Missing Rose (9781101603864)

by Ozkan, Serdar

  Again, there had to be another answer! But at least these answers showed I was on the right track. The clear similarity between Others’ answers to the questions, “Where is God?” and “Where is my mother?” proved that you really were with God. Actually, I’ve recently come to realize that the phases of my search for you weren’t too different from the ones in my search for God. In fact, they were the same.

  So, Mom, as time went by, seeing that my whole being was preoccupied with you, Others tried to distract me from you. They gave me many toys and playthings. These kept me entertained for a while, but soon I grew tired of them. They offered me new ones; more attractive, more expensive, more exciting toys . . .

  Maybe, I thought, if my toys are constantly renewed, and if I am always given better toys, then I can keep myself entertained for the rest of my life. But, no, that’s not what I really want. What I want is my mother!

  What toy could make me happy if you were absent? But if you were with me, what lack of toy could cloud my happiness?

  So I was able to escape from the toy trap but, before long, my search for you was interrupted again. Let me explain, Mom . . .

  As I grew older, Others began to pay more and more attention to me. Sadly, they admired me a lot. I say “sadly” because soon I realized that their admiration and my desire to maintain this admiration were stopping me from pursuing my greatest dream—finding you.

  I felt that if I kept asking Others questions about you, they would soon turn away from me. That’s why I eventually gave up my search for you and instead let myself enjoy the continuing sunshine of their smiles.

  Others kept showering me with their arrows of praise and adoration—deadly arrows as I later realized. “You’re special, there’s no one like you in the whole world,” they would say. As they said things like these, the sweet venom of their arrows flowed into my blood.

  I still did, at times, doubt the truth of their words. I often asked myself, “Am I really special?” But since it was Others who’d made me believe this, I could not answer this question without them. It was as if the mirror of my soul was broken and I could only see myself as reflected in their words.

  I sought to be in their company all the time; so that whenever I asked, “Am I really special?” I could hear their invariable reply, “Yes, indeed you are. There’s no one like you in the whole world!”

  I never became tired of asking the same question or hearing the same answer over and over again. Just as salty water increases the thirst of the one who drinks it, their praises only increased my need to hear them.

  Worse, in order not to lose the approval of Others, I felt bound to live up to their expectations. Soon, I realized that I was living the life Others had chosen for me, not the one I myself had always dreamed of.

  Once more, my heart spoke to me: “You are unhappy, Mary.”

  It was true. I was so disappointed in myself that I could no longer take any pleasure in the admiration of Others. However, it was my unhappiness that finally gave me back the strength I needed in order to carry on my search for you.

  “Where is my mother?” I asked Others loudly.

  They replied with the same old answers: “Your mother doesn’t exist.” “She is someplace far away.” “You can only see her in the next world.”

  “No!” I said. “It’s not what you think.”

  “This is what we heard from Others.”

  “What if Others are wrong?”

  “Look around you; you can’t see your mother or God. If you were meant to meet them in this world, surely you’d see them.”

  “If I’d use only my eyes to see, I’d be lost in your dim world.”

  “Come on, be sensible, you are a big girl now.”

  “No, I’m little,” I said. “And I will always be!”

  However, this objection alone was not enough to take me to you, Mother. I had to find a path. The second phase of my search began when, in a dream, you showed me the path leading to you. You told me where I could find that Someone Who Knows. Much later, in real life, this person would take me by the hand and walk me on the path you’d shown, until you and I would be reunited in this world.

  I hope to tell you all about this dream in my next letter.

  With all my love,

  Mary

  9

  DRESSED IN the green linen suit her mother had always liked to see her wearing, Diana strode across the grass toward her mother’s grave. As she came closer, she saw a figure with long chestnut hair standing at the side of her mother’s headstone. It was the only headstone under the huge plane tree, so she couldn’t have mistaken the grave. It wasn’t an anniversary of any kind, so who could this visitor be so early in the day?

  Could it be Mary?

  She hesitated to go any further and stood watching the unexpected visitor for some time.

  “Who are you afraid of?” she scolded herself, and started walking again toward the grave. She could feel her heart pounding. A few steps were enough to leave her breathless. But she didn’t stop. Even though she’d almost reached the grave, the visitor would not turn to look.

  As she got closer, Diana caught sight of the visitor’s face; she was relieved to see that it was only Senhora Alves, her mother’s traveling companion. The last time Diana had seen her had been at the funeral. Though Senhora Alves had been one of her mother’s closest friends, since she lived in São Paulo, they hadn’t had the chance to see each other more often.

  Diana gently touched her on the shoulder. “I’m happy to see you, Senhora Alves.”

  “Oh, Diana, how are you?” Senhora Alves asked as she embraced her. “Are you all right, my dear? I phoned you so many times, but could never get hold of you. I left a message with the manager at the hotel. She said you were well, but—”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get back to you, Senhora Alves. I’m feeling better now.”

  She nodded toward the yellow roses Senhora Alves had brought for her mother. “They’re beautiful.”

  Senhora Alves’s eyes showed her agreement.

