Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  Lord! At least that one I got. Eric’s been blasting The Who for two days. It is an excellent lead-in for me though. “Oh! How about Paul Mark Keith?”

  Christopher's eyes flick back and forth. He’s totally lost; meaning his impending wobbly is going to be awesome! He fusses with the pepper grinder on the counter. After weeks of searching for the perfect taunt, I’m going to smash salt into his paper cut.

  I milk his torture as I pretend to ponder. “Hmm… Actually, that doesn’t really work. How about Paul Mark Phil or Drake Michael Paul? Oh, that last one isn’t bad!”

  Christopher attempts a detour. “Speaking of Pauls—”

  “Oh, no you don’t! No changing the subject because you’re lost,” I nag.

  Eric bites a nail, searching for the answer as well. At least I know he’ll get the joke, since he was once in a tug-of-war on the charts with these guys.

  “No. Not exactly.” Christopher draws out his words, stalling. “Paul is a very common name.”

  “Yeah, but Drake isn’t.”

  Christopher throws his hands into the air, disheveling his mane. “All right. I give. Who is it?”

  With the thump of my foot my hands thrust onto my hips, mocking his earlier gesture. His squirming is delightful! “Paul Revere and the Raiders.”

  Christopher’s mouth drops as he stammers. “You mean those American blokes in the Revolutionary War costumes? No bloody way!”

  Eric breaks into applauses, catcalling at my trump card. I bow to him before my focus returns to taunting Christopher. “In 1967 alone they had three gold albums. Not even the Beatles can top that. The Raiders were America’s answer to the British Invasion.”

  “Exactly. They’re Yanks who represented a revolt against my kind.”

  “What’s wrong with Yanks? May I remind you that you are married to one, both of your children are Yanks by birth, and you have a dual-citizenship, making you half Yank, just like your children are half Scouser.”

  His mouth goes agape at the killing blow of the “S” word. “There’s no need to get nasty!”

  The chime of the doorbell signals the end of this round and allows me to quit while ahead. Answering the door to Donovan, I whisper, “Remember, play along.”

  “Hello to you, too,” he says as I drag him into the kitchen. He waves at Eric and Christopher as I nudge him into a chair.

  “Sit, please,” I request, suddenly feeling discomfort over having him and Christopher in the same room.

  “What’s going on?” Christopher asks.

  Donovan rolls his eyes in the endearingly cocky way that only he, and my daughter, can. “Welcome home,” he grumbles. “I’m assuming you mouthed off and we’re about to go through another round of palate training.”

  Christopher’s eyes widen in panic that he’s blown it. I give him a stress-relieving shake of my head as I hand Donovan a plastic tube with the letter B on it. “What’s this for?” he asks.

  “DNA test. Swab your mouth.”

  He dangles it in front of him like he’s examining a dead insect. “Lily, are you sure about this? We might open a new can of worms.”

  “Please humor me.”

  As Donovan complies, I tilt Christopher’s head back, and swipe inside. “Blimey, what’s that for?”

  “Control test. You should show as not related to us.” Labeling it C, I toss it back into the paper bag.

  “Got another of those?” Eric asks. Either this is his confessional or he’s checking up on baby brother.

  “Why you?” Christopher asks.

  “Control point. If it shows me as related to Lilyanna, we know the test is flawed.”

  “Excellent idea, Eric! Here you go,” I say, handing him a kit labeled D.

  Donovan’s eyes jet to me, as he now gets the reason for my grandstanding. Seriously? His eyes float between the two of them. Oh, it makes so much sense. Damn it, how is it Christopher always gets what I wish I had?

  Donovan’s attention returns to the tube he just capped. “It’s too bad we don’t have Mom’s DNA. Who’s to say there isn’t paperwork I didn’t find.”

  “Ah, but we do!” From the bag of DNA kits I remove my grandmother’s old brush—the one that Mom kept on her dresser and often used. Holding it up, I make a spokesmodel-worthy gesture around it. “I packed this without removing Mom’s hair. There’s a major lab in Los Angeles. I’ll drop everything off tomorrow, and we’ll have the results in a few days.”

