The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh Read Free Book Online Page A

deadbolts turning. Then there were the sounds of the other children: babies crying, siblings screaming upon separation, the yelp of a too-cold shower, and the whimper of a roommate’s nightmare. But Elizabeth’s house was different. Like the vineyard settling in the dusk, inside the house was silent. Only a faint, high-pitched buzz traveled through the open window. It reminded me of the squeal of electricity on wires, but in the country I imagined it to come from something natural, a waterfall, maybe, or a band of bees.
    Finally, I heard Elizabeth on the stairs. I pulled the covers over my head and around my ears so that I couldn’t hear her footsteps. Startling, I felt her sit lightly on the edge of my bed. I peeled the blanket an inch away from my ears but did not uncover my face.
    “My mother didn’t like
me
, either,” Elizabeth whispered. Her tone was gentle, apologetic. I had an urge to peek out from underneath the covers; the voice that burrowed through the down was so different from the one that had held me over the sink that for a moment I didn’t think it belonged to Elizabeth.
    “We have that much in common, at least.” Her hand rested on the small of my back when she said this, and I arched away from her, pushing my body into the wall that lined the side of the bed. My face pressed into the slab of ham. Elizabeth kept talking, telling me about the birth of her older sister, Catherine, and the seven years of stillbirths that followed: four babies total, all boys.
    “When I was born, my mother asked the doctors to take me away. I don’t remember this, but my father told me it was my sister, only seven years old, who fed, bathed, and changed me, until I was old enough to do it myself.” Elizabeth continued to talk, describing her mother’s depression and her father’s devotion to her care. Even before she had learned to speak, Elizabeth told me, she had learned exactly where to place her feet as she tiptoed the hallways, to avoid the squeak of the old wood floors. Her mother didn’t like noise, any noise.
    I listened as Elizabeth spoke. The emotion in her voice interested me—I had rarely been spoken to as if I was capable of understanding another’sexperience. I swallowed a bite of meat. “It was my fault,” Elizabeth continued. “My mother’s illness. No one kept that a secret from me. My parents didn’t want a second daughter—girls weren’t believed to have the taste buds required to discern a ripe wine grape. But I proved them wrong.”
    Elizabeth patted my back, and I could tell she had finished speaking. I took my last bite of ham. “How was that for a bedtime story?” she asked. Her voice was too loud in the quiet house, pretending an optimism I knew she did not feel.
    Poking my nose out from underneath the covers, I took a breath. “Not great,” I said.
    Elizabeth laughed once, a sharp exhale. “I believe you can prove everyone wrong, too, Victoria. Your behavior is a choice; it isn’t who you are.”
    If Elizabeth really believed this, I thought, there was nothing but disappointment in her future.

8
.
    Renata and I worked most of the morning in silence. Bloom had a tiny storefront with a bigger work space in back, a long wooden table, and a walk-in refrigerator. There were six chairs around the table. I chose the one closest to the door.
    Renata placed a book in front of me, titled
Sunflower Weddings
. I thought of an appropriate subtitle:
How to Begin a Marriage Steeped in the Values of Deceit and Materialism
. Ignoring the book, I created sixteen matching table arrangements with the sunflowers, lilies, and a tangle of wispy asparagus fern. Renata worked on the bridal-party bouquets, and when she finished those, she began a floral sculpture in a corrugated metal bucket longer than her legs. Every time the front door squeaked open, Renata ducked into the showroom. She knew her customers by name and chose flowers for each without direction.
    When I was done, I stood in front of