The House of Roses

by Holden Robinson

  “It looks like the picture, doesn't it?” Rita asked, as she shuffled to her daughter's side.

  “No.”

  “No?” Rita said sadly.

  “No, Mom. The picture is a picture. Okay, wait. That didn't come out right. The picture is an image frozen in time, a wonderful memory, but this is something different. This painting looks alive, Mom. It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it. How did no one know you could do this?”

  “I don't know. I'm my worst critic. I wasn't sure it was all that good.”

  “Are you crazy, Mom? Okay, bad question. We already know you are.”

  “Thanks, Cate. There's another one I'd like you to see.”

  “There are more?”

  “Hundreds. They're upstairs in the attic. This is the only other one down here.”

  Rita took a thin white drape from a canvas in the corner of the shop. Caitlin gasped and dropped the monitor, which sent its batteries rolling across the floor.

  “Holy shit! Sorry, Mom.”

  “That's okay. You're in the swearing zone.”

  “Right. Where's the other battery?” Caitlin asked, as she crawled around the floor on her hands and knees.

  “It's by the cooler.”

  “I see it.”

  Caitlin replaced the batteries, sat the monitor on the counter, and crossed the room to stand in front of the canvas. It was a painting of the farmhouse. A little girl stood on the sidewalk, and Caitlin recognized a much younger version of herself. While she was amazed at the likeness, it was the other child in the background that grabbed her attention and caused her to gasp.

  “That's Margaret, isn't it?” Caitlin asked.

  “It is,” Rita said softly.

  The second child looked almost identical to the first. Margaret stood by the old shed, the same shed where the box containing precious memories of her sat untouched for years.

  “It's the only picture of the two of you.”

  “But there can't be a picture.”

  “There is, Cate,” Rita said, reaching into the pocket of her apron. “Look.”

  Caitlin stared wide-eyed at the picture. She saw herself, standing on the sidewalk. She couldn't have been more than maybe five years old. There was something by the old shed, but Caitlin couldn't tell what it was.

  “Look at it in the light.”

  Caitlin did. The anomaly by the shed looked like the outline of a little girl, and Caitlin looked at Rita in amazement.

  “Daddy took it,” Rita said.

  “Oh my God,” Caitlin whispered.

  “I know.”

  “What did you think when you saw this?”

  “I thought that life is amazing, but sometimes we have to look closely.”

  “It is, and we do.”

  “I've always felt her here, Caitlin, like a part of her came with us,” Rita said wistfully. “I was wrong not to tell you about her. I could have told you, even if I left out the rest.”

  “It's okay, Mom.”

  “I know,” Rita said.

  It was okay. They couldn't change the past. Suddenly it was the present Rita thought of, and she looked at Caitlin, and spoke softly.

  “I finished the flowers for Ella's coffin. Would you like to see them?” Rita asked, and Caitlin nodded.

  Rita walked to the cooler, and Caitlin stood quietly as her eyes filled with tears. Rita laid the flowers on the counter, and removed the tissue that protected them.

  “Oh, Mom,” Caitlin said, as tears slid down her cheeks. “They're beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  The arrangement was stunning, a beautiful, living symphony of roses. Ella's roses.

  “I just need to add the ribbon,” Rita whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  “Where are they?” Cate asked.

  “In the drawer under the can of paintbrushes.”

  Caitlin opened the drawer as Rita watched.

  “Pink?” Rita nodded. Pink had been Ella's favorite color. Nothing else would do. Caitlin pulled a long pink ribbon from the drawer. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You're sure?” Caitlin asked through a slight sob.

  “I'm sure.”

  “Okay.”

  Caitlin laid the ribbon on the counter. It was a soft pink color with one word written in white letters. Mother.

  Forty-nine

  Colin Thomas stood looking out the back window of his new home. Mia was in the backyard playing with the dog. Caren, victorious after locating the boxes marked “kitchen” in Colin's bedroom, was cooking dinner. The discovery had left Colin's admiration of the moving company in ruin, but he was slowly recovering. Rosario was not.

