Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  I watch as he mounts the bike with ease, looking like a complete badass settling back against the black leather seat. No wonder he’s wearing those motorcycle boots.

  When he places the key into the ignition, he turns to look at me. I clutch the helmet with both hands, gulping. “Where do I sit?”

  He points at a small incline behind him. I laugh, but abruptly stop when I see that thing he’s gesturing to is a pathetic excuse for a seat. “You’re not serious?” I shake my head, backing away.

  “I’m very serious.” He grips the handles, waiting for me to get on.

  The helmet feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and I’m seconds away from handing it back to him and telling him thanks, but no thanks, I like my head where it is.

  But that small, bothersome voice, a voice which has been with me since I first arrived, has suddenly become a smidge louder. It’s telling me to stop being a chickenshit and…live.

  Funny, I’ve heard that voice before. It’s Georgia’s.

  The voices in my head are no longer nameless. That fact gives me a sense of comfort, and it also gives me the courage I need. Taking a deep breath, I put on the helmet and hope to god I’m not making a terrible mistake.

  “If we leave now, we might make it by Christmas.” He looks down at his imaginary watch with a dimpled smirk.

  I clutch my sides, laughing sarcastically. “When did you get your license?”

  His lips move from side to side as if contemplating his response. “Yesterday.”

  He’s joking and trying to make me feel at ease, but I’m still scared. “What if I fall?”

  Suddenly turning serious, he offers me his hand. “I promise I won’t let you fall.” The sincerity behind his pledge has me stepping forward. “But if you’re afraid…”

  What he’s doing is blatantly obvious, but still, I take the bait as I slap his hand away. “I’m not afraid.” I fumble with the strap under my chin, and after three attempts, it’s buckled tight. Now I must attempt to get on the bike without falling on my face.

  I’m mercifully no longer blinded by fear, but when I see how closely I’ll be pressed up to Dr. Archibald, a different sort of fear arises. There isn’t a seat belt in sight, so to stop myself from face-planting, I’ll have to hold him, and tight.

  I gulp.

  Hoping I don’t fall on my ass, I lift my leg and mount the bike just like Dr. Archibald did. All those horse-riding lessons come in handy as I clench my thighs and apprehensively wrap my arms around his firm waist. His body is warm and feels exactly how I envisioned it to feel—divine.

  Once I’m settled into place, he revs the engine before we launch off with an ear-splitting whoosh. I scream and tighten my hold around him, pressing my chest to his back. I feel his stomach ripple as he laughs at my response.

  He maneuvers the bike with skill, hinting he’s ridden for a long while, and before I know it, we’re past the pines and out the double steel gates.

  The wind whips at my cheeks, breathing a new lease of life into me. The landscape flashes before me, but I absorb enough to appreciate its beauty. Dr. Archibald zigs and zags, taking me on a surprisingly cathartic journey. It’s just me and this big, open space, and for the first time in a long time, I want to embrace freedom.

  We drive the backroads, and not another soul is in sight. It’s nice to imagine that it’s just us out here in the wilderness. About ten minutes in, I slacken my vise-like grip and relax my shoulders. If only Georgia could see me now. She’d be so proud.

  Peering up into the clear, untouched sky, I think that maybe she is. She was the reason I got on this motorcycle in the first place. She encouraged me to let go and live. Tears sting my eyes, and for once, I don’t wipe them away.

  The rest of the journey continues in silence, which is ironic, considering the engine rumbles with a deafening shrill. The stillness is inside my head, which hasn’t happened for a long time.

  Dr. Archibald turns left and pulls into a small country town. There aren’t a lot of stores along this strip, but enough to have tourists stopping in to buy souvenirs or grab a bite to eat.

  Dr. Archibald parks in a space, backing up the bike with complete skill. Once he kills the engine, I’m surprised my body still vibrates from the ride. My arms are still linked around him, and I regret having to let go. He gently squeezes my hand with his, rubbing over my wrist with his thumb before he dismounts.

