Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  Inside Antonia’s room, where Sunshine will stay during the first stage of Anna’s recovery, Donovan drops the box in exchange for me. “How is she holding up?” I ask, my gut churning at the thought of the M word. “Any more flying fists?”

  “She’s fine,” he assures, “else I’d have brought Sunshine’s suitcase as well.” A lock of hair from below my temple finds joy as it twirls through his fingers. “As much as you and I being near each other is a challenge, I can’t imagine going through this without you. Thanks for talking sense into her.”

  I bring a kiss to his cheek. “You and me, together forever.”

  Donovan lingers behind as I leave Antonia’s room, his eyes scanning the posters and chotskies that reflect who she is. He runs his hand over her pillow, as if brushing the hair out of her face while she sleeps. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” His snicker is laced in irony. “Remember how I’ve always said you would get everything you want? Seems like now I get some of that too. I can do this, Lily. Antonia being mine is what I wanted all along, and I’ve hidden that desire. Now it’s a different kind of hiding. Nothing really changes, except now my heart is fulfilled. Let’s go downstairs. I need to muster the courage to see her.”

  The beauty of the two-tier, flourless chocolate cake with Grand Mariner ganache I made for Eric pales compared to his radiance as we all surprise him in the family room. “I never expected anyone to remember let alone a celebration,” Eric modestly says. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “How could we not?” Donovan asks, handing Eric a present. Donovan’s hooded eyes float to Antonia, still afraid to bring her into full view. Eric uncovers a lovely tie that is as tasteful, yet as colorful and youthful as he emanates. Donovan’s eyes escape back to Eric. “We thought a traditional Dad’s gift was appropriate. It’s nice to have a sane father figure.”

  Eric marvels at the tie like it is a rare gem. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means. I’ll wear it proudly on all the best occasions.”

  “I foresee many of those in your future,” Christopher says as he places our gift before Eric. Inside a shirt box, he finds a manila envelope decorated by the children. On the back, Graham has drawn a picture of our home with five stick figures—our family, including Eric. Eric gingerly opens the envelope, as if afraid of harming a treasure. From inside he slides out a stack of government forms. Christopher and I hold each other along with our breaths, hoping we have not overstepped our bounds. “U.S. Immigration department?” Eric inquires. “Are you having me deported?”

  “Quite the opposite.” I brave. “We hope you’ll at least extend your stay, but we’d rather you made it permanent. Since Christopher is a dual citizen you can apply for an IR Visa. All of the paper work is complete except we need to re-run the DNA test formally. For good measure, Grace has signed an affidavit stating you are Christopher's birthfather and should be allowed to stay with your son.”

  I sneak a peek at Donovan, whose eyes again conceal a peer at Antonia. She stares at him with a crooked head, as if curiosity floats over her.

  Eric sits silent and still, staring at the papers. “We’d understand if you don’t want to give up your life back home,” Christopher nervously adds. “Hopefully you’ll stay until we fly back to England for the birth of my cousin’s son.”

  “Hopefully by then you will have named the poor kid!” Donovan chimes in.

  “Actually, Christopher and I figured that one out when we were completing the paperwork.”

  Donovan shoots me his famous blinking eye roll. “Okay, which British rock stars did you rope in for this one?”

  “Just one,” I state. “Eric Christopher Taylor Eccles goes perfectly with our two middle name convention.”

  Eric’s eyes fly to us. Understanding how much he is loved acts like a shot of adrenaline. Suddenly the man who feels he hasn’t a place in the world anymore has a family who not only acknowledges him, but also is requesting he change his entire life to be with them. Eric’s smile reveals more than his words ever can.

  “What do you say, Eric?” Donovan asks, his eyes finally landing on Antonia as she approaches him, then crawls into his lap. His voice hitches, and he keeps his eyes locked on the top of Antonia’s head, concealing the dampness coating them. “Think you could put up with this pear-shaped family where you can never tell who lives where or which child belongs to who?” Donovan’s eyes come to mine. They shine brightly, filled with hope.

