A White Rose

by Bekah Ferguson

  “But you never loved Dad.”

  Mona dropped her gaze and crossed her bunny feet at the ankles. “Perhaps.… Truth is—I did try to sell it once. Went all the way to the jewelry shop and had it assessed. But then… I choked! Felt terribly wicked somehow.” She lifted her gaze. “I suppose that means I do have a bit of a conscience, eh?” A laugh. “Who knew?”

  A frown. “Well… thanks then. It's beautiful.”

  “Don't sell it, Kid, I'm telling you. You keep it in the family. It's the only meaningful thing I've owned, and I want you to have it. Gives me a small sense of satisfaction. Plus, now that you have it, I can no longer be tempted to sell it!” A phlegmy laugh. She took a gulp of Berocca water. “I didn't really love your father, but I know you did. So—it'll mean more to you than it ever did to me.”

  Dakota returned the ring to its tissue paper folds, placed the bundle back into the box and tucked it into her shoulder bag.

  A week later she'd taken the ring to the jeweler with a renewed sense of hatred toward her father; a feeling of vengeance even, for he'd never shown his daughter any love. She sold the ring without a second thought and put the cash toward a down payment on her house.

  ***

  Fingers and wet ankles growing numb, Dakota stood to her feet—shutting out the memories. The floor creaked beneath her.

  “I want to change,” she spoke aloud into the dark interior of the trailer; her voice like a child's. “I don't want to be my mother any longer—” A sob caught in her throat and she bent down her head, hugging her torso. “God,” she murmured, “if you're out there somewhere, you've got to find me! I can't even begin to find you myself.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I—I feel like I'm dying.”

  She'd always had a logical, scientific explanation against anything that seemed to point to a Creator. She'd even found a way to avoid heartache: by not loving anyone in an unconditional way. It was easy to seek out the kind of men who had no intention of committing to anyone—the male versions of herself. But never had she dreamed her heart could be broken again—not since Ryan Hill. He was to be the last man in this lifetime with the power to hurt her.

  Now there was Jason.

  How she loved him. And it hurt all the time, too—like a dagger twisting in her gut.

  Chapter 33

  The days passed by slowly as Christmas approached.

  Dakota kept to herself like a recluse and continued to screen phone calls. For the first time in her life, the thought of clubbing repelled her; the prospect of Christmas parties somehow nauseating. If there was no hunt for testosterone involved, what was the point? She didn't have a true friend in the world who wanted to spend time with her simply to spend time with her. And she was sick of being used by other women for social leverage and contacts. Like Tiffany, Chantel and Allison—or the many others she'd never bothered to learn the names of. They were mere accessories; like clothing, jewelry and makeup.

  She did not miss them.

  Of course there was Jaelynn now, but Jaelynn was keeping to herself as well; probably because of her brother's uncertain involvement. Jason hadn't phoned since their afternoon of snowshoeing and she wasn't about to call him either. If he wanted to see her, he would call, and that's all there was to it. She was done with throwing herself at other men. It was no longer enough to satisfy.

  She wanted life to be real now.

  Like her flowers and gardens.

  Alive.

  Breathing, budding, growing… becoming something beautiful, wonderful…

  Lasting.

  All these years she'd pridefully viewed herself as a vibrant red rose—a goddess of love—Venus or Aphrodite. Now she felt like a faded rose—spent and withered.

  Dead inside.

  ***

  Tuesday morning was dark and oppressive, pewter sky hanging low like a blanket. It wasn't snowing but the atmosphere seemed dense and obscure as Dakota drove to work. The clapboard flower shop came into view a dismal gray—the multicolored string of Christmas lights along the fretwork the only bit of cheer. Even the backdrop of trees beyond the greenhouses hunched downward with burdened limbs and heavy spirits.

  Jaelynn arrived in a cab as Dakota was unlocking the front door to the shop. She climbed out of the taxi trying to balance on her crutch while straightening her beret cap at the same time. She waved at Dakota and made her way across the freshly plowed parking lot. Dakota helped her up the stairs and while Jaelynn got things going indoors, she grabbed a shovel and set to work at clearing off the porch steps.