  I attempt to remove my helmet, but the strap seems jammed. Just as I’m about to accept the certainty I will die wearing this headdress, Dr. Archibald leans forward and lends a hand. His touch surprises me, but I try my best to appear unaffected.

  His eyes are still veiled beneath his dark glasses, but I’m almost certain his fingers tremble as he unbuckles the strap below my chin.

  Once it snaps open, he clears his throat and quickly lowers his hands.

  My arms feel heavy as I slip off the helmet, but it feels good not to have my head confined. I shake out my hair, almost certain I have helmet hair. When I think I’m in the clear, I’m about to ask Dr. Archibald what happens next but hastily seal my lips when I see him watching me closely. His eyes may be cloaked, but I can feel him. I suddenly feel like I’m on fire.

  “S-so where are we g-going?” My stutter this time isn’t from my condition, but rather my sudden nerves.

  My voice seems to snap him from his thoughts. His cool demeanor returns, and he smirks. “Follow me.”

  He turns around, giving me a spectacular view of his firm butt. I scold myself for thinking such inappropriate thoughts, but a laugh, Georgia’s magical laugh, cackles loudly inside my head. It’s official—I’ve finally gone mad.

  The delectable smell of burgers and fries floats on the breeze, resulting in my stomach growling. It somersaults in delight when Dr. Archibald opens a heavy glass door, the bell above it chiming, and gestures for me to enter.

  Looking at the old-fashioned red logo on the storefront window, I see that the diner we’re standing in front of is called Peggy Lee’s. This is where that lip-smacking smell is coming from. He doesn’t have to ask me twice, and I walk past him with a smile on my face.

  The moment I step inside, I’ve been transported back to the ’50s. The polished floor is the traditional black and white checker, complementing long laminate countertops and red barstools.

  A waitress in a mint green retro diner dress greets us with menus in hand. “Hello, Dr. Archibald.”

  I raise an eyebrow. It appears he’s a regular. “Afternoon, Anita. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Busy as usual. Would a booth in the back be okay?”

  “Of course. That’ll be fine.”

  Anita leads the way while Dr. Archibald courteously gestures with his hand that I’m to go first. I nod my thanks and follow, eager to sit because I’m suddenly ravenous. I can feel the stares of everyone surrounding me, stopping mid-bite as I hobble down the aisle. The stint on the motorcycle was fun, but my sore legs are now paying the price. I’m familiar with people staring, so I continue with my head held high.

  When we finally reach the booth, I slide into the seat, thankful to be sitting. Dr. Archibald sits across from me, accepting the menus from Anita. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  “Thank you,” he says with a smile.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed to be seen in public with a cripple, but I suppose he’s seen it all. It’s his job, after all. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I peer around, uncertain what to say. I need a conversation starter, something to break the ice. But what?

  Dr. Archibald leans back into his seat, cool as a cucumber. “Have you always had your limp?” Well, this wasn’t the breaking of ice I had in mind.

  I squirm. Have I repulsed him somehow? “It comes and goes,” I confess, reaching for a sugar packet and turning it over between my trembling fingers.

  “When did it go away?”

  “When I went to the gym. And when I was participating in the clinical trials.” There is no need to elaborat
e on what comprised those trials.

  He rearranges the sunglasses on his head, mussing his hair up further. “If your limp improved, the drugs must have had a positive effect then?”

  “I suppose.”

  He smirks, appearing amused by my evasiveness. “Yet you chose to cease the trials. Why?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?” I snap, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re a doctor. I’m sure you have access to my files. All the info you require is in there.”

  “I have read your files.”

  My mouth falls open very ungracefully. “You? What? Why?” It’s all I can manage to spit out.

  “Just answer the question,” he says lightheartedly.

  I huff, blowing a stray piece of hair off my brow. “I’d rather we discuss anything other than this.”

  “I’m just making conversation, Lola.”

  His response isn’t snarky or invasive, but this is a very sensitive topic for me. I can’t casually discuss this decision over coffee like I’m talking about the weather. Anita returns with our coffee, breaking the sudden stale mood.

