The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh Page B

on the shoulder. It was perhaps the first time in my entire life I had initiated contact with another human being—at least the first time in my memory. Meredith had told me I was a clingy baby, reaching out and clutching hair, ears, or fingers if I could find them—the straps of my infant car seat if I could not—with pulsing purple fists. But I didn’t remember any of this, and so my action—the quick connection of the palm of my hand to Elizabeth’s shoulder blade—surprised me. I stepped back, glaring at her as if she had made me do it.
    But Elizabeth just smiled. “If I didn’t know the meaning, I would be thrilled,” she said. “I think this is the kindest you’ve been to me, and all to express your hatred and mistrust of humankind.” For the second time that afternoon her eyes filled, and, like before, she did not look sad.
    She reached out to hug me, but before she could draw me in, I slipped out of her arms and back into the ditch.

14
.
    The solid form of the chair on which I sat began to liquefy. Without knowing how I got there, I lay on my stomach on the library floor, books spread in a semicircle around me. The more I read, the more I felt my understanding of the universe slip away from me. Columbine symbolized both
desertion
and
folly;
poppy,
imagination
and
extravagance
. The almond blossom, listed as
indiscretion
in Elizabeth’s dictionary, appeared in others as
hope
and occasionally
thoughtlessness
. The definitions were not only different, they were often contradictory. Even common thistle—the staple of my communication—appeared as
misanthropy
only when it wasn’t defined as
austerity
.
    The temperature in the library rose with the sun. By mid-afternoon I was sweating, swiping at my forehead with a wet hand as if trying to wipe memories from a saturated mind. I had given Meredith peony,
anger
but also
shame
. Admitting shame was closer to an apology than I ever hoped to get with Meredith. If anything, she should be coming to me with bunches and bunches of peony, quilting peony-covered bedspreads, baking peony-covered cakes. If peony could be misinterpreted, how many times, to how many people, had I misspoken? The thought made my stomach turn.
    My choices for the flower vendor hung as a threatening unknown.Rhododendron clung solidly to the definition of
beware
throughout every dictionary before me, but there were likely hundreds, if not thousands, more dictionaries in circulation. It was impossible to know how he had interpreted my messages or what he was thinking as he sat in the donut shop. It was past five o’clock. He would be waiting, his eyes on the door.
    I had to go. Leaving books scattered on the library floor, I skipped down four flights of stairs and walked out into the darkening San Francisco sky.
    It was almost six by the time I got to the donut shop. I opened the double glass doors and found him sitting alone in a booth, a half-dozen donuts in a pink box before him.
    I walked over to the table but did not sit down.
    “Rhododendron,” I demanded, as Elizabeth once had.
    “Beware.”
    “Mistletoe.”
    “I surmount all obstacles.”
    I nodded and continued. “Snapdragon?”
    “Presumption.”
    “White poplar?”
    “Time.”
I nodded again, scattering before him the few thistles I had collected on my walk across the city. “Common thistle,” he said.
“Misanthropy.”
    I sat down. It had been a test, and he had passed. My relief was disproportional to his five correct answers. Suddenly starving, I dug a maple bar out of the box. I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
    “Why thistle?” he asked, helping himself to a chocolate old-fashioned.
    “Because,” I said between huge bites, “it’s all you need to know about me.”
    He finished his donut and started on another. He shook his head. “Not possible.”
    I took a glazed and a sprinkled donut out of the box and set them on a napkin. He was eating so fast I was afraid the box would be empty before I finished my