Flowers for Her
Pier Myburgh
You should always try to be considerate to others when you try to kill yourself. There are so many things to think of, like who will find you, what you will look like, and who will clean up the mess. Then, of course, you also have to consider what method to use, and if you have the right equipment. I guess you don’t really want to think about how it will feel.
Mom made her lamb stew for the last time when she was wearing her special red and white halter neck dress. I could smell the roasting onion all the way into my bedroom, and I knew she would be cutting away the fat, keeping only the best pieces of meat for the stew. When she added red wine to the pot, I almost looked forward to Dad coming home. Mom was a terrible cook, but she could do this one dish really well. She saved it for special occasions.
“How would you feel if we had another baby?” she had asked me that morning. I told her it would be great. I could have told her how scared I was that this baby, too, would not come home from the hospital. I could have said that there was already not enough of her to go around for the rest of us, and that she should be happy with the two children she already had. “Maybe it will make Daddy happy,” I said.
As always, Dad came home at six thirty and went straight to the study. He switched on the radio.
“Julia!”
I could hear the buzz and crackle as he flicked from one station to another.
“Yes, Dad,” I said.
“How many times must I tell you that this radio is not a toy? I will not have you listening to your nonsense on my radio or anywhere else in this house.”
He found the classical music station, and after awhile I could hear him typing. He always used only two fingers, and the keys beat an odd rhythm against the classics he so adored. Every night was the same. He would work and listen to his music until just before seven. Then his most favorite program—Think on These Things—would give him his thought for the day. Only after the news headlines would he switch the radio off and go to the dining room, where we would all be seated at the table, candles lit and food dished up, waiting for him.
But that night Mom had made the lamb stew and she had her dress on and she had something to tell him. She wore her hair up because that’s how Dad liked it. She never wore makeup, but I’m sure her lips looked a little shiny.
I could see Jack eyeing the vegetables on his plate. I hoped he would not spoil our evening by trying to hide his peas under his squash again. The last time he did it, Dad got really mad. He did not let us waste food. He made Jack eat it all.
“Put it in your mouth. Now chew. One two, one two. Swallow. Again.”
Jack cried so much that night that he couldn’t chew and swallow quickly enough. The spit came out of his mouth like green globs of glue. It was disgusting. We all just sat there with our empty plates in front of us, watching Jack. I remember how the candles made funny shadows on his face. We always had candles. Mom said they created ambience.
We were all sitting ready, with Mom looking pretty, when Dad said, “I can’t eat this, Jane.”
“Are you not hungry?” Mom said.
“I’ve decided to become a vegetarian.”
“You’ve what?”
“I’m a vegetarian. God did not mean for us to kill animals and eat them.”
Then why did God make it smell so good, I thought, and tried to sneak a piece off my plate without Dad noticing. It was strictly forbidden to eat before Dad had said grace and taken his first bite. But he had more to say.
“When God said, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ He was not only talking about other people, you know. You have to kill to eat, of course, but you have to choose the lowest form of life.”
“And does your god choose the lowest form of life when he does his killing?” she asked.
He slapped her so quickly I almost did not see his arm move. She probably should have known better than to talk back to him like that. Dad had found God two years ago, and they were now a team. He always said that you can beat anything when God is on your side.
I could see Jack wanting to cry and gave him my meanest “don’t even think about it” look. He was only four, but I was already eight and understood lots of things. He started to bawl anyway. Mommy looked at him as if she were about to put her arms around him, but instead she just walked out the door.
If you have two children, it would not be considerate to shoot yourself. Firstly, you can’t put the gun away safely when you’re done with it, and everyone knows it’s dangerous to leave guns lying around the house. Secondly, it would create a big mess, which would be tricky for children to clean up, unless you do it on the last Wednesday of the month when the cleaning service comes in.
