Authors: Robin Schwarz
“What’s your name?” she asked Blossom. “You’re new.”
“Blossom.”
“That’s so pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“When I was home last time, we planted a garden.”
“What did you plant?” Blossom asked.
“We planted pansies, tulips, and daffodils. My sister told me the daffodils will come up year after year.”
“She’s right. I planted daffodils once, and they bloomed for years.”
“They blossomed!” Heather giggled.
“That they did,” Blossom said, smiling back.
“I don’t think I’ll see them blossom again,” Heather said softly. Her candor startled Blossom. She lifted Jigsy’s paws up so Heather could pat him.
“My sister says that I don’t have to worry about missing the daffodils. She said they grow in heaven.”
“I bet they do. I bet there are roses and daisies and irises and hyacinths.”
“I told my sister when the daffodils come up in the garden next year, then she’ll know I’m saying hi.”
Blossom turned away; she didn’t want Heather so see the tears in her eyes. But it was unnecessary; the uncanny sixth sense both children and animals possess had already alerted Heather to Blossom’s sadness.
“I’m not afraid, Blossom. You know why?”
A little girl who’s dying, trying to make
me
feel better. Get a grip, Blossom.
Blossom put her hand on Heather’s legs. “Why?”
“Because I once had a dog like Jigsy. Not exactly like Jigsy. He was a golden retriever named Otis. Well, one day Otis didn’t feel good. He was getting older, and the doctor said it was better not to operate. He said it would be too hard on Otis. So Otis lived with us for another month, but then poor Otis couldn’t walk anymore, so my parents took him to the doctor. He didn’t come home that afternoon, and when I asked where he was, my dad told me Otis was happy. He had gone to heaven and he wasn’t in pain anymore. I know when I go to heaven, Otis will be waiting for me. So I’m not afraid. You know who told me Otis would be there?”
“Who?” Blossom asked.
“Jigsy and Pip told me.”
“Well, they’re very smart dogs. If any two dogs know this, I know Jigsy and Pip would.”
“Yeah, I think so, too.” Heather closed her eyes, clearly exhausted.
“I think we should go now,” Dolly said.
“All right.” Blossom rose, stroking the last feathery wisps of Heather’s hair.
“Would you mind if I visited you again with Jigsy and Pip?”
Heather smiled and whispered her approval. Blossom and Dolly walked out, the two dogs padding quietly behind.
“So what do you think?” Dolly asked Blossom.
“Daffodils are out of season.”
“So?”
“So I think I have to scour the county until I find daffodils to bring to Heather on Thursday.”
As they were descending the stairs, Dr. Cohen was just going up.
“Oh, Blossom, I want you to meet the smartest doctor in this whole hospital: Dr. Cohen, a heart man. Dr. Cohen, this is my friend Blossom McBeal.”
“Very nice to meet you,” he said—friendly, accessible, not like so many other doctors Blossom had met. But the thing that surprised Blossom the most was Dr. Cohen’s age. He had to be in his mid-seventies yet was spry, youthful, and working.
“So you up visiting the kids, Dolly?”
“You betcha.”
“Looks like Pip is putting on a little weight around the middle. You’re not sneaking him kippers and bagels again?”
“Me? Never!”
“Well, gotta go. Rounds.”
“See you on Thursday, Dr. Cohen.”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at Dolly’s feet, “nice shoes.”
“Why, thank you, Dr. Cohen.”
Dolly was blushing. “He was the chief cardiologist. Now that he’s older, he wanted to step down, work less. But he’s so brilliant, the hospital asked him to stay on. Can you imagine? Isn’t he nice?”
Blossom looked at Dolly. “Very nice. Dolly, you’re blushing!”
“I am not.”
“You are, too. You’re red as a beet.”
“A hot flash.”
“Sure, and pigs fly.”
B
LOSSOM COULD NOT STOP THINKING
about her experience at the hospital. The poignant memories replayed painfully on her heart and mind. She wanted to do something other then feel sorry for the children sleeping in their wards, waiting for salvation. Money didn’t seem right—she didn’t really have enough to make a difference anyway, and it wouldn’t have mattered to the kids. Jigsy and Pip were a tangible happiness, and that’s what she wanted to effect. Something that would make them smile.
