Sweet May Flowers

May Flowers

The familiar chime of the bell rings throughout the shop as Mrs. Parker spares me one last wave before she disappears from my view.

My government name is May Wilkins, but I prefer May Flowers. Everyone calls me May Flowers, especially my gran. See, for a little context, I’ve been working at my gran’s flower shop ever since I was a little girl. The first few years were obligatory training for the future; I was basically an underage intern working legally under the guise of helping an elder.

The end goal of all this is that Gran will eventually hand it down to me when she’s “done leading the shop.” I know what she meant by “done leading the shop.” I’m not naive; I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. She plans on giving it to me when she either becomes immobile or dies.

She’s been concerned that I’m not ready for the thought of taking over, but I’ve assured her that I am. But that would also mean losing my gran, my only family left, and I can’t even begin to fathom how terrible that would be.

Every time I think about tending flowers and helping people for a living, my heart swells. When I think about Gran’s fate in all of it, I feel like two hands are squeezing the juices out of my lungs.

But to bring a happier mood to my already lousy attitude, the person who just walked out of the store was Mrs. Parker. She’s been a regular customer since Gran was a young adult. They’re about the same age, but I’ve never asked Mrs. Parker her true age; it's considered impolite to ask a lady her real age.

Mrs. Parker’s family is so big that she’s practically forced to come here every day. Whether it’s for a wedding, a birthday, an anniversary, or a funeral, she’s always coming to get flowers for something.

What I do admire is that she’s never strayed from that strange routine she has. She’ll never come here before going to Madame Luretta’s across the street. She has the best clothing on the east side of town, and we all know Mrs. Parker loves her purple dresses.

I enjoy Mrs. Parker’s company; she’s like a great aunt to me, but she does tend to drone on. I have more customers after her as well, and she likes to hold up the line. I remember a few years back when she and Gran would talk for hours, never caring if another customer was waiting.

She’d just multitasked, but she doesn’t anymore; she rarely comes down to the desk anymore. Most of these days, she spends her time resting, not being able to make it down the stairs without help anymore, at least most of the time. It’s fine, though; I prefer going upstairs anyway. That way, she can get her nutrients, and I can make sure everything is running smoothly.

If you haven’t noticed, there hasn’t been another customer since Mrs. Parker came in. The number of customers that come into the shop usually depends on the day and season. Summer and winter are usually the best months for business; some days are just slower, such as today.

There are more holidays during these seasons, which causes more flowers to be brought. The Fourth of July isn’t coming for about two weeks, though, so nobody’s rushing to get their parties ready. The last Fourth of July party I delivered for ended up being cancelled because when I arrived at the door, the wife was cheating on her husband with the gardener.

Those rich houses in town are always the ones with the most drama; it’s delightful. Despite that, I absolutely love making leis for luaus. A lot of the beach tanners hold them at Cornerstone, the beach a few miles south of the shop.

My love for making leis and centerpieces for firework parties doesn’t distract me from how unbearable they can be. It’s not just the workload; it’s the cuts from the roses, the heat coming from under the crack of the door, and the constant coughing from upstairs.

Those days make me wish that Gran would just magically get better and come downstairs with that bright smile and skippy walk, but I know it won’t happen. At least I can invite my two best friends in the whole world to help me, Kyle Hartwell and Eza Abiza.

Those girls are my rocks, and I’m not sure I would survive those days without them. They always bring this bright energy into the shop, automatically making anyone in there feel better. They’ve done it ever since I met them in elementary school.

Speaking of elementary school, that’s exactly what the shop looks like, at least the outside. It’s like a failed kiddy project that my gran’s too proud to get rid of. She said my grandfather built it for her a long time ago, but we rarely talk about him anymore. The outside of the store has fading letters on the sign that have been painted over dozens of times.

A few people would laugh and poke fun at me when I still went to school, but Gran was never bothered by what I told her. I’d come home, telling her what the bullies said, but she’d never fret; she loves how it looks. She didn’t want to waste money on making the store pretty and inviting “bad spirits.”

