“First, we tried to escape out of the skylight. Nearly killed myself when the chair fell off the table.”
“So that’s what caused that dent in the hardwood.” Grandmother didn’t fix it because she wanted to remind her daughters not to play on chairs.
“Yes. Dahli gave in that time, too, or we would still be in there.” She bends to pick up a fallen leaf and drops it in the nearest composter. “Maybe she was just tired of giving in.”
The Mother I know rarely gives in, at least to me. Maybe losing her sister hardened her in ways I never knew. “It’s been nearly twenty years. Surely she’s ready to talk to you.”
She snorts. I don’t even sound convincing. “What happened to Edward?” I ask.
“Our mother found out and forbade Dahli from seeing him.” She stares ahead of her, eyes unfocused. “Last I heard, he’d become a mathematician.”
The winds of chance blow a chilly breath down my back. That would explain Mother’s aversion to algebra. “So Mother caught her falling heart.”
She stops walking and gives me half a smile. “Though cowslips line thy mapled cart, the wise will catch a falling heart. That’s another one of those Last Words that’s subject to interpretation.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, our ancestor Carmelita was a poet, not a historian.” The black rental stands in the driveway. Aunt Bryony opens the driver side, setting off a warning chime.
“But, I’m not ready for you to leave.”
She hands me a business card from her purse. It simply says “Bryony, Aromateur,” followed by an address and phone number. “Call me anytime.”
My nose begins to run, and I frown to keep my emotions in check.
The car door continues to chime annoyingly. I want to slam it closed, as if that could prevent her from leaving. “Maybe if Mother saw you, she’d realize how much she misses you. I mean, people might disappoint each other, but that doesn’t mean it’s over.” At least, I hope so.
A pained expression crosses her face, and she touches my cheek. “Oh, Mimsy. You and your mother are going to be okay. And if you ever need an escape, you will always be welcome at my home.” With that, she scoots into the rental and blows away with the wind.
I stand there long after she has gone, breathing in exhaust fumes and missing her already.
I wonder how much Mother argued with Grandmother Narcissa over Edward, and how much it had hurt to let him go. Probably a lot. Love is never easy, even for people like us. All this time, I thought she knew the tail end of the chicken from the head, but turns out there were a whole lot of feathers in between for her, too.
What did Aunt Bryony mean about Carmelita’s Last Word? Cowslip, or primrose, grows in clusters and was a key ingredient in medieval love spells. Mother interpreted the Last Word to mean our matchmaking required us to keep our own hearts tightly cloistered, but maybe there is another way to read it. Cowslip can symbolize many things, like pensiveness, womanly grace.
The faint ring of the telephone sends me rushing back into the house.
“Good morning, dear,” says Mother’s voice. “I’m at Muscat International. Traffic was horrible, now they’re calling us. How are you?”
My tongue stalls, and my brain stretches taut as a rope between equally matched emotions of relief and anxiety. I cover the mouthpiece and exhale before answering. “Fine. The emergency line doesn’t work.”
“Really? Is there an emergency?”
Should I tell her now? If I do, she’ll just stew on the way home. If I don’t, she might be even madder when she learns I lied. But after all the other lies, maybe this one won’t even register. “Emergency solved.” For now.
“Mim?” she asks sternly.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home.”
“Okay. Well, see you tomorrow after school.”
“Good-bye, Mother.”
I dial Kali. I no longer expect her to pick up, but the act of calling her is strangely soothing. Maybe when she sees my call come in, she’ll remember that someone cares. This time, her phone goes straight to voicemail.
I pour myself into a chair, suddenly weary, though I haven’t done so much as pull a weed all day. It’s as if all the people I’ve let down in the past week are standing on my shoulders. Mr. Frederics. Alice. Ms. DiCarlo. Kali. Drew. Mother. And of course, the one who smells like campfire, Court.
THIRTY-FOUR
“THE MARIGOLDS ARE HARDY SOULS. IN RAIN,
DROUGHT, EVEN SNOWFALL, THEY FLOURISH, POKING
THEIR HEADS OUT, LIKE TINY TORCHES OF TRUTH.”
—Privet, Aromateur, 1703