The next Tuesday Laurel was ready and waiting. Every time anyone walked by her, she pretended to look for something in her backpack, but the landing where she stood had a perfect view of the sidewalk below. She’d see Justin before he saw her, jog down the stairs, and step right into his path.
But her plan was failing dismally, because he hadn’t materialized. Her next class was on the other side of the quad and started in three minutes. Stifling a cry of exasperation, she grabbed her backpack and took off. The grassy quad was draining of students, and she heard a shout just as she reached the door of her building.
“Wait up, man!”
Justin and the guy with curly hair were dodging girls as they ran toward the spot she’d vacated moments ago. His hair flew back from his shoulders, and he was laughing, taking long, steady strides. Laurel’s heart beat as if she were running at his side.
The bell rang just above her head, and she covered her ears. “Merde.” Excessive crushing wasn’t an accepted excuse for tardiness.
After class Laurel’s Latin teacher asked to see her, and then she had to switch books at her locker. At every chance her eyes darted to the door Justin would use and down the sidewalk he’d come along, but she didn’t see him again that day.
Nothing was going smoothly this week. Kate was the only person Laurel felt comfortable talking to about the flowers, but whenever she approached her, Tara or Nicole instantly appeared to whisk Kate off for some “emergency.”
Laurel’s rosemary experiments were failing, too. Since that evening in the garden, she’d tried to resurrect more memories of her mom. She tried rosemary with her special words, rosemary without her words, rosemary in the morning, rosemary at midnight, wet rosemary and dry, but she couldn’t replicate the tingling or humming. Her paperback didn’t list any other flowers for memory. Surfing online, Laurel had found long lists of flower meanings and sites about the language, but none mentioned tingling or humming or poetic words.
When she’d researched her English presentation, she’d had time only to glance through an antique flower book she’d found at the last minute. That book in the library tower was much larger and more detailed than her paperback and definitely deserved another look.
Soccer practice was canceled the Friday before spring break, so after class Laurel headed up the spiral steps of the library tower. Standing still in the quiet, turret-like room, she could almost feel her mother’s sweet smile. Her mom had collected first editions of books, which were now prominently displayed at her dad’s town house. The collection was one of the few relics of his former life that any stranger could see.
Setting her backpack on a desk at a narrow window, Laurel removed the heavy leather-bound book—The Language of Flowers—from its place. It was shelved in the reference section, so she wasn’t allowed to check it out. Strips of ribbon, like the bookmarks found in the Bible, protruded from its bottom. Randomly she lifted one of the ribbons, turned to the marked page, and skimmed the list of floral meanings.
Liberty 
Live oak
Love Myrtle or rose
Love, forsaken Creeping willow
Love, returned Ambrosia
Maternal affection Cinquefoil
Maternal love Moss
Melancholy Dead leaves
Mental Beauty Clematis
Laurel guessed that moss might be for maternal love, because it hugged the coldest part of a tree. What were cinquefoil and ambrosia, though? How was a live oak different from a regular one? And memory wasn’t even on the list. She reopened the book to another page marked by a ribbon: the author’s acknowledgments. She was about to flip the page when a name caught her eye.
In addition, I am eternally grateful for the invaluable encouragement and assistance of Miss Violet Evelyn Mitchell. Her knowledge and personal experience were beacons of light, like heavenly spheres, to my wayward wanderings. To her I extend a bouquet of white bellflowers for everlasting gratitude.
“What?” Laurel said, too loud. Violet Evelyn Mitchell was her great-great-grandmother’s maiden name on her mom’s side. Laurel flipped back to the title page; this edition had been copyrighted in 1899. Jotting numbers in her notebook, she calculated back through the generations. In 1899, Violet would have been about twenty years old.
Laurel felt a mix of curiosity and hope churn inside. Only one person would know if it was the same Violet, and that was Grandma. But Grandma lived like a hermit now, consumed by grief. She might as well die and get it over with, Laurel thought, but felt an instant spasm of guilt. Grandma had been a different person before. She was quiet and dignified, but her garden was like an exuberant extension of her true self. When they were young, Laurel, Rose, and Robbie would spend hours chasing one another and playing hide-and-seek on its paths. Hopping on a rope swing, they’d sail out over banks of azaleas. In spring it was like swinging over a rainbow.
Laurel slumped back and threw down her pencil. Grandma had checked out of life, and there was no point in asking her anything. Still, Laurel browsed the ribbon-marked pages, but she couldn’t find a clear pattern or anything that seemed like a clue. The illustrations of the tussie-mussies were as elaborate as her mom’s botanical prints. She took out a notebook and copied down the entire text of the author’s acknowledgments before she replaced the book on the shelf.
“Violet Evelyn,” she whispered as she descended the tower stairs. Did anyone ever leave flowers outside your door?
“Pssst.”
The whisper startled her. Nicole was peering up through purple-rimmed glasses.
“Oh,” Laurel said. “Hey.” Her eyes darted around, but she didn’t see Tara.
“What were you doing up there?” Nicole asked.
“Just some research.”
