The Flower Furies

At 37 yrs. old, I’m holding our crochet and remembering.

Words aren’t needed for those whom we love longer than earliest memories of life.

“Lynelle, pick those clothes in. Rain’s coming.”

“Mkay, Nana,” I say.

As the back porch door banged behind me, Goober nudges it open to leave a softer bang. That dog probably loved me as much as my Nana did, but at 7-years-old it just wasn’t a thought I’d thunk.

Nana occupied both forefront and background, lingering in every awareness of childhood recognition. Grandmothers like that, they don’t come with molds that could ever be replicated anyway. Just natural as breath and more cozy-comfortable than the most soothing words ever uttered in all existence.

My grandparent’s house, The Santucci’s Garden Gate, lay a few clicks off the main road in Sandys Parish, commonly known as Somerset. Only one road took you there, so there was no denying destination when on it.

The island’s western end, referred to as ‘up de country’ from time immemorial, had long winding roads for anyone traveling from the central parishes and beyond. But the pace of living here progressed decidedly slower as if the protracted journey for arrival stripped all sense of time.

In the family car without my older brothers Darren and Michael, I’d lay down in the backseat, close eyes, and follow slalom turns and bumps in the road with just mind; sure of where I was along the way. After fifteen minutes or so, I’d sit up and verify that I was in the exact location I had envisioned. Oleander trees pink with flowers, limestone rock, and Fort Scaur descending from the hill near the bay where boats remained obediently at their moorings on the edges of Ely’s Harbour.

My brothers nearly finished with high school, would spend all summer on Port’s Island as assistant camp supervisors for 10-year-olds.

Three years after beginning school, we moved to a bigger house in Southampton, the next parish heading east. Sandra and Dean Santucci weighed options but decided transferring schools would be too disruptive for their youngest. I spent meandering walks with friends after the last bell from West End Primary, passing the Muslim Bakery, and cutting across Somerset Road to Hook ‘N Ladder Lane. We’d continue to Long Bay Lane, incessant chatter diminishing as each peeled off one by one, running to respective front doors. Hitting West Side Road, familiar long black silken hair would be approaching, tail wagging.

“Hey, Goobie-Boobie! Such a good boy!”

He’d take the last leg to the house with me, never once mentioning my blatant knowledge deficiency of his prowess in recognizing my scent some distance away on salty air breezes.

The two-story pale, gray Bermuda stone house with green wooden window shutters looked out over an expanse of western sea, keeping the traditional architectural build of a bygone era. If a bomb detonated, I swear that house would still be standing.

Pa once said, “Coral, they dun make houses like dey used to. De younger ones always want shortcuts.”

“Well Cecil,” she’d said. “there’s always losses to next generations. Sad innit?”

A tall, muscular, dark chocolate ripple of muscles, Pa left home at 6:00 am every morning to conduct tours on his yacht, often returning late evenings. Nana was at the homestead most of the time. So, it was Nana who infused me most hours and days. Her endless knowledge and daily tasks were osmotic and irresistible. She baked bread once a month. Made root and ginger beer from scratch. Brewed herbal remedies before it became a thing. Played hymns on the piano. Held my hand taking the rocky, uneven descent to secluded coves below the house to swim. Entertained family and friends visiting. Fed the ducks and chickens. Did the dishes and the newspaper’s daily crossword. From her I learned knitting and crochet, then waved the white flag at the feet of her sewing level mastery execution.

Above all else, despite efforts at humility, Nana relished and reveled eternally in all things plant kingdom. She flourished the biggest, baddest back garden ever. During summers I’d barefoot slither through distinguishable furrowed rows of soil, finding tomatoes, string beans, carrots, broccoli, and cabbage bordered by a perimeter of cherry, pear, orange, and loquat trees. Thinking back, it was kind of peculiar how everything seemed to grow without effort. As if all the plants fell head over heels in love with Nana, wanting to do anything and everything to win her heart.

In every tiny space, a garden popped up. The back porch kept watchful eyes over a coveted apple tree and cotton plant. The front veranda garden held only flowers. Colorful frangipani, lilies, nasturtium, periwinkle, and roses.

Springtime exploded freesia pockets on a front lawn nearly as big as my school field. All the neighborhood children came to play here.

Dining room window sills, tables, and every flat surface was such an affluence of floral bouquet containers, it could very well have been both botany lab and greenhouse. Nana clipped leaves from plants in her travels and placed them in jars of water until spindly roots appeared, eager to swim towards Nana for enjoyment of presence that I wrapped myself in voraciously.

Tending her charges inside and outside, dark wizened eyes reflected colors of petals she knew and future suitors yet to vie for her attention.

My stomach churned and pinched all morning at swim camp the day they arrived.

Pa had boat repairs and a Department of Marine & Ports appointment; coming home uncharacteristically early with a gift from American tourists for his wife.

Marigolds.

A bouquet of African Marigolds to be precise.

They sat on the dining table in antique crystal blazing pom-pom sun brilliance and spinning hypnotic passions in Nana’s eyes. My young body registered foreboding in chills and a sudden choking cough. When itchy hives broke my skin, my eyes began to burn and water.

“They're s’posed to keep chickens healthy and layin’ better eggs,” Pa said.