  She had been given pain medication, and the hospice nurse assured them she was resting comfortably. Colin reminded the nurse that he was a doctor, not to parade his accomplishments, but to assure her that Rosario would be in good hands in the nurse's absence. A few minutes before, he'd seen the nurse to the door. In a hushed tone, she'd told him she didn't think she'd be returning. He didn't need to ask what she meant.

  Colin was amazed when evening came and Rosario was still alive. It spoke volumes of the human spirit and the will to live. Mia had been quiet for most of the day, sticking close to his side, her fear and confusion evident. Along with the fear and confusion, he sensed an acceptance, and he was reminded of the resiliency of children.

  Caren had done an amazing job organizing the house, and he was shocked when he looked around and realized they had lived in the home just twenty-four hours. He watched Caren as she worked in the kitchen, and sensing his eyes upon her, she turned.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Doing as well as I can.”

  “How's Mia?”

  “She's playing.”

  Caren looked out the window at the little girl. “My heart breaks for her,” she said softly.

  “Mine, too.”

  “This is a good thing you've done, Colin. I'd hate to think of that poor woman in a hospital, and it would have been even harder for Mia.”

  “I know. Caren, I need to get my mind off things just for a minute. Can you keep an eye on Mia?”

  “I can see her from here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Colin padded quietly into the living room where he had left his laptop. He sat on the couch, opened the laptop, and it blinked to life. He clicked on the icon he needed, and his browser filled the screen. He typed his request into the search engine and waited. His eyes scanned the website of the New Hope Gazette, and he scrolled down and clicked on the link marked, “obituaries.”

  Ella Catherine Simons was the fourth entry, and he moved the cursor to the entry, and touched his finger to the left side of his wireless mouse. He wanted to send flowers, and he needed the name of the funeral home. The obituary filled the left side of the screen, and his lips moved as he read. Suddenly he stopped.

  “What?” he said, and the one word seemed to echo in the sparsely furnished room.

  “Did you say something, Colin? Are you all right?” Caren asked from the kitchen.

  “No. I'm fine.” I'm not fine. What the hell did that say?

  Colin read the words again.

  Ella Catherine Simons, of New Hope, passed away unexpectedly Saturday evening. She was predeceased by her parents, Anna Patricia and Frederick William Simons, and her fiancé, Charles Samuel Tayler. She is survived by her daughter, Caitlin Tayler Hollings Goodrich, and grandchildren, Hannah Margaret, and Rogan William Goodrich.

  “What the hell?” he whispered.

  Ella was Caitlin's mother? Why didn't she ever tell me that? Ella is survived by Caitlin and her children? Caitlin doesn't have children, does she?

  “Oh my God,” Colin said out loud. He couldn't make sense of it. He read the words one more time, and then did the math in his head. Caitlin had children – his children.

  “Why didn't she tell me?” he whispered, and although he was shocked, he understood. Would I have told me? “Holy
shit,” he said softly. A month before he had been childless. Suddenly he had three children.

  “Caren, I'm stepping out front for a minute. I'll be right back,” Colin yelled.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  He crossed the living room into the foyer. The ceramic tile felt cool beneath his bare feet. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The air was still warm, and he took several deep breaths to try to calm himself.

  “I have three children,” he whispered. “Three. Oh, Caitlin.”

  Two weathered Adirondack chairs occupied the right hand section of the small porch. He brushed away the leaves that had settled on the closest one, sat down, and lowered his head into his hands.

  He sat for several minutes, deep in thought, his mind returning to the last night he and Caitlin had spent together. It had to have been that night. They had argued at Christmas, and for a week they had barely spoken, and once they had, they hadn't been intimate. Not until that last night.

  As difficult as it was to grasp, it explained everything. Her absence at The Times, her return to New Hope, the look burning in her eyes that clearly said, there is more I need to say.

  She had faced something so frightening, and she had done it alone. For a moment he hated himself, but in his defense, he hadn't known. He wished he had. He would have been there for her, but he wondered, as he sat in the dark, if he would have been there for the wrong reasons, and if he had, would he have been there for Rosario, and most importantly, for Mia?

