on a lined sheet of paper and folded it into Marlena’s fingers with enough cash for the purchase. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. I did not wait for her to leave but crawled into the blue room and locked the door.

The spoken truth rocked me to sleep.

It was not Marlena’s quiet tap that woke me the following morning but Renata’s punctuated pounding. I covered my head with a pillow, but her voice reached me though the feathers.

“I’m not going anywhere, Victoria,” she called up. “I just saw Marlena at the flower market, and I know you’re inside. If you don’t open up, I’ll just sit here until Marlena arrives, and she’ll let me in.”

There was no way to avoid it any longer. I had to face her. Walking downstairs, I unlocked the double glass doors and inched one open.

“What?” I demanded.

“I saw her,” Renata said. “This morning, at the market. I thought you had left with the baby, left without telling any of us where you were going, and then there she was in his arms.”

My eyes filled, and I lifted my shoulders by way of asking what she wanted from me.

“You told him?” Renata asked. “You gave him the baby?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” I said. “And I don’t want you to tell me anything. Ever.” I swallowed hard.

Renata softened then. “She looked happy,” she said, “and Grant looked tired. But—”

“Please,” I said to Renata as I inched the door closed. “I don’t want to know. I can’t take it.”

I closed and locked the door. Renata and I stood on opposite sides of the glass in silence. The doors were not thick enough to block conversation, but neither of us spoke. Renata looked into my eyes, and I let her. I hoped she could see the longing, the loneliness, and the despair. It was hard enough to let my baby go. It would be harder with constant updates from Renata. She had to understand that the only way I could survive my decision was to try to forget.

Marlena drove up in my car, the hatchback open and flowers spilling out. Midway through unloading, she stopped, examining Renata and me.

“Everything okay?” she asked. Renata looked at me, and I turned my face away.

Renata didn’t answer. She turned up the hill to Bloom, her arms defeated at her sides.

1.

Message grew exponentially in the months that followed. I accepted only cash, up front, and the underground quality attracted a cultlike following. I did not advertise. After the first few buckets of tagged iris, my phone number spread faster than it would have if I’d purchased a blinking billboard on the entrance to the Bay Bridge. Natalya did not return from her tour, and I took over the apartment, sending an envelope full of hundred-dollar bills to the landlord on the first of June. Marlena continued to work as my assistant, organizing the calendar, answering calls, filling purchase orders, and making deliveries. I supervised the flower arranging and met with clients on the folding flea-market chairs in the empty office space, the shoeboxes open under the harsh fluorescent lights.