Free All You Need Is Love by Emily Franklin Page A

walk.” She sings the last few words and my eyes fill up immediately with tears. But not about her — not about anything I know — some very odd, empty sad feeling.
    She goes on, “There’s more, about wishing you could hear the flowers ring.”
    “Oh wait — that just gave me a really weird feeling — I remember thinking that the blossoms really could ring. That they were a fairy flower or something magical.”
    Mable looks at the flowers. “They are, kind of, aren’t they?” I nod. “Your mother sang that song to you.”
    “When I was a baby?” I cannot fight my intense curiosity.
    “Then — and a bit after…”
    I close my eyes and rest my face in my palms. Hearing about the years before I knew how to know makes me tired. “When you sang that song, it made me think of a blanket — at least I think it’s a blanket — we had a long, really long time ago.” I open my eyes to describe my mental visual. “It was navy blue, with a sort of viney pattern on it, roses or — no morning glory — on it. I wonder what happened to that blanket.”
    Mable looks at me and the nurse comes in to help bring her back to bed. “That I can’t tell you — really, I’m not hiding it — I have no idea what happened to that jacket.”
    “Jacket? I thought I said blanket.”
    Mable moves slowly, holding onto the nurse for support. She’s supposedly better but still seems so weak. She slides under the stiff hospital sheets and says, “You did. But it wasn’t a blanket. It was a jacket. That much I know.”
    “I think she needs to rest now,” the nurse says and Mable gives a small nod.
    I give her a kiss and walk to the door. Then I go to the flowers, move them closer to her so she can see them when she wakes up, and take one stalk for myself. It smells like spring; new and sweet and filled with longing.
    Dad comes back early, claiming Louisa has an upper respiratory infection but I get the feeling there’s more to his speedy return than just a hacking cough and a fever.
    “Squash?” Dad asks.
    I pretend not to know what he’s asking. “Noun: a root vegetable.”
    “Very funny,” he says. “Want to play?”
    I shake my head. “Can I bow out today? I’m tired. I went to see Mable yesterday and worked this whole morning on my video project. I start filming her this week, and I had to get the whole documentary formatting done.”
    “I’m sure it’ll be an interesting project. What about all your other papers?”
    I smear some Labello on my lips, thankful I still have enough of the Euro-Chapstick to last me until Arabella brings restocks this summer. “Two I’ve completed, one is nearly done, and the other is a ‘creative component’ that has yet to be announced — at least to me. Poppy Massa-Tonclair is sending an email to me this week about it.”
    Dad nods like he’s checked off another item on his forever-multiplying list of “things to do.” He stands waiting for me to say something, bouncing his squash racket off his knee.
    “Want to come see a place I like to hang out?” I ask suddenly feeling like I haven’t just relaxed with my dad since I got back. Which would really mean in months if you add up the time I was away.
    “Will I like this place?” Dad asks.
    “It’s not a bar, not a strip club, not a…”
    “Oh, quick, shield my eyes!” Dad makes a face, dubious. “I don’t know, Love…”
    I poke him in the shoulder in indignation. “Dad? Come on — it’s not like I’m a wild child.”
    Dad tilts his head side to side like he’s considering my choice of names for myself. “You didn’t used to be.”
    Then I see that Dad’s only partially kidding. “You see kids every day who have issues. Big time issues. The look at me.” I stand in front of him dramatically so he can see me. “And I’m not like that.”
    “No,” Dad agrees, his voice quiet. “You’re not. But you’re not the same, either.”
    I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing. I just pull him