Free Bloom by Marilyn Grey Page B

Anastasia. “Derek’s pretty good at landscaping. I’ve even allowed him to landscape my heart with his love.”
    He rolled his eyes and we all laughed as I admired the scene. Anastasia told me she wanted to surprise her family with pictures of herself to show at her funeral. Except she wanted them to resemble The Secret Garden. In December. And I had the idea of making the ground of the garden look like ice. Symbolizing the hope that melts away the winters of our lives. She loved the idea.
    I never imagined it to look so realistic. The huge windows of the warehouse beamed plenty of natural sunlight, even amidst the clouds. It was cold enough inside that Derek had a real sheet of ice on the floor with a light dusting of artificial snow. It must’ve had a hint of blue dye and sparkles in it, given the magical sheen. A realistic fake tree stood in the midst of the overwhelmingly beautiful display of flowers and a swing made of rope and boards hung from a branch. It looked magical.
    “Did Ella make a dress?” Anastasia said, her face glowing like a pale winter moon.
    “Of course.” I knelt down and rummaged through my bags. “But ... she’s a little fanatical about the regency era. So she went with a blend this time. Somewhat like the dress Rose was wearing when the Titantic went down.”
    “I’ve never seen that, but I’m sure the dress is pretty.”
    I pulled it out and held it against my chest. “What do you think?”
    “Wow.” Her eyes widened.
    “My sister made that?” Derek said. “I don’t believe it.”
    “You know she made her own wedding dress, right?” Miranda said.
    “And every curtain and pillow in her house,” I added. “Okay, girl. Let’s get you dressed.”
    Miranda showed us where to change. “Derek has a heater set up so you don’t get cold. Stay here until we’re ready.”
    I helped Anastasia undress. Her burn scars were similar to mine. Covering her chest and erasing any resemblance of what could’ve been a growing woman. She wrapped her arms around her chest. I knew the feeling.
    “I have my compression garments on,” I said. “If I didn’t though, I’d show you that mine looks the same.”
    “Really?” Her arms dropped to her sides. “Some of the kids at school used to call me The Crumbly Cancer Girl because my skin looked weird.”
    “What?” I held the dress as she balanced herself on my shoulders and stepped into the fabric. “That’s horrible.”
    “Sometimes I felt that way too, but Vasili always reminded me of something one of our Greek elders said and it always helped.”
    “What was it?”
    “Blessed are those who were born ugly and are hated on earth, because they will have the most beautiful place in Paradise, if they glorify God and do not grumble. Or something like that.”
    “I’ve done far too much grumbling.”
    “I did too. Until my uncle helped me see what’s important and what’s not.”
    “Vasili again?”
    She nodded. “Who else?”
    Certainly not Kyriakos, I thought as I buttoned the back of her dress. I had to use mainly my right hand since my left hand couldn’t do buttons yet. I brushed Anastasia’s hair and braided two pieces back with baby’s breath, then joined them to make a crown.
    She touched the braids and thanked me, then said, “This is the dress I want to be buried in and I want my hair like this too.”
    “Anastasia, can I ask you something?”
    She nodded.
    “How did you come to accept your death like it’s no big deal? You’re so young and there’s plenty of adults who panic at the thought of death. About two years ago I was told I had cancer. We got it cleared out, but before that I was on my living room floor in a ball.”
    “I did cry a little. Mostly when I heard my mom crying at night. Every night she comes into my room and and prays as she watches me sleep. Well”—she giggled—“at least she thinks I’m sleeping. Anyway, I used to cry after she left because early on she always asked God to help her