The House of Roses

by Holden Robinson

  “I love you,” she whispered, amazed at how much she did. “How is this possible?” Caitlin asked, and the nurse smiled. “How could you love someone this much, someone you don't even know yet?”

  “It's the miracle of being a mother,” the nurse offered, sitting in the chair beside Caitlin's bed.

  “They are a miracle,” Caitlin said, as her mother walked softly into her room, carrying two large teddy bears.

  “Oh my word,” Rita whispered. “Who do we have here?” she asked, and Caitlin looked at her with an enormous smile.

  “This is Rogan,” Caitlin said. “Rogan William Goodrich. Rogan, this is your grandma. Would you like to hold him?” Caitlin asked, and Rita inhaled sharply. She sat on the edge of her daughter's bed, and reached out her arms to take the baby.

  “My God, he's precious,” Rita said, the emotion she was experiencing obvious in the tremble of her voice.

  Caitlin said nothing. She simply stared at her mother and the child Rita held in her arms. Suddenly she understood so much more than she ever had. What she hadn't figured out in forty-four years was now as clear as day. This is how her mother felt when she was born. This was how it started, and Caitlin felt the urge to apologize, to tell Rita how sorry she was for never understanding until now. Before she could, a second nurse appeared in the doorway.

  “Can we join this little party?” he asked. He held a tiny baby in a pink blanket, against his choice of nurse's garb, a blue shirt with bright Winnie the Pooh characters. Caitlin felt her eyes fill with fresh tears. Rogan stirred in his grandmother's arms, and let out a sharp cry.

  “Sibling rivalry,” Rita said softly.

  The nurse brought Hannah to her mother's bedside, and again Caitlin reached for her child.

  “Oh, Mom,” Caitlin said, staring into her daughter's eyes. “She's awake,” she added, as she showered kisses on the tiny face. “She's so small,” Caitlin said with amazement. “How can she be so small?” she asked, with a hint of fear in her voice.

  “She's fine, just petite,” the nurse said, as he turned to leave. “She's perfect,” he added. “Congratulations.”

  Both nurses left quietly, leaving Caitlin and her mother alone with the babies. Hannah had fallen asleep in Caitlin's arms, and Rogan slept snuggled against his grandmother's chest.

  “She's beautiful,” Rita said. “What's her name?”

  “Hannah Margaret,” Caitlin said, gazing adoringly at the baby.

  “Margaret,” Rita said, sounding wistful.

  Caitlin looked at her mother, in time to see sadness flash in her eyes. “After Grandma,” she said.

  “She would have loved that,” Rita whispered, and Caitlin reached for her mother's hand and squeezed it warmly. “I'm proud of you, Caitlin,” Rita said softly. “Thank you for letting me be here. I know I wasn't always the greatest mother.”

  “You were a great friend to me, Mom. Sometimes I just needed you to be my mom. Like last night. You were really there for me.”

  “I just wanted you to love me, Caitlin.”

  “I did. I do. Sometimes I felt like your mother. Do you understand what I mean?” Caitlin asked, and Rita nodded. “You were so........., I don't know....., all over the place. Daddy worked so much, and you were always in the shop. Sometimes I felt like I had to be the one to figure everything out.”

  “Oh God, Cate. I never meant to make you feel that way. Is that what happened to us?”

  “I don't know. I'm too tired to think right now. What do I do now, Mom?”

  Caitlin looked again at her daughter and at her son who slept snuggled against his grandmother. Rita followed her gaze.

  “Now everything changes,” Rita said. “You'll learn to be a mother. Are you going to call him, Cate?” she asked softly, and Caitlin felt the buried sadness that brought with it a physical pain.

  “I should,” Caitlin replied. “I will.”

  “He deserves to know,” Rita said.