  It was 8:45 and the shop would be opening at nine. She went inside, took off her coat and sat down at her laptop behind the front counter.

  “Coffee's ready,” Jaelynn called out from the back room. A moment later, Bing Crosby's “White Christmas” flooded the shop through mounted speakers.

  Dakota joined the girl at the coffee pot, shaking her head and smiling in spite of herself. “Trying to get into the Christmas spirit?”

  A grin. “It's so bleak out there—I had to lighten the mood.”

  Dakota nodded, splashing coffee into her mug. “Yes, thanks.”

  Jaelynn sat on a stool while she prepared her own coffee, and glanced at Dakota sidelong. “You look tired.”

  “Yeah, I feel all out of sync,” she said with a wane smile. “It's Christmas—I know—I should be happy.” A laugh. “But I just feel… sluggish—unbalanced. I can't seem to get excited about things lately.”

  Jaelynn pivoted on her stool and took a sip of steamy coffee. “You're depressed.”

  A beat passed.

  “I wouldn't necessarily call it that.”

  “Why? What's wrong with being depressed?”

  Dakota laughed. “You think I don't want to admit to being depressed?”

  “Maybe.” She smiled, raising her brow.

  Reaching for another spoon, Dakota stirred her coffee again as though it wasn't already blended enough. She added a second scoop of Coffee-mate and stirred some more.

  “It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Jaelynn said softly. “I've been there.”

  “Yes, well—you have good reason.”

  “It's not what you think.” She sipped her coffee. “I battled with depression long before I lost my leg… ”

  Dakota looked away, wondering how much she should tell the girl. The last thing she wanted was for her to go home and blurt out to her brother that Dakota was a love-sick puppy. “I think my energy centers are out of whack,” she said with a shrug. “That's probably all it is.”

  Jaelynn knit her brow and said nothing as Dakota left the room and flipped over the “Open/Closed” sign hanging on the front door.

  She returned to the work counter, reached for a phone book and looked up a local polarity therapist; booking an appointment for five-thirty that afternoon. Jaelynn came up behind her as she returned the phone to its cradle, and plunked down a stack of empty baskets, floral foam and two rolls of red and gold ribbon. December was a busy month for parties and weddings. A good half of the shop was filled with poinsettias, holly boughs and evergreen wreaths, and the appointment book was overflowing with orders.

  Dakota sighed inaudibly. She needed to get out of this funk right away or she'd risk falling behind on her workload. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion and it was hard to feel motivated anymore, even though she'd always loved her work.

  “What's polarity therapy?” Jaelynn asked, pulling her from her reverie.

  “Oh,” she said, smiling, “it's kind of like a visit with a chiropractor, but the focus is on the seven spiritual energy centers of your body. The chakras.” She touched her fingertips to the cool talisman resting between her collarbones. “They're lined up along the central nervous system.”

  A nod. “Will that make you feel better?”

  She closed her fingers around the amulet and tugged on the chain slightly, averting eye contact. “I hope so.”

  Would it though?

  It wasn't going to make Jason love her. And it
wasn't going to change her past relationship with her parents either. But maybe, at the very least, it might change her current relationship with herself. Maybe then she'd be more lovable. It was the only way she knew to seek inner salvation.

  It had always revitalized her in the past—why shouldn't it do the same now?

  Jaelynn said nothing more and Dakota went to the back room to assemble the material she needed to make an extravagant wedding centerpiece for a head table. She placed satin ribbon rolls, white pine garland, pine cones, delicate glass bulbs, tapered candles, and Helleborus nigers onto a tray, carried them to the front room and set to work.

  Jaelynn was also working on pieces for the same wedding, and the hellebores, traditionally known as “Christmas Roses,” were to be a running theme. She had fitted four weaved baskets with floral foam and was now laying out a row of trimmed roses and pine twigs. Picking up one of the golden-centered, white flowers by the stem, she held the saucer-shaped bloom to her nose and drew in a breath. “Do you know the legend of the Christmas rose?” she asked softly, glancing at Dakota with sparkling gray eyes.

