Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  Rising from the sofa he gaits to the closet, stiffening his back and broadening his shoulders as he goes. He rummages through a messenger bag before drifting back, staring at a small tin and looking a tad shrunken. Pulling forth a chair, he sits across from me, as if the contents of the container add danger to our proximity. “This is just for us,” he says. Pressing the tin into my hand he wraps my fingers around it, then gives a squeeze signaling his own need for reassurance.

  “What’s inside? Why are you so nervous?”

  “It’s a flash drive containing a secondary journal I began while in rehab. I’m nervous from memories of the last time I shared my journals—when I told you the truth about what happened to me. This one is even more personal than those.”

  My stomach twists as if entering a vortex. Those journals detailed years of abuse and stress that made him monstrous and eventually suicidal. “Donovan, what are you trying to tell me?”

  “You’re well aware of the way I’m haunted in my sleep, but not all of the ghosts are bad. Dr. Coe felt I should keep a separate journal for the things that haunt me at night, along with a new method of maintaining it—like sorting fantasy from reality. We would then review my nightmares and try to unlock more of my issues. The more I improved, the more often I had special dreams. Some were still frightening, but others were downright beautiful.” Moving to sit next to me he slides his arm around my waist, the other hand planted firmly on my leg, as if bracing me. “Remember how you said we’re soul mates and eventually I started buying into that possibility?”

  My eyes gaze up to his, longing to dive into them and become lost. “Yeah, it’s when you gave me the infinity necklace I’m wearing. You said we traveled together before and we would again.”

  He nods in acknowledgement. “Shortly after accepting that idea I started having insightful dreams—some of them vague and others pretty vivid. What you hold are my journal entries of those dreams. Lily, I may really be crazy, but I think—no, I know we have traveled together before. I’m also pretty sure we are no strangers to conflict relationships. Would you be willing to undergo past life regression?”

  My eyes expand and then try to refocus on the tin, shaking my head as if doing so will grant clarity. “But you’re a psychologist. Doesn’t this go against your beliefs?”

  “Sort of. Most psychologists see it as a crutch people use to avoid reality. Dr. Coe is a believer because he had patients who can describe details about shoes and clothing that are not in your common history books but hardcore historians can confirm. All I know is that when I look into your eyes I feel I’m having memories I can’t see. If you’re willing to undergo hypnotherapy, and our stories match, maybe we can understand why our connection is so deep.”

  Beholding the flash drive that may contain so many keys, intuition dawns: I’ve always been a butterfly trapped in Donovan’s net. My heart knows Donovan and I traveled together before, yet I’ve never allowed myself to think of the logistics. If the more I pull back, the more I crave his enclosure, what happens if I learn my deprivation has been for centuries, or even millenniums? Is being an old soul why I have always felt and sounded older than my years? Why do I have the passions I do? How did I become me?

  My insides become unsettled, and my words sound as hazy as my vision that blurs while staring at the tin. “For years I have tried to figure us out. Whenever you read about sibling consanguinamory there are crazy theories, like our family must have been dysfunctional, or we are perverted, or some other ridiculousness. Truth is, you and I just love each other.

  “Here,” I say, pressing the drive back into his hand. “I can handle it if you’re wrong, but if you and I are fated to find each other time after time only to be pulled apart, how do I move forward knowing I am destined for pain?”

  “Lily, I’m sorry. I never expected you to react this way.”

  “It’s fine.” My tightened grip emphasizes my words. “Really. Give me a little time to get my head together. When I can face the results, no matter what they are, I’ll give it a shot.” My hands reluctantly retract from his while forcing myself to look at him in a socially acceptable light because of my commitment to someone else.

  “Hey,” he says softly, pulling up my chin. Something in his eyes draws me in. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just ridiculously late. I’m going to get ready for bed.” I head into my room with the intention of later returning to say good night. When I exit the bathroom, the doors between our rooms are still open, yet Donovan’s lights are off. It feels wrong for a married woman to enter the dark bedroom of a former lover as he lies in bed. The ring on my finger tells me to shut the door while the journal he keeps beckons me into his chamber. I crawl into my own bed, staring into Donovan’s darkness, secure in his proximity, and knowing that though they feel wrong, my actions are correct.