  “Cracking! Call me Yankee Doodle and hand me a pen!”

  Chapter 53

  Aimlessly I stare into the refrigerator without appetite. Food serves as a diversion from the source of my feeling of futility.

  “You’re looking down. Something wrong?” Eric asks.

  “Either Mom played a cruel mind game or she spent years hiding the truth for reasons we’ll never understand,” I say, gesturing toward the papers that sit on the breakfast bar.

  “I thought the blood test proved Donovan is your brother?” Eric asks as the doorbell rings.

  “Yeah, but how do we explain the adoption papers? Donovan and I are going to put them in a safe deposit box and try to forget about them.”

  I open the door to Donovan, my Wonder Twin of Grumpitude. The bags under his eyes almost make me feel triumphant. Finally we have arrived upon a time when Mr. Perfect also looks battered from endless nights.

  “Are you ready? Let’s go,” he says, motioning to leave, his car key pointed and at the ready. I’m surprised he didn’t leave the motor running.

  Grabbing his shirtsleeve, I pull him toward me, encouraging him into an embrace. “No—yes—no,” I reply, bringing forth a speck of levity.

  “Come on,” he says, smiling. “I need to get back to Anna. This surgery can’t be over with soon enough.”

  “All right. Let me just grab—”

  “Here! Here’s your answer!” Eric screams from the kitchen. “She was a bloody lunatic!”

  “Yay! New drama!” Donovan says, mocking childish joy. “Lord, what now?”

  “Look at who the judge is that signed the papers,” Eric fumes as we dash in. “There’s no way I’m believing this is a coincidence.”

  King Midas’ finger points to a signature that reveals this paper is gold—fool’s gold. “Can I see that and borrow your reading glasses?” I ask Eric. He whips them off like the Superman he is before storming out of his seat.

  Donning the specks, not only does the signature become clear, so does the intent of the charade. “All those years of grilling me,” I say in realization. “All those late nights watching her movies.”

  “You do know who that is, right?” Eric asks. “Because I find it highly unlikely Rhode Island ever had a judge named Anthony Wedgwood Benn.”

  Donovan’s face is a ball of confusion. “Oh, come on! You know this!” I practically shout. “How many times did Mom watch Pirate Radio? Anthony Wedgwood Benn was the actual guy who led the bill that stopped offshore radio stations. She bitched he was British Rock’s biggest villain. Mom intentionally did this to hurt us!”

  Oh you failed, Mom. Wherever you are, I hope you can see the nail you intended for my coffin just got thrown back into yours.

  Eric looks like an angry father. “How could she have so convincingly faked those papers?”

  Donovan scrutinizes the faux documents while looking over my shoulder. “Mom was a Litigation Paralegal when she met Dad. After he died she went back to work part time as a secretary in the same field. She knew how papers looked, but how the hell did she get her hands on the state seal?”

  Even with Eric’s glasses, the imprint is too faint to make out—almost like someone barely applied enough pressure for an indent to appear. Grabbing a pencil, I gently rub the side of the graphite against the paper, pronouncing the image that makes my brain feel as if it is contorting in shame of its idiocy. “Take a good look at it now. It’s the seal of Dad’s Rotary Club!”

  Donovan takes the papers, looking to them in resignation of how much the
woman he tried to help wronged him. “I can’t believe she hated me that much.”

  “Why would your mum forge such falsehood?” Eric asks with fury. “She should be ashamed for not seeing who you are. I’d be proud to call you son!”

  Donovan peers up at Eric, his eyes sag nearly to his knees, reflecting a painful truth of unfairness. “Thank you. My own father never said he was proud of me. At least Christopher has always known you and Grace love him. Well, one part of Mom’s final mystery is solved. I doubt if the rest ever will be. I’ll a—I’ll take these to the office and shred them,” he says, heading out the front door.