Money was like opening an envelope at Christmas from an uncle you’d barely even met. The real joy came in a box with bright paper you could tear open to find that doll, or train, or something special you just couldn’t live without, that had been picked out just for you. But what could she do for the children that would please them like that?
A visitor. Someone who would come every week with a grab bag of toys and tricks. But not a clown. Clowns were creepy, macabre even, with their painted grins and overbearing antics. And certainly not a mime. Blossom believed mimes should be banned. They were the worst aberration of the human condition there could possibly be. When she saw them on the street, she wanted to tip them off their invisible tightropes. And then there were those stupid boxes they were always trying to get out of. Why? What the hell was with that? No, they were even creepier than clowns.
Then it came to her. Something that would bring magic and music to the children: a wizard. But this would be no ordinary wizard, with a pointed hat and a cape full of stars. This wizard would not only pull rabbits from silk scarves and levitate nurses; this wizard would use a wand to put wonderful spells on everyone. This wizard would spread gold fairy dust over the antiseptic sheets and listen to all the wishes the children kept secret. This wizard would be Wednesday’s cure. This wizard would be... Blossom.
And so Blossom went to work calling every costume company listed in the Los Angeles phone book. She found Costume Creators in Sherman Oaks and drove right over. By two o’clock she had found herself a wizard.
She slipped into her new blue satin cape and a silver body suit. It was topped off with a pointed hat embroidered with constellations and stars, while a gold bell jangled at the top. She painted her face white and, following the “How to Look Like a Wizard” instruction booklet, added long gold, glittery wings that she painted from the corners of her brows. She applied both gold and silver to her lips to offset the sparkle in her eyes.
She named herself Snow because she decided she would always leave snow globes behind for the children. It was something they could shake and make wishes on. She bought globes, each with a wizard inside, from a distributor on Melrose. Written on the snowy bottom was the word
Luck
in silver glitter, yet every time a child would shake it, it would form another word, like
Hope
or
Joy
or
Bliss.
How on earth did it do this? Anything was possible in this town, especially when it came to illusion.
Blossom was anxious to get out and try her new wizardry on the kids. She entered the hospital looking no less than mythological. All the grown-ups oohed and aahed, and Dr. Cohen didn’t even recognize her.
She entered the children’s ward, and all their little mouths opened in an ovation of ovals. They could hardly contain their excitement at the prospect that a wizard would pay them a visit.
Heather was awake and cooling her thirst with some ice chips and apple juice when Blossom walked in.
“How are you, my beautiful little angel?” the wizard asked.
“You’re a wizard!” Heather exclaimed as if she were looking at Santa himself.
“Are you enjoying your apple juice?”
“Do you want some?” Heather asked, extending her paper cup. Her sweetness nearly broke Blossom’s heart, and threatened to liquefy her painted grin.
“Oh, no,” Blossom explained, “I only drink from mountain streams and sometimes rain barrels.”
“What do you eat?” Heather asked, mesmerized.
“I only eat flowers and four-leaf clovers and sometimes new grass that comes in during the spring.”
“Can you make magic?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you make me better?” Heather asked in a small, breakable voice.
Blossom hadn’t been prepared for that. She didn’t know why; of course these children would want a wizard to perform the hardest miracle of all: life.
“Perhaps I can do some things to make you feel better,” Blossom said, a knot tightening in her throat.
Jesus, Blossom, wizards don’t cry.
But the fact was, she could make Heather feel better. At least for a little while.
She opened the inside of her satin cape, which was lined with what looked like hundreds of pockets. From the mysterious pockets she took out bottles of all shapes and sizes, each crowned with a gold top and an engraved inscription explaining what the potion did. But the bottles looked empty.
“There’s nothing in them,” Heather observed without guile.
“Oh, yes, there is,” Blossom insisted.
“What?”
She arranged the bottles neatly on the table.
“There’s joy, happiness, harmony, enchantment, bliss, pleasure, hope, vivacity, laughter, exuberance, cheer, playfulness, high spirits, dreams that come true, acceptance, exultations, spring, whimsy, relief, deliverance, comfort, well-being, faith, fearlessness, optimism, great expectations, courage, luck, and pluck. But I’m always working on more.”
