The Aroma Of Orchids

The garden was filled with a thousand heartaches. Grandpa always said people felt safe telling the flowers their secrets. His garden was wild, stretching into the woods behind his house, with hand-placed trails to keep the undergrowth safe. Signs were carefully pinned into place along every fork, marks for the unexpecting wanderer. When we had a day to ourselves, we would sneak into the woods, searching for plants we had never seen. I could remember him stopping to sniff every flower in the garden, sometimes picking petals or leaves from the tendrils of undergrowth. Everything he picked made its way into the teapot at the end of the day. It steamed away as we sat on the back porch, overlooking our wild hunting grounds.

He looked like the most twisted tree in the forest, grains of bark across his dark skin. He had the lines of a man who lived for laughter, who sang the loudest to every song. I miss hearing his weathered hands handle the teacups.

“This flower,” his eyes sparkled like stars whenever he talked about the flowers, “I found two years ago. It’s a type of daisy, but it rarely blooms this time of year. You must be good luck.” I always felt lucky with my grandfather. Every time we stumbled across a flower he would tell me how rarely it appeared. The tea we made from those rare flowers always tasted delicious.

When my mother died, we stopped going to see Grandpa. Father said it was because he didn’t want to see us. I would write him letters, but they were always stamped return to sender. Whenever I asked to go visit him my father would always say-

“I’m sorry, Naomi, we don’t have the time.”

Forgiveness came naturally for my Father. It came with the unpaid bills hidden into the back of the freezer. It visited my dreams with the shaky phone calls to every hiring agency in town. It cried for me with the incense on the shrine he built for my mother. Every bite of every meal I had was forgiveness to my father.

Eventually, we recovered, we got a house. It had been fifteen years by the time I got the courage to try and see Grandpa again. He didn’t live in the house anymore. Someone had moved him into an old nursing home, with a painfully perfect square garden. The first day I was there I found Grandpa in a corner of the garden, gray, hollow, and staring into the distance.

“Grandpa?” I called. I almost hoped he didn’t hear me, but his ears were as perfect as ever. Able to hear the secrets hidden in the flowers.

He looked up, eyes barely registering me. Mom’s family never told us, or they never told me, what was wrong. According to the Nurses, they visited often. At least HE wasn’t lonely.

When his eyes fell on me, they didn’t alight as they should have. It was like watching the wind blow through the trees, you heard it before you saw it.

“Nomi?” He said, voice breaking. I had never been so quick to tears until that moment.

“How’d you guess?” I finally managed to say. I raised my arms to hug him, to hold him, to smell the forest, the flowers, and the tea. I wrapped my arms around him and went to inhale, only to have the breath knocked out of me.

I stared up at the husk of an old man. A stranger possessed my grandfather. His eyes were wild, blank.

“Help!” his hands were shaking harder than boiling water, “Get away from me! Help!”

After soothing him and reminding him of who I was, I could see the glow of light return to his eyes, like sunlight filtering through the trees.

We barely spoke in that half-hour. He wasn’t the same man I remembered. The smile had been obliterated from his memory. He couldn’t even remember the name of the flowers next to us. My mother’s name left his lips more often than my own. The moment we paused for breath it was as though his mind was erased.

“Excuse me!” A haughty young man snarled, bursting from the garden path, “Get away from my Grandpa!” Grandpa curled into an even tighter ball. The man sunk his fingers into my arm, wrenching me away by the shoulder. When he had dragged me far enough away, he finally spoke.

“You little gold digger!” he snarled, “You turn up after all these years just waiting to get the old man’s money. Well, you aren’t going to get it.”

“But I-”

“I know your type. You come out of the woodwork after not talking to him for years. Trying to reconnect with him so he’ll put you in the will. Get out.” My words were strangled by his glare. I couldn’t even muster my own defense.

I had never wanted money.

I wanted my Grandpa.

My soul shattered when I looked back. The young man knelt before Grandpa; expression completely different from the one he showed me. Grandpa smiled so wide when the young man returned, his eyes lit up just like they used to for me.

After two weeks of meaningless visits, my Grandpa passed away peacefully in his sleep.

The funeral was modest. Most of it was arranged by the young man. My grandfather was cremated, and the guests gathered in the backyard by the garden. It was an infestation of jackals. The Aunt’s arranged for the Will to be read on the same day, squawking like vultures over their punch. Few people said more than a few words for Grandpa, some even used their time to mock my father’s appearance at the funeral. My father promised to pick me up by 9:00 when the party ended. Someone brought an unfamiliar tea set. The tea only tasted of burnt leaves. Every time someone hit their cup to the platter my gaze flinched towards them, unreasonably hopeful.

