The Secret Hum of a Daisy by Tracy Holczer

of the heavy frames. Mama and Daddy in the daisy meadow. I couldn’t believe it. It was exactly the same as mine. I wanted to ask about a million questions but I had no idea where to start.
    â€œGood heavens. Do your underthings look as horrid as your outer things?”
    As I looked down at my sweatshirt and jeans under the open peacoat, I considered feeling insulted, but she was right. It had been a while since I’d had new clothes.
    Margery scurried about the rows of bras and picked three. They were delicate, with a bit of lace edging at the bottom. Nothing you’d ever find at the dollar store.
    â€œTry these,” she commanded.
    I stood there holding the bras in one hand, the picture in the other, not sure what to do first: ask questions or try on the bras. Finally, I figured I could do both so I hurried behind a red velvet curtain that closed off a changing area and choked something out. “How did you know him . . . my father?”
    â€œHe lived in the little guesthouse out back of my property.”
    I took off Mama’s peacoat and laid it on an overstuffed leopard-print chair, setting the picture carefully on top. Turning my back to the mirror, I lifted my sweatshirt over my head. I hooked the bra as quickly as I could, feeling self-conscious under the soft yellow light. I turned around.
    Instead of seeing the bra, I saw bags under my eyes, the points of both hip bones above my jeans, and every single rib. I looked like the zombie I’d tried to be for Mrs. Greene and didn’t recognize myself.
    Mama and Daddy peered up at me from the frame. They probably didn’t recognize me either.
    â€œFit?” Margery asked. “What am I saying? Of course it does. I’m never wrong about the fit. Hand me the other two.”
    I looked at the price tags. Thirty dollars each!
    â€œUm . . . I don’t have any money . . .”
    â€œOf course you don’t,” Margery said. “Consider them a very late baby gift.”
    I dressed quickly and came out, holding the picture tight to my chest. “Are you sure? Because I could work them off.” Mama didn’t like taking charity.
    â€œYou come in here and talk to me. That will be payment enough.”
    I surprised myself by smiling, then laid the picture on the counter as I sat on a nearby stool. “What was he like?” I said.
    â€œDidn’t your mama tell you about him?”
    I shook my head. “She didn’t like to talk about things that made her sad.”
    â€œOf course she didn’t. But a girl has a right to know her daddy.” Margery gestured toward the bureau. “Second drawer from the left.”
    I went where she pointed and pulled out a stack of multicolored flyers—blue, green, yellow—wrinkled, dog-eared, and smudged with dirt. They advertised the grand opening of the Bear River Park.
    â€œYour dad helped me here,” Margery said.
    â€œHere?”
    â€œWell, he didn’t fold bras if that’s what you’re thinking. He oiled the hinges on the door, built shelves. He put up the baseboards and painted for me. That sort of thing. If you explained what you wanted, he could draw you a picture and then build it.”
    â€œHow long did he live on your property?”
    â€œTwo years. He came to town when he was sixteen after his parents died in a house fire. I was a family friend.”
    There were times I’d looked at the picture of Daddy and Mama and think about what he might have been like. He had a soothing voice and a big vocabulary, and even though he was quite a chef and could make anything with a French name, he liked hamburgers and onion rings most of all. He would wear denim work shirts and carry a paintbrush in his back pocket. He would have a silly nickname for me like Snub or Shorty. I’d made him up from top to bottom and it was weird to hear Margery explain this entirely different person. A stranger.
    She went