I’m starting with the biggest and hardest: the funeral piece. (Tracy thinks I’m ready for this and I hope to prove her right.) I’ve soaked the oasis already, and now it sits inside the basket, waiting to be filled with stems. I step into the cooler to gather the ordered flowers (a dozen white roses as a base, and white lisianthus, spray roses, stock, and a splash of iris to fill).
I start with the roses, spreading them equally and giving them gradual height toward the back of the basket. Then I weave leather and misty around the edges to create a frame. Within twenty minutes I have filled the in-betweens of the roses with the other flowers and more filler, adjusting it every so often to get the look I want. Finally, I stand back, surveying my work.
“Bee,” Tracy calls from the storage room. “Will you open the back door? Ludwig’s here! He needs to grab that funeral piece.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve finished…just in time. “Yeah!” I call out, heading to the back.
Ludwig, Tracy’s funeral delivery man, is just on the other side. I’ve only seen him a few times, since he works for Tracy at odd hours, but I’d know him anywhere. He has long silver hair, which he always wears down, and he’s got on his signature cargo pants and floral button up. “Hey!” he says cheerfully.
“Hi, Ludwig,” I say, stepping aside so he can come inside. “It’s ready for you on the table.”
He nods and approaches the work table. “Phew, Tracy!” he calls out, as if he knows she’s hiding somewhere. “This is stupendous work!”
OH MY GOSH, I think, and then I don’t know what to think. Tracy laughs—but then comes the sound of crashing.
“You okay?” Ludwig shouts.
Tracy laughs some more. “Yes. Bee made that funeral piece, not me.”
Ludwig’s expression swiftly changes: a raised eyebrow, one side of his mouth quirking.
I duck my head awkwardly, blushing straight to the roots of my hair. “Thanks?”
He whistles. “It’s like you’ve been doing this for twenty years. Is Tracy teaching you?”
“Yeah.” Most of this I picked up from watching her and experimenting on my own, but I don’t say that.
“Real talent, this.” He waves at the basket arrangement like he doesn’t know what to do with it. He walks around the table once to get a three-sixty view.
“Thanks,” I say again, cursing the one-word answers sticking to my tongue.
“Ever thought about taking classes?”
His question startles me more than I care to admit. It’s not a bad idea. I’d even go so far as to call it a great idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? “No,” I answer slowly. “I haven’t.”
“You have a lot of talent, Bee.”
I shake my head. “It’s not—”
“It is,” Ludwig says firmly. “I know Tracy. She doesn’t put time and energy into people who don’t have true talent.”
I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
“I teach,” he announces, as if he’s just been waiting for this moment. He leans back against the work table. “It’s already full for the fall, but I could give you a guaranteed spot in the spring, if you want. And at a discount, for a friend of a friend.”
I swallow.
“It’s more advanced than what Tracy’s teaching you here. More about finding your style and making you the designer only you can be.” He laughs. “I sound like the inside of a Hallmark card, but it’s true. Besides, it looks good on your resume and will be a bonus if you go to school for this later.”
I’m not without my doubts (Classes? School? Resume?!) but I smile at Ludwig and nod. “I’ll think about it.”
“Let me know by November and I’ll have a spot for you.” He turns, grabs the trip sheet on the counter, and hoists the basket into his arms. “Gotta take this now. See you soon?”
I nod. “Thanks.”
He nods, smiling, and disappears out the back door.
My doubts and worries soon fade into general excitement. I’ll worry about all that stuff later, I argue with myself, and end up bursting with the news as soon as I get to the hospital and sit down beside my Papa. “You’ll never believe what I just heard from Ludwig today.”
He snorts. “I didn’t realize there were any Ludwig’s left alive.”
“Shh, Papa, I know his name is…old fashioned…but you named me Bernice so you can’t talk! Besides, he’s really nice.” I scoot my chair closer. The room is empty except for us (Mama went for a walk), and the quiet is kind of nice. I explain everything to him, hardly taking a breath the whole time. I heave when I’m done, satisfied with my narrative.
My dad raises an eyebrow and squeezes my hand. “You want to do it?”
“I don’t know…I mean…yeah?” I clear my throat. “Yeah, I do.”
He nods. “Then you should do it. It’s fun for you, and I think it would make your mother happy. She wants you to find something you love.”
“Me, too, Papa.” Our eyes meet, and it is unmistakable—he is in pain. “What’s wrong?” I ask tentatively, hoping his body isn’t about to shut down with another seizure. The doctors say the seizures are unpredictable. I never want to see him like that.
Papa squeezes my hand again and swallows hard. That’s when I realize he’s choking back tears. “I just want to see you accomplish all these things, Baby Bee.”
“Papa,” I try to say, but my voice cracks.
“Shhh.” He brings my head to his chest, patting down my hair. “We have to start preparing for the worst.”
I move to the edge of the bed so I can better lean on his shoulder. I’m trying to erase those words, to pretend he never said them, but they are ringing, bouncing off the walls of my mind. It hurts worse with every second, because every second feels closer to the end, and there is no way I can deny this any longer. Not now that he’s said it out loud.
Papa falls asleep shortly after, his breathing evening out. I don’t move, however, until his door opens and Levi sticks his head around the corner.
“Hey,” I whisper, quickly standing up.
“I’m sorry, bad timing,” he whispers, crossing the room steadying me as I wobble. “I didn’t realize he’d be asleep.”
“It’s okay. We never know when he’s tired.” (He’s always tired.) Levi kisses me sweetly (always sweetly), so I bring my hands up to cradle his face. He presses them closer with his own hands, covering mine completely. “How much longer are you going to be here?”
I shrug. “Not sure. My mom’s on a walk, and my sisters are with Tom. Maybe until one of them gets back?”
He tugs me toward the window seat, moving aside my mom’s magazines and purse so we can sit side by side. I drape my legs across him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders, resting his hand on my ankles. His long fingers play with the laces of my shoes, looping in and out, twisting, knotting. “How was work?”
Sighing, I repeat everything I just told my dad (but with much less flourish). “I don’t know what to tell Ludwig,” I end with. “It feels so real, like something I could actually do. Something that could make me really happy.”
“I think it’s a great idea. You get better and better every day.”
“Ha.” I roll my head against his shoulder, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Thanks.”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted and unappreciated.”