  “Diana, I have an appointment at lunchtime, and I’ll be going home this afternoon. But if you’d like to come, I’d be very happy to take you back with me.”

  “Thank you, Senhora Alves, I appreciate it, but there are things I have to do here.”

  “As you wish, my dear, but don’t forget, we’re always happy to see you.”

  After a moment of silence, Senhora Alves took Diana’s hand. “Now be honest with me, Diana. Are you okay?”

  The expression on Diana’s face answered her silently as if to say, “How can I be?”

  “Diana, I know you don’t need to hear this from me, but still, let me say it anyway . . . Your mother was always so proud of you.”

  “I really wasn’t prepared for it, Senhora Alves. Everything happened so fast. Five months ago, everything was fine. Even when she was ill, Mom never acted as though she had only a few months left to live. She never let herself go or lost that twinkle in her eye. She never once asked, ‘Why me?’”

  Diana’s eyes filled with tears.

  “But I can’t be like her, I can’t. Every morning when I wake up, I ask the same question, ‘Why her? Why did it have to be my mother?’ She wasn’t just a mother, she was . . . she was a light shining on everyone around her.”

  “She was,” Senhora Alves agreed.

  “But I never drew near to her light; I never tried to be illumined by her. And just when things might have changed, she went away.”

  “Changed?”

  Diana nodded.

  “For some time, I’d been feeling that I needed to see life through my mother’s eyes. I needed to discover her, be like her. I needed to solve the mystery beyond her gaze, her words, her way of life . . . She had a hidden treasure inside her, and I could n
ever reach it.”

  A sudden memory brought a faint smile to Diana’s lips. “Sometimes . . . Sometimes I’d tease her. ‘Come on, Mom,’ I’d say, ‘if you think I have a treasure, too, then give me the key to it.’ She would show me her empty hands and say, ‘I don’t have it. Nobody has it but you.’”

  Diana heaved a deep sigh. “I needed that key, Senhora Alves. I needed it. I wanted to be like my mother. I wanted to be worthy of her, at least. Do you know what I feel sometimes? I wish she hadn’t let me go my own way or allowed me to make my own mistakes. I wish she hadn’t accepted me for what I am. I wish she’d tried to make me more like her, as other mothers do. I wanted to be my mother’s daughter, Senhora Alves, I really did.”

  Senhora Alves hugged Diana as she broke down in tears.

  “Oh, Diana, you are your mother’s daughter. You’re so like her. I’ve never known another girl who resembled her mother as much. Never doubt that. Maybe I haven’t had the chance to spend much time with you. And it may seem as though I’m just trying to comfort you, but believe me, I know you very well, Diana. I’ve learned so much about you from your mother, who knew you better than you know yourself.”

  Diana’s sobbing ceased. “What did my mother say about me?” she asked softly.

  “Last year, on our journey to Alexandria together, she talked so much about you. She told me how unfulfilled you felt, that you were no longer satisfied with what you had, and that every day you were becoming more and more unhappy.”

  “Yes,” murmured Diana, bowing her head. “That’s true; about a year ago I did start feeling that way. But I thought I’d succeeded in keeping my feelings to myself. I didn’t want my mother to be sad, especially since there was no real reason for me to be unhappy. But I guess, as always, she was able to see what was going on inside me. I wonder why she didn’t say anything to me. How sad she must have felt . . .”

  “Sad? I don’t think that was the case at all,” Senhora Alves said. “Her eyes were sparkling when she told me.”

  “Sparkling?”

  “Yes, she seemed to be really happy about it. She even said, ‘I can see that my daughter is becoming more and more thirsty for the October Rains.’ In fact, she was thinking of inviting you to join us on our next journey.”

  “October Rains? You mean the journeys you used to take every October? Those mysterious journeys?”

  Senhora Alves nodded.

  “I was always so intrigued by them,” Diana said. “Each time I wanted to go with you, but Mom would never let me. And when you came back, whenever I asked her anything about them, all she would say was, ‘We listened and we were renewed.’”

  Diana’s eyes looked at Senhora Alves pleadingly. “At one time, it wasn’t more than mere curiosity for me, but a few years ago, I started feeling that there was more to those journeys, as if those journeys were the source of my mother’s light. I feel I would know my mother better if I knew more about them. And you’re the only person I know who can help me with this, Senhora Alves. Please, can’t you tell me what you did in Alexandria? Or in Athens, Jerusalem, Fez, Surabaya . . .”

  Senhora Alves wouldn’t meet Diana’s eyes. She seemed sorry to have raised the subject.

  “I always admired how wonderfully your mother expressed herself, Diana. She put it in the most beautiful way: we listened and we were renewed.”

  Diana knew it was useless to persist. “I see. Can I ask you another question, then?”

  “I hope it’s not as difficult as the last one,” Senhora Alves said, smiling.

  “Where is my mother, Senhora Alves? Where is she? I want to know what happened to her. And I’m sure you have a better answer to this question than I do.”

