Up close, I could see how hard he had been fighting to remain calm. His eyes were wet, and his fingers trembled at his sides.
“This is for you, Mom,” he said. “But it is not only for you.”
He touched the pocket of the dress.
“Mary asked me to bring her with us.”
I felt the words before I understood them. Aaron reached inside the pocket and drew out a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. It looked too fragile to hold the weight of everything that had brought us there.
The room was still making noise, but it had begun to feel far away. Aaron knelt beside my chair and placed the packet in my hands.
“Open it,” he whispered.
Part Five | A Flower Pressed Flat
Inside the tissue paper lay a dried yellow daisy. One petal was missing. The stem had darkened, and the flower had been pressed almost flat by time and careful keeping.
I covered my mouth.
I knew that flower.
Memory carried me back to a day when Mary had been well enough to leave the hospital for a few hours. She had spent the previous week complaining about the food, the walls, and the way everyone spoke to her as though she were made of glass. She wanted one ordinary afternoon.
So I took her shopping for a graduation dress. Aaron came too, pretending he was bored while Mary pulled dress after dress from the racks. She rejected dark colors immediately and complained that anything too plain looked like something a person wore to apologize for taking up space.
When she stepped out of the fitting room in the red dress, she spun in front of the mirror. Her smile was not the polite one she gave nurses and worried relatives. It was the old Mary smile, bright and mischievous and completely alive.
Aaron laughed. “You look like a fire alarm.”
Mary tossed a price tag at him. “You have never understood fashion.”
We bought the dress.
On the way back to the hospital, Mary asked me to stop beside the small garden near the entrance. Yellow daisies were blooming along the walkway. She bent down and picked one before I could tell her not to.
“You are not supposed to take those,” I said.
She grinned. “Then I suppose they will have to arrest me.”
Later, she slipped the flower between the pages of a book beside her hospital bed. I thought I had forgotten about it. Grief has a way of hiding memories until the moment they are strong enough to break through.
Aaron watched my face. “Mary gave it to me.”
“When?”
He carefully lifted another fold of tissue paper. Under the flower was a small note.
“Three days before she died,” he said. “She made me promise not to show it to you until today.”
My hands began to shake. Around us, the laughter had stopped. The parents who had been whispering were looking at the flower. The students who had been filming were still holding their phones, but now they seemed unsure what to do with them.
