The Language of Flowers

He turned toward me, his thick body wedged between the wall and my side. “I wanted so much to make her happy,” he said. “But I kept making mistakes. I’d feed her too much or forget her diapers or leave her too long in the sun while I worked. She never cried, but the guilt kept me up at night. I thought I was letting her down, and you, too. I couldn’t be the father I wanted to be, not alone, not without you. And I was afraid, even as I named her, that you weren’t ever coming back.”

Grant lifted a heavy hand and ran it through my hair. He pressed his cheek into my scalp, and I felt his unshaven jawbone tickle my skin. “I took her to Elizabeth,” he said. “It was the only thing I could think of to do. When I showed up on her front porch with the baby in the basket, she cried and took us into her kitchen. I didn’t leave her home for two weeks, and when I did, I didn’t take the baby with me. Hazel smiled for the first time in Elizabeth’s arms; I couldn’t bear the thought of separating them.”

Grant wrapped his arms around me and leaned his face into my ear. “Maybe it was just my excuse for leaving her,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t do it.”

I slipped my arm under his chest. When he squeezed me to him, I squeezed back.

“I know,” I said. I couldn’t do it, either, and he knew it without me having to say it. We held on to each other as if we were drowning, neither looking for shore, and we stayed that way a long time, not talking, barely breathing.

“You told Elizabeth about me?” I asked.

Grant nodded. “She wanted to know everything. She thought I should be able to recite every moment of every day you’d lived since the last time she saw you in court, and kept getting frustrated when I couldn’t.” Grant told me about sitting at Elizabeth’s table, a pot roast in the oven, Hazel asleep in his arms. Why didn’t you ask? she would say, when Grant didn’t know what I’d done for my sixteenth birthday, if I’d gone to high school, or what I liked best for breakfast. “She laughed when I told her you don’t like lilies, and she told me you don’t much care for cactus, either.” I pulled my face out of Grant’s chest to look at him. The corner of his mouth turned up, and I knew he had heard the whole story.

“She told you everything?” I asked. Grant nodded. I dropped my head back down, speaking my next words into his chest. “Even about the fire?”

He nodded again, his chin pressing into my forehead. We were quiet for a long time. Finally, I asked the question I had long held. “How could you have not known the truth?”

Grant didn’t answer right away. When he did, the words came out with a long sigh. “My mother’s dead.”

I believed his statement to signal an end to my questioning, and did not press. But after a pause, he continued.

“It’s too late to ask her. But I think she thought she lit the fire. By that time, she didn’t recognize me most days. She was forgetting to eat, refusing her medicine. The night of the fire, I found her in her studio, watching. Tears streamed down her face. She began to cough spastically, and then choke, as if she had smoke in her lungs. I went to her, put my arms around her shoulders. She felt so small. I’d probably grown a foot since the last time I’d been in her arms. Between sobs, she muttered the same sentence, over and over again: I didn’t mean to do it.”

I imagined the purple sky, Catherine and Grant’s silhouette in the window, felt the return of the despair I’d experienced in the heat of the fire. Catherine had felt it, too. In that moment, we were the same, each of us destroyed by our limited understanding of reality.

“And after?” I asked.

“She spent a year drawing hyacinth; in pencil, charcoal, ink, pastel. Finally, she began to paint, on everything from huge canvases to tiny postage stamps, tall purple stalks with hundreds of small blossoms. All for me, she said. Not one was good enough for Elizabeth. Every day, she tried again.”

Hyacinth. Please forgive me. I remembered the jars of purple paint on the top shelf of Catherine’s studio.

“It was a good year,” Grant said. “One of the best we had. She took her medicine, tried to eat. Every time I crossed the grounds below her broken window, she called down that she loved me. I still look up sometimes when I cross the front of the house, expecting to see her.”

Catherine had never, not even in illness, left Grant. Unsupported and alone, she had managed what neither Grant nor I had been able to do: keep and raise a child. The respect that hit me was deep and unexpected. I looked at Grant, to see if he felt it, too. His eyes, glassy and full, were fixed on his mother’s drawings.

“She loved you,” I said.

His tongue curled out of his mouth, pressed against his upper lip. “I know.”