Meet Florence
Florence.
Florence, come here.
What?
I want to introduce you to some people.
Okay. Hi.
Florence, this is everyone. They subscribe to my newsletter and actually are the paying members of the team.
Oh, so nice to meet you, she says with a little bounce.
Can you tell them a little bit about yourself?
Of course. Kid me?
Yes, please.
Awesome.
So, let’s start here. My parents met as undergrads at ASU. My dad is a baseball player and my mom, she studied Journalism, wait, no, writing, no, journalism–mom, journalism or writing?
MOM!
“Hi honey, what’s up?” Says Lu as she enters the conversation.
Did you study journalism or writing? I’m introducing myself to Denise’s paid subscribers.
Denise?
I don’t know what to call her, we don’t really call her anything. Benevolent god who writes us into existence? Mrs. Waters. D. What would you say?
Great question, I haven’t really thought about it but Denise feels a bit informal.
Okay, moving on, mom, journalism or writing?
Hello, I’m Louisa, but everyone calls me Lu.
Louisa? Mom. Seriously.
It is my name.
And exactly zero people have ever called you that.
I know but these are her paid subscribers they are going to want the back story.
Fine. Hello. My name is Florence. My dear mother is named Louisa, but everyone calls her Lu. She has her own book but often shows up in mine. My dad, Charlie, is a baseball player, he coaches now and is the one mostly responsible for why my brother plays ball as well. JJ, is my brother. He has his own book, but again, they are in mine. Do you want to know what is ironic about that? I’m not really in theirs.
In my book, I’m about 8 and it is the story of my grandmother, Joan, and I. We like to play games, go on adventures and do whatever we can to drive my mom a bit crazy. Mom works a lot, as a publisher, agent, book person. Grandma Joan and I spend the summer together, reading, walking, laughing. We love my mom but sometimes we don’t quite understand her. You’ll probably understand that from the beginning but it unfolds as the story does.
Did you tell them where you came from?
Mom, you’ve been standing here the entire time I’ve been talking.
Florence’s eyes go wide as she tries not to roll them. She thinks, she must have majored in writing since a journalist would have noticed that. But then it hits her, “You did major in journalism, right?”
Yes, honey. But I switched to writing more than reporting when your brother was born.
Yes, that makes more sense. Maybe Denise wants to explain this part . . .
Thanks Florence. I can take it from here.
I read a book called, The Game of Life, by Florence Scovel Shinn. Scovel Shinn is a metaphysical writer from the turn of the century. She was a mystic with an incredible story. Her game was about making sure all the parts of your life are aligned so you can manifest your hopes and dreams. Women would often come to her for the words to use to bring goodness into their lives.
One night I awoke from a dream and I had met this Florence–the one in my book and it was as if Scovel Shinn had come to life as a girl and wanted a back story, but in real time. So, I’ve lived with her for a few years, listened to her stories, built a narrative and am bringing her back to life.
How’s that?
Oh, so good, gives me the goose pimples.
Lu hugs Florence. “Me too, little bee, me, too.”
Two Lumps
“Grama, I’m heading to the market to get some flowers,” she yells from the front porch and she is gone.
I peek out the window and see her ponytail outstretched behind her helmet. I want to get up and remind her to cross at the light, I want to yell out, I’ll go with you, but I don’t, I just watch as she goes and sink back into the bed. I have the sluggishness in my bones that comes from a glass too many of wine last night after dinner. I think to stop sooner but only the next day.
I wonder what flowers she is going to get and if she has money. I wonder if they have talked about flowers or if she is just off dreaming up something new to do.
I make a deal that I’ll get up before she returns so I start silently counting in my head.
She’ll ride her bike.
She’ll park her bike.
She’ll look at all the flowers in the outside tent and then she’ll go inside for a candy bar.
She’ll finally pick the flowers.
And take them inside to pay.
If she doesn’t have money with her, they will write the amount down on a notecard and give her another piece of candy.
She’ll place the flowers in the basket–I imagine tulips to go on the table outside–but maybe not, she thinks of a variety of flowers for many purposes where I always think of tulips.
My thoughts drift to my husband and I grab my phone. He would always stop and get tulips before dinner. I wonder what he is doing today. It is Saturday and I’m in bed, thousands of miles from home. I see that he has sent a text with a picture and I see they are dressed for the day. No sleeping in for them. I smile at the screen and push call assuming they are still in the car.
As the phone connects I hear their voices.
“Hi honey, morning, Mom,” they say over each other.
And I lay back in bed to hear about their weeks. I almost drift back to sleep because it feels like they could be right there lying next to me or snuggling up by my feet. I interrupt the stories with a quiet, “I miss you. I miss us.” And they pause.
I imagine them looking at each other with tight expressions. One nodding to the other with an undertone of–who is going to take this one. It is JJ that speaks first.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yes, J, just missing you.”
“Where’s Flor?”
“Oh, she just rode her bike to get flowers.”
“Tulips?” my husband asks.
“I assume,” I say, lightness coming back into my voice.
But all at once I realize I have been here far longer than it would take to ride her bike back home and a sense of panic washes over me. Did she make it back? Is she flat in the street under a delivery truck, did someone steal her bike and she is having to walk back? Did she get in a fight with someone because she didn’t have money with her?
“Mom, are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry, I was just worrying for a moment. I don’t know if she is back from the store, I have to go.” And abruptly I hang up.
I know that I rehearse these moments far too much. I know none of them are true. I know that thinking them can make them more likely and mostly I know that if I imagine the worst then whatever has happened won’t surprise me. I jump out of bed and practically run to the kitchen where she is washing her hands and pouring a cup of coffee.
“Is that for me?”
“Yes. Two lumps?” she asks like a woman decades older than she is.
“Always. What flowers did you get?” I say as I kiss the top of her head. Taking in the smell of the world and the faint smell of watermelon shampoo. I argued with her over the shampoo because who wants to smell like a fruit bowl but she insisted.
“Mom, you are breathing heavily on my head. Were you working out?”
“No, I was on the phone with your Dad and JJ and I realized I had missed seeing you come back in and I was worried you had been run over by the flower delivery van.”
“MOM. You have to stop with that–it isn’t good karma.” She rolls her eyes and darts away from my hug to get me the half and half from the fridge.
“Thank you, baby. I know, I just worry.”
“Worry? Who is worrying in my house?” My mother says as she enters the room dressed in overalls and a floral shirt, she looks like a sixteen-year-old playing the role of a gardener for a high school theatre rendition of Emma.
I smile at her as she kisses the top of my head.
“Morning, mom. Just me. I was waking up and I heard Florence leave and . . . “
She cuts me off, “I don’t need the worry dear, keep it to yourself or release it, just don’t release it on me!”
She says it directly and if you didn’t know her you might think it cruel but she is never cruel just clear, just setting an expectation. I know it is a rule. I know it is because she cannot metabolize the stress. I mean, neither can I, but we do it differently.
I nod and move to the table. Taking a deep breath as I go. Saying inside, everyone is safe. Everyone is accounted for. Everyone. And as I start to spin inside, I feel Florence slide in next to me in the corner bench where we can look out at the yard and the sky and I remember. One thing I can see, the sky, two things I can smell, coffee and watermelon. And I giggle just a little, releasing my fear.
“How’d you sleep, Mama,” she says dipping her sugar cube into my coffee.