It Went Like This

I’m not a stalker, I promise. But it started this morning over the phone when my son, who works in the ER, mentioned that his newest patient was an eighty-something man with a star-shaped birthmark on his chin. 

“Just like the guy you used to talk about when I was a kid!” he sounded chirpy when he said it. Then again, my son is always happy; it’s the way I taught him.

Truth is, I was surprised that he remembered at all. I stopped telling the stories as soon as he was old enough to write diaries and the like, lest he started thinking I wasn’t in love with his father, because I very much was. I still am. Yet the moment he brought it up, I simply couldn’t help myself, so I asked what the man’s name was.

I mean, there are millions of people in this city, and surely a handful of them must have a star-shaped birthmark on their chins. What are the odds, right?

But then he said the two words I never thought I would hear again. 

My middle-aged son pretty much squealed when he realized that this was the very person from his childhood tales, and he insisted that I should stop by. The man has been moved to the geriatric ward this afternoon, but he could tell me which room he’s in.

“For old times’ sake,” was his argument.

He didn’t really have to convince me. Of course, I triple-checked that he wouldn’t be violating any doctor-patient confidentiality and whatnot, and he assured me it was okay.

“No offense, mom, but no one’s gonna sue me for letting an old woman visit an old man,” he told me. “Besides, his children are here, so you’ll have to ask for their permission anyway.”

“What about the wife?” I asked.

“No wife,” he answered. I didn’t know whether that made me sad or relieved.

So, that was how three brothers ended up filing out of their father’s hospital room, and I, the stranger, now stand in front of the ajar door. From here, I can see a figure propped up by a slew of pillows. I step through.

I stifle a gasp. My son was right; this was an eighty-something man. If I had run into him in the streets, I would not have given him a second glance. It takes a while to find the familiar face amidst the white hair and crinkled cheeks. But then I do, and everything falls into place. “Hello, Abed.”

He looks at me. “Do I know you?”

He doesn’t see me, though.

“We were friends,” I stop at the foot of his bed, afraid to come closer. “Do you mind if I stand beside you?” 

He nods. I approach his side, close enough for us to touch, although I make sure we don’t. “Do I know you?” he asks again, this time pointing his finger at me. “I feel like I know— you smell like— like…”

“Daisy?” I suggest. “It smells like daisies, doesn’t it?”

He knits his brows. I can almost see the cogs whirring in his mind. For one minute he is silent. Maybe it is two, or ten. And then: “Laurel?”

“You remember me,” I breathe. It is not a question; it is a fact.

All of a sudden, Abed doesn’t look like an eighty-something with Alzheimer's. He becomes a young man, as I knew him once. He laughs, just like he used to. “How could I not remember you? Don’t be silly.”

My lips curve into a smile, which widens into a grin, and then I’m laughing like I have not laughed in decades, memories of a bygone love bubbling to the surface. I have forgotten this mirth, this ecstasy.

“You look exceptional, Laurel,” he opens his palm and raises it slightly. I accept his invitation, and we are two wrinkled hands fitting together, like puzzle pieces that don’t quite belong. It feels nice all the same.

“It’s good to see you,” I say.

“Wow, how long has it been?” he shakes his head in disbelief. Too long. “And how come you… No— don’t tell me you’re a florist now.”

“Yeah, something like that,” I grin. “You may have inspired me.”

It’s a lie, of course; I heard once that smell is closely linked with memory, more so than your other senses, and so I’d gone to the florist and bought a bunch of daisies and hugged them close, even as I drove here. My son said the man has a severe case of dementia, so it was a long shot.

Suddenly, the door opens. I pull my hand from his and take a step back, assuming the polite distance of an old friend. 

It’s the youngest of them, and by young, I mean around my son’s age. “I’m sorry, I thought I heard something,” he looks at his father. “Dad? You okay?”

“Fred!” says Abed. He waves around. “Where are your brothers? Have you met Laurel? I want you all to meet Laurel.”

The boy’s eyes light up (because no matter how old they get, they’re always a little boy), and I understand that his father hasn’t called him by his name for a while now. He smiles, and it’s clear that he’s holding back tears. “They’re just outside. I’ll call—” he pops his head back out of the door. “Guys, come here!”

The door swings open and the two other boys rush in. Their expressions turn from worry to delight when they see the recognition in their father’s eyes. One of them kisses his forehead, the other squeezes his hand, and the youngest, Fred, drinks the moment as if he was parched, and this here was an overflowing oasis.

“Boys, boys, I know you love me,” Abed interrupts their show of affection. “But this is Laurel.”

I don’t miss that he hasn’t said this is Laurel, my old friend, or this is Laurel, my ex-girlfriend. To him, I am just Laurel, and in some way, it’s perfect.

The boys look at me in wonder and suspicion. They’re likely playing a guessing game about what this old lady could have done to make their father himself again.

