Bryony stares up at the palm fronds. “For having your nose so deep in the soil you don’t know if it’s raining on your ass.” She prods Mother with the double barrel of her amber eyes.
“You were always the crude one.” Mother stuffs her hands into her pockets. She looks like she belongs somewhere on the Asian steppes, with the woolly jacket, the scarf, and the two bright spots of red on her cheeks. “And I have no idea what you mean.”
“She asked you a question that you still have not answered.”
My head throbs and my throat feels swollen, as if I swallowed a fig whole.
“What question?”
“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 returnto 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’SLASTWORD 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
