Penflower

Chapter 2

I open my eyes to find sunlight flooding through my curtains. It's 9:02 in the morning. I get up and half-stumble-half-slide over to the window. It looks like an angry giant came rampaging through Campbell last night: tree branches litter front yards, leaves cover the street, and gushing down the storm drains is a torrent of water that could rival the Amazon. We haven't had a summer storm like this in years. 

I hurriedly get dressed and go downstairs. Aunt Edith is sitting at the kitchen table sipping a mug of black coffee that's almost the same color as the rings under her eyes. She smiles weakly when she sees me. I smile back and my mouth forms the words, "Good morning, Aunt Edith." 

She nods and croaks, "It would have been a better night had it not been for that dreadful storm last night. I didn't sleep a wink." 

"Mmmm." I hum sympathetically as I grab an energy bar for breakfast. As I throw open the front door, I almost trip over a small brown box sitting on the doorstep. It's very lightweight and I check the address. 576 Parakeet Lane. (Don't ask me who names the streets around here.) That's not my address; Aunt Edith's house is at 579 Parakeet Lane. I pick my way around the fallen branches along the front walkway to get a better look at the numbers that mark the address of the house. No wonder the mailman made a mistake: the nine in our address has flipped around to become a six. It must have been really windy last night. 

I shake the box. Several thin packages rattle around inside the box. I set out down the street to find the right house so I can return the package. Two houses down I see it: 576 Parakeet Lane. I inhale sharply. This is the house of Crazy Molly, the old lady who grows a forest in her backyard. The lady whose features are indistinct because she's only ever seen once a month at the supermarket. The lady whose real name and age are a mystery because no one's ever talked to her. The lady whose small brown box is sitting in my hands like a box of dynamite. 

I can feel my hands shaking as I lift the heavy lion's-head knocker and drop it against her front door with a bang. After an eon, the doorknob turns like it's racing a snail (or maybe it's just me) and the door swings open. All of a sudden a lady's face appears on the other side of the doorway. But this face is not old and wrinkly, like everyone thinks it is. It's clean and smooth and strikingly pure against the speckles of dirt that cover it like freckles. Her eyes are warm brown and her long brown hair is woven in a braid down her back. She looks like she's in her early thirties and she's taller than I am by a long shot. She's wearing a large white button-down shirt covered with dirt and grass and clutched in her hand is a pair of yellow rubber gloves. She wipes her brow with the back of her free hand and smiles at me. "Hi, can I help you?" 

I'm dumbstruck. I stutter, "I-I found this on my front porch this morning. It's got your address on it." I try to push the box into her hands but she holds up her free hand before I can rid myself of the dynamite. "Whoa, girl, why don't you come have a cup of tea so we can sort this out?" Her voice is deep and singsong and I love it from the first moment I hear it. 

She holds open the door for me to come in. Aunt Edith's voice echoes through my head: "Now, Shiloh, don't you go talking to strangers, lest you never come home." I imagine her face as she says it, intense and serious.  

But my mind goes back to this lady with her deep voice and dirty gloves. I step through the door and look around. The sea-green walls of her house are lined with photos and drawings of plants of all shapes and sizes. Three-no, four-cats emerge from behind various sofas and chairs to greet me as I follow the lady into the kitchen. Humming, she pours two cups of herbal tea. It's warm like honey as it slides down my throat. 

She sets down her cup and holds out her right hand. "I'm Trillium." 

"Shiloh." I take her hand in mine and give it a firm shake. "Thanks for the tea."