I didn’t hesitate, lifting her out of her seat and into my arms like a sack of potatoes. She squealed. I figured it was the perfect way to snap her out of the melancholy.
We’d gotten so far in such a short time. I didn’t want to see her backslide. Mom would do the same thing. Whenever there was something on the calendar, a plan of any kind, she’d shut down. This, for Sybil, would qualify as a pretty epic plan on her calendar, and she had very little time to come to terms with it.
It was important to me she have a good time at the auction, but not at this cost. I wanted to show her we were there for her. She was already dealing with so much. I wish I could talk to her, let her air her frustrations or fears about being PERL, but it had to be on her terms.
With Sybil in my arms, I bundled her against me. She was easy to carry, at least half of what I could bench in my basement gym every morning. I walked her toward the back of the house, past her room.
With a whistle, Bill was at my heels. I took her outside and walked down the porch steps, depositing her bare feet on the grass. It was cold, a sharp change from inside, which I knew for a fact helped during a panic attack. Second, I was grounding her with the earth, which, sure, was a littlewoo-woo, but my mother claimed it helped.
I dragged the Adirondack chair toward us and instructed her to sit before I moved around the garden, plucking as many flowers as I could find. Some petals had wilted and looked worse for wear after the recent cold snap, but they would have to suffice. Surrounding her with sensation was a good way tocoax her back to the present. Clutching a small bouquet, I returned to her, knelt, and presented it.
She held them, her expression lighting up, though a touch of nervousness lingered. I recognized that look on her face, the same look she’d had during my slip-up about the pink medium rare steak. She was nervous about the colors of the flowers, but I had that handled.
“What does this deep red one smell like?” I asked her, pulling a fluffy-looking one from her hands. I knew these flowers well; my mom loved and studied flowers, but I wanted to occupy her mind, so I let her tell me instead.
“That’s a Mum,” she said, smelling it, “and it’s very herbal. Rich smelling. Did you know it’s a natural bug repellent?”
I shook my head. “I did not know that. I will plant more, then.” Plucking another, a little cluster of white flowers, I presented it. “What about these white ones?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s Snakeroot. The leaves smell awful. Bugs are attracted to the flower, though.”
“Oh, lovely. Okay, throw those out. The goal is fewer bugs.” I tossed them over my shoulder.
Bill was walking the property line but sniffed the discarded flower, then chuffed out a sneeze. He didn’t like it either.
“Okay, what about these little purple ones?” My knee ached, so I sat on the grass instead.
She smelled it. “It’s an Aster. They smell like a citrus fruit, maybe even a little like a Christmas tree.”
I nodded. “You have a good nose.”
“I’d have made a good drug dog.” She smiled, looking more at ease again.
“Solid career choice—free snacks, allowed to attack assholes. Sounds nice.”
“Bite men’s balls off,” she quipped.
The door to the house opened and shut before I could come up with a funny retort, Bee’s steps descending the stairs. She was waving something over her head. “Look what came!” she squealed.
We both turned to look at her. The backyard was dimly lit; the sun was already down. I squinted at the object in her hand, hoping it wasn’t anything strange. Bee had a tendency to get strange when she felt awkward. Approaching, I cringed, seeing they were another pair of animal socks.
“I got Bill socks!”
Sybil looked confused. “You got socks for Bill?”
Bee landed in the grass beside me, breathing hard and smiling wide. “No! Bill socks for you! See, look!” She pushed the proffered gift at Sybil, wiggling them. The socks were black and white, with little Border Collies running across the ankles. Bee offered her own foot forward, showing off her Mr. Beans socks. “See!” She fell back a little, now off balance. I caught her.
Sybil grinned. “I love socks.” She pulled on the socks one at a time. “I collect them, or rather I did before I burned them all,” she joked. The girls then put their feet toe to toe on the grass. “I love them, Bee, thank you.”
“I love socks, too!” Bee replied. “See, another reason we’re ride-or-die friends.”
“I think Mr. Beans is your new ride-or-die, too. He sorta booted me to the curb,” Sybiladded with a pout.
Bee plastered on a look of innocence. “I mean, he chose me. I can’t help it. I’m hot.”
“He’s such awhore,”Sybil said, unexpectedly.
Bee and I both laughed at that.
