that she’d drunk at Christmas back home. Shyly, Elise takes a closer look at the other women around her. They remind her of a ruddier version of the women her mother plays bridge with. Last week, her father told her over the phone that, despite Elise’s request in a recent letter, he and Ada wouldn’t be coming to Germany for the baby’s birth; it would be a waste of money. Chris had fumed at the news when Elise told him; it hadn’t occurred to Elise to argue with her father, just as she’d stayed tongue-tied when he’d told her she had to stay in Mississippi for college. She wishes she hadn’t asked, hadn’t scrawled the letter in a moment of weakness when Chris was on a business trip, hadn’t given her father the power to say no. It is her punishment, she knows, for the five years that she stayed away from Vidalia, for living abroad now. Elise closes her eyes.
Suddenly, the table erupts in raucous laughter, except for the grandmother, who is shaking her head, looking mildly offended. One of the men is wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Elise feels herself entering invisibility. Usually, it is an exclusion she deeply resents; if she were at a dinner party with Chris right now, she would be tugging on his sleeve, demanding a translation, faking laughter once he’d told the joke in English, but right now she feels her ignorance is a privilege, an excuse to opt out of the present company. The sip of mulled wine has warmed and calmed her, not unlike a bath. She eases herself off the bench. The grandmother gives her hand a squeeze; the boy gives her a questioning look but does not protest. The others take no notice as she wanders away from the picnic table, deeper into the garden.
Elise meanders along the tall hedge of evergreen that separates the garden from adjacent properties. At the far right corner is a small gap in the branches, a gate leading into the next garden. Elise tests the latch. Unlocked. She glances back at the table. The grandmother and the boy are playing a handclap game. The others, from their increasingly impassioned gesticulations, seem to have entered some kind of argument. No one is watching her. She pushes down the latch and walks boldly through, as though the property were her own.
* * *
On the other side of the gate, Elise encounters not another garden, but a large greenhouse. Emboldened by the afternoon’s growing shadows and their gift of anonymity, Elise heads towards the tall glass structure. She tries the door handle and finds it is also unlocked. After a moment’s hesitation, she enters.
Inside, it is spring. Colors crowd Elise’s winter-starved vision: lemon-hued forsythia, tulips the color of Dreamsicles. The air is humid; Elise can almost hear an exhaling. Or is it her own long sigh? She steps slowly down the aisles, bending her head over the blooms, pausing to fill her lungs with scent. At the end of the hall is another door that Elise continues through, this time without a second thought.
The next room is a good ten degrees warmer, and Elise shrugs off her coat, lays it on an empty plastic chair. The plants here, arranged on shelves in neat rows, are suited for warmer climes. She spots her father’s favorites: gardenia, jasmine, lilies. All the flowers he tends with such care, the one luxury he allows himself: rare bulbs, heirloom seeds ordered from distant states. Usually the thought would make Elise scowl, roll her eyes at the irony of it: a father better suited for plants than children. But right now, in this warm, perfumed air, she feels a swelling gratitude to him, for working so hard on beauty. His garden (for it was always referred to as his, never the family’s) often won first prize in the annual Tri-County Gardening Society contest. And he would bring cut flowers for Mama in the spring, Elise thinks, surprised by such an easy, happy memory of tulips on the kitchen table.
“ Ist da jemand? ”
Elise jumps at the voice, which comes from the other side
Suddenly, the table erupts in raucous laughter, except for the grandmother, who is shaking her head, looking mildly offended. One of the men is wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Elise feels herself entering invisibility. Usually, it is an exclusion she deeply resents; if she were at a dinner party with Chris right now, she would be tugging on his sleeve, demanding a translation, faking laughter once he’d told the joke in English, but right now she feels her ignorance is a privilege, an excuse to opt out of the present company. The sip of mulled wine has warmed and calmed her, not unlike a bath. She eases herself off the bench. The grandmother gives her hand a squeeze; the boy gives her a questioning look but does not protest. The others take no notice as she wanders away from the picnic table, deeper into the garden.
Elise meanders along the tall hedge of evergreen that separates the garden from adjacent properties. At the far right corner is a small gap in the branches, a gate leading into the next garden. Elise tests the latch. Unlocked. She glances back at the table. The grandmother and the boy are playing a handclap game. The others, from their increasingly impassioned gesticulations, seem to have entered some kind of argument. No one is watching her. She pushes down the latch and walks boldly through, as though the property were her own.
* * *
On the other side of the gate, Elise encounters not another garden, but a large greenhouse. Emboldened by the afternoon’s growing shadows and their gift of anonymity, Elise heads towards the tall glass structure. She tries the door handle and finds it is also unlocked. After a moment’s hesitation, she enters.
Inside, it is spring. Colors crowd Elise’s winter-starved vision: lemon-hued forsythia, tulips the color of Dreamsicles. The air is humid; Elise can almost hear an exhaling. Or is it her own long sigh? She steps slowly down the aisles, bending her head over the blooms, pausing to fill her lungs with scent. At the end of the hall is another door that Elise continues through, this time without a second thought.
The next room is a good ten degrees warmer, and Elise shrugs off her coat, lays it on an empty plastic chair. The plants here, arranged on shelves in neat rows, are suited for warmer climes. She spots her father’s favorites: gardenia, jasmine, lilies. All the flowers he tends with such care, the one luxury he allows himself: rare bulbs, heirloom seeds ordered from distant states. Usually the thought would make Elise scowl, roll her eyes at the irony of it: a father better suited for plants than children. But right now, in this warm, perfumed air, she feels a swelling gratitude to him, for working so hard on beauty. His garden (for it was always referred to as his, never the family’s) often won first prize in the annual Tri-County Gardening Society contest. And he would bring cut flowers for Mama in the spring, Elise thinks, surprised by such an easy, happy memory of tulips on the kitchen table.
“ Ist da jemand? ”
Elise jumps at the voice, which comes from the other side
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