  “Jesus,” he whispered, dropping his head back into his hands.

  “Are you all right, Colin?” Caren asked. He hadn't heard her approach, and he jumped at the sound of her voice. Am I all right? How could he answer that?

  “No,” he said honestly. “I am not all right.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Dinner's ready.”

  “Okay. Where's Mia?”

  “She's at the table.”

  “Okay. I'm not sure I can eat.”

  “Can you try, for Mia's sake? You heard the nurse. We need to try to keep things as normal as possible.”

  Normal? “I can do that,” Colin said.

  He stood and followed Caren into the house. Mia was waiting at the table, and he nearly wept as he looked at her. She was so precious, so innocent, and she needed him so much. He could try, for Mia's sake.

  “Hi, Papa,” she said softly, and he smiled.

  “Hi, pumpkin,” he said, planting a kiss into her soft hair. “You hungry?”

  She nodded. “Is Mama coming?” she asked.

  “No, Mama's sleeping right now,” he said.

  “Just sleep?” Mia asked, and he watched as fear registered on her beautiful face. Dear God. She's waiting. We're all just waiting.

  “Yes, sweetheart. Just sleep.”

  “What did you make, Caren?” Mia asked, as Caren carried a large bowl to the table.

  “Spaghetti and salad.”

  “I like that.”

  “I do, too,” Caren said.

  Colin forced himself to eat, pausing from time to time to smile at Mia. As normal as possible, he thought. Nothing felt normal, not even as normal as it had only that morning, but he was doing his best.

  They'd nearly finished dinner when Rosario cried out from the next room.

  “I'll go,” Colin said, reaching for Mia's hand. “You stay with Caren, sweetheart. I'll be right back.”

  “Is Mama okay?” Mia asked.

  “I'm sure she is. I'm going to check,” Colin said reassuringly.

  He found Rosario wide-eyed, but still breathing. Her lips moved rapidly. He couldn't tell what she was saying, and he bent forward to listen more closely.

  “Eduardo?” Rosario said softly. “Is that you, my love?”

  “Yes,” Colin whispered, looking into Rosario's eyes. She seemed to look past him, at something over his shoulder, and without thinking, he turned, fully expecting to see something behind him. There was nothing. “Rosario,” he whispered. “I'm right here.”

  “Rosa,” she said softly.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Call me Rosa, like you used to.”

  “Rosa,” Colin whispered, wondering where he was finding his strength.

  He was a doctor. He'd held patients as they died, children as they took their last breath. And then, when it was over, he'd held mothers and fathers as they wept in his arms. He'd experienced death but he'd never really understood it, not until now. He suddenly knew what it was like to watch someone you love die, to share the last moments of their life. He wasn't in love with Rosario, but he had grown to love her in the short time they'd shared. He loved her as a friend and someone he greatly admired. He was sharing something precious with her, not only her child, but her passing, and in dying, she was teaching him about living.

  Without prompting, he leaned closer to her face and whispered softly. “I love you, Rosa,” he said and watched as she smiled. He closed his eyes and held her hand, and listened to her ragged breathing.

  “I love you too, Colin,” she whispered, and he opened his eyes. “Thank you,” she said, before her eyes fluttered closed. It was the last time Rosario Mariposa would speak.

  Fifty

  Caitlin Goodrich sat on the front porch with the first of Ella's journals in her lap. She had put the babies down to sleep after dinner, and the monitor remained quiet by her side.

  She could hear Rita and Maria talking in the kitchen, and they expected Nathan would be stopping by a bit later. Caitlin paused and listened to the soft murmur of their conversation. She couldn't make out their words, but she felt a sense of comfort knowing they were nearby.

  She closed the journal she held, and pulled it to her chest. She had cried, but not from heartbreak. Although painfully brief, Ella had had a great love story. She had begun writing the journals after she met Charles Tayler. She described him in great detail, and Caitlin could picture him in her mind.

