Marigold and Honey

I guess I should start by saying that my mother, Liliana, was kind, loving, and sweet. Except...she wasn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have left you with the thought that my mother was loving toward me and my sister, Honey. Oh to erase one’s words. Anyways, I’ll continue. My mother, being how she was, passed on Saturday, the tenth of June.

She was a bitter woman, cold and heartbroken. Our father left her with two girls and no prospects. He was the cause for her bitterness.

On the night of her passing, I sat waiting for the coroner to retrieve her body. My nightgown was a light blue with flowers that were several shades darker. Honey sat on the edge of Mother’s bed, holding her cold hand. Tears streaked Honey’s powdered cheeks, as I’m sure they did mine.

I pressed my handkerchief to the tip of my nose and sniffled. I shut my eyes and let out the sigh I had been holding. There was a knock on the door and I leapt up out of fright.

“It’s only Dr. Roberts, Mari,” Honey said with a sigh. I nodded and made my way to the front door, which happened to lead into the kitchen. Dr. Roberts and his associate entered carrying a stretcher.

Honey rose from her place on the bed and came to stand by my side. I wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. She buried her face in the crook of my arm. Dr. Roberts turned to me as his associate pushed the stretcher carrying Mother’s body out onto the porch.

“Ms. Marigold, I’m sorry for your loss. Your mother came in a year or so ago to make arrangements. We will just need an outfit for her.”

“I’ll bring it over tomorrow so we can go over the arrangements. Let me know if you need anything else from us,” I said.

“Will do.” Dr. Roberts extended his hand and I shook it. When he was gone, I turned my attention to Honey.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” She only nodded. I busied myself with filling up Mother’s yellow tea kettle with white flowers painted on it. Honey set about gathering cups, saucers, cream, and sugar. She placed everything on a serving tray and made her way into the family room. I joined her while we waited for the kettle. A peaceful silence settled between us.

On the wall, Mother’s favorite clock alerted us to the new hour. I looked around the family room, seeing Mother’s touch everywhere. The crocheted afghans on the back of the chairs and sofa, the bookshelf in the corner filled with Mother’s approved selection, and the decorations that covered the walls, namely the various paintings of the phoenix.

The tea kettle squealed and I returned to my task of preparing us a cup of tea. We sipped our cups of tea in silence, tears still streaking our faces. Before we were halfway through, a knock came at the door. After slipping into our robes, I opened the door an inch or so.

“May I help you,” I said to the strange man standing on our porch.

“Jonathan Maisey, ma’am. I am here to speak to the lady of the house, Liliana Davenport.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My mother just passed away.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I assure you, sir, it is very possible. It happened not two hours ago.”

“I promise you. There is no way that Liliana can be dead. May I please come in?”

“No,” Honey said over my shoulder. “Leave us to our grief.”

In the kitchen, the phone rang. Honey gestured for me to go answer it.

“Hello,” I said gingerly.

“Ms. Marigold. This is Dr. Roberts.” His voice was panicked. “I am so sorry.”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Roberts?” I could hear the panic rising in my own voice.

“I really don’t know how to tell you this. I guess I will just come out and say it. We’ve had an accident.”

“Oh. Surely Mother’s body is alright.”

“You don’t understand. The stretcher she was on caught fire, that’s the reason we crashed. However, her remains are nowhere to be found. The firemen are here now pulling what’s left of our vehicle out of the flames. They say they have found no human remains.”

I dropped the receiver. “Honey! Let him in.”

“Her body disappeared in flames,” Jonathan Maisey said behind me. I jumped at his voice. Once I had recovered, I hung up the phone.

“You better explain yourself, right now,” I croaked, gesturing for him to sit at the kitchen table.

****

I was five years old when I learned what the word “obsessed” meant. I was very proud of my new vocabulary word and used it as often as I could.

"I am obsessed with kittens."

"Honey is obsessed with sucking her thumb."

"Mother is obsessed with the firebird."

At the time, "phoenix" was not part of my vocabulary, but I knew that they had something to do with fire. Mother was obsessed with them. She read us a variety of stories that featured the mythical creatures, decorated our home with their images, as I’ve mentioned, and even had a pendant shaped like a phoenix that she wore every day.

“Phoenixes never died.” She’d tell us. “They turned to ash and would rise again from the ashes.”

