Flowers from Mom

When I received the call that my mother had died, my first thought was that she’d never send me roses again.

Like clockwork, my mother would send roses to my apartment on the first of every month. It was her way of saying hello, of reminding me that she existed.

I never sent her anything back. I didn’t have time. I was a busy real estate agent in New York City, working on a tight schedule of showing million-dollar apartments, organizing my business, and watching the stock market like a hawk. In between practically non-stop hustling, trying to have a semblance of a dating life, and the little bit of fun I managed to squeeze in, I simply didn’t find time to call my mom much. I usually texted her a little “Thanks!” when I received the flowers, but that was about it.

I wouldn’t need to find vases and space for them any longer.

When my uncle Dennis called to give me the details of her death, I was shocked to hear that she even had a will. It was a handwritten note in her van’s glove compartment - lavender ink on homemade paper, with a pressed pink rose taped to it.

Typical.

When I got off the phone, I immediately got in my bathtub, lit some candles, and sipped some wine. I started to cry, about… about how much I didn’t feel. It felt guilty, but also, not guilty at all.

When Dennis picked me up from the airport the following day, he gave me a quick hug, but there was nothing for us to say. We made our way along the bumpy road, and I stared at the passing countryside. All I could think was, why am I even here?

To be honest, it had been relieving to get away from her. I spent my life embarrassed by her bizarre bohemian lifestyle. Having such a mom made me a target for intense bullying in high school. We lived in a lime green vintage camper, and for a living my mother was a “birth keeper,” which means pregnant women paid her instead of a medical professional to help while they gave birth.

Worst of all, I never knew my father. She couldn’t even tell me who he was.

No answers, no clarity. My mother was a walking enigma. Life growing up was just the two of us, the van, and her little rose garden which she maintained on a little plot of land where we parked the van at night.

I promised myself I would be different. I wouldn’t hide from my potential. I wouldn’t be scared of success.

Needless to say, I wasn’t too optimistic about the pickings. She may have a couple hundred bucks in a checking account. Crystals, tarot cards, handmade soap, sage. All useless to me. As far as the van, I had no use for it, and no place to put it.

The only thing left was her flower garden, and what could I do with that in the city?

As we turned down a gravel path, the ride got bumpier, and my latte almost spilled down my new pants. I was immediately irritated.

“So, Constance,” my uncle said finally, clearing this throat. “How are you holding up?”

“What? Why?”

He looked at me strangely. “You mother just died.”

“I… I know,” I scoffed, feeling defensive. “I just don’t… know what to say. I didn’t even know she had a will ready, so... this is weird.” A pause. “Speaking of which, what did her will say?”

He stared at me a little too long, which made me nervous since he was supposed to be driving. He then sighed and pulled a little notebook out of his coat jacket and handed it to me. “This.”

Small, black, and about to fall apart at any moment, the notebook appeared older than me. Gingerly I opened it and flipped a few pages. I was shocked to find that this was a money log, the front page sporting “Ruby’s Savings” written in bright pink ink. What struck me was that she even had savings. I didn’t even want to consider where all of this money had gone.

I flipped through a few entries, hoping to catch a glimpse into this chapter of my mother’s life in which she may have actually done well with money. The first few pages were all noting her tips from Countryside Diner. I had never even heard of it. More interesting, however, were her notes. One entry included a story about a regular groping her, how she had cried in the breakroom.

I bit my lip.

Finally, I reached an entry dating back three years later. She filled two pages about how she landed an impressive 9 to 5 administrative position for a successful, high-end fashion brand.

I was floored. I didn’t know my mother had that in her. As I imagined her in a sleek blouse and pressed slacks, typing on an old clunky computer and sipping a cup of coffee… it seemed like another person. Maybe I had underestimated her. The monetary entries in the journal became larger and larger, accompanied with more details from her life - company parties, big projects that kept her at the office late, plans to move into a suburban home one day. In an entry dated a year later, she described her higher-up, a man named Mr. Parker, continually flirting with her, how handsome he was, how he gave her teenage butterflies. A month later, she detailed a run-in with him at a club, and how they - oh. I turned to the next page, feeling as though I was violating her privacy.

A few weeks later, a simple note. I’m pregnant. A few days later, Mr. Parker fired me today.

Oh.