  Following him outside, with a soft touch to his arm I stop him once we are far from anyone’s earshot. “Those are mine,” I softly assert, looking at the sheaves of hatred. “They are why Mom squandered the opportunity to tell Christopher about us while on her death bed. Instead of risking his understanding, she threw gasoline on me, hoping I would strike the match. That judge’s name was her way of saying I should have listened when she tried to pull us apart. If Aunt Audrey had died later, my name would be on these papers.” Donovan’s eyes lower, and I dip my face under his, recapturing his view. “These are proof that we are doing the right thing in standing by our families just as much as they are the reason why someday you and I are going to be together. Now go home and take care of your wife, so we can keep proving Mom wrong about us.”

  Chapter 54

  Walking up the steps to the Venice bungalow, my body trembles as my knuckles rap upon the door. I’m an unexpected, and hopefully not unwelcome, visitor on this drearisome day before Anna’s double mastectomy.

  Anna opens the door. Her pale skin and red eyes show her disease is getting the best of her. “Hey,” I whisper, nudging my head to encourage her outside. With what I need to do I’d prefer if Donovan didn’t know I was here.

  I give her a sly little smile as she steps out, like we are about to get away with something. Forcing myself to think of this as fun game and forget what I am really doing, I hand her an envelope with a little bounce and a forced smile that she sees right through.

  “What is this?” Anna asks as she extracts the contents.

  “It’s a coupon book. Whenever you need something, you use it. Take a peek.”

  “One girl’s night out,” she reads aloud. “One home cooked meal, delivered. One night of babysitting. Boy there sure are a lot of those,” she says, her voice locking.

  Suddenly I feel as if I’m about to hurl out my guts. “You’ll need them when you see what’s at the end.”

  On the last page she finds a substantially sized Victoria’s Secret gift card. The tears that have been welling in her eyes turn to gushers. It amplifies the pain I feel—pain for her, for her suffering, and for knowing what that coupon really means for her and for my soul mate.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks with a hearty sniffle, her hands quaking.

  My voice quivers as I fight my tears. “Because I’ve chosen you as my sister. No blood test on earth will change that.”

  I lose the battle over the waterworks, and we bring our arms around each other in consolation of the other’s misery. Donovan appears from inside, holding an electric razor, his head completely shaven sans his eyebrows. We freeze, each not expecting to see the other. My insides turn to falling rain in new understanding of how real Anna’s situation is. This is supposed to happen to other people, not to you, not to the ones you love.

  Anna hides her face, not wanting to expose even more of herself, knowing that this is the last time for a long time to come that her beautiful hair will veil her discomfort.

  My eyes return to Donovan, our hearts breaking anew. Stepping up to him, I impose myself. “Here,” I say, reaching for the razor. “I’ll hold this, you hold her.”

  Donovan guides a sobbing Anna to the bathroom. She looks into the mirror, her fingers yanking her hair in hatred of her situation. No one should have to suffer like this.

  Anna crumples as I plug in the razor, unable to face the mirror any longer. Donovan follows her down, taking her head in his. “You ready?” he asks. She gives a fast nod of approval, then cowers as I lower the razor. Donovan looks up at me, completely lost and unknowing how to help her. For once I am grateful that I am not the one in his arms.

  Anna braves her eyes upward, her head still low. With one last look at Donovan I again start the razor, quickly spin to the mirror, and begin shaving my own head with the intention of leaving nothing behind but his favorite cluster of locks on each side.

  Some things we are still in together.

  Chapter 55

  Twenty-two Years Later…

  Donovan whistles as he comes up the stairs, carrying the last of Christopher’s gear. On this eventful night, Christopher will partake in a concert celebrating the British Invasion by honoring the memory of his fathers.

  “Here we are,” Anna practically sings while handing out cocktails. “My special recipe for a special occasion. Shall we drink to the obvious?”

  The four of us take pause, sadness welling in our hearts. Simultaneously we raise our glasses to the long-gone man we’d give anything to bring back. “To Eric,” we all say.

  The orange juice cocktail floods my mouth with a nice herbal tang. “Anna, this is fantastic. Does this have sage and gin?”

