The Violets of March by Sarah Jio

things up. Mom had lost fifteen pounds and Dad had grown a beard. They seemed strange and awkward around each other. Danielle told me that Dad had a girlfriend, but I didn’t believe it, and even if I had, I could never blame Dad for that, or for anything, after the way he had endured my mother’s badgering and yelling all those years. Still, Dad had the patience of Gandhi.
    But it wasn’t their separation that was consuming my mind just then; it was Evelyn’s garden. Bee had taken us there when we were children, and it was all rushing back: a magical world of hydrangeas, roses, and dahlias, and lemon shortbread cookies on Evelyn’s patio. It seemed like only yesterday that my sister and I sat on the little bench under the trellis while Bee hovered over her easel, capturing on her canvas whatever flower was in bloom in the lush beds. “Your garden,” I said. “I remember your garden.”
    “Yes,” Evelyn said, smiling.
    I nodded, a little astonished that this memory, buried so deep in my mind, had risen to the surface just then like a lost file from my subconscious. It was as if the island had unlocked it somehow. Standing there in the produce section, I recalled the daylilies and the shortbread, which tasted like heaven—and then the fog lifted. I was sitting on a weathered gray teak bench on her patio, wearing that old pair of white canvas Keds—except that they weren’t really Keds; they were the generic brand with the fake blue square on the heel. It would have cost exactly eleven dollars more for a pair of real Keds, and boy did I want them. I’d clean the bathroom every Saturday for a month, I promised my mom. I’d vacuum. I’d dust. I’d iron Dad’s shirts. But she just shook her head and returned home with a pair of knockoffs from Payless Shoe Source. Every other girl I knew had a pair of real Keds, with that trademark blue rubber tag. And so there I sat on Evelyn’s patio, fussing with the blue tag that was peeling off the back of my right shoe.
    Bee was giving a very disinterested Danielle a tour of the garden when Evelyn sat down next to me. “What’s troubling you, dear?”
    I shrugged. “Nothing.”
    “It’s OK,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You can tell me.”
    I sighed. “Well, it’s really kind of embarrassing, but you wouldn’t happen to have any superglue, would you?”
    “Superglue?”
    I pointed to my shoe. “Mom won’t buy me Keds, and the tag on the back of my shoe is falling off and I . . .” I burst into tears.
    “There, there now,” Evelyn said, handing me a handkerchief from her pocket. “When I was about your age, a girl I knew came to school wearing a pair of the most beautiful red shoes. They sparkled like rubies. Her dad was quite wealthy, and she told everyone that he’d brought them home for her from Paris. I wanted a pair more than anything in the world.”
    “Did you get some?” I’d asked.
    She shook her head. “No, and you know what? I’d still like a pair. So, you asked for superglue, dear, but wouldn’t you rather have a pair of—what did you call them?”
    “Keds,” I said meekly.
    “Ah, yes, Keds.”
    I nodded.
    “Well then. What are you doing tomorrow?”
    My eyes widened. “Nothing.”
    “Then it’s settled. We’ll take the ferry into Seattle and get you some Keds.”
    “Really?” I stammered.
    “Really.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and pulled the rest of the blue rubber tag off the back of my shoe. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow I’d be wearing the real thing.
    “Evelyn,” Bee said, looking at the shopping cart, “I’m making dinner tonight, why don’t you join us?”
    “Oh, no,” she said, “I couldn’t. You’re just getting settled with Emily.”
    I smiled. “We’d love to have you.”
    “Well, then, OK.”
    “Great,” said Bee. “Come by at six o’clock.”
    “See you then,” she said, turning toward the potatoes.
    “Bee,” I whispered. “You’re not going to believe who I just ran