A Quiet Trade in Winter Blossoms

There were a lot of things that Élise Marchand learned from Mère Odile by the age of 12. Most of them came from a crack in a door.

One door in fact.

The crack was located in the rear room of Odiles house at the end of Rue des Vignes. The crack in the door was never larger then a blades width but lamplight would shine through it from her workshop.

Odile referred to it as her workshop and did not allow Élise in that room.

So she learned to creep around silently and she watched.

Elise was known as le moineau, or the sparrow, in the village of Saint-Aubin-des-Vignes because she was small and would usually be hovering around some womans hem line. She came to live with Odile at age 9 when her aunt passed away of a fever. She arrived with one change of clothes and a wooden comb. No one was waiting for her.

Odile looked her up and down for a while and asked "Are you quiet?"

Elise nodded. It was the only thing she was complimented on in her life so far.

Odile was the midwife for the town of Saint-Aubin. When someone was ready to be born she would be called and when someone died she was also called.

Élise learned from a corner of the kitchen at first and then at the bottom of the bed.

How to wash a body. Always start at the feet and work your way up so that they feel as if they are being awoken.

Close their eyes with your thumb and place a warm penny on top. They always had to be warm or it upset the family.

Tie their mouth shut with linen and hide the knot.

Place the hands together right hand on top of left and smooth out the face to appear as if they received good news.

Learn how to walk into a mourning household and what to look at. Place your hand on the widow's arm lightly and guide her.

"People are scared of grief," Odile would tell her. "Make sure they don't know you're afraid."

What Élise enjoyed about what Odile did was something that only occurred during the winter months.

During the month of January the grapevines in Saint-Aubin were barren. The ground would clank like metal under your feet. No flowers bloomed during that month. But one day a twig of cherry blossoms would appear hanging from a person's door. Always fresh as if picked that morning and it would be frozen from the cold air.

They would call it the visitation.

"The old cherry tree gives them to you," villagers would cross their chest and mutter under their breath. "To know when your death is approaching."

No one knew where the cherry tree was. It's odd that no one remembered the largest cherry tree in the valley was on the side of Odile's house.

Once the branch was on your door you had a couple days to live. People would call their priest and forgive their siblings and spend their final days in bed speaking to whoever they wished to speak to. Once death took them they felt happy. As if the cherry tree warned them.

Élise thought it was beautiful. She remembered seeing the blossoms when she was 7 on her mother's door. So pretty she forgot to cry.

Her mother passed away 3 days after. With a smile on her face.

What she saw when she was 12 was something else.

Odile had several twigs of cherry on her table by the fireplace with buds growing on them from all the heat. She would rotate them every night. Next to them on the shelf was a small bottle of brown liquid and a thimble-size glass.

Élise didn't know what the bottle contained. But Odile would always measure out the liquid with her tongue between her teeth. She would sing a song with no words while doing it. Élise would often find herself singing the same song when she was scrubbing the floors.

When she was 12 she figured that the tree must have been giving Odile flowers. She must have figured out a way to bloom the flowers early in the year. It must have been nice that she could give others time to say goodbye to their loved ones.

She knew what she saw when she was 15.

Old Man Baptiste who owned the local tavern was sick. He had some sort of cancer in his stomach that was making him yellow and wasted away to a child's body. He spent most of his last week screaming. Everyone on the block could hear him. His wife lost her appetite and his sons wouldn't go near the house.

Until one day a cherry blossom branch appeared on his door.

Odile visited that evening carrying her basket. Élise snuck along behind her and peered through the crack in the shutters. Odile took the old man's hand and held it tightly.

She saw the bottle. She saw the small glass.

"Go to sleep, my dear," Odile whispered.

By the time morning came the house was silent. Baptiste's wife thanked Odile for saving them from watching him suffer any longer. No one questioned the brown bottle or how he passed away.

Élise made her way home through the frozen night. She felt nervous but wasn't frightened. All she knew was that she helped that man.

"I know you saw," Odile said to her without looking.

Élise nodded.

"Then you can come inside."

She showed Élise everything she needed to know. From harvesting the flowers on the last new moon of December to putting sugar in the water to keep them blooming. How many nights they needed to be by the fire and when to string a piece of thread on the twig. How to measure out the bottle with your tongue between your teeth. And how to pick a door.

"It's not up to me to pick who passes away. Only give them time," Odile explained.

Élise bought this. She had nothing to go back to and Odile took care of her. Fed her and provided a bed and clean sheets. The pretty things were reserved for those who were sick. Maybe that's how you show someone you love them.

By 16 Élise could prepare a corpse without wasting one drop of water. By 17 she could make someone feel at ease when death was imminent. She learned how to say "You can rest now" with the proper inflection. And how to hum that melody she heard from Odile while they worked. She never once wondered what the flowers were used for in the off season.

When Élise turned 18 Odile couldn't get out of bed.

Her hands shook and it became hard to measure the correct dose. Élise took care of everything. Washing dishes, making meals and checking on people who were on their last legs. She would listen to her through the wall coughing at night.

One night in January Odile asked her to come closer.

"Come here, my dear. I want to see you." She looked Élise over and smiled. "You've grown. You know everything I know."

Élise remained speechless. Odile liked that about her.

"There is a branch on my shelf. It's our last for the year. Opened very nicely."

Élise looked at the twig. White as snow against the shadowy background. Perfect.

"I want you to put that on my door."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Odile smiled. It was not a scared smile.

"Remember your mother's branch? Do you know who hung it on her door?"

Élise stopped breathing.

"I did. She never asked me to. I just wanted you to know that, because now it's going to be your decision. Your mother was in extreme pain and her husband was dead and there was a young girl watching. I believed that was best. That it was her time." Élise's eyes teared up. "Then I saw you outside staring at the flower. As if someone handed you a gift. I knew. That's who was going to be my hands."

The room fell silent.

"The cherry tree doesn't provide those flowers. It never did. Every door with a branch on it was a door I picked."

Élise dropped to the edge of the bed. She could barely feel herself. Black thread. Small glass. The flowers on her mother's door. All those years of learning from behind a door. How small it was. How she learned so much. Standing face to face with her life and calling it a miracle.

She could run. Run as far as she could through that winter night and never look back.

But she had nowhere to run to.

She took the bottle off the shelf and measured out the liquid. Surprised to find that her hands weren't shaking.

"You can rest now." Said in perfect timing.

Odile closed her eyes and Élise hummed that song until she heard nothing but silence. Humming through the night.

When morning came she washed Odile's body from her feet up. Making sure she felt as if she was being woken. Placed warm coins on each eye. And smoothed out Odile's face. Hung the last cherry branch on the door. Stepped back and admired it.

The town would find it shortly after and mourn. Crying and telling their stories about the old cherry tree finally visiting her.

They would never know the truth.

Élise lived in the house for the rest of her days. The people called her Mère Élise. It was an odd title for an eighteen-year-old girl but they got used to it.

The next winter the ground was frozen and no flowers grew in the town. The twigs of cherry sat on their table next to the fireplace. Waiting to be rotated each night.

When it was the last new moon of the month she was working at the table humming. Something creaked behind the door.

She didn't turn around to see what was through the crack in the door. She already knew. Lamplight and a child's eyes peeking at her. Another child that had no one to care for her. The sexton must have delivered her to the house earlier in the fall. With hair the shade of wheat and no one to wait for her. Told not to come into this room.

Élise measured out the liquid and smiled.

Humming her song to the crack in the door.