Nicole leaned around her to look. “I’ve never gone up.”
Laurel shrugged. “It’s just a bunch of old books.” She stepped aside to let Nicole pass up the stairs. “See ya.”
“Later,” Nicole said.
Laurel leaned against the heavy wooden doors of the library, which opened into the warmest day yet this spring. Girls were in shorts playing Frisbee on the quad, and a few had spread out blankets. Patches of daffodils and pastel hyacinths brightened the fronts of several buildings. Closing her eyes, Laurel raised her face to the streaming rays.
Make me bloom, too! she thought as the warmth penetrated her skin. Everywhere she turned, everywhere she walked these days, there was some new patch of color, some new fragrance to entice her. Colors, scents, petals were so much more vibrant this spring than ever before. She’d been surrounded by flowers her whole life, but they’d never made her body tingle and buzz.
Laurel craved flowers in her hand but hesitated to pick any publicly. Instead she headed to a strip of ground behind the library where a few days ago she’d noticed thick leaves poking through the mulch. Rounding the tower, she felt a sudden and soaring delight. A few red tulips had bloomed along its south-facing wall. She fell onto her knees and cradled a blossom between her hands. Its satiny petals were still closed, but she gently pried them open to breathe in a subtle but spicy scent.
“Mmm,” she said. Red tulips were for a “declaration of love.” She’d wanted some for her presentation, but they hadn’t been blooming yet.
“What’s with you and the flowers?” said a voice just behind her.
Laurel startled and turned. Nicole was standing only a few feet away.
“You scared me.” Laurel spread her hand over her racing heart. This path was roundabout to anywhere. “Are you following me?”
“Why would I?” Nicole broke off a tulip stem. “Does this flower mean something? In that language?”
Laurel’s eyes traced the lines of tulips. “Something about declaring love, I think.”
Nicole lifted a flower to her face. “Are they supposed to smell good?”
“Here. Hold the petals open like this.”
“I still don’t smell anything.”
“Let me try.” Laurel bent toward the one in Nicole’s hand. The scent was gorgeous, like simmering spices from faraway places. “Do you have a cold?”
“No,” Nicole said sullenly.
Laurel stared at the red petals in confusion. “Are we allowed to pick flowers?” she said, and immediately wished she could unsay it. The question sounded so babyish.
“Who cares?” said Nicole.
Laurel winced as Nicole broke off another bloom. “I—uh—just wondered.” She pulled herself away from the tulips and turned toward main quad.
“You’re making another fussy flower thing, aren’t you?” said Nicole.
“What?” Laurel turned around.
“At your presentation you said there was some old book in the library.”
“So?”
“Sooo, if the book’s really old, it’s in the tower, and you were just there, probably looking at it. So you’re making another bouquet,” Nicole said smugly. “Right?”
“Wrong,” Laurel said.
Nicole took a step closer. “You should make Tara one.”
“Why?”
“She wanted that one in class.”
Laurel threw up her hands. “But I’m not making any.”
Nicole frowned. “Whatever. It’s not like they matter.” Striding past Laurel, she waved to someone else and hurried across the quad, still holding the two tulips.
Laurel turned back to the red blooms. The book said they declared love, but how could anyone translate? After one more whiff of tulip, Laurel walked back to the quad and scanned the patchwork of blankets for someone she knew. Dodging a whirling Frisbee, she spotted Rose.
“Hey.” Rose looked up at Laurel through oversized sunglasses. “You look stressed, mon amie.”
“Always.” Laurel threw her backpack onto the blanket and sat down cross-legged.
“Fifteen minutes of sun will promote vitamin D production and boost your mood.”
Laurel had to smile. “Thank you, Dr. Rose.”
“No problem.” Rose lay back, her pale arms straight at her sides.
Laurel couldn’t lie down or slow her thoughts. “Hey, do you know anything about Violet Evelyn Mitchell?”
“Who?”
“Violet Evelyn. Our great-great-grandmother.”
“Enough with the flower names.” Rose leaned on her elbows. “If I ever have a daughter, I am absolutely not naming her after a stupid flower.”
“But there has to be a reason they all did it.”
“Family pressure,” said Rose. “My mom caved. Did you hear from her yet?”
Laurel shook her head. The only messages in her in-box were lame jokes her dad had forwarded from his BlackBerry. He required a daily e-mail exchange, but neither of them managed to talk about anything important.
“She’s always swamped during tax season,” said Rose. “Want me to remind her?”
“That’s okay.” Aunt Iris had said she needed to put in a full day at work, so she wasn’t picking them up for spring break until the next morning. Laurel watched the Frisbee zoom back and forth. “So, does your mom ever hear from Grandma?”
Rose shook her head. “Mom says she’s still grieving, but . . .”
“But what?”
Rose sucked in her lips. “I shouldn’t talk.”
“Say it.”
“Well, it’s like Grandma’s punishing us. Mom said she didn’t act like this when her own husband died. I mean, she has another daughter and grandchildren. Life goes on.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want it to.” Laurel lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes.
