The Language of Flowers

When her frustrated monologue ended, she opened the cash register, thumbing through wrinkled bills, checks, and receipts. “I don’t have enough cash,” she said. “I’ll stop at the bank on the way to dinner. Come with me. We’ll talk business.”

I would rather have taken her money and fled into the night, but I followed her outside anyway, aware of the precariousness of my position.

“Mexican food?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She turned toward the Mission. “You aren’t much of a talker, are you?” Renata asked.

I shook my head.

“At first I thought you just weren’t a morning person,” she said. “My nieces and nephews, don’t try before noon, but after that just pray for a moment of silence.”

She glanced at me as if she was waiting for a response.

“Oh,” I said.

She laughed. “I have twelve nieces and nephews, but I rarely see them. I know I’m supposed to make an effort, but I don’t.”

“No?”

“No,” she said. “I love them, but I can only handle them in small doses. My mother always jokes that I didn’t inherit her maternal gene.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You know, that bit of biology that makes women coo when they see a baby on the street. I’ve never had that.”

Renata parked in front of a taqueria, and two women fussed over a stroller by the door as if to prove her point. “Go order anything you want,” she said. “I’ll pay when I get back from the bank.”

Renata and I ate until eight p.m. It was enough time for her to eat a taco and drink three large Diet Cokes, and for me to eat a chicken burrito, two cheese enchiladas, a side of guacamole, and three baskets of chips. Renata watched me eat, a satisfied smile flicking across her face. She filled the silence between us with stories of her childhood in Russia, describing a flock of siblings traveling across the ocean to America.

When I finished eating, I leaned back, feeling the heaviness of the food in my body. I had forgotten how much I could consume, and also the complete paralysis that accompanied my overeating.

“So, what’s your secret?” Renata asked.

I squinted my eyes in question, tightened my shoulders.

“To staying thin?” she asked. “When you eat like that?”

It’s simple, I thought. Be broke, friendless, and homeless. Spend weeks eating other people’s leftovers, or nothing at all.

“Diet Coke,” she said, filling the silence as if she didn’t want to hear my answer, or already knew it. “That’s my secret. Caffeine and empty calories. Another reason I never wanted children. What kind of baby would develop on that?”

“A hungry one,” I said.

Renata smiled. “I saw you out there today, working with Earl. He left pleased. And he’ll come back, I imagine, week after week, looking for you.” Would I be there? I wondered. Is this Renata’s way of offering me a permanent job?

“That’s how I built my business,” she said. “Knowing what my customers wanted even before they did. Anticipating it. Wrapping up flowers before they came in, guessing the days they’d be in a hurry, the days they’d want to browse, talk. I think you have it in you, that kind of intuition, if you want it.”

“I do,” I said quickly. “Want it.”

I remembered Meredith’s words then—“You have to want it”—at The Gathering House and hundreds of times before. You have to want to be a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student, she had told me, again and again. I hadn’t wanted any of those things, and none of Meredith’s promises, threats, or bribes had altered my conviction. But suddenly I knew I wanted to be a florist. I wanted to spend my life choosing flowers for perfect strangers, my days steadily alternating between the chill of the walk-in and the snap of the register.

“I’ll pay you under the table, then,” Renata said. “Every Sunday. Two hundred dollars for twenty hours of work, and you work whenever I tell you. Deal?”

I nodded. Renata stretched out her hand, and I shook it.

The next morning, Renata leaned against the glass doors of the flower market, waiting for me. I checked my watch. We were both early. The wedding that day was small, no bridal party and less than fifty guests at two long tables. We wandered around, looking for shades of yellow. That had been the bride’s only request, Renata told me. She wanted sunlight in flowers, just in case it rained. The sky was dry but gray; she should have married in June.

“His booth’s closed Sundays,” Renata said as we walked, gesturing in the direction of the mysterious vendor.

But as we approached his empty stall, a hooded silhouette appeared, perched on a stool and leaning against the wall. He stood when he saw me, bending over the flowerless buckets, his image reflected in the still circles of water. From the pocket of his sweatshirt he withdrew something green and spindly. He held it up.