  Now I just need to swab Antonia tonight while she sleeps.

  Chapter 42

  This is one of those days—the ones where, unexplainably, nothing feels right no matter how well things are going. Though it’s not uncommon for people to have enigmatic twangs of discomfort, the fluttering that resounds in me is nothing short of ominous.

  Donovan has been at the forefront of my mind all day. While that may not be new by any means, the fact that it is coupled with the feeling a hissing cobra is about to strike through my stomach invokes dread.

  My heart hums in my throat as I arrive unannounced and open the door to Donovan’s vacant lobby. While his colleagues have long left, he remains in his office, which is all but quiet. “Stop sitting on your hands and face me like a man!” Anna’s voice barks from inside. In my slit of a view from his ajar office door, Donovan rests his head on his desk, his hands covering it. “Anna, please stop hitting me. You know I won’t fight you.”

  “You don’t love me enough to fight. You want me mutilated so I’ll hide in shame and leave you alone. Fine! I’ll give you what you want.”

  Anna grabs something off of the desk and darts across the room. Thumps and pops resound as little, sharp grunts of pain release from Anna’s mouth.

  “Anna, stop!” Donovan yells with panic. He runs around the desk while the noises continue. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Giving you what you want!”

  “Jesus Christ, Anna, give me that stapler!” Now out of my view, the scampering continues, until someone is shoved against the wall.

  “Ouch!” Donovan utters, just before a cracking smack resounds. “Ow! Crap!” He then runs past, and his chair is slid aside. More rustling is heard.

  “Give me back that stapler!” Anna screams, coming after him. “Get out from under that desk you coward! Handle this like a man!”

  “Stop kicking me!” Donovan yells, his voice covered by Anna’s grunts of force. How he can remain calm is bewildering.

  “I’m not kicking you. You’re kicking yourself,” she screams as the kicks continue, followed by Donovan’s occasional wince of pain.

  “I will not succumb to what you are doing. You were supposed to be past this a long time ago.”

  “Past this? How past it are you, Dr. Big Shot? Why am I now always the victim?”

  “Anna, I’m calling the police. You can either stop this nonsense now or keep it going for them to settle. The 911 operator will record the call, and you won’t have a prayer in court of keeping Sunshine. So you either stop and keep your therapy appointment tonight, or you forfeit everything. Choose now.”

  “Fine! You win, as always,” she concedes, heading for the door as I scamper under the secretary’s desk. “You always get what you want!” she screams through sobs. Exiting his office, she slams both it then the lobby door, as if getting in the last word.

  After a brief moment of silence, I brave emerging. “Donovan?” I call gently. “Are you okay?”

  A brief moan comes as he staggers out, wondering why he now needs to face me. Blood drips from a small gash over his right eye. Why does this poor, innocent victim look shamed and filled with guilt? And why is Donovan always the one to suffer?

  Grabbing a tissue, I dab away the falling blood. “Why the hell do you put up with that? Why don't you just pick up your daughter and leave?”

  He grips a deep breath, keeping himself centered. “Because I was once her. I hurt myself out of desperation.”

  “So you married her because you felt sorry for her?”
<
br />   “That is not why I married her. Besides, these are recent occurrences.”

  “How recent?”

  His lips tighten, as his head cocks to the side before he twists it back with a deep wince. “I made a promise, okay? She has her own story, and I’m not going to cover for her, but I am also not going to betray her trust—especially when she shouldn't trust me in other areas.”

  “You’re also afraid that if I know I won’t let you leave her.”

  “Truthfully, yes, but I have to keep my promise.”

  Finally the deeper meaning sinks in. “If you were once her then... You didn't meet in school, did you?”

  His head oscillates with little jerks.

  “Victims support?” Fearing the response, I sit on the sofa to brace myself.

  His little jerks morph into nods. “Her father and brother are my polar opposite. Mom would have had every right to make them suffer, and then some.”

  “They actually raped her?” I choke.

  Donovan sits by my side, twisting to face me. “Repeatedly. She would have been lucky only to have been raped.”

  A burn creeps into my esophagus. “But that's not what's causing the outbursts now.”

