Josie could feel the tears threatening, but behind this feeling was something else, something comforting and almost sweet. Yes, all the bitterness and anger was there, the clear and constant undertone that the wrong child had been taken, but there had also been something else—a thorny kind of love and need that twisted through both her mother’s heart and her own. It was there, in spite of everything that had happened or not happened. It was there and that was something.

Josie looked past the roses. The petunias that were left unplanted the night of the funeral now laced through the flower beds like long purple veins, and Josie wondered if her mother had instructed the gardener on where to plant the flowers before she died. Her mother had not liked the actual planting, but her eye for landscape was striking. She had designed the stone path and overhang of climbing wisteria, arranged the cherry trees so their blossoms fell and floated on the mossy koi pond, encircled the house with night-blooming jasmine and honeysuckle so, in the spring, every room of the house was flooded with their sweet smell.

Josie looked at the garden sprawling beneath her and suddenly wanted to be outside, in this space her mother had made. She tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to disturb her father, and opened the sliding glass door in the kitchen. It was crisp, but the sun was shining, and she took off her sweater and felt heated both inside and out. She walked barefoot across the freshly cut grass until she reached a gardening shed at the edge of the property. She unlatched the double door and pushed it wide open. Inside was a large wooden counter. Above it ran rows of shelves, and beneath, six large drawers. Bags of soil rested against one wall, a lawn mower against another, and various garden tools hung from the ceiling. She walked to the counter and opened a large brown bag to reveal dozens of flower bulbs. Every year her mother would send for new and unusual flowers—blue Oriental poppies, black Easter lilies, orange two-budded gladiolas, lavender Zebra irises. They would arrive in the mail, and each year Josie would watch the dry brown bulbs go into the ground and wait with anticipation to see what would emerge.