Late Bloomers

With thanks to MJ.

David and Joanna came late to love, just good friends until the hot summer night he first noticed the cereus on her back patio.

“What’s this scraggly thing?” David asked, his eyes smiling.

“My night-blooming cereus,” she said, caressing the sad plant. “My brother in California used to have one and it bloomed once when I was visiting. We kept vigil for a few nights, waiting for it to blossom, and we had a big celebration when it did. It only blooms once a year for one night, so you don’t want to miss it. One night, one huge perfect flower. The next morning it’s gone, drooping like a deflated balloon. It was so beautiful, so fragrant, I had to get one for myself.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” he said. “When will it bloom again?”

“This one’s never bloomed,” she said, shaking her head.

“How long have you been nurturing this thing?” he asked.

“Eight years,” she said.

“You’ve been waiting eight years for it to bloom?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Amazing,” he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her gently for the first time.

For the twelve years they were together, the cereus never flowered, never even produced a bud. It sat on the screened-in back porch every summer, and Joanna moved it inside when the air turned brisk in the fall.

“Why don’t you give up on that thing?” David would say periodically. “It’s never going to bloom.”

“Just you watch,” she’d say, “one day you’ll eat your words.”

“Sure I will,” he’d say.

“It has medicinal value, you know,” she’d say in the plant’s defense. “There’s something in it like digitalis, something that strengthens the heart.”

“Maybe it should give itself a shot of digitalis,” he’d say, chuckling.

David would point it out to guests as if introducing a family member.

“This is our never-blooming cereus,” he’d say. “I hear it’s a real wonder when it blooms. Should be any time now.” He’d wink at Joanna.

“Oh ye of little faith,” she’d say, pretending disappointment in him, and she’d hover close to the plant, like a mother protecting her only child.

When David got sick, Joanna nursed him through surgery and chemotherapy, bad days and okay days and even some good days. Finally, he was better and they began to enjoy life again.

It was a mild summer with bright sunny days, and they went to the beach and picnicked in the woods like young lovers. One evening at dinner, after an especially good day, she thought he was joking when he clutched his chest. When he couldn’t breathe, she lost her smile. When he fell from the chair into her arms, they sank to the floor together and he was gone.

She couldn’t cry or sleep as the summer turned sultry. Family and friends carried her from one day to the next until one by one they returned to their own lives, leaving her alone. That’s when she saw the bud on the cereus - just the barest beginning of a flower. She glared at it, anger rising.

“So now you decide to bloom?” she screamed. “All this time I told him – just you wait – and nothing. How can you do this?”

She kicked the flowerpot, wanting it to shatter. When it didn’t budge, she turned her back on it.

But she couldn’t ignore it. Every night she sat up on the patio with the cereus, watching the bud become like two hands cupped together. On a night as steamy as when David first kissed her, Joanna sat, eyes closed, remembering his hands gentle on her face. Hearing a soft pop, she opened her eyes to a beautiful white flower unfolding to the size of a dinner plate. She inhaled the sweet vanilla scent and finally cried. When she had no more tears and the flower hung limp in the dawn’s light, Joanna fell as soundly asleep as if she were wrapped in David’s arms.

Copyright Liz Zuercher, 2010