When I return to the workshop, Mother is looking up into our strangely prolific papaya tree, which fruits even in October. “Oh, there you are. Ready to get started?” Her head bobs to one side as she considers my blank expression. “Flower market? Last Monday of the month is tomorrow, remember?”
I stifle a groan. Tomorrow, a van will collect our excess flowers to sell at a flower market up in San Francisco, one of the ways we defray our living expenses. “No one buys in October. It’s a dead month. Couldn’t we just skip it this once?”
“Of course not. Why would we do that?”
“Because we’ve never taken a vacation. We’re overdue.”
“We travel every season. You’ve seen more of the world in your fifteen years than most people see in their lives. Not everyone gets a Cloud Air jet, you know.” When Mother and Aunt Bryony were children, Grandmother Narcissa fixed the president of Cloud Airways with the love of his life, and in exchange, he gave Grandmother the use of a private jet. Technically, it’s a gift, but Grandmother accepted it because the Aromateur Trust Fund wasn’t written to include air travel.
“I don’t mean traveling. I mean, not working. We could go surfing.”
She snorts loudly, not bothering to remind me we don’t swim.
“Or we could just chill somewhere.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m chilling right now. Now put down the chicken and let’s go.”
Piles of flowers fight for space on the farm table that occupies the center of our workshop. The table, as well as most of our furniture, was made by a man named William, who lived here as groundskeeper when Mother and Aunt Bryony were growing up. I never knew the man, but I always imagined him to be a quiet, patient person. There’s an exacting quality to his work, a marriage of artistry and craftsmanship.
I trim the flowers while Mother separates bushy stalks of snapdragons. Her cheerful humming grates on my nerves.
A rose thorn pricks me, and my irritation at Mother grows, though of course, it’s my own fault my fingers ache and my nose is encrusted with blood. But if she’d just cut me a little slack, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
She narrows her eyes, and I gather any stress scents to me like a full skirt. “I swear, Mim, ever since you started going to that high school, you’re smelling more angsty every day. It’s like it’s rubbing off on you.”
“Maybe it’s just me being a teenager.”
Her mouth twists to the side. Then she leans over our oak worktable and rubs my cheeks between her hands. “Not to mention, why do you look so wan?”
“Wan?” I draw out the word, hoping to divert her.
“Worn out.” Sitting back in her chair, she lifts her chin and smiles.
“Weary.” I throw back.
“Weak.”
“Waifish.”
Mother points her index finger. “Wilted.”
I lean forward on my elbows and whisper, “Wasted.”
She gives me a fake scowl then taps each of my shoulders with a snapdragon. “I dub you Sir Synonym, but there will be a rematch next week.”
“I accept.”
She starts humming again, and my anxiety subsides a notch. I lose myself in the rhythm of tying bundles up with twine. Wind, snip, and knot.
When I run out of twine, Mother gets up to fetch another spool from our cabinets. She yanks opens a drawer, and finding none, searches the shelves where we store the tinctures. “Mim.” She plucks up a jar and shakes it by the lid, causing a single pod to rattle. “You didn’t tell me we’re low on cardamom.”
I gulp. “Sorry.” The itchy feeling that something bad is about to happen freezes me in place.
She stretches up on her toes and peers at the other jars. “And olibanum, too? These are key items, Mim!” She grabs a pad and pen and begins taking inventory. “Guess I’ll be going to the Middle East.” Her voice is thick with annoyance. Mother selects each olibanum pod from vendors in Oman, where the most fragrant plants are grown. “If I had known I was going to travel, I wouldn’t have taken so many clients. I just hope I can get the jet. The holidays are coming up, you know.”
“I’m really sorry.” I wilt further, imagining my small mother fighting the crowds in Oman without touching anyone.
“I knew something like this would happen.” She runs a hand through her short hair. Here it comes. One little snag and the whole mitten unravels. She’ll start checking my work, and somehow she’ll find out about Alice.
“And school just started. What happens when things get rolling and you have exams? Term papers?” She faces me, arms crossed and mouth tight.
In desperation, I reach for something to say, something that’s not a lie and won’t invite further argument. Sweat beads form on the back of my neck. Maybe it’s too late, and she already smells the sauerkraut of sour sap. She’ll put the fearful scent together with the swampy stink of anxiety, and—
Mother’s face relaxes, and her eyeballs shift to the side. She nods once, slowly, while I don’t breathe. Whatever she’s cooking up can’t be good.
“Maybe you should come with me this time.”
I gape. “To Oman?” The word comes out as “Oh, man.”
“You just said we need a vacation. Oman’s lovely in October.” She lifts her eyes innocently to the skylight and says airily, “They have surfing there. We could chill.”