Bloody bladder wrack. I can’t make BBG without my nose.
I return to the doctor and hand him the gloves. “Here you go.”
He draws back in surprise, but takes the gloves. “Oh, well, thank you.”
After snapping them on, he feels both sides of my throat below my jaw. “Mm hm.” Then he pulls what looks like a pen from his pocket. It turns out to be a mini-flashlight. He shines it into my eyes, then peeks down my throat, my nose, and in both ears.
Switching off the light, he announces, “Good news. You don’t have a cold or allergies.”
My heart sinks. I knew it. Now it’s been confirmed by a medical expert. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. You look disappointed.”
“Oh no. Sometimes I just look disappointed when I’m really not disappointed.” I perk up my expression though I’m cringing inside. Still a horrible liar. Some things will never change.
He peels off his gloves and hands them back to me. “Well, if you start having any, er, symptoms, feel free to call me.” Removing a business card from his wallet, he hands it to me. “I don’t want to keep you. Do I owe you anything?”
“Owe? Of course not. I’m sorry about your father again. If I can’t get you flowers, would you like to choose a pumpkin?” I look toward our pumpkin patch, twenty feet away, where gourds shaped like turbans and bottles form an odd junkyard of squash.
“That sounds wonderful. A pumpkin would sure cheer up my quiet apartment.” He chooses a tangerine one shaped like a turban, and then I walk him back to the gate. He surveys the garden as we go, eyes brighter than when he came in. “My dad would’ve loved this garden. He was a big gardener. Ever since losing his sight.”
“You mean, he was blind?”
“That’s how he got the Purple Heart. Never let it stop him, though. He won state awards for his cloud forest orchids.”
“Cloud forest orchids are notoriously fussy.”
“Exactly.”
“But he couldn’t see them.”
“Not the usual way.”
I visualize an older version of Dr. Lipinsky with dark shades over his eyes, gently rummaging through the leaves of a lush orchid. He understood, like aromateurs, that a flower’s beauty is more than visual, and not even blindness stopped him from pursuing that beauty.
Somehow, the thought gives me a poppy seed of hope.
He offers a smile and extends his hand for a final shake.
“Oh, I don’t want to get you sick,” I say.
His eyebrows lift. Maybe now he agrees I’m sick, but not with a cold. “Thanks for the squash.”
TWENTY-SIX
“NEVER USE PENNYROYAL.
ITS NAME MEANS, ‘YOU HAD BETTER GO.’”
—Nasreen, Aromateur, 1840
IF AUNT BRYONYtook on a last name when she got married, Mother never mentioned it. People Finder brings up over three hundred Bryonys in the United States alone. Who knew it was such a popular name? I take a side trip to searchMimosaand find even more.
Next, I narrow my Bryony search by typing inHawaii. Seven results. I pick up the phone and start dialing.
Of the seven, two are wrong numbers, two are definitely not Aunt Bryony judging by the accents, and three are answering machines. I leave messages on all three machines. Again, I try calling Mother’s emergency number but get the same irritating message.
Finally, I attempt Kali’s cell once again, clasping the receiver anxiously to my ear while her phone rings. This time, hernineteen-year-old brother, Mukmuk, answers the phone. “Hey, Mim. Kali’s asleep.”
