"Don't look so startled, Margaret," Mrs. Reynolds says. "It doesn't suit your face."
I grab a few bulbs from the next bag, the one marked "Audubon." Behind me Mrs. Reynolds says, "Don't even bother picking them up right away. You need a plan first."
"A plan?"
"Of course. Have you ever planted before?"
"Just some herbs in preschool. But that was in a little planter we took home for Mother's Day."
"No bulbs?"
I shake my head.
Mrs. Reynolds looks worried. "Let me tell you something about daffodils, Margaret. They're fragrant, beautiful, and hardy."
I scan the eight bags lined up. "These are all daffodils?"
"Oh, yes. But they each have their own unique scent and personality."
Wow. I don't know much about flowers in general, let alone details. My favorites were dandelions, because when we were younger, Leah and I used to search and pull all the dandelions from our neighbors' lawns, sing Mama had a baby and her head popped off, and flick the tops of the flowers off of the stems as we sang the word popped. Although, to be technical, dandelions aren't flowers. They're weeds.
"You'll need a shovel to start with," my employer says, interrupting my daydream. "I think there's one in the garage."
I place the bulbs back in their respective bags, then head for the detached garage in the back of the yard. It's a large, two-story structure. Yellow paint, though cracking and peeling from years of neglect, indicates this had once been a place of pride. There are stairs on the side, leading to the second level. Dirty, dusty windows outline the upstairs room. Is it an office of some sort? A private room?
The garage door is closed, so I have to lift it using my own strength, which isn't easy. With a loud creak of protest, the door finally lifts to reveal a large, black Cadillac parked inside. The place is dark and full of spider webs. Which means the place is full of spiders. I'm not fond of either.
Maggie, you can do this. As I venture farther into the darkness, my eyes do the spider-scan. My mom used to make fun of me that I had peripheral vision specially designed to detect eight-legged creatures.
A shovel hangs on the wall, not far from the entrance. Good. I slowly inch forward, reaching out to grab the handle. Once I hold it, I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. I scurry out of the garage and head back to Mrs. Reynolds, sure at least a few webs have managed to stick to me.
"I got it," I say, holding out the shovel like a prized trophy.
The woman doesn't look impressed. "First, we'll have to prepare the soil."
I walk over to the empty flower beds and start poking the shovel into the dirt to loosen it. I do this for a few minutes. It's not so bad.
Mrs. Reynolds sneaks up behind me. "Wait."
I turn around. The woman is holding out a long, pink and green flower-print robe.
"What is that?" I ask.
"My muumuu. Put it on. It'll keep your clothes clean."
"Mrs. Reynolds, I can't wear that."
"Why not?"
Mrs. Reynolds clutches the muumuu, a big, ugly housedress. I'm self-conscious enough as it is without wearing something my great-aunt Henrietta probably has in her closet.
"It's ... it's not my size," I say lamely.
"Don't be a ninny, muumuus fit everyone. One size fits all. Put it on."
Reluctantly, I take the muumuu and slide the material over my head. The dress hangs on me like a tent.
Mrs. Reynolds steps back and surveys me. "Perfect."
I smile weakly at her.
"Okay, let's get to work."
For the next forty minutes Mrs. Reynolds directs me on how big to dig the holes, how to measure the extra soil needed in the bottom of the holes to create a pillow for the bulbs, and the best way to plant the bulbs--not in rows but scattered five inches apart.
I'm sweating now, and I fear Mrs. Reynolds is just getting started. But I'll do anything to keep this job. If it means creating pillows for her precious bulbs for the next few weeks until colder weather bears down on us, that's just fine. I can handle anything if the end result is earning the money to get away.
Sitting back, I wipe the dirt from my face with the sleeve of the muumuu. "What's over there?" I ask, pointing to a pile of lumber.
"The gazebo that never happened."
"I was in a gazebo at the Botanic Gardens last year," I say, imagining a huge gazebo in the middle of the yard.
"It reminded me of that scene in The Sound of Music where Liesl's boyfriend sings 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen' to her."
Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the pile. "Yes, well, I'm afraid the wood will probably be sitting there long after I'm dead and buried."
"You should totally get someone to build it," I tell her excitedly. "I can imagine it, with a pointed roof and all."
"Let's take a break," she says. "No more talk about gazebos that will never be."
Oh, yeah, I forgot. No senseless chatter for Mrs. Reynolds.
Since the accident, trying to stand hasn't been easy. Being covered in a muumuu makes it that much harder. Especially when I have to extend my leg in front of me to get up.
"What're you doing?"
"Getting up."
Mrs. Reynolds waves her hands around as if her limbs can talk. "Usually people bend their legs when they do that."