A memory came back to her. Her mom was hugging her at night, and she whispered, “If you find any lilies or daisies, hold on to them, Dani. They grow with love. Lots of love.”
“What are you doing here, girl?”
Dani heard the harsh voice, but she also heard a slight tremor in that voice.
She turned slowly. Mrs. Bendsfield was there with her chin raised high, a shaking hand on the milking room’s door handle. It was as if the door was for her protection—her way of escape. She wore another over-sized white shirt, stained with paint all over. Her white hair was pulled up in a messy bun.
“Why lilies?”
“Why you wanna know?”
The elderly woman’s eyes were intelligent and clear. Dani knew no hallucinations would give her answers today.
“Why lilies? Why daisies? What do they mean?”
“Just flowers. That’s all.”
They weren’t that easily dismissed. Dani caught the flicker of emotion in the older lady’s eyes.
“Why them?”
She shrugged this time, uneasy. “Don’t matter.” She crossed her thin, aged arms over her chest.
“It matters to me.”
“It don’t to me.”
“Are those your favorite flowers?”
“Not mine. My husband’s.” Her voice was sad.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re just flowers, girl. It ain’t no unsolved mystery. My husband picked those flowers for me. I had them wild daisies and lilies in my bouquet on my wedding day. But, they just flowers.”
Memories weren’t just memories. And anything that stood for a memory, sparked a memory, meant something more.
“My son ain’t your father.” Mrs. Bendsfield surprised her again. She added, “I know what you thought when you left that last time. I know that I wasn’t myself, but my son took off long ago. I ain’t seen or heard from him in over forty years. He’s long gone, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Why’d he leave?”
“Ain’t your business.”
“I think it is.”
“I think not,” Mrs. Bendsfield rasped out. “He’s my son, and I have to mourn his absence every day. I don’t ‘have to’ explain anything, least of all, to one of her rabbits.”
That was the second time Dani had heard Mrs. Bendsfield call her that.
“Is that what you thought of my mother? That she bred like a rabbit?”
Mrs. Bendsfield snorted. “She might as well have for all the trouble she caused around these parts. Your mother wasn’t alright in the head. Took damn near an earthquake to get her to see reason one time.” Her gaze fell away, clouding over.
Dani jerked in reaction. “You said that you took a shovel to my mother. Did you hurt her?”
“What?” Mrs. Bendsfield looked again, her thoughts in the past, and murmured, “No, no. Just a phrase—that’s all I meant. It might’ve helped if I had taken a shovel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“My son ain’t your papa. You can believe that!”
“Might so, but you know something about my family, and I want to know what that is. I think I have a right to know.”
“You got no right except to live your life. That’s what all you O’Haras are supposed to do. Just live your lives and leave everyone else in your dust, hurting like my Oscar, like…” Her voice trailed off, then she shook her head. She snapped back to attention. Her hand tightened on the door handle. “My Oscar ain’t your papa. If he were, I’d rather kill myself and dig my own grave afterwards.”
“Would it be so terrible? If your son was my father? Would that really be such a terrible thing?”
She expected anger or hot denial, but the fight seemed to evaporate. Her hand slipped from the door handle. Her shoulders dropped, and her head hung low. She whispered, “Yes. Yes, it would, little Dani O’Hara. In ways you can’t possibly conceive.”
Dani stood still. The world was whipping around her.
Mrs. Bendsfield moved to look out the window.
Dani was transfixed on the lilies and daisies. And the dolphins. Her mother always talked about the magical dolphins and their healing qualities. They were the protectors of the ocean. They guarded everyone.
Her mother talked about the white dolphin that rode atop the white clouds in the sky. She said that when it was your time of dying or healing, that white dolphin would appear and you only had to grasp her fin and she’d pull you home. Dani thought home meant their home.
It wasn’t what her mother meant.
“My mother wasn’t bad.”
Mrs. Bendsfield swung back around and gazed at her, blinking a few times, like she’d forgotten Dani was there.
Dani added, “You talk like my mother was awful, but she wasn’t. She was a good mother.”
“Child.” Mrs. Bendsfield’s eyes were hollow. “I don’t care if your mother was good or not. All I know is that the pain wrecked my family, and that’ll stick with me till my dying day. My Oscar’s gone, and it’s because of your mother.”
“What happened? Tell me what happened.” She insisted, “Tell me what you’re not telling me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Mrs. Bendsfield looked at her as her white hair slipped out of her bun. The strands framed her aged features, and her old eyes seemed to sigh on their own.