Monday, January 21, 2013

16. flowers instead of weeds

The seam of the kitchen tile left an imprint on Dolores's cheek. She examined it in the bathroom mirror. Morning had come and so had the sun; it washed the slate blank as much as it could. Dolores put away her suitcase, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat with Todd on the back patio. Thick weeds bullied through her aunt's pink anemones, and she could no longer tell what belonged and what didn't. Her first summer living there, she weeded the gardens until her aunt chased her out. "You don't know what you're looking for. You'll pull flowers instead of weeds. You're just like your mother."

With her coffee sloshing in her mug, Dolores crossed the yard barefoot and yanked a struggling pink bloom out of the ground, bringing its gangle of roots with it. She left it sideways in the grass.

"That's an anemone, not a weed," said a voice, plainly.

Karen stood at the side gate. An oversized purse hung diagonally across her torso.

Todd sniffed at her legs through the chain link. Dolores mouth grew dry.

"May I join you?" Karen asked with one hand on the gate latch.

Dolores nodded, and her head felt unusually heavy on her neck.

Karen held her hand to Todd as she entered the gate. He sniffed and licked her palm, sniffed her legs, her shoes, her legs again. "He probably smells my dog." She scratched his ears and patted him solidly on his haunches. "Good dog."

The two women sat awkwardly on straight-backed patio chairs. The circular glass-top table between them might as well have been as big as Lake Superior. Karen slid a large document mailer across the table. It was unmarked, and Dolores examined it without touching it. "It's your check and some other things," Karen told her.

"I don't need the money," Dolores answered.

Karen plucked up envelope and opened it, placed the check squarely on the table. "Take it. Save it. You might need it later." She pulled out a piece of yellow legal paper folded into thirds and a handful of photographs. "This is a note from Garrison. He doesn't know I'm here, by the way." She unfolded the letter and handed it to Dolores. "The letter isn't finished, but he never finishes anything. If I didn't bring this to you, you'd never get anything."

Dolores had received cards from Garrison before. They never said much. Just a general greeting--Happy Birthday--and his name. The narrow scrawl was familiar enough. She folded the letter and returned it to the table, resting her fingertips to keep the top flap from catching breeze. "I'll read it later."

"That's fine. These," she pushed the photographs toward Dolores, "are your siblings.

Dolores felt the way her teeth clamped together perfectly. Her jaw felt heavy so she loosened it.

"Here," Karen nudged the photos again and nodded.

Dolores's arms itched.

"This is your brother, Pauly. Paul. We call him Pauly. He's 27."

He was handsome like Garrison. Broad smile like the one Karen had in the photo from her birthday card so long ago.

"Natalie. She's 24. Just a little older than you."

Beautiful. Serious. She wore glasses and her hair curly.

"And Lilith. She's 17."

Dolores cupped her hands together in her lap.

"They don't know about you," Karen continued. "But I would like them to. I'm here asking for your permission to tell them."

"Why?" Dolores did not recognize her voice. She cleared her throat. "Why?"

"This has gone on long enough, don't you think?" Karen rested her elbows on the table. "You shouldn't have to be alone."

"I'm not." But she was.

"And I think you might be able to help Lilith."