She always told me, “They shouldn’t go in the store because of how it looks on the outside. It’s what the business on the inside looks like.” I stuck to that phrase every time I saw someone walk past the store with distaste, even if it hurt. I just wish she would consider what it’ll be like for me when she’s gone, when no one wants to come by anymore because the store is dingy and the owner is dead.

It’s always been a secret dream of mine to fix the place up, but I never wanted to ruin Gran’s image of the place. The original design was made by my great-grandmother, whom I’ve never met. Then Gran redesigned it with my mother; they used to be pretty close for in-laws, at least that’s what I’ve gathered.

My mother ended up leaving me with my father when she was going down a hellhole. All I know is that the hellhole involved drugs and prison, something I don’t want to talk about. I found out that my father was Gran’s biological father; he just never came to visit, ever.

My father mostly stopped visiting after he married my stepmother, who then proceeded to drop me off here. I’ve always hated her, and she hasn’t bothered to see me either. The first few years I was here, I begged my mother to take me with her.

She had come back in contact with Gran when she got out, and I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be like the other kids who lived with a parent, but she never came back to me, no matter how many times she said she was.

She just dropped off some stupid music box and went to jail again. I haven’t gotten rid of it; I just don’t see the purpose of opening it. It starts to play a classical adventurous song I’ve never found the name of, with a knight spinning around instead of a ballerina.

But who needs that stupid music box? As long as I have Gran, I’ll be fine for the rest of my life. I mean, there are tons of people who manage to live into their hundreds; maybe Gran will be one of the lucky ones. But who am I kidding? Her sickness has probably knocked off about thirty years of her life.

Instead of reminiscing on the life my gran might lose, I should focus on how beautiful the interior is compared to the exterior of the shop. It’s not unusual for me to just stare at what a great job Gran has done; she always changed the shop before she got sick, saying the inside needed to keep people on their toes when all they could see from the outside was what Gran wanted them to.

The last thing Gran added was the seating area off to the far right of the room when she decided to offer food to waiting customers. When you walk through the front door, the counter is only a few large steps away. There’s an old-fashioned cash register, similar to the one that Seymour had in “Little Shop of Horrors.”

Right beside it is a beautiful pot of daisies, Gran’s favorite flowers. All the walls, except for the ones upstairs in our apartment and in the kitchen down here, are yellow with small flowers on them. The floors all around the building are continuously brown, though.

Behind the counter are three doors that customers aren’t allowed to go through. Well, we make exceptions for some, specifically Mrs. Parker, and sometimes I’ll let a little kid go back there for a small snack or flower if they behave.

The glass door on the left side leads to the greenhouse where we keep all the plants. The door is usually open during the day since I’m always going back there to fetch something during the day. The only reason a customer can go back there is if they’re either helping or they want to know what kind of flowers we have that are currently alive, if I can’t tell them myself.

The second and third doors are both brown and similar looking, except one has a sign saying “kitchen.” We use the kitchen for the food we provide to customers, hence I let a few people back there to get snacks.

The other door leads to the apartment that Gran and I live in. The only reason a customer goes up there is to see me or see Gran. It’s rare for people to want to see Gran other than Mrs. Parker, but it still happens from time to time.

As soon as you open the door to our flat, there are stairs you go up. As soon as you reach the top, you’re greeted with the living room. Under the archway behind the living room is where the kitchen and dining room are.

To the left is where Gran’s room is, and mine is to the right. Gran tries to make it smell nice and not like a hospital, but it’s kind of hard with all the stuff she’s got up there. The IV machine, the pills, everything reminds me of a hospital, even when I clean it all up to give it that homely feel.

Back to the ground floor of the store, there is a bench on the right side where people can sit and chat while waiting for their flowers. Plus, they don’t have to wait for a table if all of them are full. Usually, some of the men who play checkers at the community center on the weekends tend to spend their time practicing at the tables or having a nice chat on the bench.

Onto what I’m currently doing, I’ve moved on from waiting for more customers, and I’m on the way with Eza and Kyle to deliver some flowers. After waiting a whole hour, nobody else came to the store, so I informed Gran that I would be going on my errand run, and she decided to come downstairs for once to man the store.