  She opened the journal once more, and stared at the beautiful penmanship. She had marked one passage with a cigarette wrapper Rita had left on the table. Ella would think it appropriate. Caitlin smiled and began reading the passage again.

  Dear Diary;

  I have known Charles Tayler a little over seven hours, and I already know he is the man I will marry, the man I will love for my entire life. He is kind, and well spoken, although he claims to be uneducated. He called himself a poor farmer, and I don't care if he is poor, as he has a farmer's hands, strong hands, hands not afraid of hard work. He seemed almost ashamed when he cautiously reached for my hand, as he walked me to my father's car, and while his hands were worn from work, his touch was gentle I first saw him as he was examining a hot dog that had fallen from the grill. I watched as he wiped it clean with his napkin, walked away, then fed it to an old hound dog who was dozing under a tree in the afternoon sun. He knelt beside the dog, patted his head, and he didn't grimace when the dog licked his face. He actually kissed the dog. I watched this young man kiss this ratty hound, and honestly, it was love at first sight. His kindness to the dog warmed my heart, as I recalled watching a neighbor misuse his own animal when I was a young girl. I knew it was wrong. I remember Daddy got his shotgun, and I was terrified he might shoot the dog, but I knew my daddy well, and I didn't really think he would do that. Daddy cocked the gun, at least I think that's what they call it, and pointed it at the man. I remember the man asked my daddy if he was going to shoot his dog. Daddy said no, and told the man he was going to shoot him if he ever lifted his hand and beat the animal again. The man asked my daddy if he wanted the dog, told my daddy the dog was useless. I remember watching, and listening, and thinking, yes, yes, yes, Daddy, please say yes. Daddy did. I still have that dog. He is old and deaf, and going blind, and his name is Lucky, because he is. He sleeps on my bed, and sometimes he smells a little, but I am lulled to the sleep by his snoring, and I am comforted
to know he is there. Liz loves him too, although she'd never say so, but Lucky is mine. Mine and Daddy's. Lucky's old, and one day he will die, and although my heart will be broken, I will be glad he was ours, and that Daddy made sure no one ever beat him again.

  Oh dear, I am forgetting to write about Charles. Mama always said I would find a man as good as my daddy, and I believe I have found that in Charles. He is like Daddy, but different, too. Daddy has dark hair, at least what's left is dark, and dark, dark eyes, almost the color of coffee. Charles has blond hair, and the bluest eyes, and the first time I looked in them, I was sure I'd never seen a more beautiful shade of blue. His shoulders are broad, and colored a golden bronze from many hours working in the sun. He wore a white tank top, kind of like an undershirt, and blue jeans, that were very worn, but clean. When I saw him from the back, I am sure I blushed a bright red. He looks quite nice from that angle. Goodness, I am blushing now.

  His eyes light up when he laughs, and when he smiles, it reaches his blue eyes. He says he is ordinary, but there is nothing ordinary about Charles Tayler. I can still feel him holding my hand, and I can still hear the voice that asked me if I would slap him if he kissed me goodnight. I told him no, and I closed my eyes and waited for his lips to touch my cheek. They didn't. His lips touched mine, and I would not have been surprised to open my eyes and see the world around me on fire. I was on fire, just from that first kiss. I have never been kissed on the mouth. It was wonderful. I'd like to do it a lot more. I wish I could tell someone, but for now it will be my secret. Our secret, dear diary, yours and mine.

  Caitlin set the journal aside. She thought of her laptop gathering dust in the corner of her room, and thought it might be time to open it. There were sixty-four more journals, more than even Ella thought, and Caitlin knew it was this extraordinary woman from whom she had gotten the writer's gift.

  Caitlin watched as the sun set, announcing night's arrival, their second night without Ella, and although in her heart she felt the pain of loss, she also felt joy. Earlier that day she'd reread the letter Ella had written. When she was done, she spoke promises aloud, promises she prayed would carry beyond the clouds. Caitlin felt as though she had traveled a great distance to this place, to this moment of discovery. She knew what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, she was certain, and she knew it was a great blessing, this certainty.