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My mother Maman had an obsession with flowers, especially woodland ones. Everything about them -from their fragility to their delicately-shaped petals, from their exuberant fragrance to the slightly sticky, sweet sap that oozed out from them- was an object of wonder and amazement for her. I remember myself thinking I had stepped into an arbor when I came down for breakfast- the sunflower-print tablecloth, the gerberas in the silver-vase, the curtains with delicate floral prints and the rose motifs on the tiles, walls and every single piece of furniture in the Evans' Place living room. Maman herself looked like a flower- wispy, fairy-faced and eyes as peerless blue as cornflowers. Papa had met her in France-interestingly, in a garden itself: the Chateaux. She had been standing under a wall heavy with red roses. "And then, I fell for this 'flower-girl'," he would joke. I remembered how Maman blushed as he recounted their old memories. "I would tell myself, it is a flower you love, not a woman."
Needless to say, it was Maman who had christened my sister-and later, me-after her favorite blossoms. Petunia, like the lovely, brittle, petunia clusters with pink, red or purple striped petals. Lily, like the lily-of-the-valley, that enchanting flower adorning the lace mantilla of many a countryside bride. Maybe, she had the blind hope that we, like her, would turn out to be as picture-perfect as our names suggested- flowery, pretty, giggly and girlie-girl.
Poor Maman.
Petunia came the nearest to fulfilling Maman's 'perfect daughter' image but fell flat where the beauty thing was concerned. She was tall and bony, with a somewhat longish face which could be-after a fashion-pleasant, but for the most resembled a horse, preferably one that's been deprived of meals for several days on end. Jokes like, "She's the dark horse of the family," were in extremely poor taste around her. Long, dark hair framed her pointed chin, long nose and thin lips- a disorienting resemblance to my father. It would have been bad enough, but add to that a constant sauciness of manner, and she was just about unbearable.
In stark contrast to Petunia's country-lass appearance, I would strike you as somewhat exotic. I didn't look like her at all; neither did I resemble my parents. I had long red hair, (bordering on the colour of mahogany) dimpled cheeks and my one beauty, my almond-shaped bright green eyes. My mother told me that her sister-my aunt Miera, who died young-looked like me. I suppose so. After we had moved into Evans', rumors that I was really an adopted child-someone had suggested an illicit affair- had done regular rounds. ("How can a redhead be born into afamily where everyone is dark?")Now, however people had outgrown those theories, as I had outgrown getting bothered by them. However I still remained-by an unknown code of conduct-the freak at Evan's Place, 34 Spinner's End.
"Your Maman told me. Winged horses. Very innovative," commented Father at breakfast.
I felt a flush creep down my neck." You don't believe me," I said flatly, reaching for the toast.
"You see, he's not a freak," observed Petunia, grinning over her glass of juice." Speaking of which, why did you howl out last night? I thought you're,"-viciously quoting me- , "beyond caring what I said?"
"I am," I lied.
"Then why…"
"Girls, girls." Maman busied herself spreading marmalade on my bread.
"Yeah. Why squabble first thing in the morning?" Father demanded.
"She started," we said and instantly scowled at each other. Father grinned.
Maman stared unseeingly out of the window, looking down the street. "There's a new family at Spinner's End," she said. "Husband, wife, child. Bit reticent. Not used to small-town life. Maybe hand-shy, but okay. I met the woman at market. Didn't seem too eager to converse."
"Arrogant?'' Petunia suggested.
"No, no, reticent I said."
"What's reticent?" I asked.
"Not talkative, quiet." Father supplied.
"In short, freaks like you." added Petunia.
"Petu-"
"Ok, ok, sorry."
I looked down scowling, at my plate. "And the child, is it a girl?"
"No. A boy. About your age. Some uncommon name. Sev- something."
"Shall we see him at school?" I demanded.
"Probably."
"Hah, if he's a freak like you, then you both can roam around pretending-"
"SHUT UP, PETUNIA," I could feel that terrible anger possessing me yet again. Why couldn't she leave me be? I stood up -determined to get to the peace of my room-when a scorching heat seemed to burn my eyes, thence my fingertips- and before I could stop it, it had gushed out of my body, leaving me breathless.
"PETUNIA!" screamed Maman, horrified.
I turned around, gasped. Petunia was lying on the ground, a walnut-sized bump on her head. She stood up sobbing, and pointed at me." It's she, Mum," she blabbed. "She did it."
I was shocked and annoyed." I was here, Maman, all the time. She's sitting on the other end. How could I've pushed her?"
"SHE DID IT!" Petunia screamed, looking more horsy than ever." I always said she's a freak! She did something and I fell!"
"Now, dear-" Father reasoned.
But I had lost it too." Yes, maybe you are right. Know what, sister? You'd deserved it too."
"YOU'RE FREAK! YOU'RE A FREAK!" Petunia barked, evidently taking a mean pleasure in taunting me.
"Lily, honey, let's not get-" Maman looked thoroughly harassed. Both she and father did.
"I'm leaving," I made my exit through the garden gate. Once out I broke into tears as well. When the worst of it was over, I returned and there were no further squabbles over the freak at the Evans' Place over breakfast.
School was dreary as usual, if not more unbearable. Thanks to Petunia, almost everyone knew that her freakish younger sister had thrown a tantrum over winged horses last night. Many boys of my class jeered at me as I passed the corridor pelting comments, like, "Where's the unicorn, babe?" or, "Hey, I saw them' flying horses too and they told me to inform you that you're a FREAK !"
I passed through the whole ordeal bravely enough, (especially after recess when a sixth-grader boy asked me to prove that I had indeed jinxed my sister- and I punched out his wits) waiting for that last, much-needed bell. When school let out, Petunia and I went our separate ways- her, to a friend's place (mostly the tea-party group) and me, as usual to the woods and the adjoining meadows.
The woods behind our house were the only interesting thing in this drab, sleepy little countryside. They were dark, mysterious and alive within, teeming with the creatures of the wild. There was a brook deeper in the woods, which housed many fantastic creatures. It was there that I went now, taking care not to tread on any delicate flower-bush on the way.
I sat on a leaf-strewn bit of rock, letting my eyes take in the expanse of pure, pristine greenery. This was surely, the best kind of life. My thoughts trailed to something my father had once said, "Green is the most soothing color". It made sense, too. Wasn't green the most beautiful color? I had always preferred it to the shocking brightness of pink or the loud alarming crimson red. The intoxicating, fragrant green of lemon-trees, the pale-green of junipers, the dark, brooding green of the oaks, murky blue-green river water and the emerald green of my own eyes merged with harmony…
My thoughts trailed off yet again and settled over the row at breakfast. What had happened to me? Sure, Petunia was mean- but I had never come unhinged so quickly. Was I overreacting over the horse-matter? Or was it simply that evil word 'freak'? And who had pushed her, anyway? Clearly, someone had. I thought of that strange hotness behind my eyes and shivered. Think, think of something pleasant….
A lily. Just by itself, a single suspended blossom floating on the brook-water. I snapped out of my reverie and ran to the stream. But the lily was gone, floating downstream into the darker parts of the wood.
I sighed, clasping my palm tightly. We hadn't had any lilies in our garden that year. I really loved those flowers, having always felt a kinship with them.
There was a dampness in my palm now and a sticky sensation of having brought down my hand on slush. Frowning, I brought my palm closer to my face and unfurled my fingers. Gasped.
There, lying, upon my palm, as wee and delicate as a string, was a single blooming flower. A lily.
Not simply crushed, or dead. An alive blooming lily sitting on my palm, giving forth two tiny leaves.
I closed my palm and grinned. You win Petunia, I thought. I am a freak indeed.