  “He does,” Caitlin agreed. He did. These miracles were part of him, and no matter what he felt for their mother, he deserved to know. Caitlin looked at her mother, who smiled gently, so unlike her normal unruly manner. The tender moments they'd shared throughout the night seemed to have softened Rita Hollings, if only temporarily. Caitlin was grateful to her for staying by her side and she'd never have survived the past few hours without her. Still she felt sadness and loss, as it was Colin she'd needed by her side. It was his tears that should have mixed with hers as they both watched their babies come into the world. It was his hand she'd wanted to hold as the pain tore her apart. It was him she wanted. Always him. Only him.

  “Oh God, Mom. I miss him so much,” Caitlin said, the sob she'd held back finally tearing free.

  “I know, baby,” Rita said, taking her daughter in her arms, as much as was possible.

  Caitlin sobbed for a long time, as Rita rubbed her back. The babies slept tucked between them, and the two women sat holding one another in the dark room. Caitlin had stopped crying, but her heart was filled and broken all at once, the combination of emotions enough to steal the breath from her.

  Four

  Rosario Mariposa sat quietly listening to her daughter's even breathing. Six year old Mia slept soundly, completely unaware of how much her life was about to change. Tears slid down Rosario's cheeks, and occasionally she lifted her hand to wipe them away. Her arm felt heavy and tired, much like her entire body, as she lifted it to quiet a sob with her fist. She was thirty-three years old, she shouldn't feel like this. Her body was ravaged, worn out, destroyed by a disease with no cure. But her mind was still sharp and aware, too aware, and it was this awareness that hurt the most. She had known her body was dying, and a little more than a day before, her doctor had confirmed it. She'd been diagnosed with AIDS two years before and had lived for four years with HIV inside her like a terrorist waiting to strike. It had been an endless battle, one she was not going to win.

  “It's worse, isn't it?” she'd asked the doctor, her voice very small.

  “Yes,” he'd answered. “You'll need to be hospitalized if your count gets any lower,” the doctor had said softly, not quite meeting his patient's eyes.

  “For how long?” Rosario had asked, certain of the answer.

  For a moment the two sat in silence, the doctor with the bad news, and the patient who knew it was coming. Rosario had fought to maintain control, and had conjured up a courage she didn't know she had.

  “I won't be leaving this time, will I?” she asked the doctor who could not meet her eyes. When he finally made eye contact, she wasn't sure what she saw there. Defeat? Resolution? Or simply sadness?

  “No,” he had said softly, “this is probably it. I'm sorry,” he added before looking away. The pain he saw in her eyes was more than he could bear.

  Rosario panicked, not for herself, but for her precious daughter who was unaware that her life would soon be changed forever. Mia – Rosario's treasure, her motivation, her reason for living – would be an orphan.

  “What about Mia?” she'd asked softly.

  “You'll want to get your affairs in order,” the doctor had said. It was almost an idiotic statement, and as Rosario looked at him, she suspected he knew it.

  “My affairs,” Rosario had repeated. “Right, get my affairs in order. Explain to my six year old daughter that she's going to be an orphan. How do you think that's going to go, Doctor? Any expert advice on that one?” she'd asked.

  “I'm sorry, Rosario. But we've known all along the outlook was poor.”

  She had known, but still hoped for a miracle. She believed in miracles. Perhaps a cure for her condition would be discovered tomorrow, or the next day. Rosario couldn't give up. She was a fighter. She had to be. Mia needed her.

  But the look on Doctor Burns' face told her that the disease had ravaged her body so much that even if they found a cure, it wouldn't be enough.

  “I'm sorry, Doctor,” Rosario had said meekly. “I know you've done everything you can.”

 
Doctor Burns had squeezed her hand for a long moment, and then nearly as an afterthought, he'd bent and gently kissed her cheek.

  “Godspeed, Rosario,” he'd whispered, and as demurely as possible, she'd turned and left his office.

  “Oh, God, please no! I need more time,” Rosario said in her daughter's dimly lit bedroom. Only then did the full weight of the situation hit her. The tears that had been falling erupted and she began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Mama,” Mia said softly. “What's wrong, Mama?” the child asked. Rosario crept through the darkness to her bedside.

