Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Now, she did as Muriel had done: leaned back, took a deep breath of air that smelled so different from the air at home, and sipped the coffee slowly. She hadn’t tasted chicory before coming here, but she enjoyed it—an herby infusion that tasted of river and leaf, particular and assertive.
They chatted easily, about the things Greta had seen in New Orleans so far, about Muriel’s garden, and ate croissants so flaky with butter they melted in Greta’s mouth and pine-apple softer and sweeter than any Greta had tasted. Muriel took the last bite of her croissant and dragged it through the pink-sugared dregs of her coffee cup, popped it in her mouth, and sighed once more.
“I wonder if you’d be willing to help me with something,” she said.
“Yeah, of course—anything,” Greta said quickly, thrilled to be able to offer something in return for Muriel’s kindness and welcome.
“I have several bags I’m donating to a local charity, but they’re in the back room, and these hands—”
She held up perfectly manicured hands that Greta had seen shake as Muriel lifted a cream pitcher.
“It’s the grip, you see? If you wouldn’t mind bringing them to the garden gate, it would be such a help.”
“No problem.”
They went inside and Muriel led Greta to the back room. Her space was a treasure trove of art, artifacts, draped fabrics, and maps yellowing at the corners. Every bookshelf was full of books stacked sideways and crammed on top of each other, knickknacks strewn in front of them. The floor rugs were layered on top of one another—swathes of elegantly muted patterns in maroon and navy and dusky rose. Every room contained an ornate carved wooden fan and a fireplace inlaid with mosaic tile.
The living room sported the most gorgeous paintings of flowers Greta had ever seen. They were boldly done, each flower recognizable. But the colors were slightly exaggerated and there appeared to be a wash over the composition that blended each edge into the next, like a garden seen while spinning.
“These are amazing,” Greta breathed.
“My mother’s.”
“Oh wow.”
She approached the largest of them, hung over the mantel. In maroon, purple, and cobalt blue, Muriel’s mother had rendered frothy peonies, delicate wax flower, and serrated thistle, each flower with its own texture but layered like a living bouquet. From the upper left corner, a hand reached down as if about to pluck one. It leant the whole composition a sense of menace: life that could be ended at any moment, nature at the mercy of human caprice.
“It’s a little upsetting,” Greta said.
“I agree.”
As they passed into the back room, Greta caught a glimpse of still lifes in a very different style. She pointed. “Are those your mother’s too?”
“No, those are mine.”
“Muriel, I didn’t know you painted too!”
“For the joy of it, not to share.”
Muriel’s paintings lacked the drama of her mother’s. In its place was a serenity, a sense of collaboration with nature rather than its agony or ecstasy. One large painting was only foliage, so many greens it felt like being inside the color itself. Another was of the birds-of-paradise currently growing outside. Though the flowers brought drama of composition and form, the painting was still earthy and calm.
“Why don’t you put any of yours out in the living room for people to see?” Greta asked. “They’re beautiful. Really different from your mom’s but beautiful.”
Muriel smiled. “Iris’s paintings are my public face, these my private. I like to remember their differences. It reminds me of how different I am from her.”
“And that’s…a good thing?” Greta ventured.
Muriel nodded. “We honored one another’s differences. It’s the only way we were able to have a relationship.”
“Sounds nice.” Greta hadn’t meant it to come out sounding bitter.
“Oh dear. Are you and your mother too similar?”
“Nah. I mean it sounds nice to honor the differences instead of have them be a point of contention. My mom wants me to be like her, but I’m not, and she takes it as an offense. Like I’m choosing to be different from her because I don’t respect her. Which isn’t true.”
“What do you respect most about her?”
Greta blanked.
Her mother was always anxious, always seemed to be okay only if her children were fine. She never admitted to doing anything because she wanted it, only because it was “the right way.” She didn’t ask Greta’s dad to do anything around the house, even though he never did anything on his own.
Fuck, do I not respect my mother?
“I don’t know,” she said, horrified. “God, I’m awful. All I can think about are the bad things.”
“We all judge our parents, Greta. They’re the people who teach us what the world is, and when we’re old enough, we learn that they’re wrong in ways they didn’t even know. That’s because the world is different for us.”
“Seriously, though, all I can think of is that she raised five kids, and I refuse to respect my mom only for child-rearing. I’m disgusting.”