BLOSSOM

by Sara Winslow

Adelaide had never wanted the wedding china. “We won’t use it,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Jack’s mom replied, “it’s what you do. It’s one of those things that makes you a married couple.”

Since Adelaide refused to participate, Jack chose the pattern he thought she would dislike the least – white with a bright blue band around the edge. They received all eight place settings from their gift registry, and all eight sat in the cabinet for both years of their marriage, save the one time his parents came for Thanksgiving. 

Now the china was gone. When Jack returned home Sunday after staying with friends for a week, it didn’t surprise him to see Adelaide’s half of the closet empty. Nor that she took the furniture she had brought into the marriage (a desk, a bookshelf, a coffee table, an armchair), and left behind what they had acquired as a couple (the bedroom set, the pull-out couch, the dining room table, the china cabinet). What did surprise him was the emptiness of the china cabinet, visible through its glass doors. 

“She’s going to sell the china,” Jack announced to the blond maple cabinet. “She always has to have her own way.” Shaking his head, he added, “Future lawyer.”

Months had passed since he found the LSAT prep book and confronted her with it. “But you always knew I wanted to go to law school,” she protested. “I told you so the first day we met!”

“You said you wanted us to have a family!”

“I do, more than anything, just not immediately! We’re still young! Why can’t I pursue my career like you pursue yours? Why aren’t my dreams important?”

After that fight, they had makeup sex. They went to counseling. But Adelaide wouldn’t compromise her law school plans. Even though his architect’s salary could easily support them until their children were old enough for daycare. The counselor floated a six-year plan where Adelaide would go to law school, spend some time establishing her career, and then they’d have a baby. Adelaide liked the counselor’s plan. Jack did not. He had wanted to be a father as long as he could remember. It was the most important thing in the world to him, and six years felt impossibly distant. 

Now she was moving back to New York. Jack had stayed at Tom and Lydia’s for a week while Adelaide packed her things. Lydia recommended burning a sage stick to clear out the bad energy in the house. That was the kind of thing Adelaide would do. When he asked her to marry him, she consulted the I Ching before she told him yes. Jack didn’t buy into that woo-woo stuff, but he supposed it was a fitting way to bid good riddance to his life with Adelaide. He went online to find out where he could get a sage stick.

On his way home from work Monday, Jack stopped at Lime Blossom Madeleine’s, which called itself a metaphysical supply shop. As he opened the door, a bell tinkled and the scent of incense assaulted his nostrils. A man emerged, standing no more than five feet tall, with a shock of white hair and a two-toned beard nearly to his waist – black on the right side, white on the left. Jack suppressed a snicker.

“Welcome, welcome! Poke around, take your time!” The man bounced on the balls of his feet.

Surveying the place, Jack saw haphazard piles of herbs, dusty jars, old barrels holding who knows what. He had no intention of poking around, or spending any more time with this strange little man than absolutely necessary. “I’m just here for a sage stick.”

“And what will you be needing that for?”

“Does it matter?”

The man tented his fingers, tilted his head to one side. “We have thirteen varieties of sage, we do. Different intentions, different varieties, you see?” 

Jack wondered how much longer this would take. “I want to cleanse my house.” The man continued to look at him with tented fingers and tilted head. “My wife moved out,” Jack added. The man kept staring. “We’re getting divorced,” Jack tried, regretting that he hadn’t simply ordered the sage stick on Amazon. 

The man tapped his index finger on the side of his nose, pointed at Jack, and bounded to the back room. As Jack pondered running for the door, the man reappeared behind the old-fashioned cash register, laying a sage stick and a lime green feather duster on the counter.

“I don’t need that,” Jack said, pointing to the duster.

“My, my! On the contrary, you do!”

“I don’t use feathers, I’m vegan,” Jack lied, pushing the duster away. Adelaide was the vegan and was forever reminding him of the different products that used animal parts.

The man slid the duster toward Jack. “Blossom molts her feathers naturally,” he said, pointing his chin upward. He broke into a wide grin at the sight of a large bird perching on a rafter. “I would not take Blossom’s feathers by force! No siree, that would never do!” 

Jack glanced up at the bright green bird. “Let me guess, that’s Lime Blossom Madeleine?” 

 “Correct, my good sir! I call her Blossom for short. And sometimes Maddy. Never Limey.” The man threw back his head and laughed. “Here you are, take the duster, free of charge, it comes with the sage. Be sure to dust up and down, all around, before you burn the sage. A house holds untold memories. Use the duster, draw them out.”

At home that evening, Jack removed the sage stick and duster from their green paper bag. He set them down on the kitchen island, planning to get last night’s pizza out for dinner. Before he reached the refrigerator, though, he found himself sitting at the island, eating cereal. 

