The Girl with the Marigold Cure

Sweat trickles down my back and face as I pull my bike up alongside the first tent. The market is located on the grassy patch in front of Town Hall, where there used to be summer concerts. Before the war. Before the bombs. There are still bike racks in front of the decaying old building. Climbing off the bike, I wipe my sweaty palms on my worn-out denim, leaving a streak of orange behind on the faded blue.

I look down, groaning. Crap. I hope I can get that stain out. These jeans might be older than me, cast-offs from Aunt Cat, but they are the only ones I have. I stare at my orange-stained hands in annoyance. It doesn't matter how much I wash them. It never comes completely clean. I am so sick of orange.

Orange. The color of prison jumpsuits. It was once my favorite color. But, after three years of doing nothing but harvest and process Calendula flowers... well, orange is the color prisoners wear, and now I wear it, too. A prisoner in my own home. I know we are lucky to have our farm. I know we are fortunate to have kept it. But that doesn't make it feel any less like a prison.

Sighing, I bend down to lock my bike to the rack, checking twice to be sure. Can't be too careful, Alma Lynne. I hear Mama whisper in my head. I shake my head. I finally get away from her for a little while, and I can still hear her. I grab my rucksack out of the basket at the rear of the bike. I pull Mama's crumpled note from the side pocket and sling the bag over my shoulders. The glass vials inside clink together noisily. I cringe. I should have wrapped them up in newspaper like Mama said. I better not break any, or she will murder me.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back toward the marketplace. It's not my first time here. But, it's my first time on my own. And it's been a long while. Mama and Bobby always do the trading. I still can't believe she let me come on my own. But, Bobby is sick with some nasty flu bug, and she's worried about fever. Which is why I am here.

The town marketplace is an eclectic collection of canopies that might have once been used for picnics and camping trips. Under the shelters is a variety of makeshift displays. Some people have actual folding tables. But, most are using whatever they could find, from upside-down aquarium tanks to old sofas to TV Stands.

I walk into the first tent, nodding at the older man standing beside a table piled with old junk. No one needs an Xbox anymore. We haven't had electricity in three years. Hardly anyone has anything worth trading anymore. We're pretty much all after the same things. Food and medicine is the top priority. Medicinal herbs and homemade remedies are a hot commodity since no one has found any real medicine in at least a year.

Each tent is more of the same. Microwaves, kids' toys, some clothing, video games, DVD players, cell phones. What are these people thinking? Why bother?

I guess not everyone can be lucky enough to have what we have. Liquid gold, Mama calls it. I call it the gold stuff. Others call it the Marigold Cure. It doesn't really feel like gold, though, since Mama trades it so sparingly. We have so much of it. Sometimes, I think we really could be rich. At least in this new world's standards. But no. We scrape by with the bare minimum.

I recognize a few people. An old lady I remember from church asks after Mama and Bobby. She needs some of the gold stuff and tries to haggle, but she doesn't have what I need. No, ma'am, I am not trading you a vial for a stack of Seventeen Magazines.

I'm here for a fever reducer. No one has had Ibuprofen, or aspirin, or anything in a long time. If they do have it, they are keeping it for themselves. What I'm looking for is willow bark tea. It's a natural fever reducer. Mama said to look for Greg Marsh or Stanley Jones. I'm not supposed to trade for anything else, even though she had me bring ten vials of the gold stuff. She thinks it might be an expensive trade because willows have been dying off. We used to have two on our land.

I'm tempted to break the rules a couple of times. In one tent, there are stacks and stacks of books. I swear my heart skips a beat. I haven't had anything new to read in years. During that first year, most of our worldly possessions were traded off. First, it was to obtain some necessities-- canned goods, toiletries, etc.

Then Mama realized that we had a field full of medicine in our backyard. She traded everything we could spare to collect vials. I begged and pleaded, but my books were not spared. She let me keep ten. I could swap them at the market if I wanted. . But, they are my favorite ten. My most valued possession. My only friends. I can't give them up, not after losing so much else.

I keep moving. Maybe I will come back if I don't need to trade all ten vials for the tea. I reread mom's note. Her chicken scratch is hard to read, but I'm used to it by now. Besides, I should have it memorized. She drilled it all into my head before I left the house.

Alma,

Remember, we need Willow Bark Tea and nothing else. Don't offer all ten vials at once, barter. I would like at least a quart-size bag of tea, if possible. A gallon would be even better. Look for Greg Marsh or Stanley Jones. I remember that they both had willows on their property. Hopefully, they haven't lost theirs. Greg usually sets up at the back of the first row of tents. Stanley moves around.