  “It's okay. Mama had a bad dream,” Rosario whispered, wishing it were true.

  “Do you want to sleep with me, Mama?” the little girl asked, and Rosario tried to steady herself. She was approaching hysteria.

  “Yes, my precious. Yes, I do,” she whispered back after she had regained sufficient composure. Rosario climbed into the bed beside the child she loved more than her own life.

  “Don't lay on Marvin,” Mia warned, her voice thick with sleep, and Rosario gently picked up the love-worn bear and pulled it to to her. “I love you, Mama,” Mia whispered, as her eyes fluttered closed.

  “I love you too, baby,” Rosario said. She laid for a long time in the dark as her tears continued to fall. Finally, as dawn approached, Rosario slept, holding tightly to her daughter and the old bear.

  ***

  Colin Thomas rose from his bed aching and exhausted. He had slept, but fitfully, and for just a couple of hours.

  “Shit!” he shouted, after taking a step, and banging his toe on his open suitcase. He suppressed the urge to kick the luggage and sat on the edge of his bed. He'd dreamed of Caitlin, his dreams so vivid, that at four o'clock in the morning he'd woken suddenly, certain she'd be at his side. He'd called her name, and reached for her, and the ache he felt when he realized he had merely dreamed her was very real. He hated that he had to go away, hated the damn conventions that took him from his patients and his life. Lately he'd hated his life, but in the early hours of the night before, he'd made a decision. He knew what he wanted, and it was time for him to try to go back in time and get it.

  He still felt like a first class asshole for what he'd done to Lorry, but she'd been amazingly understanding, and they'd talked for hours over one beer that had become two, then three, then who knew how many. He suddenly remembered leaving the pub in a cab, and fought another urge to kick the suitcase. Where the hell had he left his car?

  “Holy shit. I don't even have my car,” he whined out loud to no one. He was a professional, nearly forty, and he chastised himself for drowning his sorrows in hops and barley.

  The phone rang beside him and he nearly flew from the bed. “Doctor Thomas!” he roared into the handset.

  Colin listened, feeling like a bigger jerk for barking at the caller.

  “I'm sorry, Caren,” he said, apologizing to the woman who manned his answering service. “Can you give me that again? Maybe a little slower this time?”

  Colin listened, forcing himself to concentrate on Caren's voice and ignore the roaring in his head.

  “All right. I can see them at eleven. My flight doesn't leave until two-twenty,” he said before apologizing again. “Sorry, Caren. I don't mean to bite your head off,” he said. “I had a bad night. I shouldn't be taking it out on you.”

  “Why don't you just call her?” the operator responded and Colin nearly groaned.

  “To think people believe there are secrets in medicine,” he said, and although he was annoyed, he chuckled.

  “No secrets here, Doc,” Caren said.

  “Thanks, Caren. Have a nice day. I'll try to be on better behavior if you have to call me again.”

  “I'd appreciate that. Have a safe trip,” she replied.

  Colin hung up the phone and whispered another obscenity. He hated to go away. He had things to resolve, and they needed to be resolved soon. He wasn't sure how long he could exist in his present state of torment. He'd felt like a jackass with Lorry, but as the hours had passed the night before, he realized how he'd treated Caitlin was more of a disgrace. He wasn't sure he deserved her, but he had to try. He led a crazy life, and it was hard to apologize for that. She'd known when she met him that he was a doctor, a pediatrician, specializing in patients with HIV, and his schedule was frightful. What she didn't know was that she'd take second position to his career, to his other interests, and worse yet, he'd let her. He finally understood that he should have never put her second, should have never dismissed her so easily when something came up. It wasn't a matter of scheduling. He'd let her believe she was less important.

  “Stupid jackass fool,” he said out loud. His words sounded strange in the empty condo. He was a fool, and he hoped Caitlin was, too. She'd have to be to take him back.

