Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  After a quick shower, I put on sleep shorts and a T-shirt even though it’s still early. I fall asleep quickly and the nap lasts for hours.

  When I wake, I’m reluctant to leave my bed and face the world. I turn over the events from the last few days in my mind. Grace said she wasn’t here yesterday, but she was with me in my room. She brought coffee. We took photos with my phone. Proof! The photos would show that she’s lying.

  Except, now I can’t find my phone.

  I jump out of bed, check all of the usual places, but it doesn’t turn up. Mom would tell me to retrace my steps. When’s the last time I had it? I remember texting Blake from the café, then talking to Grace. I could have left my phone there. Or it could be lost in my room somewhere. I dial my number from the landline but don’t hear it ring.

  Still determined to prove that Grace was here, I check the kitchen trash for her coffee cup, but Blake must have emptied the garbage. He’s sitting on the couch watching more Dumbest Crooks Ever.

  “Have you seen my phone?”

  “No. You think you threw it away?”

  “Never mind.” I search for another fifteen minutes. It will turn up. It always does. Misplacing my phone is not a sign of any mental problems. I get a glass of water and go back to bed with a contented Oscar purring next to me. I flip through one of the psychology books that Mom ordered, but reading about diseases makes me suddenly suspect that I might have symptoms of all of them.

  Later, Blake comes into my room to see how I’m doing. I tuck the book under the covers.

  “You look sick,” he says. “Am I supposed to check for a fever or something?”

  Before I can answer, he puts his lips on my forehead, lets them linger there. It feels … not quite brotherly. Am I imagining that, too?

  In the morning, I’m relieved that nothing out of the ordinary happens. When I open my shade, the sun greets me. Oscar eats like his normal self. I only need to get through one more day until Mom returns. She’ll be home by the time I wake up and everything will be all right again.

  I’ll wait until I can talk to Mom alone. She’ll help me deal with finding a doctor, getting medicine, doing whatever I need to get well. Maybe she left me a message. I reach for the phone on my nightstand before I remember it’s missing. I search the apartment one more time. Blake is in the kitchen staring at the nearly bare fridge.

  “There’s nothing good to eat. Want to go out for lunch? That café has lots of vegetarian stuff. I’m sure they could make something vegan if you ask. Or do you want me to bring food home for you?”

  I’m still worried about, well, everything, and I’m not in the mood to go out, but I don’t want to be home alone. If I go with Blake, I could look for my phone at the café. That’s the last place I remember using it. Even if I’m not hungry, at least it would help pass the time.

  “I’m buying,” he says. “Or rather, Stanley is. Let’s splurge.”

  “Okay,” I reluctantly agree.

  We sit outside at a table covered by a big maroon umbrella. The conversation lags, and I’m overly aware of the many things that I don’t want to talk about. I don’t want to mention Gavin dumping me. I can’t discuss Mom’s book order. And I certainly don’t want to admit that I thought I was haunted before realizing it’s actually some type of mental illness.

  The waiter comes over and we order grilled vegetables on pita bread without cheese for me and some crab cake sliders for Blake.

  I hear dripping and look at the sunny sky. It’s not raining. I wrap my arms around myself before I realize that it’s the overhead air-conditioning unit splotching the umbrella by my head. I need to calm down.

  “What’s the matter?” Blake asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I hope they have good weather for the flight home.”

  “You miss them?”

  I can’t even begin to talk about how much I need my mother right now, even if she did lie to me. “Yes. You?”

  He shrugs. “Not so much. I’m kind of used to being on my own. My mother worked for years to support us, so she wasn’t always around.”

  It seems like he wants to say more, but my brain won’t formulate an encouraging response. I arrange my silverware precisely so that the fork and knife are parallel to each other. How will Stanley react to my mental problems? Will he be supportive if I need outside help? Mom will have to handle Stanley. Dealing with him is her territory. She’ll get me whatever I need to heal.