“Mmmph.” Nana’s fingers trailed over the vibrant petals oblivious to my continuous hacking.

“Got nature’s chemicals that keeps immune systems working vell.” Pa knew that he’d pleased his wife. But Pa didn’t know what I did, as Nana’s eyes flashed pinprick swirls of Rumpelstiltskin gold.

“Sam and Ella Mae Anderson both said getting ‘em to eat dried petals was easy. Said they’re annuals and’ll grow back.” Brushing imaginary dirt from his captain’s shirt lapels, he seemed right proud of himself. “Coral, you know dey got twelve gen’rations of Rhode Island Reds in their coop in Boston?”

Nana probably didn’t.

But she wasn’t blinking when Pa turned to me and said, “Nell, you need some Buckleys for dat cough?” Upon it registering, she took one look at me and went to fetch the calamine lotion and searing cough syrup I hated. But by the time she returned all symptoms had vanished.

She ordered marigold seeds out of catalogs and consulted the Farmer’s Almanac; planting in pots and prized locations in garden plots around the yard.

The other plants and flowers grew wary. Then envious. Irritable and darn near maniacal.

Most days, Goober and I hesitated before bursting through the front door as usual. Strange shifting energies put us both on edge, pushing and pulling lifelong connections. Nana’s affections locked into tight luscious petals.

The marigolds had no intentions of sharing.

It became an obsession I couldn’t name in my 7-year-old brain, as I did not know what words. Nana spent hours drying precious petals that I helped feed to the chickens even though my eyes burned and welt-like hives would cover my arms and legs. If I didn’t scratch them, she never noticed.

She played the piano less and stopped holding my hand down to the cove. Then she stopped taking me swimming altogether.

The Royal poinciana tree in the yard fringed new leaves and fiery red blooms. African Violet pots placed between the old wooden radio and window sill emanated their most intoxicating hues, singing of rainbow glories. When I saw a yellow tinge on the white roses near the front veranda in August, my chest froze from a solitary piercing icy blast. The plants and flowers in the kingdom weren’t the only ones that despised the marigolds.

Nana moved about the garden and yard, a marigold flower in hand, lifting it to her nose as if to kiss it. As long as I could hold her other hand, it felt like I wasn’t losing on a dirt-slinging, no-holds-barred, winner-take-all grudge match.

Over weeks, I’d bite away worries, finding ways to temporarily hide my fears within the flower pots of the neglected ones. On the nights I’d sleep at Nana’s, there were low, crusted, sadistic groans from marigold flowers alongside Goober’s intermittent whining. Slumbering dreams were tortuous. At least, it was comforting that the dog knew too.

As the autumn rolled around, I took sordid satisfaction that the marigolds would be dying and dead soon. I thought it’d be okay then. I’d get Nana back.

But after the first school day’s return, I came home to yellow pictures on walls and shimmering sunny flowered placemats. There were marigold flower dish towels and pressed flowers between favorite storybooks that Nana read.

Months dragged through winters of the only flower in life that mocked and laughed at me even when it couldn’t be seen above the soil. Its deceptive wiles brought plastic displays of sinister elegance at Christmas and New Year’s, threatening to strangle and sever all connection, save marigold yellow, to the one I loved more than my own life.

In the spring, the freesias promised purple, pink, and blue relief by beating the marigolds above ground to blossom.

I hoped for a birthday party with family and friends to become the magic, breaking incantations of hellish origins. That Friday afternoon, English comprehension and spelling found me restless in class. Feverish. And then short of breath. Mrs. Brown removed my navy sweater and let me lie down on the reading rug, tucking my matching pleated skirt underneath my legs. By the time the shivering commenced, I was sobbing hysterically as one classmate after another sat with me to stroke my back. The office repeatedly called my mother with no response. Within minutes, both she and my daddy were scooping me up. Into the backseat of the car I went with some children’s aspirin and tepid apple juice.

Delirious states shrouded time when we arrived at Sir Alma Hunt Memorial to see Nana laying motionless on a ward bed almost as white as the sheets covering her.

Pa stood transfixed in dried cement, his face ashen.

I still had cold tremors as I reached for her hand and said, “Nana?”

Narrow slits opened and turned towards me.

“Nell,” she said. Her words breathy and slow but she half-smiled a Nana smile at me and I beamed. “Feed Goober. I…”

Machines beep and whir in my distant mind.

Kisses.

“Love you, Nana.”

Smiles.

“Love..Nell, water the…water the mari—."

The first time in months that I’d seen her without infernal yellows.

Audible shrieks fill the room.

My fever breaks. I wish I could have told them before...

Dad stays with Pa at the hospital while Mom takes me on the long silent drive back to Nana’s house.

My face is a wall.

I trudge through well-worn doors seldom locked and spew hatred at everything gold yellow.

Mommy collapses, throaty sobs on the chair.

I grab garden tools from the shed as Goober falls in beside me with knowing steps.

I dig at roots of marigolds in all the places planted before buds open. Hacking. Cutting. Chomping. Eyes burning and hives threatening. But I keep going until the yard is a mass of tangled green stems and unopened buds. Rich brown soil on me and the grass, with relieved woeful sighs from over fifty original green kingdom residents.

Goober isn’t even hungry. Like me, he too is crying.

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