Be careful. Be smart.

Mama

I'm still in the first row and nearing the end, I think. I don't want to go on a wild goose chase looking for Stanley, who I don't even know. But my stomach twists at the thought of seeing Mr. Marsh. It's too painful. Mama is right, though; he did have Willows on his property. I have many happy memories of lying under the one by the pond.

I walk through two more tents, smiling in hello to people along the way. When I enter the last ten in the row, I know I have the right tent. Bags of dried herbs and small vials of oils and ointments clutter the tops of an old washer and dryer. Yes! Please, have what I need, I think.

I turn to say hi to Greg and freeze. A young man sits on a stool, flipping through a five-year-old copy of Men's Magazine. Next to him is an old washer and dryer, both piled high with old magazines.

Not Mr. Marsh.

I stand there staring, hardly believing my eyes.

"Daniel?"

"Alma!" He cries, hopping off his stool and pulling me into his arms.

I sink into his warm embrace, snuggling my face into his chest and breathing him in. He smells like happier times, but under that is another smell, something sickly. And he feels different. Thin. Breakable.

He pulls back, holding me by my shoulders and looking down at me. I am suddenly aware of how I must look. It was a three-mile ride into town from our farm in the Arkansas summer heat.

"I know, I'm a mess," I say.

"No, you're a dream." He tucks a stray here behind my ear and smiles. He is wearing an old Naturals cap. I think it might be the one I bought him, actually. Under the brim, a few blond curls cling to his forehead. His face is thin. His eyes, the familiar color of faded denim, like my jeans, are haunted.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him, confused. I haven't seen him in almost three years.

Daniel stares down at me in dismay, not responding to my question.

Daddy. I think, with a pang.

"Did anyone else come back with you? Why didn't you come to see me?"

Daniel should have come to find me. I'm not the one who left. I have been in the same place, the prison I call home, doing the same things every day for the past three years. And one of those things has been missing him.

After the bombings, a lot of people left town. Mama wanted to stay put. She knew what they refused to believe. We were the lucky ones. Just far enough out of range to avoid most of the fallout. Most of our land seems to be unharmed, although some things seem to be dying off three years later.

After weeks went by with no power, Daddy wanted to go out in search of news and help. He also wanted to help fight, if necessary. Daniel wanted to go, too. The four of us fought about it for days. Daniel and I in the family room, Mama and Daddy in the kitchen. Our voices blending together. Daddy and Daniel's with righteous certainty, and Mama and I's with worry and fear.

But one February morning, Daddy, Daniel, Uncle Matt, and a few others head off in a few trucks. We never saw any of them again until now.

After they left, Mama and I moped around the house for weeks. Bobby wasn't much better. He was angry that Daddy wouldn't let him go with them. And then, one morning, while gazing out the window, watching for Daddy's truck, a flash of orange caught Mama's eye.

"Oh, Alma!" She cried. "The marigolds are in bloom!"

We spent the morning in chairs in the middle of the field. We reminisced about the year Daddy surprises Mama with this field. Marigolds were always her favorite. So, he surprised her with a big, beautiful field of gold and orange Calendulums. Not Marigolds. Sometimes called pot marigolds, and a cousin to Marigolds, but ultimately the wrong flower. It was sweet, though. Mama gave him a hard time, but I could tell she was pleased. That was when I fell in love with the color orange.

They weren't perennial plants, but they reseeded easily. With our long growing seasons, we could almost always count on having that beautiful field of gold on our property. But, we hadn't relied on them after the bombings. Until then, we hadn't been sure we would have crops. They were a beacon of hope in the darkness.

It was while we sat there, reminiscing, that Mama remembered that Calendulum was medicinal. It has anti-inflammatory, anti-fungal, and antibiotic properties. We began producing the gold stuff a week later, and I became the girl with the orange fingers.

Daniel draws away from me and buries his face in his hands. The euphoria of our reunion has faded. All I feel now is uncertainty.

"Daniel, please tell me what happened."

I reach out and gently pull his hands from his face. Tears stream silently down his face, and I see that he is trembling.

"They're all dead. And, I'm dying, too." Daniel choaks out.

I'm not surprised. But at least before now, I could hope. I can tell that he is unwell, and it is not something that our liquid gold can cure. It isn't really a cure, just a remedy. There is no medicine in this new world.

I don't want to know this. I want desperately to be back home to my field of gold. Not a prison. A sanctuary. I wish I never left.

I wipe his tears away, leaving a smudge of orange on his cheek. And then, I weep with him.