“They are,” I agree, keeping the pace with her. Mom’s hand is tucked in the crook of my elbow, and I have my other hand over the top of it. My stomach sinks at how frail she feels. His death aged her, and I now realize how little time I might have left with her.
“Your father didn’t like the way they smelled,” she says, and I look at her.
“Hydrangeas?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says. Meaning yes. “You know what else he couldn’t stand? Honeysuckle. Which is fucking ridiculous. Who doesn’t like honeysuckles?”
I laugh inwardly. Mom has the sass of an alley cat and the mouth of a sailor. It always throws people off because on the outside, she looks like the sweetest, kindest old lady. I personallylove her gumption. I think all women should have that kind of sass, even if it makes them harder to handle.
“You know what he did like though,” she says.
“What’s that, Mom?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Marigolds. She tells this story every time we walk through the garden.
“Marigolds,” she says. “Do you remember that?”
“I do,” I say. “They’re pretty.”
“They smell like cat piss,” she says bluntly, and I laugh.
“Dad said they repelled mosquitoes,” I say.
“They repelled everything. Including me,” she says, and I laugh again. “You know what else repels mosquitoes? Bug spray. Which also smells like piss. It’s a lose lose situation.”
We sit down on a bench in the middle of the greenhouse garden near a fountain. In the water are goldfish, too big for an indoor fishbowl and too small to survive in the wild. Pennies shimmer in the bottom; there’s at least a hundred wishes in there.
“I wonder what people wished for,” she says as if she can read my thoughts.
“All kinds of things,” I answer softly.
More time. Less pain. Healed sickness.
“You know what I would wish for?” she asks, and tears sting my eyes. She wants him back. To live in their Parker home again. To have never had to watch him die.
“What’s that, Mom?” I ask almost robotically as I brace for the sting of her answer.
“I wish that Susan Lynd’s quilt had caught on fire at the contest last Tuesday. It was so close to the candles on the table that I was sure it was going to go up in flames.”
“Mom,” I laugh. “Why would you wish that?”
“Because my quilt got second place, and it was clearly better. Her stitchwork is sloppy.”
“I’m sure she put a lot of work into it,” I say with a smile.
“Bullshit. She only got first place because she’s sleeping with Harry Baxter. He was one of the judges.”
“Jesus, Mom,” I chuckle.
“Speaking of that, do you have a girlfriend yet? You’re getting kind of old, ya know?”
God, I love my mother.
“I’m not even forty yet,” I say.
“Next year,” she points out. “See. I remember things.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