As the journal went on, mom eventually began to make money from birthkeeping, detailing how she held singing ceremonies and praying circles for pregnant mothers; whispered encouraging words as they gave natural birth in their homes; brought them lavender tea and bone broth to aid postpartum healing. It seemed… idyllic.

We pulled up to our destination, and sitting there, tried and true, was my mother’s green van, and a few strides over was her rose garden, vibrant and gorgeous as ever. I had to give credit where it's due - she was an excellent gardener. In the middle of the rose garden was an old iron bench with a plush cushion and bright pillows. I was reminded of summer days as a child, sitting on that bench, watching my mom tend to her flowers, and dreaming of life somewhere else.

“Dennis,” I said suddenly, “what is this notebook even for? I mean… I don’t think my mom still had any of these savings.”

His face looked like it was time to tell me a secret I wasn’t going to like. “Come here, Constance,” he said, motioning to follow him to the rose garden. “It’s about time you knew.”

In the garden he got on his hands and knees in the dirt. I followed suit, cringing at the stains my new pants would get. He started to dig with his bare hands beneath the bench, and after a moment pulled out a locked briefcase, large, black, and sturdy.

“What is this?” I breathed.

Dennis pulled a key out of his pocket and placed it in my hand. “This was also in the glove compartment.” As I was placed the key in the keyhole and began turning it, he stood up and walked away.

“Wait!” I called. “Where are you going?” But he was already in the van.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Well, here goes nothing.” I opened the box, expecting to find… well, I’m not even sure. Seeds? Or maybe a bunch of crystals? Or, knowing my mother, an animal’s skull?

When I saw what was actually inside, I gasped.

Cash.

Tons of cash.

I stared at the piles of money, my mouth agape. I took out a bundle of cash and counted it. A thousand dollars! I counted all of the bundles and did the math in my head, recounting about five times, unable to grasp the answer I was getting each time.

Twenty thousand dollars.

I sat there absolutely confounded, overwhelmed with amazement and rage. Where was all this cash when I wanted a normal house to shower and sleep in? When I couldn’t go to prom with the, what, two friends I had, because I didn’t have a car? When I got fired from my job as a teenager because I didn’t have reliable transportation? When I wanted to start my business, or pay for my real estate exam, or move to New York?

We could have lived so differently if my mother had used this money to her advantage. Investing? She could have grown it to a million dollars. Heck, even just keeping a normal savings account would have been better than this! If only she had been smarter. If she hadn’t had slept with her boss as a 20-something and ruined her whole life.

My hands shook. I was feeling… anger? No, rage. No… grief.

Both.

As I felt tears starting to form, I spotted a note with the name “Constance.” I pulled it out and began to read.

To my daughter Constance Josephine,

I’m not sure when you’ll read this, but I’m hoping that when I go, it was peaceful. I’m not scared of death; I’m only scared of dying without getting a chance to apologize. I fear that you resent me for the life you had growing up: an absent father, a life with no luxuries.. My main wish in life, Constance, was for you to see that money is not what provides a truly full life, that city life and jet-setting are not what we’re built for. We are creatures of the Earth, not technology or pop culture. I wanted you to feel that and know that. I only now grasp that we live in a material world, and there’s no overcoming that, and you inherently understand that better than I. It’s a world that you find seductive. You fit into it better than I.

This money is all of my savings; it represents a life spent standing next to women in the woods, their homes, mountainsides, beaches, as they bring other lives into the world. I’ve seen many babies take their first breath as they enter this new, strange, frightening world. This money was always here if we needed it, but I never wanted to center it. Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I ended up centering myself instead.

I hope this money can help you with your business, or support your life in the city. I know you probably were expecting less, but hey, the Universe always listens, no? It’s loyalty is unshakeable; it’s constant in its work. That is why you are named Constance. You’re the universes’ testament of its steadfast nature.

I will always love you, sweetheart, and if you ever need me, meet me in my garden. I’m in the petals, and the roots.

I love you.

- Mama

The love I refused to feel when my mom was living, it was coming up and out, making itself known. I sobbed.

I laid down in the dirt and held the note to my chest, barely able to see anything through the tears. A cry escaped and I allowed it to be as loud as it needed. My uncle came out and sat on the bench, observing silently.

I put my hand in the dirt and ran my fingers through it. To the bright red rose next to me, I whispered, “I’m sorry, mama. I know, mama. I’m sorry.”

But the rose didn’t answer, only swayed in the breeze.