Unlike Mother, Honey and I are logical people. Two plus two will always equal four and death is final.

****

According to Jonathan Maisey, though, death was not always final for the Davenports.

“Has your mother ever seemed overly cautious of the two of you?” Jonathan asked us. Slowly, we nodded our heads.

Mother may not have wanted us or been keen to show us love, but she was still a mother, she still took care of us.

“The gene is not fully developed until you are thirty years old. If you die before your 30th birthday...well…”

“We’ll be dead for real,” I said.

“You can’t seriously believe this,” Honey exclaimed.

“How else do you explain what happened with Mother’s body,” I asked her.

“I don’t know, but…” She put her head in her hands. I patted her shoulder.

“Do you know where she might have gone?” Jonathan asked.

“You mean after she…”

“Rose from her ashes? Yes, that’s what I mean.”

I swallowed. Honey stood up, chuckling.

“This is nuts,” she declared. “Mr. Maisey, thank you so much for...whatever this is.” She was waving her hands around. “I, uh, I think you need to leave.” She opened the front door and began tapping her foot.

“Honey, please,” I begged.

“No. Marigold, I cannot stand here being told that our mother, who we both just watched die, is alive and well somewhere. Again, Mr. Maisey, it’s time for you to leave.”

Jonathan did as she asked. Honey made sure to lock the door, using both the bolt and the chain. She leaned against the front door and sighed.

“Now what,” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” I returned to my spot on the sofa. Honey went upstairs, stomping as she did. A fresh wave of grief came over me, mixed with something else. It was an emotion I had no reason to feel before. Anger. I was angry. At Jonathan, most likely. How dare he come to our home, on the night our mother passed, no less, and tell us these outrageous stories about phoenixes being real.

I had no idea what to do with the emotions rising in my body. Grief, anger, and hurt were mainly what I felt right then. I wanted so badly to believe what Jonathan had told us. He never explained how he knew our mother or claimed how he knew the ridiculous stories he told us.

I folded my arms against my chest, sure I looked like a pouting child. Who cared? There was no one in the house except my sister, who knew me at my worst.

I leaned my head against the back of the sofa and closed my eyes. I pleaded with whoever was listening to let me rest and deal with everything tomorrow.

****

I woke up being jostled by Honey.

“Marigold. Mari! Wake up!” I looked up into her gold-brown eyes.

“Look what I found,” she said, thrusting a leather-bound journal under my nose. I could tell that it was old. I was correct. Its earliest entry was on January 12, 1875, by a man named Charles Davenport. Our grandfather. January 12, 1875, happened to be his 30th birthday. Our grandfather, who we rarely saw, never looked a day over 50, but here we had proof that he was at least 150 years old.

“Mother’s first entry was on May 5, 1908, her 30th birthday. Her last entry was yesterday morning, saying it was time for her to pass this journal down.”

“How did you know to look for it,” I asked, dumbfounded.

“She muttered something about needing her journal a few hours before she passed away. Look through the entries. They list symptoms, like how weak and fatigue you feel right before you die. Mother mentioned a few weeks ago that she was tired all the time in one of her entries.”

I thumbed through the journal. On March 27, 1908, our grandfather's last entry stated that he was ready to pass the journal onto his Liliana and tell her about their heritage. He mentioned how this had become the custom of the Davenports. I realized why Mother had never mentioned it before. She was waiting until our 30 birthdays. Mine was still nine years away. Honey's was twelve.

The clock chimed the hour - one o’clock in the morning - and I looked up at Honey.

“We need to get some sleep. I’ll figure out what to do in the morning.” At that moment, the doorknob on the front door rattled. The visitor began banging on the door.

“What in the world,” Honey said. She peeked out the curtain which covered the small window on the door. “Oh my God!”

With a quickness I had never seen in her, Honey unlocked the doorknob and the bolt, then she slid the chain into its unlocked position. She flung the door open and exclaimed, “Mother!” I peered over Honey’s shoulder and saw her. Mother stood in the doorway, naked as could be.

“There’s a few things we need to discuss, girls, but first, let me in.” She pushed past Honey and grabbed my discarded robe from the arm of the sofa. Once she was settled in her favorite armchair, she said, “I see you found the journal. That is a perfect place to begin.”