  “No, but abusive situations lead to mind and body overload. Similar overloads trigger irrational behavior. Sometimes she sees pain as compassion. She wouldn’t know real compassion if it bit her in the ass, but she can put on a hell of a show. She became a nurse to help her distinguish those two things, but it’s been pretty unsuccessful. When she gets out of control she brings me secondary wounding, which is why I’m going to leave. She starts swinging, and I hear Dad saying I'm not manly enough to stand up to her. I won't reward her bad behavior by regressing.” Donovan juts a hand out. “Before you ask, yes, she is getting help—lots of it—and no, I'm not her doctor. Neither of us is that stupid.”

  God, it all makes so much sense; self-defense classes, how she can often be so meek and intimidated, yet also so cruel. “Her body issues are a result, too?”

  Again Donovan’s lips disappear into his mouth. “Just know that she struggled for years to become the person I married. As much as I want to stand by her and her help that person return, I can’t take any more risks with my daughter or myself.” Donovan stammers up. “Let me walk you to your car. She may still come back.”

  A million questions fly through my mind as we head outside, all of them an invasion of privacy. Before driving off, I brave one he can’t fault me for asking. “Aren't you concerned about Sunshine?”

  “Of course I am, which is why I need to leave in a way where I’m assured full custody. I’ve hidden cameras in the house, as soon as I know I can secure Sunshine, I’m gone.” In a rare moment, nothing feels magical when his eyes stare into mine due to the direness of his words. “No matter what happens, please promise that if I ever show up on your doorstep with my daughter you will take care of her.”

  The chime of irony resounds to the bone. “I would treat her as my own.”

  Donovan swallows back the hurt, and waves me off as I drive away, wishing I could rescue him.

  Chapter 43

  The barbecued chicken Eric brings in from the patio smells divine. Thank God Eric was in charge. The last time Christopher barbecued the only aroma was that of lighter fluid and burnt fish. So much smoke was created that it set off the detector, causing the kids to flee in a screaming panic that had the neighbors calling the fire department.

  “Ack!” An accidental taste from the wrong pot of beans makes my taste buds cringe. “England you never disappoint.” Grabbing two bowls of baked beans, I head into the dining room where everyone has gathered. Imported beans, straight from the can, are placed near Christopher. The homemade ones are placed near me.

  “Two bowls?” Eric asks.

  “That one is for your fellow Lobsterback,” I say, pointing to the bowl near Christopher. “The other is for those with taste buds. Frankly, I gag just over the thought of them.”

  Christopher looks at me like I’ve lost all touch with reality. “I thought you didn’t like them?”

  What? Oh, geez! Christopher’s inability to translate the difference between American English and British slang drives me a little nuts. “Gagging for something in England is far different than gagging over something in America.”

  Eric scratches his head in confusion. “Don’t you like your wife’s cooking?” he asks Christopher.

  “I love me wife’s cooking, but she doesn’t know beans about beans. Try those Yank ones and see for yourself.”

  “May I?” Eric asks.

  “Fill your boots,” I say, handing him the bowl. He takes small spoons of each while the children stare as if the act is too bizarre for comprehension. They’ve learned to always follow my lead whenever two of the same thing is served.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Christopher sings a little indignantly. “You want the ones like me mum always made.”

  “You mean like the cook always dumped out of a can,” I state. “I love Grace, but I can’t see her using a can opener for fear of splattering juice on her hand.”

  “Too true,” Christopher agrees. “Still, I don’t understand the kerfuffle over your beans.”

  I pretend to keep my focus on Christopher's ranting, as Eric tastes the imported beans and shakes his head in memory. “Yep, those are British.”

  His wording forces my snicker, which prompts Christopher to wave his fork at me and warn, “No comments from the Yank Scouser.”

  Eric tastes my beans before making a face of disgust. “These are the ones Christopher doesn’t like?”

  “Yep,” I sigh.

  Christopher crosses his arms with a smug look, which Eric quickly wipes off of his face. “Seriously, Christopher, you’re off your head. I’m calling Grace and giving her a serious verbal lashing regarding your taste buds.”

