“She wants to know if you love her.”
Every plant in the garden seems to hold its breath. Even the papaya trees seem to clutch their fruits tighter, as if afraid they might drop them and ruin the silence.
Mother lets out an exasperated breath. “Of course I do! You’re my daughter, aren’t you?” Her eyes flood with emotion, and she holds herself so tightly, her body trembles. Some invisible wall keeps us apart. I fear if I reach out to her, she might break or I might, and I won’t know how to put back the pieces.
An evening breeze stings my cheeks. I didn’t even know they were wet.
Abruptly, Mother flings one end of her scarf behind her, nearly whipping my aunt in the face. “You may take your quilt. After that, I hope you have a nice trip back to your own life.” She retreats to the house, a solitary majorette.
This time we don’t follow her. She doesn’t even bother to remove her clogs before entering the kitchen.
My aunt pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me. “Well. You know about the giant sequoias, right?”
“They need fire to grow.”
“Yes. But unlike us, sequoias only need one fire. We go through several in the course of our lives. It’s the human condition. We never stop growing.”
“I have a lot to learn still, I know.”
“Not just you.” Her mouth softens into a smile. Then she tucks her arm under mine and tugs me toward the courtyard. “As I said, the quilt is yours, but keep your mother out of the oca tubers. In her mood, she’ll dig herself back to Oman if you let her.”
“You can’t leave like this.”
“I can’t stay here, dear. Not after that.”
“But you have to stay somewhere.” I have to get them talking again, for Mother, for all of us, but that won’t happen if my aunt leaves. “It’s getting late, and—”
“There’s a motel—”
“Please. Just this one thing.”
She clamps her lips and one eyebrow hitches. She shifts her gaze from the gate to the house.
Before she can protest, I say, “You can have your old room. I’ll stay in the guest room.” We keep it for out-of-town clients, but since we have enough local clients to keep us busy, we haven’t used the room in years.
Mother’s door is closed and her room is dark when we return to the house. I fix my aunt squash soup, then she retires, too.
After everything that has happened today, I want to crawl under the covers and not wake until spring. But instead of going to our tomb-like guest room, I fetch the key from our kitchen cupboard and head to the workshop.
THIRTY-NINE
“LARKSPUR’S LAST WORD IS FOR THE PARROTS. JUST STAY
OUT OF THE SALT WATER. (BUT IF YOU DON’T, YOUR NOSE
WILL COME BACK, DON’T WORRY!)”
—Bryony, Aromateur, 2017
THE GARDEN IS dark, but not quiet. The lights I spent a winter stringing around the cherry trees resemble giant clouds of fireflies, and hum in a way I never noticed before. Gravel scrapes and crunches under my feet as I head to the workshop.
I insert the business end of the key, worn smooth after so many years of service. William—my grandfather—used this same key. I turn the heart-shaped end. The lock fights me, then with a screech, gives way.
Standing in the threshold, I notice particles floating in front of me, illuminated by our old-fashioned hurricane sconces. I never noticed how my own breath makes the dust motes dance. I imagine the way that dust used to smell, like old books, sluggish on the liftoff and mellowing into dried leaves. The memory is so vivid, I can almost . . . but not quite.
Instead, my head fills with the symphony of chirping crickets playing in counterpoint to a hooting owl.
I hang up the key, and get to work.
The alarm wakes me before the rooster crows. After dressing, I pack a basket full of food and other supplies, then hurry to the workshop.
Everything’s in order here. Last night, I cleaned the bathroom, stocked fresh towels and blankets. I even brought a crossword book, which I thought was a nice touch.
My breath lifts in white plumes, but I’m too pumped to feel the chill in the air. I set water to boil on a hot plate. Then I fetch Layla’s Sacrifice, which has shriveled into a crispy nest. The second bud looks like a corn nut.
I set the terrarium atop the workshop table. Using a hooked pole, I budge open the skylight.
I strike a single match against our workshop table and flames dance before me. The dried leaves of Layla’s Sacrifice ignite as soon as I touch it with the fire. Soon, the whole plant is a burning mass. Smoke lifts in gray tendrils toward the skylight, the marmalade scent now dusky and bitter. When enough smoke has escaped, I replace the glass lid over the burning plant and the flames die. The glass cage fills with gray smoke and ash.