  “You seem burdened,” Blake says. “That’s the brother talking, not the future psych student. Anything you want to talk about?”

  I scramble for the least problematic answer. “What’s going on with you and Grace?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You went to the beach together, right?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a big deal,” he says.

  “You and Grace are just friends?”

  “She’s my stepsister’s BFF,” he says with a smile. “Of course, we’re friends. But that’s all.”

  “That’s not what she said. Why didn’t you guys invite me to join you?”

  “It was her idea to go, but it wasn’t a date. You had someplace to be that afternoon. The animal shelter, I think.”

  We pause as the waiter brings our food.

  “Look, it was a mistake to go with her,” he says. “It seemed better not to say anything afterward. You’ve known Grace for years, but she doesn’t seem like a good friend. I realized that day how jealous she is of you.”

  I push my food around on the plate. “I don’t think so. What’s to be jealous of?”

  “You’re prettier, for one. I bet you get better grades. You probably have your whole life mapped out—which classes you’ll take for the next three years, which colleges you’ll apply to for veterinary medicine, all that. And she’s floundering a bit more, right? She probably can’t make a career out of watching movies.”

  Even though I’m angry with Grace, it still stings to hear him criticize her. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m the one who’s floundering now. Grace and I … we have different ways of approaching things.”

  Blake gives me a knowing smile, as if he’s wiser than I am. We don’t talk much the rest of the meal. And despite a search while he pays the bill, my phone is nowhere to be found.

  Back in the apartment, Blake spends time on his cell. I feel disconnected without mine, isolated from the world. I actually jump when the kitchen phone rings next to me. “Hello?” I answer.

  A woman speaks in rapid French. At least, I think it’s French. She’s talking too fast for me to be sure.

  “English,” I interrupt. “Speak English!”

  “Non anglais,” she says and the deluge of foreign words begins again.

  Blake stands, takes the phone from me. “Hello? Je parle français.” He listens, begins to pace. “Non,” he says softly. “Non.” He listens some more. “Êtes-vous certains?” He covers his eyes with his hand for a moment. “Je comprends.” He digs through the junk drawer, finds paper and a pen, jots something down.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He turns away so I can’t see his face. “Oui, oui. Je comprends. Au revoir.”

  The way he moves, in slow motion, tells me it’s bad news. Our parents are in Paris. A woman calls and speaks excitedly in French. Blake covers his face while they talk.

  Something horrible has happened.

  He won’t look me in the eye after the phone call. “I think you should sit down,” he says, as if a chair will make the news any more bearable.

  “Tell me,” I whisper.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  23

  UNCERTAIN

  Blake explains something important to me, but it’s like he’s miles away instead of in our kitchen. I make out some of the words: Mom, Stanley, critical condition. I piece together enough to know that there’s been a bad taxi accident involving our parents. Blake seems in as much shock as I am.

  What if Mom dies? What if I never get to see h
er again?

  The scream rises in my throat. If it erupts, I will never stop screaming. Never. I hold it in.

  Blake’s face is wet, and we hug, clinging to each other in desperation. He feels sturdy in my arms compared to the fragility of everything else. Life is fragile. Even my mind is fragile. I am flooded with anxiety, but it is hard to know how much is reaction to the news and how much is the illness that plagues me. I will have to tell Blake something is wrong with me. But not now. Concern for Mom and Stanley dwarfs my own issues.

  “They’re both hanging on, right?” I ask.

  He nods as if speaking about it will make us break down.

  “We have to go to them.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “I’ll look into flights.”

  While he checks flight times, I search for a suitcase. Mom brought our luggage on her honeymoon, but I find a large backpack and bring it into my bedroom.

  “Good news,” he calls to me. “There are two seats on a flight out of Newark tomorrow morning. Do you have your passport handy? I might need the number.”

  A passport. I don’t have one. I’ve never traveled outside of the United States. Mom and I talked about getting me one when I left for college, in case I wanted to study abroad. We thought I had plenty of time to take care of all that.