“What the fuck?” Jack hadn’t taken the cereal out. He didn’t eat cereal, that was Adelaide’s thing, granola with almond milk. And it wasn’t even morning. He eyed the bowl. It rested on the island, the place where he and Adelaide ate their meals, sitting on the metal stools with the curved backs, reserving the dining room for guests and special occasions. His eyes moved to the spoon.

The hand holding the spoon was Adelaide’s, not his. Sunlight poured into the kitchen. A steaming mug of tea sat next to the bowl. The bright blue mug with the large red “A” on the side.

Jack stood up, let go of the spoon. What fell on the kitchen island was not a spoon but a lime green feather duster. And now there was no cereal bowl, no mug. Just the duster and the sage stick. Sun no longer streamed through the window. The only illumination came from the moondrop light above the island. He stared at his hands. They were his own again and they were shaking. He opened a beer to calm his nerves, slid two pieces of pizza onto a dish. He ate on the couch in the living room, balancing the food on his lap for lack of a coffee table.

Before bed, Jack returned to the kitchen to dispose of his plate and beer bottle. Sidestepping the island, he made his way to the sink. He groaned at the pile of dishes that had multiplied since his return the day before. Opening the dishwasher, he found it empty — except for a bowl, a spoon, and Adelaide’s blue mug with the large red A. 

Tuesday morning, Jack avoided the feather duster and sage stick, not wanting a repeat of his hallucination. He poured coffee into his red mug with the large blue J and drank standing against the counter. His mind dredged up all the mornings when they used their mugs together, back before they dismantled their future. It felt like two or three lifetimes ago. He finished his coffee, put the J mug in the dishwasher next to the A. 

Tuesday evening, he talked himself into braving the items from Lime Blossom Madeleine’s. He couldn’t leave them on the kitchen island forever; he needed to cleanse the house and get it over with. Nothing happened when he picked them up, no hallucinations. Mindful of the man’s instructions to dust “up and down, all around” before burning the sage, Jack placed the stick back on the island and carried the duster upstairs. 

When they first toured the house, Jack and Adelaide were captivated with the bedroom. Together with the bathroom and walk-in closet, it spanned the entire second floor. Jack recalled the last time they slept there together. They had great sex, the fan whirring from the vaulted ceiling above. Lying naked side by side after, it felt like their first days together. His whole body remembered the giddiness of getting to know her, of learning that she felt the same about him. She turned and asked, “Do you think we can make it work?” When he replied, “I hope so,” she kissed his shoulder and laid her head on his chest. He stroked her hair and added, “I feel like the first step is to focus on our family.” She rolled away from him, quietly began to cry. When he tried to comfort her, she swatted his hand away. The following morning, they sat on the couch and argued. She left for a month while they decided what came next. What came next turned out to be divorce. 

His fingertips touched the softness of the bright green feathers. Jack wondered if maybe he had been insensitive that last night with Adelaide, if perhaps he should have given a little more consideration to the six-year plan. Adelaide would only have been in her early 30s when they had their first child under the counselor’s proposal. 

Carrying the duster, he approached the dresser, a mammoth thing made of maple wood. When they chose their bedroom set, they were both attracted to the blond tone; it complemented the house’s hardwood floors. They sought it out in the rest of their furniture as they shopped flea markets and vintage stores. He skimmed the feathers along the smoothness of the dresser, holding his breath.

In his hand, not the feather duster but a pile of sweaters. And they were not his hands but Adelaide’s, placing the sweaters in a box. It was Adelaide’s arms moving the full box toward the bed.

Jack raised his hands above his head, palms forward in surrender. The feather duster dropped to the floor. There was no box, no sweaters. His hands were his again, and he utilized them to open the drawers on Adelaide’s side of the dresser. Empty. Unsteady, Jack sat himself down on the bed. He thought back to what the man in the shop had instructed: “A house holds untold memories. Use the duster, draw them out.” Could the feather duster somehow be showing him times that Adelaide touched the same piece of furniture? Slowly standing, he gathered the duster and gingerly placed the feathers on the headboard.

He lay on Adelaide’s side of the bed, waking up. He was wearing her favorite t-shirt, the blue one with the sun and the moon. It was Adelaide’s body, not his. Adelaide’s legs swung out, Adelaide’s feet found the floor. Adelaide’s hands began to smooth the sheets.

Jack again raised his hands. The duster fell, and he stood at the headboard in his own body, his own clothes. The bed was made, just as he had left it. After Adelaide moved out, he made the bed each morning, the same way she used to. Jack considered what he had just witnessed. Adelaide waking up alone, wearing a t-shirt. It couldn’t have been her last time in bed with him, the last time they made love. Maybe it was when she stayed in the house without him this past week. He turned over in his mind the visions he had experienced – Adelaide eating cereal at the kitchen island, packing sweaters from the dresser, waking up in the bed. Could dusting a piece of furniture reveal what Adelaide did the last time she came in contact with it? 