I tried to convince her that she should stay upstairs, but she promised not to overexert herself while I was gone. I still don’t trust her from that blood pressure scare we had a few months ago, but I’m not her mother, so I let her do what she wants.

When I went outside, Kyle and Eza were waiting on their bikes. Eza was scrolling on her phone, not really bothered about rusting her bike like Kyle was. I rolled my eyes at Kyle playfully as she kept applying oil to the wheels so she wouldn’t randomly stop on the way again.

The bland exterior of the shop fits in with our side of the street; we’re the shops with more miscellaneous things, while the fancy clothing shops are on the other side with more pops of color. I don’t really like the colors because they don’t incorporate any white, which has made me the burden of a bunch of jokes at the hands of Eza.

She argues it’s not really a color but a shade, even though she wears black and white every day. Besides, it’s stupid that the shops are segregated like this anyway. Who cares if, compared to Madame Luretta’s shop, I’m just a cheapskate lurking around to help people “be happy”? It’s stupid thinking anyway.

I check up and down the sidewalk for incoming traffic. It’s rare for cars to come down the street since a lot of people walk on it. Since the street is primarily used by people, we tend to use the sidewalk to bike on. The last time we used the street, Eza almost had to pay the funeral costs for some random three-year-old that wandered too far from their parents’ store.

I look back at the girls, glancing down at Eza’s training wheels, which she still seems not to be bothered by. Kyle and I agreed that it was pretty embarrassing having them on, but that’s just for us; Eza never cared about our opinion when it came to her stuff before.

You should see her room, faces poking out of her walls with creepy mouths and wide eyes, and a few nooses hanging from the ceiling. I think it’s her artistic way of expressing herself. Don’t be fooled; I started thinking that after we were fifteen and she almost arsonated the psychiatrist’s office. Never messed with her again.

I fan myself from the hot summer rays as they beam down on us. I’m glad I’m wearing one of my summer dresses today; I was told dark colors attract the light, and I don’t want to be hotter than necessary. Besides, I like my white clothes. That’s why I usually wear all white in the summer and black in the winter.

I’m wearing my giant white church lady hat, my white dress, and my white heels. Yes, I can bike in heels. Gran says it’s a wonderful thing to show off, like how the pictures show the women in the 50s. I take my bike, decorated in flowers, and pull it over to where the girls are waiting for me so we can get started. Eza already has the deliveries sitting at the back wheel of her bike.

We usually meet right outside the fortune teller’s place, who just so happens to be Eza’s third cousin removed. Everyone thinks she’s a member of the occult, but she’s far from that; she’s just bored and selling fake visions to people with too many thoughts in their heads.

“First stop is Granna Yonder,” Eza announces as she places the deliveries in each of our baskets. I roll my eyes at her dramatically as I perch onto my bike. “Why must you call Kyle’s grandmother that?” I ask her as she shrugs.

Truthfully, Kza calls her that because Kyle’s Gran likes to say “yonder” a lot, so Eza started to call her Granna Yonder. Kyle thinks this is hilarious, but I think it’s plain stupid that any of them think it’s amusing. Maybe I’m just too stuck up. The bike over to Granna Yonder’s house didn’t take long because she lives on the East as well.

Eza was faster than all of us as she excitedly banged on the front door a few times like a giddy child. Kyle and I came up behind her, managing to hear her yell something about getting up. It only took a few seconds before the door was yanked open to reveal the scowling old woman.

The scowl didn’t last long, though, as she saw us and immediately smiled. We get off our bikes, dropping them onto each other as we run over to the porch with her delivery and a great big hug. “Hey, Granna Yonder!” Eza exclaims as she gets her hug in.

I audibly sigh at this girl’s audacity, but Granna Yonder doesn’t seem to be bothered by this. “We can’t talk for long today, so here you go!” Eza announces as she hands Granna Yonder some cake she must’ve ordered earlier today.

I never give my customers day-old food; that’s gross. “Alright then, you girls get on your way,” Granna Yonder said, waving us goodbye before closing the door as we headed back over to our bikes. “What’s next?” I ask as Kyle moves the flowers in her basket to reveal a few newspapers. I’m surprised we still make those when everything is accessible on the phone already.

