Page 92 of When Wildflowers Bloom

She sets them loose with their balls of clay and combined centuries worth of creativity between them.

They knead, roll, pinch, and push. They talk—laugh. They get to know each other with their fingers in the pliable balls. Sam starts with a story about Vietnam which leads to Mabel telling a story about a Vietnamese man she met one time.

Veda laughs at their stories, a light burning brightly in her eyes. She’s happy; they all are. I am.

When Sam starts saying, “I should have made Birdie a pair of t—” I clap my hands, cutting off his unspokentits.

“Let’s see what everyone made!” I say, shooting him a glare.

“I made an M16,” Sam says, without his usual irritated tone, holding up a clay gun. “It’s the gun that kept me alive in ’Nam, bringing me home to everything that was yet to come.” He looks at me, and I smile.

Mabel doesn’t miss a beat by stealing the moment with a proud declaration: “I made a cock.”

True to her word, in her hands—a long claycock.

Her full-wattage smile shows her lipstick-stained teeth, and she wiggles her eyebrows toward Sam.

I snort while Veda gives a stunned, “Wow,” and covers her gaping mouth with her hand.

Sam’s eyes go saucer sized at the same time he asks, “You some kind of pervert, Mabel?”

She looks at him like he’s just given her a compliment and says, “If that’s what you’re into, Sammy Boy.” Then she bares her red teeth at him and bites the air.

“Alrighty then,” I say, clapping my hands together—again—interrupting whatever kind of mating ritual Mabel is about to begin. “Veda. Will you show them what to do next while I make lunch?” She nods silently, still stunned from the force that is Mabel.

Sam mutters something about my disgusting health food while Mabel shouts, “I’m starved, dollface!”

I look around at all of them—clay-caked hands and statues—and despite how insane they are, I smile. They’re happy—even Veda.EspeciallyVeda.

Thirty-eight

Veda is in thesunroom sitting in a wicker chair when I return from taking everyone else home.

She pulls her chin back, looking at me.

“Your friends are mostly insane, Birdie,” she says with a laugh-infused sigh. “That Mabel?” She shakes her head, as if trying to make sense of it. “What was her profession in life?”

I feign seriousness, explaining, “She was a nun until she left in her thirties.” As I say it, I realize I don’t know what she did after that. I can’t believe I’ve never thought to ask.

Veda almost smiles—like admiration. “Good for her.”

Then we’re quiet as we clean, because she’s right. Because,good for her.Mabel is Mabel, but she’s also who she wants to be. Unapologetically. It’s a gift, when I think about it. A sunflower growing in a field of daisies.

When we’re done cleaning, we sit in the two wicker chairs tucked in the corner of the studio.

She looks good today, strong. “How are you feeling?”

“I need your help with something,” she says, dodging my question. She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wad of paper.

No.

A rolled paper.

No.

A slender tube with a twist on the end.

“Ajoint?” I ask, stunned.

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