What The Flower Says Of Death (RELEASE SEPTEMBER 25TH 2018)

LIMITED SNEAK PEEK - First five chapters of WHAT THE FLOWER SAYS OF DEATH

I retrieved my duffle bag from the backseat and slammed the door closed, sending a sharp glare at her over the hood of the car. As a teen filled to the brim with unnecessary angst, everything came out of my mouth far more poisonous than intended, so I committed to the toxicity. "Why do you only seem to be able to think when I'm not around?"

My mother stared at me, a deep wrinkle appearing between her brows, like I'd wounded her. She opened her mouth to reply, but the front door of the aging house opened, and my grandmother stepped out onto the veranda. There was a smile on her face, but it shrunk a fraction when she felt the heat from the conversation she'd interrupted.

I turned back to my mother, shutting my eyes to settle my anger. "I'm sorry. Just do what you need to do." I always ended up apologizing. Every time. Because a small part of me always hoped she'd change. That she would suddenly see the errors of her ways, tell me to get back into the car and take me home, and we could resolve it like a real mother and daughter.

My apology just gave her permission to not feel guilty though.

She sat back down into the driver's seat and took off with little more than a goodbye.

I watched her drive away until the dreary gray swallowed our silver sedan in the seaside fog. Once released from the paralyzing disappointment, I turned, slipping past my grandmother as she held the door open. I avoided her gaze so she wouldn't be forced to hold her sugary smile anymore. I knew she was doing it. She was so much like my mother and me.

I glanced around the entryway instead; it was as I remembered, yet hauntingly different. It wasn't the warm, welcoming home away from home it used to be. Now, it felt cold and quiet, smelled of stale air, just as in the hospital. The comparisons made my mouth dry and my skin itch, as if my wrist wasn't the only part of my body covered in uncomfortable gauze.

"The spare room is tidied up for you. I left some boxes in there so it's a bit cluttered, but I don't expect you to be spending all your time in your room while you're here anyway."

Her frigid tone suggested she was as apprehensive of me being there as I was. I didn't blame her; there was enough on her plate with taking care of the estate and my grandfather by herself. I guess I understood now how she might need my help, even if it was simply one of my mother's weak excuses. But did she want my help? That curiosity didn't have such an easy conclusion. I felt like nothing more than a burden, only there on suicide watch. Another unresponsive body for her to tend to.

"Let me know if there's something I can help with," I answered.

I didn't exactly want to do anything, and I wasn't sure how the offer would hold up if she ever decided to take me up on it, but I didn't want my grandmother sore with me before even making bed. All I wanted to do was curl up and sleep through the winter. But if she wasn't going to allow it, then I might as well try to help make our time together as painless as possible.

"I'm making dinner at six," she said, locking the front door and heading upstairs without another word. I heard the beeps of a heart monitor before she disappeared behind a closed door at the top of the stairs, leaving me alone.

II

The spare room was almost exactly as I left it eight years previous, apart from the addition of a few stacks of boxes filled with old, moth-eaten clothes and books. By the looks of it, the room had gone completely unused since I stopped visiting: dust accumulated on the window sill, pluming in the air as I opened the curtains, and an old chestnut vanity tucked under a white sheet hid behind boxes. The linens on the small, single bed were new though, and the wooden dresser was emptied, dusted, and free for me to use.