Kyle has to deliver the Washington Post to the elders who live three streets away from our other friend, Margaret Tates. It’s a rich neighborhood, so we have to hurry; they tend to get impatient when the poor are late. Obviously, Eza was the first to arrive, even though we all biked faster than we usually did; I almost crashed into a fire hydrant.

By the time Kyle pulled up behind me, Mr. Hickons was already opening the door. She quickly took out the newspaper, running towards him and handing it to him with a great big smile as her chest heaved up and down from the physical exertion of it all.

I’m surprised how happy and compliant she acts, even when Mr. Hickons proceeds to snatch the paper out of her hand. I’ve never figured out why she’s so happy, even though she has her secrets when it comes to her personal life. Kyle slowly turns back to us, still smiling as she comes back over to her bike that’s already rusting back up again.

“Next stop is Concrete!” I announce as I hold up the delivery: bags of paper towels. Well, the paper towels have weeds that I might’ve grown in them. It’s not illegal here, I promise. Besides, it stops them from shooting up our block when they have a gang fight.

Who am I to judge? I can already feel my stomach getting queasy just from thinking about heading downtown, but I know there’s nothing I can do about it. Eza and Kyle already look severely uncomfortable; neither of them has completely recovered from the one shooting we had to bike through once.

I almost got shot in the arm if it wasn’t for my friend, Cash. We hop on our bikes, biking downtown slowly. I personally prefer to stay in the middle-class part of town, but when the job calls, I can’t deny anybody their order.

It’s a pretty slow day down here in Concrete; nobody has tried mugging either of us, and there’s only been a few hookers looking for business that I’ve seen. I spot Cash and the crew sitting on a beaten car; they most likely stole from some random guy.

Cash is wearing a black bandana over his short black hair and smiling that toothy grin he always sports when he sees a lady with pronounced titties. I’m guessing it’s Eza and I in this case, no offense to Kyle. He has some dirty overalls with paint splotches and dirt on them while smoking a cigar that looks like it needs to be put out immediately.

Eza and Kyle stop at the end of the corner, not daring to come closer as they survey the surroundings. I leave my bike with them, taking the bags with me and heading over, dumping them in Cash’s hand. “Sup, kid,” he says, taking the bags with a hunger that I’ve only seen this crack addict have.

I watch as he gives a bag to Jason, Arthur, Razor, and Duck. They all look in, sniffing a bit before smiling back at me. Razor gives me a brotherly hug as I give him a sisterly one back. We’ve had the closest relationship compared to the rest of the group, mostly because I occasionally give him cake when he asks, using Gran’s special recipe. I most likely smell like weed now, and I’ll have to wash it off before Gran chokes on the scent.

I skip back over to the girls, mounting my bike again as the girls excitedly bolt out of there, and I have to push forward to keep up. It doesn’t take long for us to get back on our side of town, and the sun is just beginning to set.

We all roll up to the fortune teller as Eza puts her bike beside her aunt’s shop and heads to the door. ”Anymore today?” Eza asks, opening the door and about to step in. “Nope. Slow day,” Kyle tells her as she nods.

“Welp, gotta go in and help my aunt with some secret voodoo thing she’s got going on for next week. I’ll see both of you later, alright?” she says as we all nod and exchange hugs. I give Eza one last smile before Kyle rides up to the shop with me.

“I have to get back home,” Kyle says as I slow in front of the shop, placing my own bike in the bike rack that we had built a few years ago. “Alright,” I hug her goodbye before she bikes off to Ashwood. I look after her longingly, wishing we were back in high school, if only for a moment, so we could see each other every day like we used to.

I turn back to the alleyway near the shop as I see Mr. Severnelli sitting there and eating a sandwich he probably found in someone’s trash can. I want to spend more time with him today, but I can’t; I need to get back to make sure Gran is okay.

She’s been leading the store on her own for a few hours, and I don’t know if she’s still working. He spares me a short wave as I give him a curt smile before heading towards the door. I spot the sign flipped closed on the door, and I let out a heavy sigh as the tension leaves my shoulders.