“How do they work?” Heather asked, utterly fascinated by the array of vials lined up on her table. They looked like ancient perfume bottles washed down from the Nile or the River Jordan. They looked as if they’d only been used by Egyptian goddesses.
“Well, you choose one that you hope will come true or help you in some way or help someone else. Each one has its own aroma: vanilla, raspberry, lemon, cherry, apple, peppermint, butterscotch, fresh grass, roses, cacao, huckleberry, tangerine, juniper, lilac, pine, honeysuckle, lavender, seaweed, and garlic.”
“Garlic?”
“Oh, yes. That could be my favorite. The smell of garlic has an all-encompassing sense of well-being. In fact, that’s what you smell when you open comfort.”
“Can I try one?” Heather pleaded.
“But of course. What’s your pleasure?”
She studied the bottles on the table. They all had something wonderful to offer, but she picked one that had caught her fancy as the wizard was reading them off. She picked up the bottle that read
Dreams that come true.
“Now what do I do?”
“Simply open the top and breathe it all in, like you would pine or warm cookies on a snowy day. There are some potions where you can even smell blue skies or bubbling brooks or daisy chains worn by the invisible forest fairies. Things you never thought could have a perfume to them, do. Have you ever smelled a white fluffy cloud?”
“No.”
“Now, clouds smell like pink cotton candy. How about the moon?”
“Never.”
“Ahhh, the moon, that smells like peppermint. And joy smells like lavender and happiness like ginger snaps and rainbows like M and Ms. So are you ready to open your bottle?”
Heather carefully uncorked the top of her bottle and leaned forward. Although the bottle had appeared empty, a foggy plume escaped the flask, forming a curl of cold air. It had the distinct smell of roses caught in their first frost. Both sweet and cool.
“There was nothing in there a minute ago, and when I opened it, something came out. What was it?”
“It was your heart’s desire.”
“Will it come true?” she asked.
“I will hope and pray it does, my beautiful angel. I will hope and pray it does.”
“Could you visit me again?” Heather asked hesitantly.
“My goodness, yes.”
Blossom smiled at Heather as she made her way to the door.
“What’s your name?” Heather asked.
“Snow, my dear, just like the snow globe I left on your table.”
Heather looked over and found the globe, a glorious globe with nothing less than a wizard whirling her wand inside. She shook it and looked back up to show Blossom, but just like snow, she had melted and simply disappeared.
A
FTER A FEW WEEKS
the pink began to come back into Blossom’s cheeks. She was going to the hospital every Tuesday and Thursday with Dolly and every Wednesday as the wizard. Her outlook began to change, too. You could see it in her step, her eyes, her general demeanor.
She sold the Hockney for even money, a hundred twenty-five thousand, and was able to live quite comfortably for the moment. She worried that Hockney would call on a whim to see it, but Dolly assuaged her concerns. “He’s back in England, dear, working on a canvas the size of an IMAX movie screen. He won’t return until it’s done, and you know how long that could take. Ever paint a room?”
Blossom could not believe how good she was feeling, and took stock of how much control the mind plays over the body. She even thought she might have put the disease in remission. How could she feel this well and still be sick? Surely it was the perfect example of mind over matter. She traded in her reading on death and dying for think-healthy, be-healthy books.
Attitude, it’s all about the attitude.
The other thing she began doing was taking in the sights. After all, she’d barely seen anything since she’d arrived in California, the land of dreams. Except, of course, Gene Hackman.
She walked through the open-air Farmers Market, simply absorbing the mood and spice of it. So many different foods were out on display, as well as kitsch souvenir stands brimming with Los Angeles key chains and all sorts of junky Hollywood paraphernalia. She took in Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and meandered down the Walk of Fame to see if her hands or feet fit any of the various stars. The closest match was Joan Crawford’s, which she found immensely depressing. She’d rather have matched Trigger’s.
She toured Paramount Studios, which was a personal thrill, never having been so close to her longtime passion. She knew every story, every detail of the famed histories that hovered like secrets around every corner—the best of which, she recalled, was Fred Astaire, who took his screen test here. They said of him, “He can’t act, can’t sing, is balding, and can dance a little.” This made her laugh.