  “I think there’s honey, too,” Donovan deduces.

  Anna sighs. “I know I’m still not the best cook, but you would think that after all these years I could get something past you two.”

  “It sure leaves a tingle on the lips. What makes it orange?” Christopher asks.

  “That’s it!” My hands fly heavenward. “I truly give up! This is ridiculous, even for you.”

  Donovan whispers to Christopher, “That would be the same thing that makes it taste like oranges.”

  Christopher looks at the glass questioningly as we all snicker. “Oh, bloody hell! I officially surrender to the enemy,” he states with a bold smile and a kiss to my lips.

  “All right, let’s get this amp loaded and get out of here,” Donovan says, interrupting us.

  “What’s that doing here?” Christopher asks. “I loaded it first for a reason.”

  “No, you thought you loaded it, I found it downstairs. Old age must be setting in and your mind is slipping.”

  “Are you real? Oh, my giddy aunt,” Christopher babbles, mostly talking to himself. “After all the trouble it’s been giving me—”

  Donovan cups his hand over Christopher’s mouth. I think he’s wanted to do that for decades. “Seriously Lil, what possessed you to marry this guy?” he asks, smiling.

  “Love doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be true.”

  Donovan gives me an adoring smile. Truer words were never spoken. “All right, let’s do this,” he says, taking the amp.

  “You ready, luv?” I ask Christopher.

  “Really, Lilyanna. There you go, stealing my lines again. You can’t just steal another person’s lines.”

  “I love you too.” With an adoring kiss, we head out to the car.

  My body waivers as I stare into the coffin. The image of my beloved Christopher is merely a blur from the haze of my tears.

  Thirty-one years.

  For thirty-one years we shared marital bliss, and I am so very grateful that I appreciated him for who he was, not casting him aside for who I wanted him to be.

  It happened during the sound check, with all of us watching. As an impromptu jam lead Christopher into his best Pete Townsend impersonation, a jump and a swing brought him to the ground, straight to his knees, slumping over his guitar with a clutch to his heart. We all ran to him, but before we could make it he fell backward, all of his muscles going slack. Anna and Donovan tried to resuscitate him, but it quickly became obvious their efforts were in vain. Tears streamed down Donovan’s face as he realized the thrusts to Christopher’s chest were useless, his eyes almost pleading me for forgiveness as we saw that all hope was gone.

  Whi
le the others tended to Christopher’s empty shell, I stood as tall as I could, turning to the heavens. I felt Christopher looking down from above, as if our eyes were locking one last time, and wondered if we would ever meet again or if we had found the end of our rainbow. Reaching my arms to heaven, I cried, “I love you, Christopher Paul Eccles, and never will there be a day that I forget or stop loving you.”

  For thirty-one years we stood by each other as husband and wife, loving and supporting one another, no matter what transpired. We always accepted the other for who and what they were, all the while never doubting the special love we shared. My heart will be incomplete until I find him again.

  In the week since Christopher's passing I’ve been without hope or complete thoughts. Try as my family might to enliven me, sorrow extinguishes all other emotions.

  Cards and flowers continue to pour in as the news spreads and stuns. Much like for his father, Eric, people have come out of the woodwork with stories of how he touched their lives.

  I’ve scarcely left my room since the funeral. Instead I cling to Christopher’s pillow, asking God why. Everyone wants me to get fresh air, but I hardly see the point. Donovan drags me out of bed for a walk. My scraggly hair, ratty, mismatched sweats, and filthy slippers make me look an embarrassment, but people are lucky I am dressed. Foolishly I’ve led us in the direction of the park where Christopher and I used to take the kids. Memories of playing with our children tear at my heart, and it’s like losing him all over again. My knees drop into the middle of a sandbox, as my eyes become faucets of despair that refuse to cease flowing.

  My time with Christopher was like living on a playground—one happy game after another. In the rare times when we fell and got scraped the other was always there to kiss our wounds and lead us off to the next game. For all the madness and indecision in my life, my time with Christopher was nothing short of amazing.