The Flowers Died on Monday

The Flowers Died on Monday

The flowers died on Monday. They were lilies, my mothers’ favourite. She called them sophisticated and they were the flower form of a beautiful woman. I could never understand that.

I gave her those flowers. They were white with a strip of pale pink running down the middle. I saw them in the window of the florist as I was passing, and they reminded me of the dress she always wore in the spring. It flowed with her as she walked and made her eyes look brighter in the sun. When I went in to buy them, the lady at the counter asked me who they were for. I told her they were for my mother and that they were her favourite. She told me it was a lovely gesture and asked me what the special occasion was. I’d never liked the idea of making meaningless conversation with strangers who don’t need to know my business. She was being friendly, I know, I’ll play nice. I smiled kindly and told her it was her birthday- a lie.

I chose a blue ribbon for the box- the colour of her eyes. The colour of the ocean where she spent most of her time. She loved to swim, even in the freezing winter. As I was leaving the shop, the lovely lady wished my mother a very happy birthday, so I smiled and nodded, then left.

They were brown now though, the flowers. I had deprived them of water since they sat on my windowsill. They had been perfectly fine but, after a week, petals began to fall every day, dried up and wrinkling. Thirsty and stripped of their colour they lay there, helpless, begging to be thrown away. I could’ve helped them, took care of them better, paid attention instead, I let them wither and die. I bought them for my mother, but I knew full well she couldn’t take care of them, I suppose that’s why I kept them where she couldn’t see them and get upset that they were dying. Maybe I gave her false hope. She would ask about them, if I’d watered them and gave them some sun and every time, I’d lie. It was for the best.

The blue ribbon and gone green in the sun like a bruise, no longer resembling the colour of her eyes. It now resembled the colour of the forgotten pond in the back garden. There was no sun to try and lighten the shrivelled petals, only fog and rain crying against the windowpane. I ask myself if they would’ve lived longer had I watered them. If I had kept them in a vase and nurtured them. That’s what they need, isn’t it? To be nurtured. That’s all they ever need. They don’t ask to be cared for; you do it because you know that’s the right thing to do. I can’t even say I forgot because I walked past them everyday and yet, I never stopped to water them or check if they were okay. If they looked okay, I mean. I don’t even have a good excuse.

My mother would’ve cared for them. She would’ve checked on them every day, gave them water, checked they weren’t too hot in the sun. she would’ve put them in a lovely vase. She probably would’ve sung to them, sweet symphonies and if the piano wasn’t so old and out of tune, she would’ve played that too. I can’t remember the last time she sang. She sang to me as a child many times. I would refuse to sleep unless she sang to me in that soothing tone she always had. She taught me piano at a young age but, I could never get the hang of it. I always saw my mother as a very talented woman whereas I am purely ambisinistrous, I could never be as good as her. I didn’t mind it though. I’d let her sing and play to me a thousand times a day if I could. I can picture her dancing fingers grazing across the white keys, the piano in the perfect position for the sun to beam down and brighten the wood. In spring, she would play to the flowers and they would dance. I wonder how much the piano would be worth now. Not much, I would imagine. It’s old and it’s voice is broken. It’s been left un-played for God knows how long. My mother asked me to get it tuned a while ago, she knew there was something wrong with it but, I palmed that job off to my sister who did nothing.

The dust. It’s everywhere. It dances around the room under the dim light, not with the grace my mother always showed when she danced in this very room. I can see the handle of the sweeping brush in the corner of the room behind the display case, untouched. I’ve never seen it so dirty in here.

“Lily?”

A sting in my ear. No matter how soft it was intended, that shrill voice never fails to cut my already bad mood in half.

“Lily?”

Again. My sister. The know-it-all, power suit wearing, mindfulness blog writing, stick so far up her ass she could brush her teeth with it sister. We may have the same blood, but the bitch gene is all her. She got that from our dad. That’s probably the reason she’s never around.

“Lily!”

“Oh my god. What, Tilly?” I snap. No matter how much I could’ve tried to ignore her, she would have won.

“What’s going on with you?” her bilious face unnerving.

“Nothing.” My short answer was not an invitation for her to furrow her brows and scowl but, she took it as one.

“You haven’t said a word since we started this thing.”

The audacity. This ‘thing’? This thing deserves a lot more respect that what she just gave it.

“This thing?” I furrow my brows and scowl this time. That was my invitation, granted or not.

“Oh, come on.” Her eyes roll.

“No.” My finger comes up to meet her horrid, dolled-up face. “Don’t you dare.”

“Lil-“

“No.” I cut her off. “This thing happens to be the most important thing we may ever do together. This thing is the last thing we get to do for mum and, I won’t let you ruin it.”

After years of letting her rule over the family, I will no longer let that happen, especially today. She has never once considered anyone else; it’s always been about her and her fancy job and her fancy fiancé and her fancy lunches. She forgets where she came from- who she came from. We may have had very little, but we had everything we needed because our mum never gave up providing for us.

“I’m ruining this?” Her manicured finger pokes her chest. “You’re the one that has made absolutely no contribution to this th-“she stops herself from digging her hole further. “at all.” She completes.

She’s not wrong. I have been out of it since we’ve been here. Being in this house is hard. Without the smell of something baking in the oven. Without the sound of Elvis singing from the kitchen. Without the clean air.

If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel it. the warmth of the fire, the plumpness of the pillows and the softness of the carp-

“Lily!”

She sounds like mum. But the side I didn’t enjoy.

“Sorry.” I know I’m out of it. I can’t help it.

“Can we please just get on with this.” Tilly pleads.