  After a moment of silence, “Do you remember, Diana,” Senhora Alves said, “at the time when I first met your mother, you kept asking her the same question over and over again? You wanted to know where your father was. And your dear mother always gave you the same reply, ‘Your father is with God, my child.’”

  As soon as Diana heard this reply, she realized that the question she had just asked Senhora Alves was the exact same question Mary had been asking all those years. She wondered why Senhora Alves had answered her question in this way. Since Diana wasn’t sure whether or not Senhora Alves knew the truth about her father, she refrained from mentioning Mary to her.

  “People may comfort a child who has lost her mother by saying, ‘She’s with God.’ But I’m not a child, Senhora Alves, you can tell me the truth. Please. My mother doesn’t exist anymore, does she?”

  “What’s said to comfort a child isn’t always wrong, Diana. Wherever your mother was before she died, that’s where she is now. With God.”

  Diana lowered her gaze.

  Senhora Alves touched Diana gently on the shoulder. “Let me leave you to have some time alone with your mother, my dear. But remember, we always have a place for you at home.”

  Diana hugged her. “Thank you, Senhora Alves. I’ll come to visit you as soon as I can. Have a safe trip home.”

  10

  WHEN SENHORA ALVES was out of earshot, Diana sat down at the foot of the grave. She put her hands on her chest and prayed silently for a while. Even though she didn’t believe her mother could hear her, she still spoke to her.

  “Mom, did you hear what Senhora Alves said? She said I resembled you more than any other girl resembles her mother. She’s such a sweet person. But I suppose there are some things she just doesn’t know . . .

  “I wanted to tell you that last night I glanced through Mary’s letters, but then I put them away again. Even though it may be too late, I did think of doing what I’d promised you. But I couldn’t, Mom. Don’t ask me why, I just couldn’t.

  “I wonder about one thing, though. I wonder what you thought when you read Mary’s letters. We both thought the same thing, didn’t we? That Mary’s mentally unstable? I know you told me she was unique, but you said it so that I wouldn’t hold back from looking for her, didn’t you?

  “I’d really like to know what you actually meant by the word ‘unique.’ As far as I can tell, this word means ‘one and only.’ It means there’s nothing like it in the whole world. But you didn’t use it in that sense, right, Mom? You didn’t feel that Mary is more worthy to be your daughter than I am, did you?

  “That couldn’t be true anyway—Mary’s insane. Didn’t you read her third letter? How she heard the rose breathing, the breeze blowing through her room, the light illuminating everywhere . . . And what about the conversation she had with the rose! If those aren’t symptoms of psychosis, what are they? They are nothing but hallucinations. Trust me, Mom, I’ve studied enough psychology to know that.

  “In any case, the things she says in her first letter, the things she claims she realized as a child, are in themselves enough for us to decide she isn’t normal. Can a child of that age have such a perception of life?

  “And what about the dream she describes in her second letter? Supposedly, in her dream you tell her to go to some garden, meet with some person and talk with some rose. And many years later, off she goes and does just what you told her to. Finds the person you spoke of and, what’s more, learns from her how to talk with roses! Could all this be for real?

  “Anyway, don’t worry about Mary, Mom. Maybe life is easier if you’re not quite right in the head. Don’t worry about me, either. Perhaps I’m suffering because I’m still sane, perhaps I can’t be convinced that I haven’t lost you and perhaps I can’t help thinking that you no longer exist . . . But in spite of all this, I will not go crazy, Mom. I will not try to escape from reality and I will not create a fantasy world for myself. Because I am a big girl and I always will be!”

  Diana got to her feet. “And one day,” she added, “I am going to conquer all this pain and succeed in being your daughter.”

  11

 
; AFTER RETURNING FROM the cemetery, Diana spent most of the day sleeping. Although she had many things to do—bank payments to make, graduation preparations, e-mails to answer, etc.—she kept putting it all off for another day.

  She just didn’t feel like doing anything, but to sit and do nothing only increased the emptiness inside her. Eventually, she decided to go for a walk along the shore.

  THE PARK WAS more crowded than it had been the previous day, but she found a secluded corner where she could sit and watch the children throwing bread to the seagulls. After a short stroll, she sat down again, this time to watch the sun sink slowly into the ocean.

  On her way home, she again took the shortcut; she wanted to go past the beggar in the hope that he might give her a clue as to what he’d meant by his words the previous day.

  As she approached the spot where the beggar was sitting, she saw he was examining his surroundings in the same way. Pausing in front of him, she stared him directly in the eye. To her surprise, he took no notice of her. Instead, he went on turning his head this way and that, watching the other passersby as if the girl who now stood in front of him wasn’t the same girl he’d spoken to a day earlier.

  “Hi, won’t you tell my fortune today?”

  The beggar appeared to have no idea what she was talking about. “Do I know you?”

  “Don’t you remember? It’s me.”

  “I know it’s you. But who are you?”

  Diana, now quite certain he was just fooling with her, turned on her heel and marched away.

  A few paces further on, she noticed the artist busy painting. He was wearing the same old shirt and blue jeans. She couldn’t see much that was different in the painting he was working on, apart from a greater mass of foam from the breaking wave.