I expected her to at least be at the desk waiting for me to get in safely, but instead, she’s not at the desk. My brows furrow as I look around, letting out a deep breath as I turn and lock up the store before heading to the back and upstairs.

As soon as I reached the top, I immediately saw Gran sitting on the couch watching some weird Russian soap opera. She doesn’t turn to look at me as she watches, a frequent thing with her when she’s immersed in a show she enjoys.

I give her a fleeting smile before turning and heading back downstairs to do an inventory check for tomorrow. My footsteps feel heavy, like an invisible burden is settling on my shoulders, but I don’t know what for.

My body feels like dead weight as I sit on the stool and pull out the checklist from a drawer under the counter. I place it in front of me, the words blurring in front of me as I feel my brain shutting off.

Maybe all this stress surrounding Gran has finally gotten to me. I’m pulled from my thoughts, though, as I hear a knock on the glass door. I look up to see Nora standing there with a small smile on her face.

I quickly go over to the door, using the key still in the lock as I open the door, allowing her in. She is my friend, so she gets special permission to enter if she so wishes. Nora has always been beautiful for as long as I’ve known her.

She has long, dark hair that reaches her hips, a long, purple, flowy dress that touches the floor, a bunch of wrist jewelry, and some adornments in her hair. Her purple lipstick looks nice against her dark skin, and she has little earrings that frame that smile on her face beautifully.

I take both of her hands in mine as I look up at her tall figure. “How are you, Nora?” I ask as she sighs and shrugs wistfully. Just her being here has taken some of the load off of me, like a confidante has just come to take away all the problems in my life. “I couldn’t be better,” she tells me.

I chuckle at her, knowing that’s a lie, but I’ll let her off the hook. She can always be better, especially when her father is abusive towards her, but she doesn’t talk about him much, if at all. “I noticed you were closed, but I just couldn’t wait.

My sister Ellory is getting engaged. She doesn’t know yet since he hasn’t popped the question, but Darryl asked for help, so do you have bee orchids? They’re native to Morocco, our home country.”

Bee orchids are a strange flower; they don’t technically originate here, but Gran has almost everything and anything you could imagine. I smile at Nora, heading into the back as I scan the rows and rows of flowers before I spot the bee orchids in the corner. I carefully pick them, getting enough for a beautiful bouquet without it being overwhelming for Ellory.

I take a ribbon from the corner of the counter as Nora watches me tie them together with a silvery purple ribbon. “They’re perfect, dear,” she says, her voice soft as she takes out a few dollars and pays for them.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile as Nora heads out the door, poking the doorknob to motion for me to lock the door back. I walk over and follow her instructions as she waves goodbye to me before disappearing from view. I sigh, putting my back against the door as I slide down.

The uncomfortable burden is creeping back through me, and it’s even worse now that I know Nora’s faking even more. I don’t know who this Darryl guy is, but he’s never been mentioned before. Nora’s father has been abusing her and her sister for some time now.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he set this stupid thing up. She pretends it’s fine, but we all know it isn’t. She refuses help from the few sisters she has who managed to get away. She’s only staying for her younger siblings.

She can’t take the risk of having them hurt because her father’s personal punching bag is gone. I wish she would snap out of it and just let one of us help her; I just want my friend to be okay.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes before I take off my hat and carry it with me back upstairs to the apartment. Gran is still entranced with the TV and doesn’t notice me as I walk in front of it to get to the kitchen. I open the fridge, bending down to see what we have, but all that’s in there are some stupid grapes and a few cans of iced tea.

I sigh, not wanting to go to the store tomorrow but knowing I’ll need to before we’re both starving up here. I close the fridge with a resounding thud as I drag my feet over to the couch and plop down beside Gran, who still hasn’t looked away from the TV. I look at the TV with her, wondering why she enjoys this.

To my knowledge, she doesn’t know Russian, and this show looks trifling, but I suppose if she enjoys it, it’s not my business to judge. I look at her wrinkled face with a sigh before putting my head on her shoulder. A tear slips from my eye as I feel how brittle it is compared to when I was younger. Hopefully, the old gran will be back tomorrow, but I say that every day.