  I bury my head into the menu, hoping Dr. Archibald will stop with the questions. He doesn’t. “So how long was the trial?”

  “The triple cheeseburger with extra onions sounds amazing,” I reply, ignoring his question with my face still obscured by the menu.

  My sanctuary only lasts for a second because the menu is lowered slowly by two stubborn fingers. Raising my eyes, I meet the amused baby blues of the annoying doctor.

  “How long?” he presses, revealing he won’t let the matter drop.

  Surrendering, I drop the menu with a sigh. “A year.”

  He nods, deep in thought. “You do know that the trial was a success, correct?”

  “Yes, and…?” If he has a point, I hope he makes it soon.

  “And I wanted to know why you chose to stop.” He leans back into the booth, never breaking eye contact with me.

  “Because life’s a bitch, Dr. Archibald.” A lot more venom laces my sentence than I intended. I instantly feel terrible for snapping, but why is he pressing my buttons?

  Reaching for his coffee, he appears quite pensive once again, which makes me nervous. If I knew where the hell we were, I’d flag down a cab and escape a conversation sure to end in tears. “How about you call me Roman, and we cut the bullshit, Lola?”

  My mouth hinges open as I was not expecting that response. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I want you to be honest with me and yourself. We’re just two friends out for coffee.”

  “I don’t dabble in make believe, Dr. Archibald,” I snap, his name never sounding so dirty. I really must calm down, but he’s pissing me off.

  My bravado, however, seems to please Roman…Dr. Archibald. His mouth curves into that bold, trademark grin. “You really have no idea just how special you are.” I almost choke on thin air. “And stubborn…”

  “Am not,” I oppose, but quickly shut up when I’ve just proved his point.

  He continues. “You’re also a fighter. I’ve seen it. Last night you stood up before anyone else. And today, you had no qualms about riding my bike.”

  “Have you been testing me?” I don’t see the point in being coy. We’re well past that.

  “What if I have?” he replies, steepling his fingers under his chin as he places both elbows on the table.

  I eye my cup, wondering what a scalding hot coffee facial would feel like if I threw the contents into his smug face. He reads my thoughts instantly and laughs hoarsely.

  “What are you trying to achieve with your guerrilla tactics?” I ask. Leaning forward, I’m not the slightest bit intimidated. “If this is your idea of a pep talk, then I suggest you rethink your approach because it fucking sucks. Death is looking more appealing by the second.”

  He continues laughing, not at all offended. Well, screw him.

  “I’d know that laugh anywhere.”

  The sweet voice has both of us turning.

  “Erin.” Dr. Archibald stands, giving the young woman wearing an identical uniform as Anita a hug. She hugs him back tightly. My eyes narrow on their own accord. Who is this woman? She is attractive with large brown eyes and plump pink lips. An elegant green silk scarf is wrapped stylishly around her head. It’s a good idea to keep the hair from her eyes.

  I mustn’t have a very good poker face because she pulls away apologetically. “How rude of me. I’m Erin.” She extends her hand, which I shake lightly. “Don’t let this guy give you any trouble. If he does, just tell him you saw a bigger bike than his.” When she winks, I smile. Any joke at the doctor’s expense is just fine by me.

  Dr. Archibald clutches at his chest, staging distress. Erin giggles. “I’ll be right back to take your order.” She rubs his arm affectionately before leaving our table.

  As he watches her fondly, a surge of suspicion overwhelms me. Why the hell did he bring me here? “So who’s Erin?”

  With his gaze still pinned to her, he reveals, “She’s someone remarkable.”

  I put two and two together and roll my eyes. Did he bring me here to rub my face in his happiness? Or maybe he brought me along to make her jealous? Or maybe she’s his girlfriend? There are too many maybes in this equation, and I don’t like it.

  “Well, I’m happy for you both,” I say, reaching for my coffee, hoping to drown my sorrows.

  Anyone would think Dr. Archibald is sucking on a lemon when he turns to look at me. His nose and forehead are scrunched up tight. “We’re not a…thing,” he clarifies, gesturing back and forth between them with two fingers.

