“Just a minute!” I holler, wincing as I push my hands on my bed to leverage myself up. When the doorbell rings again, I repeat: “Just a minute!” Apparently, whomever it is can’t hear me, because knock, knock, knocking commences. I shuffle down the hall, pressing my palms on my aching chest: “I’m coming! Jesus! I’m coming!”
Pulling open the front door in time to prevent another knock, I’m greeted by a man’s knuckles frozen midair. “Oh!” he says, taking a step backward. “Didn’t know if you heard me. Someone sent you these beauties!”
Both my hands cover my chest when he passes me a wicker basket of flowering bulbs wrapped in plastic, topped with a royal blue bow: “I can’t!”
“You can’t?” he asks, the basket waiting in the space between us.
“Please.” I cringe, hearing my voice rise up an octave. “I — I can’t. Just put it on the table here.” Now he’s silent, perhaps embarrassed by my helplessness, as he places the flowers on the wooden table with just a nod before leaving. Clicking the bolt behind him, I watch until his delivery truck departs the driveway, thankful to be alone again.
Untying the satiny ribbon, cellophane drops and fragrance floods the room. Sniffing the floral perfume, I’m filled with gratitude, letting the sweet scent cover up the still sickly smell that’s accompanied me since I’ve returned from the hospital. From my coworkers: how thoughtful.
Clusters of small white blossoms peer back at me, each with six petals and tiny yellow stamen atop a long green stem. Gorgeous! I think, breathing in.
The fragrance shifts from fresh floral musk to burnt sugar stench. Tears leak from my eyes as an invisible feather tickles my nose. “Ahhhh-chew!” Sneezing and gagging, I press my palms back into my chest, fearing I’ll split open my stitches. I can’t even enjoy these damn flowers! I mumble to myself.
Wiping mucus from my nose, I contemplate the pungent plant: How can I move this thing without busting open my stitches?
I consider rewrapping the plastic over the flowers, but those perfectly white petals taunt me, acting like I’m a jerk for rejecting their pristine presence. Nasty narcissus, I think, grabbing one by the neck and yanking it from the basket.
Its roots hang from the bulb, quivering like a scared white spider as I shuffle back to open the front door. Then I toss the whole damn bulb with its white flowers and wiggly roots into the yard, feeling momentarily vindicated as it rests on the ground, like a defeated dance contestant still wearing its white tutu. Then I toss another. And another. And another. Until they’re all out of my living room, the whole team of smelly prima ballerinas removed from their choreographed performance.
When I close the door, I return to rewrap the basket in plastic and retie its bow, a reminder of the gift without gagging. Turning over the little card, I read the full inscription now: Hope these cheerful flowers help you feel better soon. When they finish blooming, plant them outdoors.
They’ll return every year.
Every year? A reminder of these flowers, of this surgery, of that putrid smell?
Pausing, I reconsider the flowering bulbs now lying prone in mulch.
Again, I return to the front door. The white petals have morphed into feathers, the flowers now baby white egrets with tiny yellow beaks. They peer back, the fluffy hatchlings, and croak out in their dry voices: We’ll be back every year, every year. To remind you of your survival and your friendships — you ingrate!
They appear so powerless, even if they’re rude prima donnas. But they’re right, I think, pressing my palms into my chest yet again as I descend the front steps. I feel my stitches stretch when I bend down to hold the bulbs upright while digging with my pointer finger to make a hole for each, ignoring the muck staining my nails. Smoothing bits of mulch and dirt around their base, I’m determined to make their outdoor nests cozy, so they can bloom year after year, a memento of tenacity and hope.
Liz deBeer, a language arts teacher who resides in New Jersey, is a graduate from University of Pennsylvania and Rutgers University. She has been published in newspapers, teaching journals and magazines and is writing YA novels with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative, where she also teaches workshops. Her latest flash has appeared in or is forthcoming in Sad Girls Diaries, Blue Bird Word, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction, Lucky Jefferson, and Spillwords. Liz’s website is www.ldebeerwriter.com.
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