Good People Good Deeds: Blossom Again [fiction]

I could feel his shoes knocking the ground above all the chatter and the occasional thunder of a truck passing by. Anthony was placing a calming hand on my right shoulder, yet it did nothing to hide the anxious glances he had been throwing my way. The man at the front was leading us towards his freshly painted car. I squinted my eyes; the words “FLOWER TRIP” were aesthetically painted on the side. As they helped me into the car, my brows lifted at the familiar scent of a particular kind of flower.

I am Heather, a 60-year-old single mother diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. I had been the girl of everyone’s dreams, scoring straight As at school, and blossoming as a Broadway singer for decades. I shone on stage, and received thunderous applause for my hard work until I no longer could. My diagnosis was like a poisonous snake on a smooth road – tiny – but deadly.

My son, Anthony, and I stumbled down the hospital hallway one summer morning with the doctor’s voice trailing us, “I’m really sorry to say this, but you only have six months left to live.” We made for the exit in a rush, trying to run away from this suffocating piece of news, yet came to a halt as a man holding a stack of flyers approached us. Devastated as I was, I was about to refuse his flyer, yet something about the blooming primrose and the words “last wish” imprinted on it drew my hand forward.

The middle-aged man – William – introduced to us his Flower Trip project, in which terminally ill patients could plan for themselves one last trip to wherever they desired with all expenses paid. I managed to keep a polite smile on my face as he went on with his presentation in earnest. Yet, it turned into an awkward smile as his last question struck my ears.

“And that’s it. Mind if I ask, is there anyone you know who might be interested in this trip?”

I could feel Anthony’s gaze falling on my face. I paused for a second, and replied without meeting anyone’s eyes, “Um… not really. Thank you.”

“Alright, give us a call if there’s anything we can help with.”

I responded with a slight nod.

I was left alone staring down at the flyer as Anthony left for work the next morning, the doctor’s agonized sigh and excruciating words still echoing in my head. My mind wandered through the short course of my life, and to the fact that it was nearing the end. I stood up, slightly shook my head, and dialed the number printed on the flyer. A shaky voice slipped out of my lips, “Hello? Yes, I would like to apply for the trip.”

I leaned against the window, slowly losing sight of the greenery as we headed to the big city under the cover of darkness. The familiar scent still lingered. It was mysterious, yet strangely pleasant, and did more than enough to calm my pounding heartbeat. I turned to William, who was sitting by my side and holding onto the steering wheel.

“What’s that scent?”

“What scent?”

“The scent of flowers, it’s all over the car.”

“Oh,” he gave a knowing smile. “You’ll see soon enough.”

There was a slight pause – a beat and a half – before I sank in the plush seat and he turned on the radio. I was caught off guard by the musical theatre songs that I had once performed finding their way into my ears. I could not help but sing along to them. My mind drifted back to the bitter sweet memories as music filled the air.

The car came to a stop as we reached our first stop, the Broadway theater in New York with its distinct neon sign. My heart slammed against my chest as the building loomed over me. I was here, once again, but no longer as a performer.

When William and I were still deciding on where to go for my trip, I was torn apart between whether to relive the pinnacle of my career as a Broadway singer, longing for the thrill but terrified of another reminder of a summit that could never be reached again. William listened, and said, “You’re a singer who blossoms on stage, and what is a singer who refuses to seek that stage again?”

So here I was, holding the ticket for the Aladdin show, smiling but still slightly anxious about where I was heading.

The crowd was restless – like it used to be – until the lights went off, and the curtains parted.

A man in blue was surrounded by numerous dancers dressed in richly colored fabrics. He kicked off the musical with a welcoming speech, and was greeted with deafening cheers as the song “Arabian Nights” began.

I savored every moment of the performance: the stylized twirling of the dancers, the Genie’s impeccable high notes, and most of all the roars of the audience. Song after song, I kept seeing myself on that stage, pulling off each performance like I had before. Yet there was something different about the performers bounding about on that stage. They were full of life and radiated youth. All the time, I had been drowning in the sorrow and anguish of how my dream had been taken away from me, but I never – for a second – realized that maybe it was time for things to change.