Breathing became difficult. He had a magic feather duster in his possession, for fuck’s sake! What else might it show him, and did he actually want to find out? Jack carefully retrieved the duster, not letting it touch anything. He threw it into the closet, closing the door.

When he woke Wednesday morning, Jack thought maybe it had all been a dream. He peeked into the closet, half-expecting it not to contain a bright green feather duster. Yet there it lay, gleaming against the hardwood floor. He wanted to slam the closet door shut. Instead, he picked up the duster, took it to the bathroom. Dusting the medicine cabinet would test his theory. He would find out whose reflection appeared in the mirror. 

Adelaide’s face looked back at him, Adelaide’s hand brushed Adelaide’s teeth. It was her dark eyes, her dark hair, her dark skin – the counterpart to his own blue eyes, light hair, pale skin that the mirror normally reflected.

Jack immediately made the surrender gesture. The duster flew sideways, landed on the toilet tank. His heart pounded. He had no idea how it was happening, and didn’t want to believe it, but he really did seem to be viewing Adelaide’s last moments in the house! Seeing her face in the mirror made his mind ache. The face he had loved to look at. The face he had hoped to see, mixed with his, on their children. 

No time to think this through at the moment; he had to get to the office. He tried to force his breath back to its natural rhythm. He’d return the duster to the closet for now, and tonight he’d figure out what to do next. He reached for it.

He sat on the toilet, Adelaide’s panties around Adelaide’s ankles.    

Jack did not care to witness this. He started to raise his hands, then noticed that Adelaide’s left hand held something and she was peeing on it. 

Adelaide’s hand pulled the item out from under her. A white plastic stick. Adelaide’s other hand unrolled toilet paper and wiped herself. Adelaide’s body, wearing her blue t-shirt, stood up and set the white stick on the toilet tank. Adelaide’s eyes reviewed the instructions. A pregnancy test. For three minutes, he paced around the bathroom on Adelaide’s legs, waiting for the result. A minus sign. 

Jack’s palms shot up. The feather duster tumbled to the floor. His heart banged on his ribcage. His lungs gulped for oxygen. Adelaide had thought she might be pregnant? What the hell? She used birth control, that had been their whole issue. 

After messaging his boss that he’d be working from home, Jack set about dusting the rest of the house. At Adelaide’s nightstand, he saw her packing up the crystals that she kept in the drawer. At his nightstand, she simply turned off the light. He moved downstairs, to the guest room, where he saw Adelaide tidying up. 

Next door to the guest room, the office seemed empty, missing Adelaide’s mid-century modern desk and bookshelf. All that was left was his drafting table, the one they found at a flea market and restored. Its gray metal frame and pale green laminate top inspired his work, even as he ordinarily laid it flat and used it as an oversized laptop stand. Jack swept the duster across the laminate.

He saw himself sitting, but felt himself standing on Adelaide’s legs. Adelaide’s hands set a beer and a sandwich on the table. For a moment, Adelaide’s fingers rested on his shoulders, Adelaide’s lips lightly kissed the top of his head. Adelaide’s voice whispered, “You’ll make a great dad.”

Jack allowed the duster to drop to the floor. Before this, he hadn’t been in one of the visions. This time, he saw himself. From Adelaide’s body, through her eyes. He recalled the countless nights when he worked on a project and she made sure he ate. The last time wasn’t that long ago, within the final few weeks they lived together. Amid the turbulence of their breakup, he had almost forgotten how kind she could be. And her comment about how he would make a great dad – he remembered being puzzled by that because she wasn’t agreeing to make him a dad. His thoughts returned to the pregnancy test. Was it possible she had been trying to get pregnant and kept it from him? He thought back to their pre-wedding discussions about kids. Adelaide would get tears in her eyes when she talked about it, she wanted children so badly. Maybe she had mentioned law school and timing, but he hadn’t focused on that. He had focused on the baby part. On the fact that, like him, she wanted a family.

Questions swirling in his head, Jack moved on to the living room, to the tree stump they used as a side table. It looked lonely without Adelaide’s flowered armchair. He had owned this shellacked chunk of wood since childhood, a remnant of the eucalyptus tree that grew in his family’s backyard. Before his parents chopped it down to make way for a fence, Jack used to sit under the tree when he wanted to be alone. The scent of eucalyptus leaves always transported him back to his boyhood hideaway. Using the feather duster now, he saw Adelaide in the armchair with a book in her lap, setting her blue and red mug on the eucalyptus wood. He suspected Adelaide didn’t like the stump, so different from the blond maple. She knew its history, though, and never asked him to get rid of it.

He stretched up above the TV screen to graze the duster along the shelving that served as their entertainment center.

