Old Habits

Old Habits

The Flowers in our Garden

By Danielle Lenaghan Sheets

The cemetery was gray on that rainy Sunday. Dark clouds loomed in the sky and the birds were eerily quiet. Rachel had popped into Petunia’s Flowers on the corner by her apartment. Her mother loved wildflowers and Rachel was happy to honor mom’s wishes. As she approached her mother’s grave she saw a single marigold adorning the headstone. She stared at it as she pulled the weeds, cleaned off the marker and unscrewed the vase to turn it upright. She arranged the wildflowers and made some minor adjustments. “Perfect,” she said to herself. She picked up the marigold and wondered who could have left it there. “Probably some kids wandering by,” she mumbled as she packed up her gloves and cloth. She placed the marigold in the vase with the wildflowers and filled it with water. “I love you mom,” she uttered, blowing a kiss.

Snow and sleet drizzled through the air the following November 1st. Rachel was bundled up in a puffer jacket and equipped with a scarf, wool hat, and mittens. The sun was shining through the clouds illuminating the frozen tree branches. She approached mom’s grave with wildflowers in hand and once again, there was a lone marigold atop mom’s stone. She had an eerie feeling and looked around to see if anyone was watching her through the woody cemetery. She was the only soul out in the frigid November air that morning. Rachel dusted the snow from the marker, unscrewed the vase and placed the wildflowers inside. She added the marigold and filled it with water. “I love you mom,” she uttered, blowing a kiss.

The lone marigold haunted Rachel. She contacted the cemetery, but there were no surveillance cameras near the gravesites. Rachel formulated a plan. On October 31st, she crept into Rose Memorial after closing. She carried a backpack containing a sleeping bag, flashlight, box of blueberry Pop-Tarts, and two bottles of water. She hid in a thicket of trees and set up camp, “this is not the ideal place to spend Halloween,” she whispered. The cold wind was softly moaning, and she could hear rustling in the trees. At 3 a.m. Rachel heard footsteps. She pulled out her phone and zoomed in on her mom’s grave. A figure in a black hooded jacket sat by her mom’s plot for 30 minutes then the mysterious visitor placed a lone marigold on the headstone and walked off. Rachel quietly packed up her gear and followed at a safe distance. The stranger did not walk toward the parking lot, but instead, took a long narrow path through the woods.

It was 4 a.m. by the time Rachel arrived at a little cottage on the outskirts of the forest. It was a humble log cabin with a stone fireplace. She found a little grove of trees to conceal herself until the secret visitor reappeared. It was 6 a.m. when Rachel heard the screen door slam. She saw the figure in the black hooded jacket walk from the cabin to the little path in the woods. She ran to the cottage and found the door unlocked. She hurriedly wiped her feet on the welcome mat and walked inside. The home was beautiful with natural wood paneling and stained-glass windows. She admired the decorative built ins and the hand-made cabinets. She looked around for anything to identify the owner and found only a single letter, simply addressed to Robert. She removed the paper from the envelope and immediately recognized the handwriting. “No-one else loops their b’s and e’s like mom.” Rachel heard leaves crackling from a distance. She stuffed the letter in her pocket and darted out the back door. She waited in the thicket for the stranger to return home, then she hightailed it through the wooded path to the Rose Memorial parking lot. Her heart was still pounding when she pulled into the garage and rode the elevator up to her apartment.

A meowing Mr. Trix met her at the door. Rachel picked up the little grey kitten and he began to purr. She put food in his bowl and popped open a beer. Pulling the letter out of her pocket she read out loud. “Robert, my love. How I have missed you. I eagerly await your return so you can meet your daughter. Rachel is beautiful and she has your hazel eyes.” Rachel put the letter down and wiped away tears, “she told me she didn’t know who my dad was.” She took a huge swig of beer to choke down the lump in her throat and continued reading. “I found a little cottage in the woods where we can be a family and you can make your wishing wells. My mother is not thrilled that we’re not married, but we can go to the courthouse when you’re stateside. Hurry back. True love always, Marianne, your Marigold.” Rachel began to sweat and her stomach sickened. She ran to the toilet and spewed blueberry Pop-Tarts. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and put on fresh clothes. Looking at her watch Rachel realized the florist was already open. “November 1st, I have to get mom’s wildflowers.”