  The girl didn't look much like her brother but when she smiled there was a glimpse of the same merriment his own eyes often held.

  The dull throbbing in Dakota's heart sharpened with the sudden image of him, and she tried to focus on Jaelynn's question instead. “Well . . . ” she said, trying to recall, “I remember something about medieval days when it was planted close to front doors because people believed it would break curses and evil spells.” She laughed and sat down on a stool next to Jaelynn. “Maybe I should plant some in my front yard!”

  A chuckle. “No, I'm talking about its Christmas legend.” Jaelynn twirled the stem of the flower between her thumb and forefinger and pivoted on her stool to face Dakota. “The story of Madelon, the shepherd girl. She traveled to Bethlehem with her brothers to see the Christ child, and she was sad because unlike the wise men, she had no gift of gold or myrrh to offer the King.” She smiled. “So, Madelon searched the countryside high and wide for a beautiful flower. But because the winter had been so cold, there were no flowers to be found and she started weeping. An angel walked by and saw her crying, so he brushed away a mound of snow to reveal a pink-tipped, white Christmas Rose. Madelon took the lovely flower and offered it as a gift to the Christ child.”

  “Tell me something,” Dakota said slowly. “Do you really believe that infant was God—growing up among us like a common man?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “I won't argue about whether or not Jesus Christ existed. He's recorded in many historical texts, not just the Bible—so, I'm sure he was a real person.” She took a swig of tepid coffee and grimaced at the mug. “But he died, like everyone else! He was only a man.”

  Jaelynn flicked her a clear-eyed glance in response. “I believe what the Bible says,” she said. “That he was dead, that he was buried, and that on the third day he rose to life again.”

  Dakota smiled down at the girl, thinking her naïve. “Honey, I couldn't agree with you more that Jesus was a great moral teacher and we can learn a lot of good from him. But that's all he was. A good man with admirable values.”

  After sticking four roses in the center of the foam, Jaelynn picked up several twigs of pine and arranged them artfully around the flowers. “Jesus claimed to be God,” she said, reaching for a handful of red-berried holly and using it to fill in the various gaps. “He also claimed to be the Savior of the world, claimed to heal the sick… he even claimed to be our Creator—making him as old as the earth itself.” She paused, examining a shiny, jade holly leaf, and turned a sharp look on Dakota. “If Jesus was only a man, he was either lying or insane. Hardly admirable.”

  Dakota frowned and pushed away her cold coffee. She'd always admired the historical Jesus—much in the same way she admired Buddha—but she hadn't thought it this way before. “You can't rise from the dead,” she said, not knowing what else to say, “so, I guess he really was a lunatic—if he claimed to be God.”

  A sweeping smile. “Or maybe he really was God! Is.”

  “No”—she shook her head—“I'm sorry, hon, it's just a fairy tale.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, for one, there's no proof of his so-called resurrection.” She counted off two fingers: “Either Jesus wasn't really dead when they put him in the tomb, or the disciples made the whole story up.”

  Jaelynn filled the last visible gap with holly and set aside the finished bouquet, reaching for the next basket. “It's highly unlikely that Jesus would've survived a brutal Roman crucifixion,” she said, “but to be fair, let's say he did—How could a man, who, after being severely whipped, hung all day by nails through his hands and feet, a spear pierced through his side, have the strength to roll away a huge boulder and fight off the armed guards outside?” She faced Dakota directly.

  “They were afraid the disciples would steal Jesus' body and claim he had risen from the dead—That's why the tomb was guarded by Roman soldiers. But let's say he did escape. By the time he appeared to the disciples and many other multitudes, he would've been in an absolutely horrific physical state—hardly viewable as divine.” She raised an eyebrow. “You have to admit this isn't realistic.”

  Dakota stepped down from her stool. “Hold that thought—I'm going to make more coffee.”

  She returned five minutes later with a fresh cup for herself and Jaelynn. “So, I agree, surviving the crucifixion isn't realistic,” she said, resuming the conversation. “It's much more likely the disciples simply lied about the resurrection.”