With Adelaide’s hands, he held the picture of them dancing at their wedding, pressed it to Adelaide’s lips.

Jack lifted his own hands in surrender. He examined the array of framed images that captured their wedding day and other joyful days in the three years before and two after. Mountain biking at Whistler. In front of the Taj Mahal on their honeymoon. At Tom and Lydia’s wedding. The surprise thirtieth birthday party Adelaide had thrown for him just last year. When Jack surveyed the house earlier in the week, he thought Adelaide had left all the photos behind, that she hadn’t wanted to keep any memories of them. Now he noticed the absence of one of the wedding pictures, the same one she had kissed in the vision. The need to take a breather overwhelmed him.

Leaving the duster on the floor, Jack sank onto the turquoise-colored couch. He remembered the last time he sat there with Adelaide. The day she left, the morning after the final night they made love. How they argued, how she refused to start a family until she first got through law school and spent a few years working. How she said she couldn’t count on him to help with the baby. So why the pregnancy test? It made no sense. Perhaps the duster could provide answers. He retrieved it from the floor, brushed an arm of the couch.

He sat next to himself in Adelaide’s body. Adelaide’s lips carefully formed words: “If we have a baby, and I wait on law school until our kid’s old enough for daycare, could I count on you to pitch in? To split the childcare 50/50 while I’m in school?” Adelaide’s ears heard: “Of course I’ll help. I always help, don’t I? But 50/50? I’ll be the one working and you’ll be able to study at home, with the baby.” Adelaide’s voice cracked as it responded: “I really just want you to value me.”

Jack’s hands released the feather duster. This had to have been their final morning together; Adelaide must not have sat on the couch again since. But their argument didn’t go this way in real life. He did remember Adelaide saying she wanted him to value her. She had said it more than once over the prior few months. At one point in counseling, she had even said something like, it wasn’t so much about a baby as it was about him valuing her. He distinctly recalled, though, in that last argument on the couch, her refusing to put the baby before law school. She insisted on following the counselor’s six-year plan. 

Jack thought about the length of six years’ time. Six years ago, he didn’t even know Adelaide. They met five years before, on a group bike ride that Tom had convinced him to join. At the end of the ride, he noticed Adelaide dismounting her Trek, taking off her helmet, shaking out her long black hair. He made sure to sit next to her at the post-ride happy hour. They talked through the hour, he asked her out, and they never really stopped talking. Until just recently. Jack was sure that, in their last discussion on the couch, Adelaide had not given him an opening to have the baby sooner if he agreed to take half the childcare. If she had, he would have gladly said yes. The vision must be wrong. 

Moving to the dining room, duster in his shaking hand, Jack wondered about the accuracy of all the visions he had seen. He approached the glass-topped dining room table, with its maple base and chairs. He swept the feathers across the tabletop and saw Adelaide standing at it, sorting through piles of records and books, placing some in boxes on the floor.

 The empty china cabinet was last. If the duster was going to reveal Adelaide’s final contact with the cabinet, he already knew what it would show: her packing up the china. He touched the feathers to the glass door.

From the cabinet, Adelaide’s hands lifted a plate, white and bright blue. Adelaide’s hands threw the plate down, pulled more china out of the cabinet, and smashed it on the hardwood floor, piece by piece. When none remained intact, Adelaide’s body slumped to the floorboards, leaned against the wall. Tears poured through Adelaide’s eyes, sobs escaped from Adelaide’s mouth. 

Jack’s hands surrendered. He felt tears forming in his own eyes, the top of his throat catching. He thought back to when they first fell in love. How had things between them become so impossible? If the visions were real, Adelaide had destroyed their wedding china, and she had been sad about it, not angry. Might it have something to do with the pregnancy test? Perhaps what she did was go off birth control and leave it to chance. Yes, that would be so like Adelaide – see if fate made her pregnant and take the answer as a sign whether to stay or go. If that was true, it seemed she was willing to have a baby on his timeline; she only wanted him to split the childcare 50/50. How had he not understood that?  

Did it all really happen like the visions showed? He needed to know. Leaving the duster behind, Jack headed out the back door. He made his way under the deck, where they kept the bins. In the garbage, he found two bags, heavy with shards of blue and white china. The vision at the cabinet had been right. What about the one in the bathroom? Sifting through the pieces, he cut his hands, but kept going until he found it. A pregnancy test, bearing a minus sign. Adelaide actually had thought she might be pregnant.

She just wanted him to value her after all. Was now too late to start?

He pulled out his phone, pressed her number, held his breath as it rang.

“Jack?”

He exhaled. “Adelaide. I’m so, so sorry.”

Sara Winslow is a repenting (a.k.a. retired) government lawyer turned creative writer. Her work appears in several journals and anthologies. Sara lives in San Francisco. She has visited all 50 states and is working on the seven continents (two to go).