Miss Marigold

I must have circled the never-ending hallways a thousand times. Wheeling the portable IV at my feet, I almost clipped my toes as I steered to the left. A beautiful sign had once been strung on the now plain, wooden door. A photo of a beautiful marigold flower. Everything about them resembled her perfectly, and not just because of her name.

But now, my fingers slid across the blank surface. I heard shuffling on the other side of the door and I immediately backed away, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. She was being replaced. So easily.

Looking at all the elderly residents, it was hard to tell who else was feeling her loss. Who was feeling it the most? Surely it couldn't be me, a nurse who helped her to bed, who made sure that in her final moments she got to recount the events of her twenties, or remind me to water her flowers. She thought they'd live forever if I kept my mind to it.

"Watch your step," My co-worker instructed me and I lifted my head up, finally paying attention. All I managed was a nod, the corners of my lips tugging upwards into a forced smile. Everyone here knew I was hurting. They knew I was weak. Maybe too weak for the job. "It happens, darling. Our job is to make sure it happens peacefully," they'd all tell me. I had no idea how they did it. Sure, they'd all been working here for years and had seen residents come and go, but Miss Marigold? Her presence lit up the home for nearly twelve years since she was admitted at the young age of 79. How could they all be so okay?

Then I thought, maybe it wasn't Miss Marigold after all. Maybe it was because it was the first death I'd seen at the home.

No. I could hear Miss Marigold's disapproving tut as I thought such things. Reducing her death to just another name checked off a list wasn't enough. I'd only been here four months, and I felt like I lived her 91 years with her.

Miss Marigold loved to tell stories. She'd had everything a happy girl in the 1930's would have enjoyed. A big garden, toys, a rich family, education, what more could she have wanted? Well, the answer was simple. She wanted to be the little girl who enjoyed it.

Walking through the dining area, I watched how slowly the residents picked-up their spoons. As the carers assisted them, clocks ticking away in their heads. How long till my damn lunch break? How long till I get to leave this depressing place? Before Miss Marigold had left us, it felt brighter. And not just because she littered the place with bright marigold flowers. No, not that. Her presence was enough, as she watered them and kept them living, a separate organism connected to her by an invisible string. They died with her, too.

Miss Marigold knew she wanted to be a Miss Marigold from the age of 4. She watched the little boys she was forced to play with. She just watched, never truly present. Then, she'd watch the girls. Running around freely, their pink dresses dancing behind them in the wind. Long hair bouncing against their shoulders. They looked so elegant. So happy. Miss Marigold had described this as trying to look through a window but only seeing your reflection. Every time she watched the little girls, she only saw who she was stuck being, and who she wanted to be. The line became thicker as she aged.

The nightmares got worse. When Miss Marigold hit the age of thirteen and the hair above her upper lip started to sprout, she didn't run to her father to announce her first signs of puberty. She didn't deliberately deepen her voice to emphasise the voice-break, she didn't stand tall as she became the tallest out of the boys in the class. In fact, nobody would have known. She slouched, hoping to make herself look small like the other girls. She raised her voice, holding her breath at angles to hide her adam's apple. She was embarrassed, too afraid to ask for a razor. So, she plucked each hair from her upper lip by hand. No one would have known.

Upon joining the team of trainees at the care home, I was assigned the job of hairdressing. It was a simple job given my experience in hairdressing, and so when I met Miss Marigold for the very first time, I was prepping her long, grey hair. It was growing damaged at the ends and as I pulled out my scissors, she reached out to stop me.

"Don't cut it short like all the other ladies stuck in here. Keep it long. That's how I like it" She'd ordered me, but much to her dismay, I protested.

I'd been told short was the most sustainable or the safest style for these women. But Miss Marigold wouldn't budge. What a stubborn, but stylish, old lady, I'd thought. Then, she continued; "Don't listen to them, dear. I want nice long hair, like yours, you see? It's that, or I go bald"

Obviously, I gave in. I saw no real harm, and was right not to. All that came from it was the most joyful of smiles. And from that moment on, Miss Marigold made it her duty to shout me over from across the room whenever she saw me. She claimed my bright red locks made me unmissable, and as I got to know the woman who'd quickly learned my name despite her regressing memory, she told me she'd once had red hair like mine. I started looking forward to listening to her.

One summer, her father was on a work trip. They were raking in good money, and their family was content. Miss Marigold had two older sisters and a brother, the two sisters whom she envied for the path they were able to live. Miss Marigold had to remind herself that they'd never chose to be born that way and so she had no business being so angry, so jealous. But Miss Marigold failed to remind herself that she'd also had no choice. She was born in the wrong body, but this didn't make her wrong.

