Arrangements

One

“The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all.” 

 -Walt Disney Pictures, Mulan

M A G N O L I A

Water splashes out beneath my feet as I walk with an umbrella in one hand and a book in the other. Rain patters down on my umbrella, creating drum-like noises that I hum to. I glance around at the other citizens who are with or without umbrellas. Smiling, I swerve to the right and walk into the quant shop. I shake the raindrops off of my umbrella and wipe my boots on the floor.

“Milla?” I call out, opening the door that leads to the back of the old shop. “Are you here?”

I hear noises coming from the staff room and I walk back there carefully, trying not to make much noise. My heart pounds, and I am convinced that anyone standing in the vicinity can hear. I place my hand on the door knob and my mind begins to swirl with thoughts that, when I open the door, a serial killer will be standing there, ready to grab me. Or perhaps it will be Justin Bieber. I don’t know which would be worse. I hold my umbrella out in front of me as a weapon, just in case.

The door creaks open and I jump backwards, landing on my butt. The umbrella falls out of my hands and rolls away, too far for me to reach. I mentally pray that I won't need it.

“Magnolia! Oh dear!”

That doesn't sound like Justin Bieber. I watch as Milla, a woman in her early eighties who owns the shop, shuffles towards me and extends a bony hand to help me up. I shake my head, knowing that her helping me up would result in her on top of me in a giant heap of awkwardness.

“It’s okay, you just startled me,” I say as I stand up. The small woman pats my shoulder and walks back into the staff room. Layers of greenery and twigs cover the wooden floor and I kick them as I follow in behind her. She walks to the back of the room and picks up the clipboard that has been written all over in her illegible cursive handwriting.

“So Maggie, today, I need you to make…five of your special kind.” She turns around and looks at me inquisitively. I quickly do the calculations in my head and nod. Milla smiles and picks up a book from the table.

“Which book is it this time, Milla?” I say as I walk over to the shelves that tower above me and grope for the tools that I need. I find the clippers and shove them beneath my armpit. She hesitates for a second to read the cover.

“Oh, well…I am re-reading Jane Eyre.” Immediately after she answers she fumbles for her reading glasses that hang on a loose string around her neck and she places them on the bridge of her nose. I laugh under my breath at her actions and grab the last couple of tools before getting to work.

My arms folded over my chest, I walk around the specimens, five plants wrapped in plastic with the “Milla’s Flower Shop” logo plastered onto the pots I painted myself. I did a pretty good job, not to brag or anything.

As I reach down to stroke a rose delicately, my thumb is pricked by a thorn. I suck on the blood, setting aside the fact that it could possibly be infected and letting the blood into my mouth would likely make me grow ill, or worse. I know, I am quite the professional. I grab one of the stray carts that litter the front of the shop and pull it back into the staff room. Then, I set each of the plants on top of it and push it carefully through the narrow halls. Milla stands at the register chatting with another woman about something. I tap on her shoulder.

“Where do you want these?” I whisper to her. She looks at me and doesn’t answer. She just picks up a pot and points to it showing it to her friend. I’m already dying of embarrassment and she hasn’t said anything yet.

“Helen! Look, look at these beauties!” Milla shoves one into Helen’s hands. “Aren’t they marvelous! Just look at the detail on the pots! Maggie here is quite talented!”

I blush and fiddle with my fingers as a distraction as Helen and Milla discus my ‘talent'. I sneak away from the two senile old ladies caught up in their conversation and begin to place the pots on an empty shelf. The bell rings a couple times as I arrange them to look perfect.

I walk behind the counter and pull Milla aside.

“Do you need help?” I ask her. She shakes her head and smiles at me. Her white hair bounces as she begins to speak.

“Maggie, you can go home now.” she says to me. “I can handle the shop, dear. It’s a rainy day, and customers don’t come on rainy days….”

She begins to go off on a tangent, then shoos me away. I laugh at her and give her a quick hug before grabbing my bags from the staff room. I pull on my rain-boots and grab my umbrella, not opening it, of course, because of the opening-an-umbrella-indoors superstition.

“Thanks, Milla,” I call. She smiles at me, then waves as I walk out the door and into the gloomy rainy weather.

I sit at my desk with a pen in my hands and a hurricane in my brain. I wait for the ideas to come pouring out of me and for my pen to start moving across the paper, for words to form. For characters to be born, for a story to take place. I close my eyes and will myself to write something. Nothing comes. Of course.

Cliche as it sounds, I struggle with what all authors struggle with: writer's block. Giving up I walk over to my bookshelf that is spilling over will books. I pull one down from the top shelf and look at the words.

Sometimes I wonder how real authors feel, seeing their words in a book that is available to anyone. I can only imagine how fantastic it must be to realize that someone can pick up your book, fall in love with it, and relate to the characters. Gently, I run my finger along the slightly worn pages. I then close the book and return it to its rightful place on the top shelf, realizing that I will never be able to write anything that is worthwhile, anything that will become known and stay known forever.

I pull down another book and run my fingers over the glossy book jacket. I then open it and sift through the pages, pushing my nose into it to find the scent that belongs to books and books alone.

Maybe I can produce a worthwhile work. Maybe, just maybe.

“How was work?” my mom asks, trying to start up a conversation. She sits across from me, and is poking at her food mindlessly with a plastic fork. I shrug at her. She doesn’t deserve anything more.

“The usual. She let me out a couple hours early though,” I say to her under my breath, I don’t like to converse with my parents about work. It’s the one thing that is my own. The one thing that I take pride in and enjoy. My parents believe that I am in it so I can buy a car.

That shows how well they know me. I would much rather purchase a shit-load of books than buy a car. The only other person that would get that question right if I asked them is my brother, and he’s overseas. Which sucks. I sometimes wish that he wasn’t so selfless. I actually wish that he was selfish, so that he wouldn’t have gone away to leave me worrying about him every day.

But you can’t change a person, especially when that person isn’t you.

My parents give up trying to converse with me and begin to mindlessly chat to each other about work, politics, and other stuff I couldn't possibly care less about. I watch them and wonder how boring people can be. I chew on my food until its lost its taste, then swallow. I still watch them, analyzing their faces, trying to remember what it was like when I was a little girl.

I shake my head, then stand up to bring my plate to the sink. I purposely make a big noise dropping it into the dishwasher. My parents come rushing in. Good parenting points for them.

 “Is everything okay?” they ask with worried expressions. I nod, smiling. They walk away, mumbling under their breaths, most likely complaining about me.

Sometimes I wonder how such a good day can turn into a bad one in the blink of an eye. I can be arranging flowers at Milla’s and then, next thing you know, I realize that I can’t write, and that my brother's not coming back for months.

That's life for you, I suppose.