I had once embraced and blossomed on that stage. And now, I finally embraced the fact that I was leaving it for others to blossom. I smiled despite myself.

As the curtains were closing, I found myself cheering like the rest of the crowd, yelling my lungs out, freeing all my deepest grievances.

"And now, I finally embraced the fact that I was leaving it for others to blossom."

We got back into the car. William started the engine as Anthony asked, “Where are we going next?” He replied with a mischievous smirk, “A surprise.”

We crossed the busy roads of the vibrant city, to the highways, and back to the greenery. The radio was still on, now playing “Friend Like Me” from Aladdin. I leaned against the window, savoring the gleaming stars always keeping us company, the mountains and that – still – familiar scent while humming to the song.

An hour passed. The same starry night and green stretched on and on until, finally, the car slowed down, and William exclaimed with such excitement, “We’re here!”

I stepped out of the car, and was instantly overwhelmed by the stunning view that greeted me: a vast field of hundreds of different kinds of flowers all blossoming and swaying in the cool summer breeze – roses, daisies, orchids. The heavy scent of all of them mixed together stood in stark contrast to the light scent lingering in the car. Still, both put my mind at ease.

William followed me out of the car, failing to hide the smile that found its way onto his face. I stood in awe of this magical place and was unable to move my gaze until I felt a pat on my back.

I turned around. William stood there holding out two flowers, with a grinning Anthony behind him. I took the purple one, drew in its scent, and sighed with satisfaction.

Yes. Heather. The same familiar scent in the car I spent riding the whole afternoon. The flower I was named after. The one that my parents would always put in their living room whenever I visited. Me.

I gave a slight chuckle, raised my chin. And there, behind the two men, stood hundreds of heathers, all smiling back at me.

Anthony took my free hand, and the three of us strode towards the purple and pink field.

I bent down, wanting so badly to close the distance between me and the heathers, but taking care not to spoil them. For a brief second, I was mesmerized by the magical world I was standing in. No more pain, no more agony. Just me, the summer breeze, my guardian stars and the heathers.

I looked up at William, and noticed the yellow flower that was still in his hand. He handed it out with a twinkle in the eye, and I took it. Yellow, light, pale. It was a primrose.

I threw him a quizzical look, and he motioned for us to follow as he strode towards the opposite direction.

We came upon a field full of primroses, another alluring picture captivating my heart. William spoke up, “I always take my guests to this field at the end of each trip. It’s where I hope they will find peace.” He paused for a brief second, “And sometimes, with the right name, they find a surprise here.” He pointed at the heather I was clutching, and I cracked a smile.

My gaze fell on a photo of an old lady resting amid the primroses.

“Who’s that?”

“Oh, that’s my mother.”

The old lady gazed – with large blue eyes – into the camera with a sweet smile that only old ladies have as she put her hands up in the air in a “hurray” posture.

“She looks really sweet.”

“Yeah, she was. And she’s the reason why I started this beautiful field and the Flower Trip.”

I looked him in the eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“She grew up farming in California. Her family had a whole field of flowers by their house, and she would spend all summer playing there as a little child. I still have pictures of her holding a bunch of primroses standing in that field – she was so happy. Then she met my dad, and they moved to New York, where I was born. My parents struggled for a living back then – it was tough. She always wanted to visit her farm and field of flowers back in California, but we were so caught up in keeping food on the table that we never really took it into consideration. It still stayed that way when she passed away 20 years ago. Her name was Primrose.”

“So,” William cut the stem of a primrose using a pair of scissors in his pocket, and held it up against the sun. “I decided to fulfill her last wish by planting this field of flowers and organizing trips for others in need.”

"This world needs every last bit of humanity and kindness, you know?"

He stared up at the stars, and they stared back at him. He said, “This world needs every last bit of humanity and kindness, you know?”

I examined the primrose and heather in my hands. They were silent, like a person who had just passed away; they were peaceful, like a person who had accepted his fate; and they were blossoming, as though death was simply the beginning of a new life.

William and I met each other’s gazes. He paused for a second, and said, “I’m glad it’s not too late for you.”

No, it was not. The flowers in my hands were blossoming. And so was I.

I smiled despite myself.

(Pictures from Pinterest.)