  Christopher's mouth goes agape in horror of the betrayal right as the doorbell chimes. “I was raised on these,” he claims aghast, as I flee to answer the front door.

  Eric continues his chastising. “As was I, but I grew up poor. I’m going to ask Grace what her excuse is.”

  My smile drops when my hand touches the doorknob. Donovan stands before me holding Sunshine, whose head is nestled into her daddy’s neck. “Hey, what brings you two by?” I ask, my hand caressing Sunshine’s curls as I attempt to sound cheerful.

  Donovan pulls his head back to smile at his daughter. “I thought Sunshine could use a night out. Mind if she plays with the kids?”

  “Not at all. Hungry? There’s quite the comedy act going on inside.”

  Donovan sets the girl down and points to the dining room. “Go on, sweetie. Go enjoy some of Auntie Lily’s amazing cooking.”

  We watch the girl run off with a big smile. When I turn back to Donovan, all pretense is gone as he embraces me. “She didn’t see anything bad, did she?” I ask, gripping tightly and fearing the worst. My only consolation is that I don’t see any new marks on him.

  “No, but Anna’s in the car, and I’m taking her to rehab for the next thirty days. Can Sunshine stay here tonight?”

  “Of course,” I tell Donovan. “Why isn’t she staying with you?”

  “It’s bad enough her mom is freaking out. The last thing she needs is a mental case dad who is struggling to hold it together. My nightmares tonight should be epic.”

  Lord, how I wish his life wasn’t this way. I’d give anything to change it.

  Wait. Did I mean that?

  “Okay, but can you come back for breakfast? Eric’s test results will be back and things could get interesting. We made need a shrink, albeit a broken one.”

  “Sure, Lil. Thanks.”

  As Donovan heads down the walkway, I call out, “Hey, call if you need me.” With a little nod he continues on, driving Anna into the night.

  Chapter 44

  Drinking coffee on a stress-filled day is only wise if you use Valium instead of sugar. Sadly, I didn’t have this thought two cups a
go.

  Donovan and I sit on the porch steps, sipping coffee as the courier van arrives. Inside, Christopher sleeps, completely in the dark regarding the battles going on under his nose. Only one set of answers arrives today. The delay of the hair strand test leaves Donovan and I stressed for another week.

  Eric is already on a quest to prepare breakfast when we approach. Tapping his shoulder, I raise the envelope to him. “What’s this?” Eric asks.

  “Your test results,” I say, gently. “Ours will take a few more days.”

  Eric’s eyes drop to the envelope—reminding me of a frightened house cat who’s trying to stare down a pit bull. “I suppose you figured it out then.”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know if you’re his father or his uncle.”

  With a shrug and shake of his head, he resigns himself to whatever lies inside. “Will you both be there with us? I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all of the family we can get.”

  The adults gather in the library, behind closed doors, sitting in reading chairs with a table pushed in the center. Eric sits before me, repeatedly clearing his throat and looking heavenward. Christopher eyes the envelope on the table; concerned that it holds my answers. With swift movements Eric opens it, then hands the contents to Christopher. “I wanted to tell you yonks ago, but I had to respect Grace’s wishes. Please forgive me for not telling you sooner.”

  Christopher looks as if he is being given bad news. “What is this?” he asks.

  “Our part of the DNA results.”

  “Our part?” Christopher scans the document, his face going slack. He looks to Eric whose eyes plead for acceptance. “You’re—you’re my father?” Christopher lays a hand over his mouth as he drops back in his chair. My heart tightens for him.

  Eric presses his arm onto that of the chair, as if trying to control jitters. “When your parents had their first huge fight, all looked bleak. Grace escaped by coming to see us lads on tour. My wife and I had an agreement that I could have company while on the road, but there were rules. I broke them by getting involved with someone I had attachment to—and I did it without protection. Not only did Grace get pregnant, it opened me up to all kinds of health issues, thus endangering my wife as well. She saw it as the ultimate betrayal and left me even though she too was pregnant. My daughter was eighteen before I got to spend any real time with her. By then she was so jaded against me that—”