An Orchid

My family was good with flowers. The only thing Grandma had been able to grow consistently were the many varieties of florals and ferns that wound around the property fence and weaved across the lawn, leaving gentle lines surrounding the house. It was like living in a fairy ring, or her protective spell. Dad had inherited her love of nature, but his obsession was with those smaller flowers that beckoned the coming of food. He grew all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and grew them well too, something even Grandma had failed to achieve.

Aunty Fran grew her garden selflessly. She wanted a space for her children to play in, for her family to feel welcome in during Christmas, but mostly for her animals to be safe in, to never have reason to want for anything more. She created a sanctuary for rescue animals, a home so cosy that even when she took the kangaroo to the other side of town to release it after healing, the poor creature had been so lost and confused it had bounded all the way back to her. She let the kangaroo stay, just like the possum who often returned in the dark of the night and nestled over the fishpond canopy, and the owl which could often be heard hooting from its permanent nest at the edge of the lawn.

I squinted towards the tall trees, wondering if that owl was simply sleeping now, or if it had really been that long since I last heard its night song. Guilt settled in my stomach, like sediment at the bottom of a lake that has finally been undisturbed. This is it now, I reminded myself. This is your life.

I didn’t venture too far. The grass was damp and I was wearing my good shoes. I didn’t want to get them dirty before our big day.

Instead, I retreated, back into the house. My cousin, Adam, sat soberly at the dining table.

“Hi,” I squeaked out. He raised his head towards me, recognised me. Then he put his head in his hands, propping himself up, trying not to sleep, but welcoming a chance to lose awareness all the same. His fingers tried to wrap through the mane of curls he usually carried, passing through air. He pulled at what was left.

I had never known how to talk to Adam. His sister and I had gotten along much better. I bit her arm, she pulled my hair. Then we grew up, me taking the selfies and her teaching me how to put on eyeliner. Then we grew up once more, and in that moment, we grew apart. We were either too busy, or too anxious, for each other’s company. All I knew of Adam was that he played computer games and only ever cut his hair when we had somewhere important to be.

“Did you find the shears?” Claire asked, appearing from down the hall, half distracted by the earring she was fumbling with.

“No,” I lied.

“Oh, well, I’ll–”

“It’s okay! Dad brought some with him. I just…” I paused, regretting the mess I’d gotten myself into. “I just really liked the lilies near the pond. I thought they might be nice.”

Claire didn’t speak quickly enough to ease my anxiety. Her eyes flickered, her mouth setting straight. Metal slid over metal, and she let go of the earring, now secured firmly at her ear.

“Have you got everything then?” she asked, ready to leave. I nodded, sure that if I opened my mouth I’d only rue it later. “Okay. Well, we’ll lock up and meet you outside.”

“Sure,” I offered, heading to the door.

I slid the fly screen open, jumping over the threshold. I fixed my gaze ahead, to the gate. I didn’t look to the right, where the bench with the shears, guarded by a spider the size of my hand, lay waiting under a cover of dust. I didn’t look to my left, at the wilting flowers, or the starving fish. And I didn’t mean to listen back to the voices in that house that had been so much my home once.

“I let them die,” he sobbed. “I can’t fix them now. They’re dead.”

I walked away.

I waited.

I loved cousin Sarah. She was the oldest of our generation, with two kids, Jackson and Emma, by the time I was twelve. I’d been young enough, when she was getting married, to be her flower girl. It was great to be united over such a special day, that she had given me such an important role in the ceremony, along with a beautiful blue and gold dress. Oddly enough, we were the only ones with no excuse to be so hopeless at the family flower tradition. I’d killed more plants than I could count on two hands, and Sarah was too flighty. She herself had never been able to plant roots in any one place, constantly on the move. There was little point in starting a garden in a house she’d be in for only a year. But she made up for it.

Her cake business had been thriving in the community. She’d opened a storefront, selling sweets and treats, and taking custom commissions for desserts. Everyone agreed that Sarah’s chocolate cake was perfectly balanced, rich but not decadent, sweet but not sugary. They were fluffy like clouds, with smooth creamy icing. And that icing was truly a highlight.

Sarah had perfected the art of decorative desserts. For Dad’s birthday, she made a cake that looked like a fish being reeled in, the glossy fondant making it look as if it had really just come from the water. For Grandma’s birthday, a batch of cupcakes with miniature sewing machines modelled on top. But her most beautiful designs were florals. They were classic, elegant, pure beauty. For my birthday, a gold cake with blue flowers.

She had missed my birthday, having to make sure everything was packed up in the moving truck. The landlord had told her to have everything moved out by midday the following day, but Sarah was so eager to leave she’d decided to move her deadline up twelve hours. The kids, teenagers by that point, were with their dad in the new house. Sarah was making one last trip back to the old house, just to be sure she could really move on.

I blew out the candles of my cake, golden dust floating gently over the top of the royal blue roses.

A helicopter passed over us. The same one we’d heard three years earlier, taking Fran.

I stand at the edge, surrounded by cousins. Cousins mourning aunties, cousins mourning mothers, cousins mourning cousins. I can never remember who I’m standing next to. When I turn my head, they flicker and shift, like candles.

They take their turns, approaching the pit. I try holding their hands, so I can stop them from jumping in. But I’m always holding the wrong person’s hand. I can never get it right, or decide who needs this more, this safety line back to the border between Okay and Not. I wish I could give up both hands, if there’s a chance I could help more cousins, but I can’t.

In my other arm are the flowers. I raised these flowers. I grew them from a basket, tossing petals to the lovers on either side of the aisle. I sought them out from others, collecting them, hoarding them away in the darker precipices of my mind. I raised them to be thrown into the pit my cousins stand beside. Who are they mourning?

I grip the hands tighter still, and my fingers wrap around the stems of dead roses. Blood trickles down my arm, onto my good shoes, staining them at the big day.

I notice Adam. “You cut your hair,” I tell him, with a voice like a whisper. It’s all I can think to say. What else do you say to someone who’s mum has just died? He can’t regard me as anything other than the empty space I become at times like these. To expect anything else from him would be insensitive. Slowly, Adam wilts, becoming dying lilies in my hand.

I turn away, to Claire. She’s not as distraught as I remember her being from the first funeral, Aunt Fran’s. I try to squeeze her hand, only for my fingers to curl into themselves. I notice she’s holding my arm, holding me back. Which means it’s now Sarah we’re here for.

Across the pit I see Jackson and Emma, holding pictures of their mother. Sarah from her wedding, me by her side, a tinier thing. But I don’t feel much bigger now.

I step forward, knowing that it is time.

It’s hot.

I begin to realise the gentle sobs and sniffles of the others.

A gentle breeze sways the flowers above Aunt Fran’s grave. Sarah has none yet, while she is still being buried.

A familiar song is playing. I didn’t realise she liked Ed Sheeran.

Grandma is talking too loudly through the ceremony, commenting on the speeches to her cousin, who did not know Sarah all that well.

“You ready?” Dad asks, offering me a branch.

An orchid. He grows these ones near the garage.

I don’t have the strength to thank him, but I slip under his arm and he knows what I mean.

I love you.

He pulls me closer as he guides me to the grave, let’s me have a moment to say goodbye to Sarah.

I stand up, nodding to Jackson and Emma, who are standing with their grandpa, my uncle. Dad nods to his brother. We’ll all talk later, over cake and tea, surrounded by flowers.

I hope she likes the orchid.