  Five

  The morning sun streamed through the slats in the utilitarian blinds as Caitlin Goodrich slept. It was a physically restoring sleep, the kind resulting from an exhaustion words couldn't describe. Caitlin dreamed of Colin, as she longed to do each time she laid down and closed her eyes. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, the smell of his cologne, the touch of his hand on her arm, each so real she was sure she'd wake to find him beside her. In the dream she wanted to tell him about his babies, but as dreams will sometimes do, this one had stolen her voice. He walked away just as he had in life, and just as she had in life, she didn't stop him. She wanted to cry out, to scream, to beg, but instead she stood, mouth agape, searching for words that wouldn't come. Finally the words came, but only in a whisper.

  “I love you. Please come back to me,” she said softly, and as in life, he didn't.

  Caitlin awoke with a start. Rita Hollings dozed in a chair beside her. Caitlin rose from the bed slowly, amazed at the toll the births had taken on her body. She felt almost lethargic, and carefully she padded to the window and looked out at the city. He was out there. Somewhere in a city of over one and a half million people, he was out there. She wondered what he was doing and if he was thinking of her, and as much as she wanted to hope, she doubted it. He'd moved on. She hadn't. Even if she had, when the sun rose again tomorrow, she'd leave the hospital with two reminders of him with whom she'd share the rest of her life. He would be with her always, and although it should have been a comfort, it wasn't. Despite the joy she felt when she thought of the twins, she felt empty. He'd left a void that was astounding, a hole deep inside her, as if he'd stolen a part of her. She supposed he had. She'd given him part of herself, a part of her soul, and when he left, he'd taken them with him. He was forever a part of her, and she held back a sob as she thought of him with someone else. He'd hold someone else's hand, read the paper on Sunday morning with someone else, and at night, when the world lay sleeping, he'd give himself body and soul to someone else. She longed for him, the desire so intense that heat suddenly emulated from her body. Even with her physical being ravaged and torn, the thought of him set her skin aflame.

  “But it was more than that.” She laid her head against the glass in the small gap in the blinds, the window cool against her forehead, the pause in thought calming her racing heart. The autumn morning was beautiful and she watched as the wind picked up, sending leaves scattering about the lawn below. The sight reminded her of the simple pleasures of life, the simple beauty and the things so many missed or took for granted.

  “I took him for granted,” she whispered in revelation. I did. I took him for granted.

  She stared out the window, amazed at how stupid she had been, how stupid lovers were in general. Why was it that they never realized the beauty of what they had until they walked away? I should have opened my heart to him. I should have let him in.

  “Why was I so afraid?” Caitlin asked, looking into the clouds for an answer. None came.

  Movement near the ground caught her eye. Two birds chased each other through the limbs of a tree beneath her window. She watched with a gentle smile on her face as one bird moved, and the other followed in perfect rhyth
m. They made it look so easy to be together, to be sharing something simple.

  Life could be simple, and there were times when it had been. Last autumn had been one of those times. They had both loved autumn, when the leaves began to change and the world in which they lived prepared for winter. They'd walked for miles together through the streets of the city. She could almost feel the weight of his hand in hers, and hear the sound of brittle leaves beneath their feet.

  It was like a residual haunting, the sounds and sensations playing again and again in her memory. She remembered their conversations, the debates they'd had, each of them armed with intellect and a desire to be right. Often they'd fought, but afterward they'd laughed. They had shared something beautiful. Two hopelessly flawed beings came together in a symphony of idiosyncrasies.

  There was one memory, so strong, that it wouldn't surprise her if it was the last thought she had when she lay old and dying. They'd been sitting in Central Park on a cloudy afternoon the previous summer when for one brief moment the clouds parted and a single ray of sunshine had been released. She'd been toiling over The New York Times crossword. He'd been reading The Post and drinking coffee. It was something they loved to do. They'd been sitting together on a bench, the way they always did. He lounged with one leg casually crossed over the other. She sat by his side, close enough to feel him beside her. They'd each been lost in their thoughts and had both looked up when the sun finally broke free. He'd leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek, the kiss so soft she'd barely felt it. She'd smiled at him, and he at her, and he'd looked at her for a long moment.