  Jaelynn took a sip of her coffee. “It would've been so easy for the Jews or Romans to prove the disciples were lying,” she said. “Think about it—all they had to do was open up the tomb and produce the body! But the tomb was empty. And Jesus appeared to many hundreds of people, not just the disciples. Why would people who didn't believe Christ's claims before his death, suddenly believe they had seen and spent time with the resurrected Christ?”

  Dakota set down her mug and reached for a cluster of holly berries, passing over twigs, one at a time to Jaelynn as she finished up the second bouquet. “They probably just hid his body somewhere,” she said.

  “Okay, let's say the disciples did somehow manage to steal the Lord's body . . . ” Jaelynn said. “Think of the infamous disciple, Peter. You know, 'Saint Peter?' ”

  “Uh huh.”

  “He denied knowing Jesus three times before the crucifixion because he was terrified of being tortured. So why would he later risk severe persecution and martyrdom by making up a story of Jesus rising from the dead?” She glanced at Dakota, a keen light in her eyes. “It just doesn't make any sense. Don't you think the Romans and the Jews would've had the disciples arrested and tortured until they confessed where they'd hidden the body?”

  Dakota frowned again and reached for her coffee.

  “You say there's no proof Jesus rose from the dead,” the girl continued, “but when I look at the Bible and the other historical documents as well, I can't find any logical explanations to back up the conspiracy theories. All I can see is a whole lot of grasping at straws.”

  She plunked down her coffee too hard, sloshing it on the counter. “How is it logical to believe Jesus rose from dead!”

  A soft smile. “It's not—if he was only a man. But if he was God, as he claimed to be… ”

  The brass bell above the front door jingled as a customer entered the shop.

  Dakota stood to greet the customer with exaggerated cheerfulness, the sudden diversion like a breath of fresh air.

  ***

  Dakota arrived home later that night after a one-hour session with a polarity therapist downtown. She was loose and relaxed from the massage, but her journey was not yet complete.

  While a light dinner of creamy vegetables and scallops sealed in parchment paper baked in the oven, she freshened up and changed into her flannel pajamas. She dug through her dresser, retrieved the pull-tie pouc
h where she kept her colored gemstones and carried them with her downstairs.

  After lighting candles all around the living room, she dimmed the lights and sat across from the garden mural; eating her meal slowly and pondering the conversation she'd had with Jaelynn that morning about Jesus.

  Confucius was buried in Shandong where his body remained to this day… It was unknown if the legendary Lao Tzu was a real person or a pen name for a group of writers… Buddha died after eating wild mushrooms and was cremated… When Mohammad died, his body was cut up and strewn across the Near East… If reincarnation was true, perhaps they lived on to this day, but Dakota had even less proof of reincarnation than anything else.

  Nevertheless, these glorified men had succumbed to death and disease like every one else on earth; but Jesus' tomb was empty. His body had never been found, despite the power of the Romans. And not only that, hundreds of recorded eye-witnesses had seen and spoken with him after his death.

  Despite herself, she had to agree with Jaelynn—if the disciples had stolen the body, they would have been arrested and forced to reveal its hiding place. But even if the disciples had stolen the body, why would anyone believe them when they claimed Christ was alive and well unless they had seen Jesus face-to-face?

  Dakota finished the last of her meal, set aside the her plate and pulled a yoga mat out from beneath the sofa. She switched on an instrumental CD she used for meditation, and calming Indian flute strains filled the room. She closed the curtains and retrieved her pull-tie pouch from the coffee table; pouring the seven colored gemstones into the palm of her hand.

  If balance could be restored between her body's chakras, she would experience emotional release, a cleansing of negative energy, and a renewed sense of health and well-being.

  Dakota rolled the cool stones around in her palm with her forefinger and meditated on the meaning of each one. She'd purchased the gemstones along with her chakra necklace. The owner of the shop had explained the meaning of each color and had taught her the chakra meditation. She'd only done this meditation a handful of times over the past ten years, but never before had she felt as much urgency for the freeing of life force energy as she did today. It was hard to say if the cleansing ritual had worked in the past—certainly she felt relaxed and refreshed afterward—but she hadn't been depressed then; her mother hadn't committed suicide; life was still exciting; and she wasn't miserably in love.