“That’s okay. I was just saying goodbye,” I smile at them, then at Abed. “It was nice seeing you again.”

He says he wishes I would stay, but really, I don’t want to intrude anymore. I’ve seen what I came here to see and it’s cruel to withhold a fading father from his kids. On the threshold, I steal one last look. He reciprocates, and I can swear in that second we share an understanding of what once had been, and what it had meant.

*

Laurel realized it was not like the movies, not even a little bit. She had seen films when the woman sat trembling on the pew, then later stood up with a shaky hand, drawing all eyes on her. And yet when they walked onto the altar, said their vows, and promised I do, she did not wish that it was her up there. They kissed, and she did not imagine it was her lips on his. They danced, and all she could think was that they made a beautiful couple.

The ceremony concluded. He grinned when he finally spotted her, ever handsome in his suit, a midnight blue complementing his complexion. “Thank you for coming.”

She smiled back, then gestured around the elaborate banquet hall. “It smells like daisies here.”

“Abed said it only makes sense,” the bride chimed in, her arm tangled in his. She leaned her head towards her new husband.

His gaze fell on hers. “It’s your namesake, love. How could I marry Daisy and not shower her with daisies on our wedding day?”

Laurel watched as the biggest smile bloomed on Daisy’s face, each crease reflecting unfathomable love. Love that she had once gotten a taste of; love that she has yet to find anew. Next to her, his eyes said the same thing.

“Well, congratulations. I’m happy for you two,” Laurel said. And she had meant it.

*

Again? Okay, fine, but this is the last time you will hear it from me. I have other stories too, you know.

I was, what, eighteen or nineteen, and had just arrived in town for college. There were tons of coffee shops near campus and this one was unremarkable, very much so, actually, that I can never remember exactly what it looked like.

He was manning the till and probably said something like good morning and what can I get you, but there was this strange smell in the air. I couldn’t pinpoint it at first, so I just stood in front of him, trying to put the sensation into words. It must have been at least an entire minute… I asked him afterward why he hadn’t been more weirded out by me.

‘And what did he say?’

He told me he thought I was strange, but not in a bad way. 

Then finally, it clicked. “It smells… It smells like daisies.”

And I will never forget his response. “The good ones or the bad ones?”

“What?” I was surprised. Who knew what I’d expected him to say… Certainly not that.

“The daisies,” he was being matter-of-fact, like I was supposed to know what he meant, but I had no idea. I think he realized that because he explained: “Some daisies stink, you know. Kind of like cow manure.”

I laughed. I was, for the lack of a better word, speechless, and it’s not often that anyone can strike me dumb. You know that.

“Do you even know what the good daisies smell like?” he asked me.

“Sure. Heavenly,” which made him laugh. And let me tell you, for someone who had never fallen in love, his laughter was a sweet, sweet sound.

He took my order, then held up a marker and an empty paper cup, and asked. “And what’s your name?”

“Laurel.”

“Like the tree?” I nodded. “That’s beautiful. I’m—”

“Abed.” I beat him to it. He was about to ask how I knew when I pointed at his name tag.

“Right,” he blushed. I like to think he did, anyway. “One hot coffee for Laurel. That’ll be $1, please.” Or it might have been $1.10. Coffee was much cheaper back in the days, but not that cheap.

‘What about the daisies?’

Daisies? What about it?

‘Yeah. You said he gave them to you.’

Right. He did that on our second date. 

When I got my coffee, I saw that he hadn’t just written my name on the cup, but also a question. He asked if I would meet him that evening after his shift. Times have changed, naturally, and people are getting less bold in that sense. I do hope you’ll still have that experience someday when you’re older. Anyhow, I spent the next few hours walking around the neighborhood before coming back to the coffee shop, where he was waiting. That was our first date. 

It went well, obviously, and we agreed to have lunch again the day after. It was a Sunday; I remember because we walked past two churches and they were both bursting with people. And that was when he brought me the daisies. Nothing fancy, just a handful of the flowers tied with a string, but no one had given me anything like that before.

“I brought you the good ones,” he said and held the bouquet up so I could smell it. They were mild, earthy, almost herbaceous, and nothing like the imaginary daisy scent of the coffee shop. I could feel him smile even as I closed my eyes. “I figured I should show you what the real daisies are like.”

My stomach fluttered, my heart skipped a beat, or something along those lines. I didn’t know it then, but it would be many, many years before I felt anything close to that again.

He told me about his aunt, who turned out to be a florist, and that was how he knew his daisies. I told him about my aunt, who was an accountant, and he said it was a noble profession. He asked what I was studying and what I wanted to be and the more we talked, the more we wanted to keep talking.

So that… that was the start of a love story. Not my only love story, and certainly not my last, but that was my first. And well, now, I think it’s time for you to sleep.

‘Good night, mom.’

Good night, Ash.