When most of the family went home, we were all called into the sitting room, a dark stuffy corner of the house that Grandpa never used. Twelve people crammed onto the furniture. Aunt May sneezed so hard she almost knocked Aunt Jaclyn off the couch. Everything was covered in the kind of dust that smelled like forgetfulness and jasmine. The Lawyer, a man even more ancient than Grandpa, sat in the tallest armchair, clearing his throat with every breath.

Most of his possessions were left to Marcus, the young man. He preened over the declaration he already knew. The other grandchild, a girl who was only fourteen, received a generous college fund as well as an old convertible mustang Grandpa had kept in pristine condition. Both to be held in trust until she was ready for them.

Then came the surprise.

“I hereby leave all the flowers on my property, my leather journal documenting their whereabouts, and the land they sit on in its entirety -listed inside- to my Granddaughter Naomi Fletcher.” As he said this, he pulled a small but thick black leather book from his envelope, placing it gently on the coffee table in front of him. Marcus leaped up in outrage.

“You mean the land behind the house?” he shouted. The tiny room carried his outburst into everyone’s ears. The room whispered mocked disdain at the idea. The Lawyer paused briefly, pulling his glasses up then down his long, hooked nose. The room held its breath while he cleared his throat.

“It appears only the wooded area. The back yard is still kept with your estate. Though the land is not ungenerous,” The last part was directed towards me, “We can go over the property lines later.”

“No,” Marcus stated, “Grandfather was unwell. He shouldn’t have been allowed to change that.”

“You are mistaken,” the Lawyer chided, “Your Grandfather hasn’t changed his will for three years.” The room fell silent, all eyes torn between the lawyer, Marcus, and me.

“You mean, she’s been in his will this whole time?”

“Well,” the Lawyer cleared his throat, “Originally he bequeathed everything to Naomi, but changed it when Marcus and the rest of you started to help him after his stroke.” He shakily put the will down, folding his hands atop it.

“He wanted me to tell you he would have split the estate evenly had you not tried to cut off contact between he and Naomi.” The Aunts spluttered, Aunt May letting another sneeze explode into her handkerchief.

“You mean-”

“I believe it is all explained in the notebook he gave you,” wheezed the Lawyer. The rest of the reading was legal garbage, explaining how to transfer the property, and how to claim our inheritance. I filled out the paperwork the Lawyer asked of me and sat on the back porch, looking into the woods.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice asked, this time with much less venom. He was carrying a familiar tray with a steaming pot, covered in white flowers. The tray rattled as he set it on the table, teacups leaping for the chance to be used again. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Marcus said, taking the chair on the opposite side of Grandpa’s. I could almost taste the Chamomile tea as he poured it.

“He taught me about picking stuff for tea,” I said, holding the cup with both hands. The steam pressed tears into my eyes.

“He taught me how to brew it,” Marcus said. He took a long sip. I followed his lead. It tasted like nostalgia, like running in summertime, like laughing under our breath, like smelling flowers.

I was sobbing into the cup before I even swallowed my first mouthful.

We sat in silence, ignoring the empty chair that should have been filled. I took out the notebook, wishing I had more. Longing to read it but dreading the last words I would ever get from my Grandpa.

“It’s okay.” Marcus said, “I’m sure it’s okay.” He set a similar notebook on the table, this one with his name carved into the front cover.

I opened the front cover and several dozen flowers the color of a perfect swan dropped to the table. They were pristinely pressed, each glowing as if they had been sculpted from moonlight. I handed a small one over to Marcus, who began to smell and gawk at it. Then, before I could stop myself, the book began to speak.

My Dear Nomi,

This book is a registry of all the flowers I’ve seen while wandering my estate. I found one of your letters today. I’m so sorry, child. Please believe I love you. My mind has been starting to go as of late, but I wanted to write something for you before I’m gone.

These flowers are Orchids I have found, without fail, every year on your birthday. Even in your absence, you are the luckiest flower picker I know. I have kept them for you so if we ever get the chance, I can share one final recipe with you. Should you ever have the opportunity, these make the most delicious tea I have ever had the pleasure to drink. And if I’m not there to make it, then I suspect you will have to improvise to get them steeped just right.

And should you decide to sell these flowers, I suspect they could be worth as much as 20,000 dollars, if you play your cards right. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more, but I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out. You always were a bright kid.

If I’m not there when you read this, make sure to pour a cup for me. I haven’t written the exact location because I can never remember by the time I make it back home. Perhaps I’m going mad. But I’m sure you’ll find them. You always were good luck.

Though I’m sure you never needed it.

I love you,

Grandpa.