Page 5 of This I Know
Flower pressing.
That’s funny now that I know the truth about him. It’s ironic, such a violent man so fond of something full of so much beauty and innocence. And it’s laughable, and a little disgusting, too. I want to gag at the thought, and I don’t even know what he did yet. But that’s my dad for you – a walking, talking contradiction.
My dad hasn’t lived with us for almost a year now. My mom kicked him out when she discovered his drug habit – harmless, he claimed (“It’s only pot”) – and since then, she talks to him once a week, every Sunday at five p.m. on the dot. The call always ends heated, usually with my mother hanging up with an angry button press and dabbing her nose with a tissue. I sometimes bring her a box of tissues, depending on how it is. The last time required the whole box.
Since he’s been living somewhere else, I’ve seen my dad maybe two times. My mom made it clear that it’s been up to me whether or not I want to see him. I’m an adult now. My eighteenth birthday just so happened to coincide with the time when my dad’s behavior was getting really bad. He missed the party. He didn’t even hand me a card the next day at breakfast when I encountered him near the fridge. He looked tired and his eyes were bagged, sure signs of a hangover from God knows what. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something, anything, a simplehappy birthday, Son,then I took a swig of orange juice straight from the jug, turned, and walked away.
The den is still dark. The vertical blinds are pulled shut, and only varying streaks of light break through here and there, casting shadows over the floor. Bits of dust pass through the streaks, lit up as they float by. My father’s collection of pressed flowers is strewn around the room. They’re on his desk, his old, favorite black leather chair, and even the floor is covered with a rainbow of all the delicate work. Once neatly stored in drawers and between heavy books, between slabs of heavy marble and drying cardboard, entire pieces of blue salvia, dandelion, and rose are now carelessly flung.
Someone did this. Someone was here, and they were mad.
This looks like the work of my mom. I’m not surprised. She must have come down here just a few minutes ago after hearing the news. It must have gotten the better of her, and she finally lost it. Ashley was right to tell me to leave her alone.
“Oh man,” I say through my hands.
I walk over to the set of tall clear acrylic drawers resting on his desk and I run my fingers across their seamlessness. The drawers are smooth and cool and stimulate my mind.
“Ethan.”
My father always says my name when he finishes a flower and wants me to take it from him. He never looks up, just holds out his hand.
This time, he sets a blue African daisy into my palm. Its petals spread over the width of my small hand, almost covering it completely. I hold it tenderly, shielding it from the nonexistent wind with my other hand. I’m afraid to make a wrong move. I don’t want to ruin it. Because this, right here … this is beauty.
“The second drawer,” my father says.
He holds a magnifying glass in one hand and a Japanese utility knife in the other. He dissects the next flower with care and precision, steadying his hands against the desk in order to prepare it for the press. This one’s a Larkspur, and I know it’ll take even more care than the last.
I walk the African daisy to the stack of drawers and slide open the second one from the top. This drawer’s empty, so when I place the daisy inside it sits perfectly alone.
“Now come,” he says.
I take my place beside him. I’m barely tall enough to see over the heavy oak desk, but I try to do so without getting in his way.
He hands me a spare magnifying glass. “Take a look here. And watch what I’m doing.”
The magnifying glass wobbles under its own weight as I grasp it with my tiny fingers, but I can see through it and I use it to watch my father work. I’m careful and I try to keep my breaths quiet.
My father’s thick, calloused fingers cut away at the helpless pieces of flower petal and stem. The sections of flower collapse under him, surrendering to his will. He tosses the pieces to the floor.
He’ll want me to remember this. Tomorrow, we’ll be eating dinner together and he’ll say, “Son. Do you trim the third petal of the red Larkspur, or the fourth?” and I’d better know what to say.
The smell of the dead flowers brings me back. As I wipe the corner of my eye, I see something sticking out from behind my father’s desk. I reach in, behind the inches-thick wood of the heavy old thing, grasp a smooth glass object, and pull it out.
I hold it in front of me. It’s a picture frame. It’s huge, much larger than the ones we use around the house for our family photos and whatnot. And it was difficult to get out. But it wasn’t too heavy to manipulate – just awkward – and it isn’t too bad now. Now that I’m holding it with both hands, it’s wide enough that it covers most of my field of vision.
I study the image encased and swallow hard. That tear re-forms in the corner of my eye. This time, I don’t bother to wipe it away.
The picture is a huge collection of flowers, all the most beautiful, delicate kinds that we’d worked on together, each carefully pressed and then strewn together in an obsessive way, forming the shape of a tree.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen; the culmination of my father’s lifetime passion and the care of someone who loved something deeply. It looks like it’s the only thing that survived the rampage that went on in here. But that’s not why I’m upset, why my heart beats faster in my chest and my palms sweat against the edges of the frame.
I’m upset because I hate the man.
I hate looking at the things he’s made, and I hate everything he’s done, even this picture that’s so undoubtedly beautiful. How could he create something so beautiful and so horrendous at the same time, with those very same hands?
It’s beyond wrong.
Without hesitating, I raise my arms and send the picture crashing to the floor. The noise echoes throughout the room. When it hits the ground, the frame breaks in half and the glass flies across the carpet. I stand in silence, towering over the mess.