  “So why did you bring me here? Doctor—Roman?” It feels beyond strange to call him by his first name, but this is the only way he’ll tell me the truth.

  He gestures with his chin to Erin, who is laughing and chatting with customers. “What do you see when you look at Erin?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. What do you see?” When I hesitate, he adds, “This isn’t a trick question.”

  Fed up with his games, I look at Erin and shrug. “A pretty young woman.”

  “And?”

  “And what? I doubt she’s a real blonde. What do you want from me?” I snap, throwing my hands out to the side.

  “You’re missing the most vital point. Think. What is the difference between you and her?” He rounds the table and lowers his face inches from mine. I hold my breath because he is absolutely, infuriatingly beautiful.

  I know what he wants me to say, but why? Surely, he wouldn’t be so cruel. But he is. “Does she walk with a limp? Or talk with a stutter? Is her life going to be cut incredibly short?”

  The tears I’ve tried to keep at bay break the surface because his malice hurts more than I thought it would. “Why would you say that?” I whisper, my lower lip trembling. “Why would you compare me to someone like her? She’s…perfect.”

  I don’t wait for him to explain because no reason can excuse such spite. I shoot up, shoving past him, not caring that the entire diner is now staring. I storm past them all; none, including Dr. Archibald, mean anything.

  The fresh air isn’t sufficient to ease my impending breakdown. Nothing will. No one has ever been this cruel, not even my mother. I feel a fool for thinking Dr. Archibald was different.

  “Lola!”

  “Go away,” I affirm, sniffing back my tears as I charge away from him. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “Lola, listen to me. I’m sorry I made you cry.” The breeze carries his apparent remorse, but I won’t listen.

  “I’m not crying,” I stubbornly argue as I’ll be damned if he sees my tears.

  “Stop, please.” But it’s too late.

  I break into a sprint, surprised what adrenaline can do. My victory is short-lived, however, because I’m swathed in his arms, and I reproach my body for relishing in the contact.

  “Let me go!” My sadness is steadily replaced with rage as I fight to break his hold. “If
you wanted to humiliate me and make me feel like utter shit, mission accomplished.”

  His strong arms lift me off the ground to stop me from squirming. “The answer to your question is—”

  “I don’t care what the answer is. The only answer I want to know is where I am so I can get the hell away from you, you asshole!”

  Roman ignores me and storms down a small alley with me kicking and screaming. When we’re out of sight from curious passersby, he releases me but pushes my back against the brick wall. I try to bounce off it, but he presses his chest to mine, pinning me down.

  “Because…she was you.” He’s breathless as he slams his arm above my head, trapping me.

  “Who was?” I spit, fruitlessly shoving against him. It won’t break his hold.

  “Erin was you. She was you.”

  His winded admission freezes me in place, as I’m beyond confused. He reads my uncertainty, and his face, the face I knew was lingering under the surface all along, shines through.

  “Erin was my patient. She had a high-grade glioblastoma, a grade four astrocytoma.” His eyes turn soft, searching every plane of my face.

  “That’s not possible,” I whisper, shaking my head animatedly.

  “It’s very possible,” he refutes. His faltering heart beats in frantic sync with mine. He presses us closer together. I almost can’t breathe. “She was told by every doctor that her tumor was inoperable, but she refused to accept her life was over. I work at St. Mary’s Hospital; that’s where I first met Erin. She was in the clinical trials, just like you, and like you, Lola, her tumor reduced in size. But she never gave up, and a year ago, she underwent a new trial, and her tumor shrank down to the size where the doctors could operate.”

  “No, she’s not me,” I whisper to myself.

  “Yes, she is. I was one of those doctors. She was told she wouldn’t live past twenty-five. She’s now twenty-nine years old. Her tumor has been completely removed because she took the drugs you refuse to take—the ones that will save your life.”

  I close my eyes, his words a cruel trick. There’s no such thing. A magical potion does not exist.