Miss Marigold's mother, Jane Marigold, was confused when Miss Marigold declined her usual haircut. Normally, like the other boys, Jane would cut her hair into a short, slicked-back trim. Jane thought it would be a one-time thing, or she was just fussy. "You're going to be made fun of at school by the boys, Max. Don't say I didn't want you" She would tell her, but Miss Marigold was ready. What her mother didn't know, was the boys made fun of her anyway. They called her names, while the girls refused to welcome her to their little circle too. But why would they? She didn't look like them, even if she was inside.

All but one ignored her. Claire was the shy girl in the back of Miss Marigold's class and a child who, while Miss Marigold's father was away, Jane Marigold had no problem with her being friendly with. Jane just wanted her son to have a friend. Any friend. Her son. As Miss Marigold recounted the story to me, her face had dropped at the mention.

Claire let Miss Marigold try on her dresses. She was the only person who Miss Marigold had felt normal enough with to even ask, but when she slipped on the pink dress which was supposed to be puffy, she felt better than normal. She felt incredible. No longer the boy with the weird hair and the festering hatred for himself. She felt like herself, and she loved it.

The next day, Miss Marigold's father returned home. Miss Marigold ignored the scolding she received when he saw the length of her hair, and almost felt prideful when he'd said she looked like a girl. "That was the point," Miss Marigold had commented as she told me, and I remember smiling at her courage.

Later, however, The Marigold family received a visit from Claire's parents, the Ivorson's. Miss Marigold tried to listen through the creak of the door. Then, her short period of peace was soon broken when her father called her into the living-room. "Max!" He'd called in a stern voice, and Miss Marigold knew now that the Ivorson's had left, and her heart dropped. This meant trouble.

The Ivorson's were forbidding Claire to spend any more time with Miss Marigold. This was what she'd heard first. Why? Because when asked how her dress had broke, Claire answered honestly, without thought. "Max Marigold was wearing it." She even mentioned that they played with her mother's lipstick in the bathroom before dinner. You see, Claire was a child. A child with an open mind who, had no friends like Miss Marigold, and was willing to make any. Even if they were as messed up as her parents claimed Miss Marigold was.

Miss Marigold's voice went shaky as she told me the full story months later. She took her time. Her bright green, glossy eyes remained firmly positioned in her lap. It took her a while to describe the way her father had grabbed her by her hair, forcing the scissors across the middle. Her tear-stained cheek burned as his hand struck it, and she was sent to school the next morning with no sleep, and no more smile.

Miss Marigold realised who she was when she ran away at the age of eighteen. Since that evening, she'd been planning her life and all she intended to achieve in it as Marigold, just Marigold. Not Max. I still refused to call an elderly woman I was working for by her first name and 'Miss Marigold' had a ring to it. But deep down, I think she'd always dreamed of being called Miss, and I noticed the way she tried to hide her budding smile whenever I did so.

For Miss Marigold's last haircut, I had a greater understanding of what had lead to the fear she felt in the barbers chair. I kept it long, neatening up the ends. I even suggested we dye it red, but Miss Marigold had laughed and claimed she was too old for such nonsense.

Now, I finished cutting a new residents hair, shortening it a lot like she'd asked. Then, I wheeled her to her room, my footsteps growing slower as I inched towards the familiar door. Miss Marigold's room had been given away, but what did I expect? They couldn't keep it empty forever.

"Here is fine, dear" The lady, who was called Daisy, stopped me. She could sense my uneasiness and upon opening her door, I felt it lift. My heart quickened at the familiar smell and when I realised it wasn't just Miss Marigold's forever lingering scent, but the alive marigold flower she'd left sitting on the windowsill, I broke out into a smile.

"Well, are you going to help or just stand there?" She joked and I quickly assisted, eyes lingering on the beautiful flower as I helped her into her seat, "You like marigold flowers?"I nodded instantly, speechless. I'd thought they were all gone. Any last trace of the brave and inspiring woman, was gone. "Someone left it up here and marigold's are my favourite. I told them to keep it before they threw it out" Daisy poured water into the soil.

I watched as the brightly coloured petals drank up the fresh water, living so brightly. Although they were only a plant, I wished they'd live as true of a life as Miss Marigold's. Because as invisible as the string was connecting her to her marigold, it was there, and so she was too.