  I join Blake in the family room. “Is there any way to travel without it?”

  “You don’t have a passport?”

  I shake my head slowly.

  “That’s a problem.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You need it for Europe, El.”

  I slump onto the couch, struggling to hold myself together. “You should go without me. Someone should be there with them. What if they can’t fly home right away? What if they need you to make medical decisions?”

  He moves next to me, takes hold of my hand. We sit, numb and deathly quiet, until the phone rings. We both jump, but Blake gets there first. “Hello?” He listens for a few seconds before hanging up. “Sales call,” he explains.

  I’m tempted to rip the phone out of the wall. It will never ring again without reminding me of the woman calling—of that disastrous moment. I hate that I couldn’t understand her. I hate the sound of the word accident. I hate everything.

  “I need to get some air,” Blake says. I’m tempted to beg him not to leave in case something happens to him, too. But I sit mutely. I don’t even bother to lock the door behind him. No one can hurt me anymore. Nothing seems to matter.

  The only thing that would make me feel better is seeing Mom. I decide to search online for expedited passports. There’s a place in Manhattan that can do it in one business day. They’re closed now for the weekend, but I can turn in the paperwork Monday morning when it reopens. It’s expensive, but maybe we can charge it to Stanley’s credit card.

  When I hear Blake’s key in the lock, I rush to meet him at the door. “I think I can get a passport in the city. Maybe we can fly out on Tuesday?”

  “Good thinking,” he says. “We can keep checking on Andrea and Stanley throughout the weekend. Maybe their condition will miraculously improve.” He hands me a container of soup and a plastic spoon. “You have to eat.”

  We need a miracle. Is there something about their injuries that he’s not telling me? “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know. But you need to eat a little. Please? Let me take care of you.”

  I’m too weary to argue. The soup tastes awful, but I swallow it anyway.

  I want to know more about Mom. I want to ask about worst-case scenarios, about … I can’t even formulate the questions.

  “I’ll call the hospital tomorrow,” Blake says, as if he knows what I am thinking. “First thing in the morning, to get an update.”

  The soup container is empty—somehow I’ve managed to finish it. Blake sits next to me, puts his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me close so that my head rests on his chest. His heartbeat soothes me, and I close my eyes, trying to forget everything.

  I feel him shudder, stifle a sob.

  “It’s all my fault,” he whispers.

  “What is?” I shift my head, catch his pained expression.

  “I told Dad that they had to visit the Louvre. The chess set there from the Middle Ages—I told them to go. That’s where they were headed in the taxi. The woman said they were on the way to the museum when …” He can’t finish.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. Our faces are inches away from each other, and I can see the torment etched in his eyes.

  “If only—”

  “We’re thousands of miles away. We couldn’t cause this. Or prevent it.”

  “You really think so?”

  I nod. “We’ll get through this somehow.” I need to convince him and myself, too.

  “Thank you.” Blake strokes my palm. His fingers trail up my bare arm in slow motion, across the inside of my elbow, my collarbone, my throat. When he gets to my face, he brushes his index finger gently across my lower lip, back and forth.

  I can barely breathe, barely understand what this means. I stop his hand with my own. He locks eyes with me as he intertwines our fingers, leads my hand to his cheek.

  “Blake—”

  He leans in and kisses me. His lips are confident on mine, certain.

  I can’t think. My brain stops comprehending as my eyes flutter closed.

  He wraps his arms around me. His kiss becomes more insistent, a gust of wind before the hurricane.

  I don’t move away, but I don’t kiss him back, either. I’m trapped in some type of nightmare where nothing makes sense, nothing matters. I need time to think, but it’s like his mouth has short-circuited my mind.

  He moves his lips to my shoulder, then from my shoulder to my neck, slowly, slowly, up to my ear.

  A moan escapes from me. I’m paralyzed with indecision. This is wrong.

  His breath is warm in my ear. “Please,” he whispers. “Please. I need you. You’re the only one who understands.”

