Page 1 of Lily In The Valley
Prologue
Summer 2002 - New Orleans, LA
“Come on here, Khalil,”Ms. Sonya called from the back of her flower shop. She was busy working on a peace lily arrangement for an upcoming funeral. Ms. Sonya was tall, towering over me like the Power Rangers I watched on Saturday mornings, minus the ninja moves. Her voice meant business with a hint of sweetness laced around it, like cough syrup with a pinch of sugar added to help the bite. She turned from the arrangement, going to the register where my father and I waited.
“Ms. Sonya, thank you for watching my son,” my father said, pulling out his wallet and thumbing through a few bills. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be able to work these extra hours at the plant.”
“Kevin, go ahead and put that money up. I love watching Khalil.” Ms. Sonya turned to me, rubbing a hand through my head of thick curls. “It’s like having my grandbaby around.”
“Thank you again. Khalil, go back there and make yourself useful. I’m sure it’s something Ms. Sonya need sweeping.”
“Yessir,” I said, grabbing my backpack filled with my snacks and Hot Wheels and heading to the back workroom. Each time I came back here, my eyes widened with wonder. Weatheredwooden shelves lined the back wall with pots and vases, all different shapes and sizes took residence.
My nose tickled, trying to take in the scent of every flower she had stocked. The air was a sweet mix of roses, lilies, and something spicy I couldn’t put my finger on. Before I knew it, a fit of sneezes blew from my nose. Walking over to the desk in the corner of the room, I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. I could hear a faint discussion between my father and Ms. Sonya.
“You heard anything from Toya yet? It’s a shame what that girl did, leaving y’all like that,” Ms. Sonya snuffed.
“No. You know all her people long gone.” My father let out a deep sigh. “It’s been four years, Ms. Sonya. I don’t think she coming back. It’s my fault. She told me this wasn’t the life she wanted. Settling down and raising a family. But I pressed her anyway.”
“Naw. It take two people to make a baby. If that’s not what she wanted, she had options. Besides, you and I both know what the real problem is. Until that monkey get off her back, ain’t nothing we can do.”
“You right. Let me get going. My sister will pick him up when she get off her shift at Charity Hospital.”
I tuned out their goodbyes, going back to settle myself in the chair by the desk. The only thing I knew about my mother was that we shared the same face, same eyes, same hair. I only knew that from the one picture of us my father kept hidden in his nightstand. She looked so sad, like she’d gotten the wrong presents for Christmas. I didn’t even know kids were supposed to have mothers until I realized my best friend, Xavier, always had his mom around.
I took the Hubig pie out of my backpack, peeling the wrapper back and savoring the sweetness of the fried hand pie. The squeaky door opened, Ms. Sonya’s big and bright smile lit up the room just like the sunlight dancing on the stained-glass vases.She got back to work on the arrangement, moving slowly, as if not to wake someone sleeping. I watched her pick up a big, shiny leaf, tucking it gently into a wicker pot with a white flower that stood tall and proud. I liked that flower. It looked like it was reaching up to catch the light streaming through the side windows.
“Ms. Sonya, how come people always give those flowers to people when somebody die?” I asked, placing my half-eaten pie on the desk.
“Well, you see, peace lilies symbolize peace, hope, and rebirth. The death of a person can be a hard thing to go through, even harder for the ones they leave behind.” Ms. Sonya kept adding little white flowers around the big one, and some green stuff that looked fuzzy. It made me sad, but I didn’t know why. “I think they show that even in the darkest of times, you can still have a little bit of beauty around. As long as you take care of them, love on them, they’ll last a lifetime.”
“Do all flowers mean something?” I asked, walking over to meet Ms. Sonya at her worktable. I took in the ribbon the color of moonlight that she wrapped around the basket. She scribbled a message on a small card, then tucked it between the white petals.
“Yeah,” she responded, stepping back to look at her work. “I can show you some in the shop and tell you what they represent.”
“Sure.” I stayed out of the way while Ms. Sonya cleaned up her station. The more I stared at the arrangement, the more it made me want to hug my mom. It was pretty and sad all at the same time. I wondered what it would feel like to be in her embrace. Would her skin be soft and smooth like the petals? Or cushiony like the moss pieces covering the dirt? Maybe she had claws on her fingers, like my Aunt Brenda, that would scratch my sides like the wicker of the basket.
When I looked up at Ms. Sonya, she gave me a small smile, her eyes kind but a little shiny, like they had water in them. “Come on, get your pie, and let’s take a walk through the store.”
We moved from the back workroom to the front of the shop; Ms. Sonya hoofing, me following behind like a shadow.
“Let’s start with these,” she said, grabbing a few pink and white flowers with never-ending petals. “Camellias are all about admiration and perfection. You give someone one of these, you telling them you think they perfect just the way they are.”
Gently, I touched one of the soft petals. Maybe my mama left because she felt like she couldn’t be the perfect mother for me. I wondered if she knew I’d accept her any way she was, even with the monkey on her back.
Next, Ms. Sonya grabbed a big, bright sunflower from another bucket. “Now, sunflowers are special. They twist and turn to make sure they facing whichever way the sun goes. Like the people here in New Orleans. We could be dealing with the worst of hurricanes, but we still gon’ laissez les bon temps rouler.”
“So, if you give somebody sunflowers, it mean y’all about to have a good time?”
She chuckled. “Maybe. They also mean you’re loyal to that person. You adore them.”
“Oh, like a best friend?” I shook my head. “Ms. Sonya, I ain’t giving Zay no flowers. That’s lame.”
“Boy, you crazy.” She laughed, walking us over to a table filled with roses in different shades of bright colors. “You know what these are?”
“Yeah, roses. My teacher got some for Valentine’s Day last year. What they mean?” I asked, leaning on the table, noticing the sharp thorns on the stem.
“Roses tell their own story. I know you know red ones mean love. But yellow,” she started pulling a yellow stem from the center. “These mean friendship and joy.”