  “Leave me alone! I swear I’ll kill you if you come any closer!”

  My cozy slumber is interrupted by the demons that haunt Donovan in the night. Grateful that I left the door open, I race into his room. My attempt to rattle him awake is interrupted by flailing slaps that escalate into forceful swings.

  “Get off of me! I said I’ll kill you!” he threatens.

  Fearing the hotel’s security will soon arrive, I grab Donovan from behind, attempt to restrict his arms, and scream, “Donovan, it’s Lily! Wake up! Donovan, wake up!” I echo the chant to no avail. Cowering from his swings, my nails pinch his inner thigh with a twist. Finally he wakes, sitting with a gasping jolt. My back hits the bed in relief.

  “Please tell me I didn’t hurt you,” he pants.

  “Wow. You’re concerned about me? This was way worse than when we lived together.”

  “Sometimes I get out of hand when I’m about to see Mom. Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

  “No, I’m okay.” However my pulse still flares and ebbs with each heartbeat.

  Donovan bridges his back, his hands scraping through his hair. “Lily, I need to ask you something that may sound really strange, and you have to give me an honest answer. Did I ever do anything to physically hurt you, or have I ever done anything to manipulate you into feeling the way you do?”

  “No!”

  Donovan remains hunched over, almost as if hiding from my impending answer. “Stop and really think about it. No knee jerk reaction. I need to know if I ever did anything at all, especially before this whole mess started.”

  Propping myself to sit against the wall, my heart still racing from Donovan’s nightmare, I force myself to take pause. Finally I address him in no uncertain terms. “Never. Not once have you tried to place any influence over me except to get me to not love you, but even then I saw the truth.”

  He peers to me so he can analyze my upcoming reaction. “Are you absolutely certain? What about that first day, when you tackled me, then I pushed you down and pinned you?”

  My brain searches for a memory to confirm his false one. “Donovan, that’s not what happened. After you sat, you helped me up and we went inside. You’ve never asserted yourself on me.”

  Lying back onto the bed, he motions for me to curl into his shoulder. As his comfort slowly settles in, so does mine, bringing forth guilt. For hours my brain deliberates the ethics of this moment of peace with myself versus the previous battle with frustration and temptation. Eventually comfort wins, and Donovan’s heartbeat lulls me to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  My head throbs as Donovan and I approach the hospital room of Lucretia Macevil. The jumbo bottle of aspirin in my purse won’t be enough. Given whom we are about to see I should’ve brought Valium—or elephant tranquilizers.

  Bags hang under my eyes that look like they are filled with dollar store rejects while Donovan appears well rested. He must be all too used to late nights, or maybe he’s better at the makeup thing than I am.

  Stopping at the door, Donovan raises our entwined hands and smirks. “The Cirrhosis and Portal Hypertension aren’t enough? Are you trying to give her a
heart attack too?” The levity is desperately needed, yet it fails to sit well.

  “Fine.” I drop his hand like a dirty rag. “Forgive me for looking out for myself for once.”

  Scanning me through aching eyes that are resigned to sadness, his fingers skim my jaw line. “Yeah, I need all the help I can get too, but she’s going to flip if she thinks anything is going on. You can hold on to me all you want later, okay?”

  My demure smile is accented with a subtle nod before we breathe deeply and enter at our own risk. Mom sits in her bed. Time, her disease, and the suffering she inflicted have all taken their toll. Her short, wavy hair, once dyed an age-appropriate chestnut is now misty gray. Puffy pillows reside under her blue eyes while fork-shaped crevices emit from their far edges. Her cheeks hang like petite jowls. She’s awake, alert, and being her old self. “Oh, Lily! I never expected to see both of you,” she nearly sings before running her eyes between Donovan and I. Her expression goes stiff. “Where are Christopher and Anna?”

  You mean you hoped not to see both of us. We’re a matched set, and you know it.