The sun was shining, and the birds were singing when Rachel arrived at Rose Memorial Cemetery. Groundskeepers were busy tending to the gardens and droves of mourners came and went as Rachel sat and sobbed. She pulled the weeds, cleaned the headstone and unscrewed the vase. She arranged the lone marigold with the bouquet of wildflowers and added water. “I really don’t know what to do with this letter, mom,” she quietly uttered. “Why wouldn’t you tell me I had a dad? What the hell happened?” she asked as she stood up and stared at the little path through the wood.

Rachel was mad as hell by the time she arrived at the cabin. She pounded on the door until it sprang open. “You need to explain this letter,” she yelled as she let the screen door slam behind her. “Hello, anyone home,” Rachel sang as she looked from room to room. From the kitchen window she could see hundreds of little wishing wells, in every colour of the spectrum, fancifully decorated with gingerbread trim and Victorian embellishments. She ran outside to get a closer look and saw his body laying between lilac and lavender. Rachel dialed 911 and followed the ambulance to Lily Valley Hospital.

“Are you family,” asked the attendant. “I’m his daughter,” stuttered Rachel. “Have a seat.” Three hours passed before Rachel was paged. “Your father suffered a ruptured aneurysm which led to a hemorrhagic stroke. We have not been able to assess the extent of brain damage, but it is possible that he may be in a coma for some time.” Day after day, Rachel returned to the hospital, letter in hand, ready to confront her absent father. Day after day, Robert slept and slept, while she told him the tender stories of her childhood and the heartbreaking tales of her fearless mother. She recalled every shitty birthday he missed and every Christmas she spent alone while mom slaved away at the 24-hour diner. Rachel described in detail every kid in school who made fun of her thrift store clothes and her “weird” sneakers. She told her dad about the first boy who took advantage of her, and the second, and third. She shared the misery she suffered when her grandmother died and the second jolt to her heart last year with mom’s passing. She told a year's worth of tales of love and heartache and all the while, never stopped wondering about her parents’ story.

It was a cold and windy November 1st, orange leaves were shuddering and committing suicide. Rachel had a bouquet of wildflowers and a single marigold in her basket. She pulled the weeds, cleaned the stone, and watered the vaseful of flowers. “I still don’t know what happened with you and Robert, and I’m not sure if I ever will. I have spent the past year telling him every heartache and woe I have experienced since infancy. He just lays there and listens to me. After 12 months of wallowing in self-pity, I have come to realize that I am who I am because of my experience. Sure, some awful things have happened along the way, but I certainly wouldn’t trade lives with anyone else. It stinks that I didn’t have a dad, and we were poor, and I couldn’t afford college, but I make great tips at the diner, especially during the holidays.”

Rachel pulled out of Rose Memorial Cemetery, with twisting ivy and ancient boxwoods in her rearview mirror she drove to Lily Valley Hospital to see Robert. She told him about her visit with mom and confessed that she had run out of glib stories of her sordid past. “I’m turning a new leaf,” Rachel announced. She reached down and kissed Robert’s forehead, “and I have you to thank.” His eyelids fluttered and his fingers twitched. Rachel pressed the call button for the nurse and held it down. After three months of rehabilitation, Rachel was able to take Robert home. “He will need help eating, toileting and showering, and we’re just not sure how much longer he’ll be non-verbal.” Rachel moved out of her apartment, quit her job at the diner, and started selling Robert’s wishing wells. “It’s November 1st dad,” she said wheeling Robert out to the van. “We have to pick up the flowers and go see mom.”

Rachel popped into Petunia’s and picked up a bouquet of wildflowers and one lonely marigold. She wheeled Robert to her mom’s grave and performed her weeding, headstone cleaning and flowers in the vase ritual. When Rachel finished, she held Robert’s hand and spoke to her mother. “I wish I could take back every horrible thing I ever said to you. You were a great mom, and I wouldn’t trade you for the world. And yes, I did steal $5 out of your dresser drawer when I was twelve. I’ve never been able to admit that until now. I miss the scent of lotion on your hairless arms, the aroma of your chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and the way you full belly laughed every chance you got. You always sang and danced, threw out positive vibes to everyone you met, and gave a damn about other people. You loved wild animals, and some scoundrels, but you always took care of me. I just want to say, I’m sorry.”