Page 8 of When Wildflowers Bloom

In a different life…I shake my head, not even letting myself go down that rabbit hole.Again.

Sam—a grouchy Vietnam veteran—is my Wednesday morning client. I usually show up with library books and breakfast from the local bakery for him, but today, nothing. I’m empty handed, and he notices, glaring at me like I killed a litter of puppies as I step into his living room.

I go through my usual list of chores—laundry, dishes, cleaning the floors—but I’m operating on autopilot. I fold his towels and feel Bo’s rough hands. I do the dishes and feel his tongue on my skin. No matter how many times I shake my head, I can’t shakehim.

For once, I’m happy Sam repeats the same stories from Vietnam every week. Usually, I engage, but today it’s just nods and hummed responses. The plus side of being so clearly distracted is that his normally grumpy personality is extremely easy to deal with. Every,“Do you hear what I’m saying, Bonnie?”I casually respond to with,“Yep, and that’s still not my name, Sam.”

The hours either drag on or fly by at warp speed. It’s miserable.

Finally, at 3:55p.m., I park in the gravel driveway of my afternoon appointment, and my exhale could fill a hot air balloon. I just want to get through this meeting, crawl into bed, and forget what I did and how vast the feeling of either wishing it didn’t happen or could happen again is.

I lean toward the windshield of my minivan and study the small cabin that’s tucked in the side of the hill. The summer flowers—yellows, pinks, reds, and purples—that explode on the bushesaround the porch that’s dotted with wind chimes and rocking chairs create the perfect balance of chaos and charm. It belongs in a fairytale more than rural North Carolina.

I double-check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Honey-colored hair in a bun, fitted white tank top with slouchy jeans, sandals, and a pair of dangly leather earrings. Somehow, my brown eyes look bright, not bloodshot from sleep deprivation like I’d expect. I look put together—the lie I’m selling the world today.

The appointment was scheduled just last week, but with the events of last night, my mind resembles applesauce. I barely remember a single detail about the woman I’m about to meet. I thumb through the file quickly to get my head on straight. Veda Monroe, seventy-nine years old, lives alone, has severe arthritis, help with daily chores requested by her grandson, Daniel Monroe. Skimming the rest, I close the file and shove it in my tote bag that’s already overflowing with papers and binders. I’ve been running my senior companion business for years, and these first meetings are either welcomed with open arms or stopped by a brick wall.

Another deep breath and I’m out of my van, crossing the bright green yard, noting a silver sedan and cherry-red Jeep in the driveway, and climbing the steps of the large wraparound porch. The door swings open at the same time I raise my hand to knock.

There, with the same stunned eyes as mine, stands Bo.

Seconds or minutes or hours later, a woman—who I assume to be Veda Monroe—fills the doorway next to him. If the world wasn’t spinning out of control, I would have noticed her mismatched beaded earrings, pink linen shirt, and white hair pinned in a braided bun. I would marvel about how she barely has a line on her seventy-nine-year-old face and be envious of the kind of beauty she has that the years don’t dent.

I can’t register any of that, at least not in a way that lets my mouth move. Instead, there’s only staring. Me at Bo, Bo at me.

Silence stretches like saltwater taffy across the doorway, until Veda’s voice hurtles me back to earth.

“You must be the babysitter,” she says, tone knotting amusement with annoyance.

My mouth opens and closes so many times without saying anything that I feel like a fish.

“Birdie.” My voice rivals that of a pubescent boy with strep throat when I finally speak. I force my trembling hand out. “Hawkins. Birdie Hawkins. Not a babysitter unless you have a baby.” My laugh is a weakha ha ha.

She eyes me with skepticism before reaching her own hand out. I don’t look, but I can feel the way her fingers twist in one direction under her papery skin, no doubt from the arthritis.

“Veda,” she says. “And this is my grandson, Daniel, but everyone calls him Bo.” She drops her hand from mine and cuts her eyes to him.

Somehow we shake hands, Bo and me, and the familiar roughness of his skin is sandpaper against my own. While I’m completelydumbfounded, there’s amusement that lifts his lips. Lips that also have a toothpick pinched between them. “Nice to meet you,Birdie,” he says with an emphasis that wraps around my spine. When I try to pull my hand away, his grip tightens. “You look like someone I’ve met before.” After all my efforts to stay alive in this life, this is where I’ve come to die.

“Does she?” Veda asks, eyeing me with a shrug. “Either way, come on in. Let’s get this over with.”

I yank my hand free of his and decide to never look at him ever again. This is a disaster.

Veda leads us into an eclectically cozy living space that smells like damp earth and lilac candle. The candle instantly makes me cringe, because carcinogens, but the damp earthy smell confuses my senses. It could be an indoor herb garden as much as a harboring of black mold. Wonderful or awful. Delicious or deadly.

Like Bo’s presence.

They sit quietly on floral upholstered chairs next to each other while I nervously take several binders full of papers, a notebook, and assortments of pens out of my canvas tote bag and spread them across the coffee table.

“Your home is amazing,” I manage to say through a mouth of cotton balls while sorting everything out into neat piles, relearning how to breathe.

Bookshelves covered with colorful pieces of pottery border the room like a hug with arms made of marbled blue pots and earthy red bowls. Even though they all look different, it’s evident the artist is the same.

The response they give is a mystery because the words are such a mushy sound in my ears around the loudness of my heart pounding. If I say something back, it’s a hum that means nothing.

Veda nods with narrowed eyes as she looks from me to the stacks in front of me. Bo just looks like he’s on the brink of a laugh, and that might be worse than the initial staring.

“This looks like more than it is,” I say, putting my shaky hands on my hips. “But I like to bring all the options of ways our days can look together so I can be most helpful to you. I have some sample schedules, lists of things I do at other clients’ homes, etcetera.”

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