“Have you ever seen a bitterroot wildflower?” I ask my mom, as we drive down West Broadway on our way to the airport.
“I saw one once when I was a little girl,” she said with her eyes still on the road, “in sagebrush near Darby when we were camping.” Her lips fall back to silent as she says this. I can tell she is nervous. I’m nervous. We are on our way to pick up my older sister, Rowan, from the airport. Her plane gets in at eleven.
In hopes to escape the silent car, I pick up where I left off in my book about Montana wildflowers.
The Latin name for the bitterroot wildflower is Lewisia rediviva. The first half of the name comes from Merriweather Lewis, who takes credit for discovering the flower. However, the Flathead Indian tribe used the root of the flower for food and trade centuries before Lewis and Clark took their expedition.
I roll my eyes at Merriweather Lewis. I’m related to a fraud. It was a sunny afternoon when my grandmother sat Rowan and I down at her kitchen table and told us we were related to the great Merriweather Lewis. He was our great, great, great, great grandfather. Or was it uncle? I can’t remember. What I do remember is feeling a sense of pride surge through me as my grandmother told me this. Six-year-old me believed she was somehow greater than she was five minutes before because she was related to Merriweather Lewis.
“I’m related to Merriweather Lewis,” I would say, every time we talked about Lewis and Clark in school, “he’s my great, great, great, great grandfather.” The last word was often interchanged with uncle. I felt so much pride in my great grandfather, or uncle, when I was younger. Now I just feel shame as I read about how he took credit for what he didn’t really do.
“Do you think Rowan got the cards I sent her?” I ask my mom, slicing the heavy silence once again. I sent Rowan a card every day while she was at rehab in Oregon. Each card had a quote from one of my favorite writers and a picture of her dog Goose.
“I’m sure she did,” my mom says, “I sent her a few packages that she thanked me for on the phone when she got the chance to call home.” My mom still didn’t take her eyes off the road. I wonder what she is thinking. I want to tell her that it’s not her fault. She is a good mom. There were places where she could have been better, of course, but she’s human. No parent is perfect.
Montanans voted to have the bitterroot wildflower represent them as the Montana state flower in 1895. They chose the bitterroot wildflower over thirty different types of flowers they were given to vote on.
The sound of the blinker signaling my mom waiting to turn the car into the airport brings me back. I shrug my shoulders, feeling the sweat pooling beneath my armpits. It’s a good thing I remembered to put on deodorant today. I always sweat when I get nervous.
We pull in front of the airport and my mom parks the car in the pick-up waiting zone. Looking out my window, I see people emerging from the revolving doors, eyes searching for a familiar car. There are lots of hugs, laughs, and smiles. What will Rowan be like when she emerges from those doors?
“Rowan just texted me,” my mom says, staring down at her phone, “her plane landed late so she will be out in thirty minutes.”
The flower blooms from May to June. It grows low to the ground in high valleys and low-lying mountainsides.
Rowan had her highs and lows before she had her lowest low. Growing up, we had our highs and lows as sisters as well. She was the sister who wanted to climb trees, wrestle, and play the Nintendo. I was the sister who wanted to play horses, barbies and dress up. We often compromised with each other. We would play horses for twenty minutes and then play Nintendo for twenty minutes.
We grew apart as we reached high school. Fighting more than we got along. She was two grades ahead of me at Big Sky High School in Missoula. I went to school just outside of Missoula in the small town of Florence. She was funny, extroverted, and athletic. I was shy, quiet, and studious. Our differences melted away when she moved out for college. She got a college scholarship to play soccer at a community college in Sheridan, Wyoming. I was excited for her. It seemed like her life was putting her on a great path. I was even more excited to take over her room.
Growing best in soil that is dry, the flower can often be found near shale or gravel that is loose.
“There she is!” my mom said, sounding excited for the first time all day. I look up to see Rowan walking out of the revolving doors. Her curly hair is tied up in a bun, her favorite tree chacos on her feet, and a big smile is plastered on her face. She waves excitedly at our car. I jump out of the car and run over to her.
“Thank you for all the letters,” she says, as I wrap her up in a hug, “they were just what I needed.” I grab her bags and place it in the trunk of the car while my mom steps in line for her hug. I let Rowan have the front seat, secretly feeling pleased with myself for giving it up without a fight.
“It’s so good to see you guys,” Rowan says, as she buckles up and shuts the passenger side door. My mom wipes a few escaped tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Rowan, I told myself not to do this. I don’t want to stress you out,” our mom says.
Rowan takes her hand and places it on my mom’s shoulder. I can’t believe how good she looks. My mom accompanied Rowan on her way to rehab. When I dropped them off, Rowan looked unrecognizable to the sister I grew up with. She was thin and pale. She had dark bags under her eyes from the sleepless nights spent drinking alone. Her curly hair was frizzy with flyaways. Her eyes were sad, lost, and searching. This Rowan looked healthy. The bags were gone. Her curls were perfect ringlets. Her eyes looked happy and clear.
The flower is clear-cut, rugged, and distinct. It survives any and all conditions. Even in times of drought, when it appears perished and parched, it can suddenly burst back to begin a second life. That is where the second half of the Latin name Lewisia rediviva comes from. It means renewed.
“I appreciate that,” Rowan said, tears welling up in her eyes now, “but I’m okay now. You guys don’t have to be careful around me. I want to be open with you guys about my journey. I’m so excited to share what I learned with you guys.”
The bitterroot wildflower is rare. To catch a glimpse of its darling pink petals, is a sacred occasion.
Rowan reached around and grabbed the book out of my hands. She wasn’t one to remain in the sappy waters for long. She began to read the page about the bitterroot wildflower out loud in a British accent despite my protests to give it back. She stopped when she got to the part about where the second half of the Latin name came from.
“Lewisia rediviva, have you ever seen one?” she asks me.
I stare at this new version of my sister. Sitting there in the passenger seat, ready to begin her second life.
“I believe I have seen a bitterroot wildflower,” I say.