  I shiver. We share so much in this moment. The worry. The indescribable fear of what we might lose.

  But I can’t do this.

  He must realize it, too, because when I stand, he lets me go.

  I scoop Oscar in my arms and take him to my room. I don’t even bother to wash my face or brush my teeth. I collapse on my bed. Sleep is the only escape from all the confusion.

  When I wake Sunday morning, my head pounds. I lie in bed with my eyes closed. It comes to me slowly, in fragments, as if the whole scenario is too much to process all at once.

  Mom is hospitalized. But she can’t be dead, right? I would feel her absence if she were gone.

  I need to find the necessary documents and fill out the forms for my passport. After Blake speaks to the hospital, we should make the travel arrangements.

  Blake.

  There’s something about last night. Blake’s kiss. I need to talk to him, explain it was a misunderstanding. The anxiety made us act irrationally.

  Pain hammers into my forehead, and for a minute, I actually care. I want to tell Mom I have the worst headache of my life, to ask her what to do. Then I remember all over again.

  I wipe at my useless tears. When I open my eyes, my hands are red. Blood red. I stare at them as if they belong to someone else. This time I know it isn’t paint.

  Blood is everywhere. My hands, the sheets, Oscar’s fur.

  His body stays limp when I lift him.

  Oscar is dead.

  24

  SAYING GOOD-BYE

  As I bolt from bed, I bump the nightstand and send my lamp crashing to the ground. Blake bursts into my room. “El!” His eyes widen. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.” I hold Oscar’s body in my blood-covered hands. “I can’t remember anything. I woke up like this. Is he really dead?”

  The room smells like my sweat, my fear.

  Blake takes Oscar gently in his arms, places a hand on my cat’s coffee-colored chest. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have
to. There must not be a heartbeat.

  Staring at Oscar in horror, I yearn for my mother. I want her presence, a comforting hug, her calm voice telling me everything will be all right. Because I have a feeling nothing will ever feel all right again. I’ve crossed over into someplace permanently terrifying.

  Blake doesn’t seem to know what to do. After all his weird affection last night, he’s standing three feet away and spouting a bunch of psychological phrases. I catch post-traumatic stress disorder, severe anxious reaction.

  I’m trying to create some semblance of rational thought and his amateur psychology is not helping. “Shut up, Blake! Just shut up!”

  “No. You killed your beloved pet in some sort of fugue state. You need medical help.”

  I process this, trying to think of an argument against it. I look at Oscar—the body of Oscar the Second.

  “Maybe in France, after I see Mom. We need to make flight reservations. We—”

  “El, you can’t get on a plane in this condition. You need some type of psychiatric assessment, maybe medication.” He pauses, giving me a chance to absorb this. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, then we’ll figure out what to do.”

  Cradling Oscar, Blake backs out of the room as if he’s afraid of me.

  I grab some clothes—no cat T-shirt, I can’t bear a cat T-shirt—and turn on the shower. My image in the bathroom mirror is barely recognizable. Circles rim my eyes as if I was on the losing end of a fistfight. Blood covers my hands. The blood is even in my hair, clumping strands of it together in a gory mess.

  Clutching my stomach, I heave beneath the shower spray. Nothing comes up. I close my eyes as the water runs crimson down the drain. My thoughts are incoherent. Only two steady refrains circle through my mind: Mom is hurt. I killed Oscar. Mom is hurt. I killed Oscar. Then somehow it merges into I killed Mom.

  No, she was injured in a car crash in Paris. I did not kill her. I struggle to keep the facts straight. It feels like my hold on reality is tenuous. I have to remember what happened—what I actually did.

  Oscar. Poor Oscar. I thought I shared Dad’s love of animals. But maybe I shared some of his mental instability as well. I scrub myself clean with soap and shampoo and more soap until the water rinses clear. I’m reluctant to leave the comfort of the shower, to face the most dismal day of my life.