I will never understand why our mother tortured us with rhyming names. Our cousins. Billy and Millie aren’t impressed either. It’s like our mum and auntie had some secret pact to humiliate their kids and make our school lives a bully’s playground. I wish I was joking.

“Yes. What’s next?” I rub my hands on my jeans.

The lady dressed in black gave me a soft smile. Her body is so small, her hands and legs close together and she keeps pushing her hair behind her ears, even though it isn’t falling on her face. She fidgets with the binder on her lap, flicking through the pages to find where she needs to be.

“Um,” she begins.

Yep, she’s uncomfortable.

“I guess we’ll move on to the music.” She points at a place on her page.

I realise I don’t remember her name. I know she told me when she walked in. We shook hands and she gave me the smile everyone had been giving me lately, the one that has been haunting me.

“Huh.” I exhale a chuckle, inappropriately.

“Lily, why are you laughing?” Tilly’s brows are furrowed, my inappropriate behaviour puzzling her.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so weird to be picking out the music that will be the forever theme tune of the last time we ever say goodbye to our mum.”

“What?”

“Our mum is dead.” I say, flatly.

“I know.” Tilly’s voice is softer than usual. Weird.

I look at her. I really look at her. I never noticed how much she looks like mum. Her nose, the eyes even the way she presses her lips together when she doesn’t know what else to say. It’s comforting really.

“Sorry.” I don’t take my eyes off Tilly. I mean it too, I am sorry. This must be hard for her too, she’s just handling it differently to how I would’ve liked.

She nods her head at me in acceptance and puts her hand on my knee. I don’t slap it away, I choose to savour this rare moment. If not for me, then for mum who always wished for us to get along.

“Music, yes.” I turn back to the funeral lady. I’ll learn her name as we go on.

“Ah, yes. We definitely should have Fleetwood Mac, she loved them.” Tilly suggests.

Wrong.

“No, absolutely not.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “We’re not having Fleetwood Mac.”

“Lil, you can’t say no because you don’t like them.” She takes her hand off my knee. That lasted long.

“That’s not what I’m doing, Til,” I mockingly say her name, attempting to suggest how much I hate the shortening of mine. “We’re not having Fleetwood Mac because mum didn’t like them.” I look at the funeral lady.

“What are you talking about? She listened to them all the time.”

“Yes, five years ago when she was trying to impress that dickhead, Steve.” The mention of his name makes Tilly squirm in her seat. “She stopped listening to them when he left and never listened to them again.”

I’m trying to hide my frustration caused by both the thought of Steve and the fact this is something my sister should know. I’m glad I’m here otherwise, my mother would have the funeral of her nightmares. This is my chance to plan the funeral of her dreams. That’s not a nice sentence.

“Oh, well, I guess we won’t have Fleetwood Mac then.” Tilly looks at her lap, her hands twiddling. She looks up at the funeral lady. “Sorry, Jess.”

Jess, noted.

Jess waves a hand in front of her face.

“It’s no problem. This is a hard thing to do, I completely understand.” Her voice is silvery, trusting. “Lily, do you have any ideas?”

I can hear it again, the music seeping from the kitchen. The sweet voice that mimics it.

“Elvis.”

“Ah, of course.” It’s like a light went off within Tilly and she’s smiling. I imagine she’s hearing the same things as I am.

“Do you have any songs in mind?” Jess asks, pen at the ready.

“Can’t help falling in love and In the Ghetto.” I say, without hesitation. “She played those every morning.” The smile is big on my face. A nice memory to have replaying in my head.

Jess smiles too. “I love those songs.”

There is a knock at the door and then the chimes of the doorbell to follow. It sounds like the piano- out of tune.

Tilly gets up from beside me and apologises to Jess as she walks out of the room. I hear the door open and faint voices greeting each other. The door closes and footsteps get louder. Tilly walks back into the room, closely followed by another lady.

The florist.

The florist that I so rudely conversed with a few weeks ago. The florist that sold me the dying flowers on the windowsill in the corner of my eye.

Her small smile drops when she catches my eyes. She recognises me. That’s not a good start. My mind wanders back to the interaction we had a few weeks ago. I lied to her face and disregarded her kindness that was genuine. Am I a horrible person? – probably.

“Lily, this is Gemma.” Tilly motions towards the ghost-faced lady behind her.

Gemma offers me a half smile, lips pressed together. She has a doleful look on her face, as if she has pieced together the underlying story to our run-in a few weeks ago.

“Hello, Lily.” She walks over to shake my hand. I take it, hesitantly.

I’m praying she won’t bring up the flowers I bought from her and as I watch her eyes shift from me to the windowsill, I hold my breath. Her expression shifts from doleful to downcast, clearly she remembers selling me the flowers. Her eyes switch back to mine and, behind them, a silent reassurance that eases my discomfort.

She disconnects her hand from mine and sits next to Jess, across from Tilly and I. Her floral-printed dress flows around her, a remarkably familiar sight.

“First of all, I am incredibly sorry for your loss.” Gemma’s eyes keep flitting over to the flowers on the windowsill. “Secondly, thank you for choosing me to provide the flowers for this day.”

She’s sweet, something I knew when I met her the first time but, with everything going on in my head, I chose to ignore.

“Thank you for being here with us.” I’ve chosen to take lead with Gemma. It’s the least she deserves. She nods in acceptance.

“So, with the package you have chosen, what we do is we pick one flower and that flower will be the focus of the floral decorations. If you’d like to pick more, that is also fine too.” She uses her hands a lot when she speaks.

“That sounds lovely.” Tilly pipes up from next to me.

“Do you have a flower in mind?” Gemma asks, eyeing me. She knows.

“Lilies.”

Gemma gives me a soft smile and before she can say anything else, I add what she’s already thinking.

“With blue ribbons.”