  Wow. Where did that come from? Some days I surprise myself with the amount of animosity I hold towards this woman.

  “Hello to you too, Mom,” Donovan moans as he places a vase of Lilies of the Valley on her nightstand. The sag of his face reminds me of how the blooms hang. Why couldn’t Mom have named me after a happier flower?

  “Oh, thank you,” she says to Donovan with scarcely a glance in his direction. Instantly she returns her sights to me. “It’s just amazing that Christopher still works after inheriting all that money. I can’t believe his father was Paul Eccles, the famous producer! Have you met more of his father’s friends?”

  Wow. Lying in a hospital bed with a deadly disease and she’s still obsessing over the teen idols of her youth. Amazing! “Occasionally, but mostly we see the guys from Paul’s old band whenever we go to England,” I taunt.

  Mom looks like she’s about to faint. “I almost died when you told me who his extended family is. I had such a crush on Eric Taylor. He was just so dreamy.”

  Seriously? She needs to get out of fantasyland. Time to mess with her—truthfully. “Oh, he’s still pretty dreamy. I swear he’s seventy-five going on fifty-five. That full head of hair is mostly brown and not from a dye job. He’s single too. It’s such a shame. Whenever we visit he and Christopher are almost inseparable.”

  Donovan shoots me a whimsical smile. Oh, you’re so bad!

  I flash a crinkled nose at him.

  After a longing sigh, Mom schlepps herself back into reality so she can scrutinize the children who came to help her despite their reservations. “Is it really wise, you two being here alone? What do Anna and Christopher think, or do they still not know of your past?” she says, like we spent years under the guise of being The Kray Twins, viciously torturing and murdering people.

  “No, they don’t know, nor will they,” Donovan says with insistence. His eyes remain calm, but his voice resounds with intimidation. Quickly he changes the subject to one far more difficult. Staring at his fidgeting hands, he makes no attempt to hide his pain. “Look, Mom, the doctor said your situation is very serious. We need to know how you want us to handle things, should they go in an undesirable way. Can we please focus on what we need to?”

  Mom brings her gaze to her intertwined hands as she sets them on her stomach. “You really want to uphold my wishes, James?” she asks Donovan. “Even after all I’ve put you both through?”

  James? My head cocks as I question Donovan. Why is Mom calling you by your middle name?

  His brow crinkles as his eye dart from side to side. With a questioning shake of his head he ignores her madness like it happens all the time. “Yes, Mom, we do.”

  How he can constantly deal with her, only to plunge forward and ignore the craziness, I will never understand.

  After dinner at a noisy restaurant, Donovan and I return to the hotel. Simultaneously we open the doors that adjoin our rooms, and I plop down on his bed. The circus of butterflies I sense performing trampoline tricks in his stomach make me wonder why I am willing to enter the lion’s den. Donovan hovers nearby, picking at his nails. “Is this about the James thing?” I ask regarding his discomfort.

  “Huh?” He peers up, and then returns his attention to his nails. “Sort of. I should be used to her crazy ramblings. It’s part of the senior dementia that she probably fakes to taunt me.” He takes a seat next to me. Instinctively we kick off our shoes and face each other, our legs entwined at the knees. He grabs my hands and stares at my wedding ring before drawing his eyes to mine.

  “All my life I have tried to do the right thing—for you, me, Anna, my daughter, and Mom—but in doing that, I have lost so much. Everything about us feels wrong now. You being in my arms last night gave me the best sleep I had in years. I miss you. I miss you doing that,” he says, pointing to my fingers as they play with a lock of hair below my temples, my mind unaware of my actions. “You often twirl it when you look at me, and I’ve never seen you do it for anyone else.”

  “I do not!”

  “You do! This cluster is mine, so is the one on the opposite side. If you ever cut your hair you have to leave these clusters intact.”

  “Are you trying to possess me?” I ask, absolutely hating myself that it sounded hopeful.

  He releases a shadow of a smirk. “No, just trying to treasure what I can. Easter at my place, Thanksgiving at yours, stressing out a few hours on Christmas with Mom while trying to keep her from blabbing our secret, and a week each summer in England is not enough, especially when we have to sneak off just to get a few minutes alone.”

