Page 15 of When Wildflowers Bloom

I snort a laugh. “I preventatively had my breasts removed.”

Her slight nod signals me to go on.

“My grandmother, Birdie Rose, died when she was thirty-seven from breast cancer. My mother, also Birdie Rose, died from the same cancer also when she was thirty-seven. When I was eighteen, I took the money I was given for my high school graduation and paid to have genetic testing done. I’m positive for the BRCA1 genetic mutation.” I swallow hard, letting a long silence hang that is synonymous with this house before the rest of the words take form in my mouth. “There’s roughly a 65 percent chance I will get breast cancer—so”—I shrug—“I got rid of them.”

Veda leans back in her chair as she looks at me.

“All the women are named Birdie Rose?” she asks.

“I guess they were hoping it would finally stick.” It’s morbid, but I laugh.

“Yourovaries?”

“Hmm,” I hum, slightly surprised she knows to ask. “I considered having them removed—I’m at a higher risk for ovarian cancer, among a litany of others, and there’s a 50 percent chance I’ll pass the gene on to any child, so I won’t have kids—but the side effects of the surgery can be severe for someone my age. Maybe someday, but for now, I’m cautious.”

She nods.

Of all the topics of my condition, my decision not to have children is the most difficult for me to talk about. My breasts are gone, that’s fine, but babies… It was painful in my twenties to imagine, but at thirty, the devastation reached a fever pitch that I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

“Why didn’t you get implants? Seems to be what most people do, especially at your age,” she asks before taking a sip of coffee, her bent fingers trembling around the mug.

I pick at a fleck of paint on the table. “They do, but after reading about them I didn’t want the risks that they come with. I’ll never have a normal life—I know that—and I figured whether I had boobs or not didn’t make a difference to the outcome.”

Her eyes narrow. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions for someone I don’t know much about,” I say, propping my elbows on the table and giving her a light smile.

“Well, if it turns out you’re as enjoyable to be around as you say you are, maybe I’ll share more.” Her lips lift slightly before she takes another shaky sip of her coffee.

I clear my throat. “Fine.” This time I don’t look at her. I stare at the warm morning light that dapples through the kitchen window and dances across the wood floor. “I watched my dad carry his grief right along with me when I lost my mom. I decided then, in those dark days of standing and crying at her grave then watching him cry much longer than that, I never wanted to cause that. To ultimately hurt someone in a way that’s bottomless.” The steady feeling of my heartbeat brings me back to my body, and I blink through the burn in my eyes. I force a smile then add, “And now that I’m thirty-seven”—I blow out a breath—“who knows how much time there is, if family history is any indication…” My voice trails off with all the grim words of my fate. “Anyway, my focus is staying healthy—alive—without the added worry of ruining someone else.”

“Is your dad still around?” she asks, unreadable expression on her face.

The mention of my dad makes me smile. “He is. He lives in Rocky Ridge.”

She sets her mug down. The coldness on her face melts away like an icicle in the sun. With her hair pinned back in a tight bun that showcases colorful earrings dangling from her ears and her cream-colored linen overalls and bright blue shirt, she looks…nice. Beautifully nice. There are lines on her face, but they are soft in a way that suit her. Define her almost.

“You don’t like the candle,” she says, making me realize I’ve been looking at the purple toxic wax in a jar. Again. Probably frowning.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not wanting to offend her. “It’s not that. I’m just very…conscientious of what’s in my environment. I like how it smells, it’s just the ingredients…”Could kill me. I don’t say it, but she must know, because in an instantpuff!she blows it out.

It might be the single nicest thing a near-stranger has ever done for me in my life, and for the second time today, I blink back tears that I rarely let myself cry.

When she slides her chair away from the table she smiles again. “I want to show you something.”

In the middle of Veda’s sunroom, everything falls into place. Racks of pottery in various stages of completion line shelves on one of the walls. Buckets and canisters of glazes labeled with a Crayola-like palette fill a rack along with hand tools. In the middle of the room is a large table next to a potter’s wheel and stool.

The wet, earthy smell is at its most powerful as we stand in the warmth of the sunbathed room.

“You’re a potter,” I say, circling in place to take in all the details.

“I’m a potter,” she replies. “Or, was.” She holds up her hands to showcase her crooked arthritic fingers and gives a regretful smile. “The body doesn’t always agree with the mind. I still dabble on my good days, but stubborn fingers make for reluctant clay.”

“Hmm,” I hum softly. Agreeing and aching for her all at once. “You’ve made beautiful things.”

“And I wouldn’t change a thing knowing I can’t anymore.” She raises her eyebrows at me, like that’s supposed to mean something.

Like everything else in the eclectic cabin, the room just feels likehome. There are mismatched curtains framing windows and colorful blankets draped over chairs. Every detail looks handmade, but not in a half-assed kind of way like a mom who got drunk while scrolling the internet would do. Each item screams careful skill and thoughtful dedication. It’s amazingly juxtaposed.

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