“You are such a loser, man.” A male voice yelled, so nearly all the heads on the quad turned toward it. Laurel felt her hopes gather, until she recognized Everett.
“Spare me,” said Rose, flipping onto her stomach.
Laurel took inventory of the quad. Everett and his gang were hanging out by the cheerleaders, who were yelling in unison and shaking their butts. Ally was attempting to teach Kate how to throw a Frisbee while Tara and Nicole lurked and whispered.
That makes one thing Kate’s not good at, thought Laurel. A few more guys appeared intermittently, but none of them was Justin. Rose started snoring, so Laurel jumped up and yelled to Ally. The Frisbee came toward her fast and smooth, but she misjudged the timing and it hit her fingernails.
“Oww.” Laurel shook her hand and picked the Frisbee up.
“Nice catch, Whelan,” Tara snickered.
Laurel felt irritation flicker. She’d missed the catch, but she knew how to throw.
“Look out!” Nicole yelled. Tara barely had time to throw up her hands to block her face.
“Sorry,” Laurel said. “I thought you knew how to catch.”
“Perfect toss,” Ally said, jogging over to Laurel. “Wanna play?” They threw the Frisbee back and forth until a bank of clouds gradually darkened and cooled the quad. Laurel woke up Rose as the first raindrops fell.
Back in her room Laurel sent a quick e-mail to Aunt Iris, asking her the questions Rose hadn’t answered. Her aunt’s response arrived a few hours later.
I guess I named Rose after a flower because I didn’t want to be the first to ditch tradition. She thinks that’s idiotic, I’m sure, b/c I’m not into flowers. I always preferred numbers. :-) Why don’t you send Grandma a letter or call her and ask? We can’t give up on her!!!!
You asked if I have the rest of the letters? What letters? I can’t wait for your visit. See you tomorrow!
Hugs, Aunt Iris
Laurel scowled at the screen. But Grandma’s given up on herself—on all of us. Her aunt clearly didn’t have the birthday letters, but Laurel would ask her about Violet as soon as they were alone.
One thing seemed certain to Laurel: her mom wanted her to wonder about the language. The lyrical words had popped into her head like she’d always known them, but she must have learned them from her mom. Other memories—vital memories—had to be buried deep inside her. She had to find her way back into her mother’s garden, even if it no longer existed. She pulled a sprig of rosemary from a vase and closed her eyes. She had to make this memory magic—if it was magic—all by herself.
“Please let me remember something,” she said. “Please, God, please.” Holding the stem to her nose, she raised her eyes to a botanical print and stared until its colors blurred. “Bright cut flowers, leaves of green—”
Like a match struck into flame, the tingling sparked and spread through her body. Energy hummed into her, and she shut her eyes to ride its wave . . . .
Flowers—red, white, and yellow—next to the sickbed filled Laurel’s vision. Her mom’s pale forehead was wrapped in a bright scarf, and her eyes were closed. But she was smiling at something Laurel had said.
Laurel kept reading from the book in her lap, even when she saw the sheer curtains flap upward on an otherwise still day, even as the rasp that was her mom’s breath ceased, even as the hospice nurse came to check her mom’s pulse, and as the nurse’s eyes fell heavy upon her. She kept reading when her dad came and kissed his wife’s cold lips and didn’t know what to do with his only child who was reading out loud to a dead woman. She kept reading because The Little Prince was one of their favorites. Because throughout the dying months, her mom had asked for chapters from that book.
“Read me the part about the geographer and what’s ephemeral.” And Laurel read.
“Read me the chapter about taming the fox.” And Laurel read.
When, on that last day, her dad took hold of the book and tried to pry it away, Laurel yanked it back and ran from the room and from their house . . . into the leaning sunflower tower they’d planted only months earlier when her mom was still strong enough to sit up in her garden and direct her daughter’s hands.
Her mother’s rosy presence, which Laurel sensed with every taut cell of her body, was still wrapped around her. Sheltered by the canopy of sunflowers, she read on, ignoring the urgent cries of her dad. She knew her mom was still listening, because her mom finished every book she ever started.
The familiar words on her tongue filled Laurel with peace and nearly hypnotized her into believing that her mom was still alive . . . still listening. The last picture. The last paragraph. Laurel read on more deliberately, savoring each syllable.
“And if you happen to pass by here, I beg you not to hurry past. Wait a little, just under the star! Then if a child comes to you, if he laughs, if he has golden hair, if he doesn’t answer your questions, you’ll know who he is. If this should happen, be kind! Don’t let me go on being so sad: Send me word immediately that he’s come back . . . .”
“Come back.” As soon as she’d released the syllables, Laurel longed to take them back forever unspoken—to hold them and her mom there. Come back. Laurel closed her eyes and held her breath for fear of reminding her mom where she now belonged.
But Heaven beckoned. Like a scarf unwrapping from her neck, the warmth, the peace slowly dissipated, leaving Laurel cold and exposed. She shivered and stared at the closed book in her lap . . . .
“No!” Laurel opened her eyes and hurled the rosemary across her dorm room. “I don’t want to remember that!” she screamed.