by Jaminie Hilton

So much to say and the clock is ticking; it likes you succinct, precise. So does your audience at Our Town Café, 245 East Broadway on the second Wednesday every month for Word Whips and Story Slam. Contact Johnny Frem at 604-254-0355 or visit www.boltsoffiction.org Here’s the winner of the June Story Slam.
Jaminie Hilton is the winner of the August Story Slam.

Ten-year-old Jodi raced down the stairs, pulling on her T-shirt as she hurtled toward the kitchen. She took the second flight two steps at a time, feeling the thick carpet give way beneath her bare feet. Still zipping up her jean shorts, she sprinted the last five steps across the cool, marbled hallway. She whirled around the doorway into an empty kitchen, planning the quickest way to make a Saturday morning surprise pot of coffee for her mom and thought, Dad’s gone. I bet he’s already at his office.
As she pulled the clay coffee jar toward her, Jodi noticed the box of stationary. The lid was off, and the satin ribbon attached to the box curled across the counter. A row of brightly coloured flowerpots stood along the bottom edge of each sheet. One parchment page had been crumpled into a ball.
A week ago, Jodi had given that writing paper to her mom for her birthday. She remembered how her mom had put down her glass of wine to open the box, and smiled at her, touching the flowerpots with her long dancer’s fingertips. Now the early sun blazed like fire through the glass kitchen door, lighting the edges of the balled up paper on the counter. Jodi pulled open the parchment, trying to smooth the creased flowerpots as she stared at her mom’s writing sprawled above them.
“Dear Jack and Jodi: I’m sorry. I can’t stay. It’s not good for any of us. Take care of each other. I’ll call. Love, Julia.”
Jodi’s stomach jumped and clenched, and her legs wanted to crumple like the paper. A whiff of her dad’s cologne rose faintly from the page. Where was he? She ran out of the kitchen, past the tall grandfather clock, click-clacking in the hallway, hauled open the heavy front door, and stared at the driveway. His car was there, but her mom’s van was not in its usual spot beside it. She turned and bounded up three flights of stairs, two and three steps at a time, to her parent’s room. The sheets and blanket were heaped at the foot of the empty bed.
In the mirrored dressing room, Jodi lifted the crystal stopper from a perfume bottle and breathed in her mom’s rich, rose scent until it filled and held her. Then she searched through the black lacquer jewelry box. The turquoise necklace her dad had given her mom last week for her birthday was missing. Jodi pictured her mom wearing it as she drove away from them, pressing the blue-green stone against her heart until it turned her around and brought her back.
Jodi flew out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out to the backyard. The new rosebush, bought yesterday, stood in its green plastic pot, and the flowered mug leaning against it still held a few inches of wine. Her mom knew the name of every rose in her garden. This one had golden stems in the centre of deep pink petals. The instructions on the paper tag described the sunlight and water it needed. Its name was Wanderin’ Wind.
Last night, her mom had tucked her in promising they would plant the Wanderin’ Wind together. Jodi had fallen asleep, telling herself she had to wake up at eight because otherwise there wouldn’t be enough time. Once her mom emptied the coffee from her flowered mug down the drain, and started splashing in the red, vinegar-smelling wine, all plans and promises began to leak out of the day. With each refill from the bottle she kept under the kitchen sink, her mom’s eyes would look further away, staring more deeply into her own distant unhappiness. Jodi pictured her mom pulling out the weeds that closed in on her roses, bending low, talking in breathless spurts about Jodi’s dad as she yanked up the unwanted plants. Those days Jodi had felt as invisible to her mom as the grass blades under their feet.
The shovel was heavy, but Jodi raised the handle and plunged the tip into the hole her mom had started. She lifted out three piles of dirt, and then looked from the hole to the plastic pot, trying to guess if the plant would go in. When she grabbed the bush, a thorn stabbed her thumb. She had forgotten the padded gloves.
When she turned toward the house, her dad came out through the kitchen door, striding toward her, pushing up the sleeves of his crisp, lavender shirt. His light blue eyes, which burned like dry ice when he argued with her mom, were bloodshot and wobbling in tears. He bent toward her, putting his hands on her shoulders.
Jodi stood stiffly. She said, “You promised you would spend more time with us.”
The smell of his dry-cleaned shirt made her long to let the scents of starch and cologne cradle her. Maybe later she would curl herself into his warm arms.
“I need the gloves,” she said, holding out her hand with a spot of blood forming on her thumb.
When her dad came out again, he was shoving his tie into his pocket and pulling on the gloves. With one foot anchoring the plastic container, he lifted the bush and lowered the roots in their pot-shaped clump of earth into the hole. Jodi patted the ground smooth around the Wanderin’ Wind. She would water it, keep away the weeds, and prune off the dead roses. When her mom saw the crowded flowers, she would smile, fingering her turquoise necklace, and burying her nose in the petals. She would pick one perfect bloom and hold it out. And as Jodi took it, her head would fill with the homemade-ice-cream- sweetness of roses opening around them.

Wanderin’ Wind is the heart of Jaminie Hilton’s novel in-progress. Combining her creative skills with her practice as a therapist, Jaminie facilitates a story time for grownups program. Email healing.jaminie@shaw.ca Story Slam is held on the second Wednesday of every month, 9 pm, Our Town Cafe, 245 E. Broadway at Kingsway. Contact Johnny: 604-254-0355 or boltsoffiction@hotmail.com. www.boltsoffiction.org