The next morning, I found Mom sitting on the top step of the porch smoking a cigarette. She was still wearing her pajamas with just her old sweater with the hole on the left shoulder thrown over them. She drew in really deeply the smoke. She’d given up smoking two years ago and always said how she was feeling so much better for it. Her lips were not shiny anymore. The car was gone, so Dad must have left for work already. Somewhere inside the house, I could hear Jack shooting some bad guys with the toy gun Dad had given him for his last birthday.
“Hi, Mom.”
She didn’t answer, but I sat next to her so that she would see that I was a big girl and that I could be her friend. She just stared down at the step and kept on smoking. We sat there quietly until I saw a little black spider crawling past our feet. It was very tiny and not at all something to be scared of. I could almost not see its legs. When it came into my shadow, it curled itself into a tiny ball. I thought of flicking it away, when my mother took her cigarette and put it out on the spider. “Let’s get dressed,” she said. “This morning we’re going to buy flowers.”
She strapped Jack into his stroller and put on her red coat. I could’ve sworn she was wearing some light red lipstick. Her hair was loose and it made her face look really pretty. She didn’t look like a Mom you would want to hit at all.
I walked really close to her and stuck my hand in the pocket of her coat. I could still smell the cigarette on her and hoped she would stop smelling like that before Dad got home. He did not approve of smoking. I wondered if the butt was still lying on the porch all squashed up where she had left it. Jack started to sing the itsy bitsy spider song as if he knew what I was thinking.
“Shut up,” I said.
“Don’t you speak to your brother like that, young lady,” Mom said. “In this family we treat each other with respect.”
Right. It was cold outside, but the sun was shining, and I could almost hope that it would turn into a beautiful day. Mom was walking too fast for me, as if she couldn’t wait to get to the shop, and I really had to stretch my legs to keep up.
“Which is your favorite flower, Julia?”
“Roses,” I said, because I couldn’t think of any other kind. We did not often have flowers in the house, unless you count the dried arrangement on top of the fireplace. Dad did not like real flowers. He said they were too expensive and died too soon. Since Mommy had the last baby, Granny sent us flowers once a year, but they were not happy ones. They always made Mom cry, and then Dad got really cross.
I had never been inside a florist shop before. It was beautiful. It smelled slightly damp and slightly sweet. “It smells of life,” Mom said. She must have been talking to herself because I didn’t know that life had a smell. “Look, Julia, the hydrangeas are the same color blue as your and Jack’s eyes. Let’s buy them.”
“I’ll have four stems,” she said to the sales lady. She put her hand on her stomach and then she turned to me. “One for each child.” It was the first time in ages that she had mentioned the other baby to me, the one who didn’t come home. She looked really pretty with the red coat on and the blue flowers in her hand and her eyes looking at me like I was her friend. That made me feel very happy.
She asked me to push Jack home. The flowers were wrapped in crisp brown paper, tied together with twine. She cradled them in the crook of her arm, and the little blue flowers brushed her cheek as her steps fell into rhythm with mine.
It is very inconsiderate to hang yourself. It is a horrible thing for children to look at. We once went to one of the witch museums in Salem and saw all those people hanging in the dungeons. Mom and Dad tried to close our eyes, but I still saw it and I know Jack did, too, because he had some very bad dreams for many nights afterward.
When we got home, I put the four stems in a vase and carefully cleaned up the water around it. I tried to smell the life in them, but they had no fragrance. Mom sat down on the carpet with Jack, with her shoes off, and built towers, stacking blocks until they teetered, hesitated, and came crashing down around them. She then read me my favorite story, and I could see she was trying hard not to show how much it bored her.
There were absolutely no smells coming from the kitchen when Dad got home that night. He went to his study all the same, and when he came to the dining room, filled with his thought for the day and the news headlines, we were waiting for him with the candles all lit. The four stems of flowers stood neatly in the center of the table. I got out a box of Chocos and some milk and gave us each some. I thought it was okay because the box said it showed how much Mom loved us, but I was not sure Dad would see it that way. At least Jack would be happy.