  Twisting the diamond of my engagement ring into my palm, I toy with the stone, fighting the honesty that gets to me. How did we let ourselves get this way?

  “I don’t want to leave you tomorrow,” Donovan blazingly confesses. “The more I feel that time coming the more I need to cling to you. Whenever we’re alone I’m on edge just trying to keep my hands to myself. Once I had my arms around you the threat disappeared, like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to.”

  “I felt the same way,” I confess.

  “With Mom being sick we will have to come out here occasionally. Do we take turns and suffer it out alone, or do we get frustrated and hide from ourselves? I want us, and I need to keep doing this,” he declares, twirling my hair.

  I miss him, too—his warmth, his drive, his scent, and how he fuels me. Last I checked none of those things were off limits.

  “Wait.” From my adjoining room I retrieve manicure scissors and cut a small cluster of hair from the nape of my neck. After tying the top in a knot, I bring it to him along with an envelope from the hotel stationary. “This is going to cost you a worn T-shirt.” Donovan’s expression slackens. He stares at the locks before slipping them into the envelope. “You and I let go of too much. There’s nothing wrong with reclaiming a little.”

  Donovan lies back on the bed, tugging me down with him and wrapping a halo around me as my head buries into his shoulder. His voice is so soft it’s almost seductive. “How do you always know what I need?”

  My eyes close off the world. I hadn’t planned on this intimacy, but he’s right. Physical contact is but a moderate concern compared to the threat lying in our pounding hearts that yearn to burst out of our chests and merge into one, not for the night, but for eternity. The urges of my femininity can be conquered, but the drive of my essentia is a different beast. “Then let’s stop fighting and be honest. It is far better to embrace rare moments like these than to sit on our hands and let frustration rule. Whatever keeps us content and faithful is all we should be concerned about.”

  His inspiriting scent causes me to dissolve into his embrace. With a velvety touch he pleads into my ear, “Please, Lily. Don’t ever let what’s left of us go.”

  “I can’t. I’ll always love you.”

  “And I’ll always love you,” he says.

  Blanketed
by the security of his devotion, my consciousness drifts under the Sandman’s spell.

  Chapter 4

  “Grandpa Eric!” the kids cheer as Christopher's life-long friend appears in the doorway of the family manor near Manchester, England. Sadly our annual summer visit is the only time we see this sweetheart of a man that Christopher refers to as one of his fathers.

  When Eric crouches down to greet the kids, his tall, trim frame is knocked onto its bum by the power of their embraces. It sends his hair bouncing and brings about laughter with a dazzle in his blue eyes. This is exactly why I wanted a family, and why I chose a life with Christopher.

  Once recovered, Eric gives Grace and I kisses on the cheek accompanied by lengthy embraces. He then takes Christopher by the shoulders and looks at him with a booming gleam in his eyes. “Your family is amazing. I’m so happy for you.” The resulting hug is one of fatherly pride, just like the rest of Paul’s old mates always give Christopher.

  As we enter the elegant drawing room, Graham is already tugging on Eric’s arm. “Is that a guitar?” he asks about the contents of the long, battered, vinyl case Eric carries. My curiosity appears to be along the lines of a seven-year-old, as I’m equally intrigued.

  “Of sorts.” Eric resembles a timid little boy on Christmas morning as he sets the case on the coffee table and gently lifts the lid. “Go ahead, but be careful,” he says to Graham. “She’s very old and frail.”

  Christopher’s eyes become aglow, “I haven’t seen one of those in yonks.”

  “Umm…if it’s frail, should he really handle it?” I ask Eric while looking at Graham but considering my uncoordinated husband.

  “Aw, sure. She’s family, just like he is. Speaking of which, I was very disappointed when Donovan called to say he wouldn’t make it this year. How is he?”

  “We’ve spoken surprising little since I saw him three weeks ago,” I say. “He’s suddenly so busy that I can’t keep up with him.”