Dad sat down, looked at his plate and then at the flowers. “Let us say grace,” he said.
“Dear God, we thank You for our food to eat and ask You to forgive us for being wasteful and frivolous.” Then he got up, took the vase with the flowers, and threw them in the garbage. The glass shattered as it hit something solid in the bottom of the trash can, and I could just see the little blue flowers stick out from under the lid. The water splashed everywhere. Two of the flower heads had broken off and lay on the brown linoleum kitchen floor winking at me. Dad wiped his hands on his shirt, turned around, and stepped on the one flower as he walked back to the table. Then he sat down and ate his Chocos as if it were quite a normal thing to eat for supper.
No one said a word. Mom just sat there with her back straight and her eyes seeing nothing. When we left the table, she was still sitting like that. I went to give her a hug, but she did not move. She must have eventually gotten up and cleared the table. She must have washed the dishes and set things ready for breakfast. I think she came into my room to say good night, but I was already sleeping and maybe I was just dreaming.
It was cold and gray outside when I woke up. Dad was shaking me saying, “Julia, where is your mother? Did she tell you where she was going?”
I got straight up and shouted, “Mommy,” although I already knew it was a stupid thing to do. The house was dead quiet. I went around in my bare feet, opening all the doors as if I were looking for a missing sweater, or a cat that was accidentally locked in. Dad just followed me around. He irritated me, but I let him be. He was still wearing his blue flannel pajamas and his hair stuck out in all directions. He looked like Jack, but his face was covered in gray stubble, and he suddenly seemed so old. He smelled sour from sleeping. All the time he said, “Where is she, Julia, where can she be?” I wished he would shut up. Downstairs, the kitchen had been tidied up, and three places were set for breakfast.
When I opened the front door, the cold air hit me like a fist in the face. I saw that the trees were bare and the leaves on the ground had lost their color. The porch felt icy under my bare feet. The windows of our car were all frosted up, and I could not see inside. It was not a car of any particular description. Dad had bought it because it was one of those reliable, economical cars that every family should have. I heard the low, soft humming of the engine and did not need to see the hose that was stuck into the exhaust to know.
“Sweet Jesus, Julia, what has she done? What have I done?”
My father clung onto me from behind. He was so heavy, and I struggled to stay upright. He hung onto the railing of the porch, and we slowly slid down to sit on the top step. I saw that the cigarette butt still stood all bent where her fingers had squashed it, and thought of the crushed spider. Dad’s mouth was wide open, and I could see his yellowed teeth. I knew he was screaming, but he did not make a sound. Then he put his arms around me, pressed his head against my chest, and sobbed. “Oh, dear God, oh, dear God,” he said over and over. “I killed her. Julia, did I kill her?”
I instinctively put my arms around him and held him tightly. I probably should have said, “It’s okay, Daddy,” I should have stroked his hair and put my face against his rough, wet cheek. I could have told him that we’d be all right. But I also wanted to crush a spider. I wanted to stamp on a snail, or to squash a bug with my fingers.
I pushed him away. “Yes,” I screamed. “And the new baby!”
He did not say anything, but when he looked up at me, his face was contorted and ghastly, and I knew then that he had understood.
I went to the car, ripped the hose out of the window, and let it flop uselessly at my feet. The blue towel that was neatly pressed into the gap at the top came undone and hung from the window. I opened the door. It did not smell at all like the inside of a florist shop. I held my breath so that maybe I could one day forget, and turned the ignition off. I left the door open for my father to see and walked passed him up the stairs to wake up Jack.
Mom knew she could always count on me. Jack’s room was still dark, and I left the curtains closed. I kissed him on his cheek, softly, just like she used to do. He opened his eyes and closed them again. I held him tightly, so tightly. I didn’t know I was crying, but I saw the wet of my tears on his cheek. Jack would be so sad if I cried. So I stopped.
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