Her Name Is Rose

by Christine Breen

  Without directions now, he drove up the hill before him. Huge bushes with tiny red flowers closed in on the thin road. Grass was growing in the middle. Wild, he thought. He hoped Spirit of Grace knew where she had taken him because he seemed to be disappearing into the thickest greenness he’d ever seen. Even the air he breathed seemed green, and smelled of hay. When he cleared the top of the hill, two horses, a speckled gray and a chestnut mare, nosed over the stone wall. They faced toward the sliver of ocean that crossed the horizon about ten miles back to the west. He stopped the car and got out. The road evened out ahead but there was no house in sight. The horses came toward him. He saw his reflection in the eye of the mare and he thought she spoke to him. He shrugged and got back in the car, feeling giddy.

  Another quarter of a mile farther, at a bend in the road, a driveway appeared, huddled between two stone buildings, one with a black door. A blue flowering vinelike plant spilled over a lower building on the other side of the entrance and fell onto an open wooden gate. Several potted plants were lined up against the wall.

  This had to be the place. It said Iris all over.

  He parked the car at the gate. His heart felt five sizes too big for his chest. It was thumping a big drum rhythm full of ache and regret and hope, ba-bam ba-bam ba-bam, drying up his throat. She’s in here.

  “Come on now, Hector, keep going, man.” He hopped in over the stone stile and followed the line of potted flowers that led through a gap in a high hedge. A jaw-dropping, mind-blowing, breathtaking garden materialized. He stood a few moments as if in a trance. I’ve arrived in Emerald City where the blue Iris lives, he thought.

  “Um … hello? Can I help you?”

  It was a young woman with long brown hair who came out from the house.

  “I’m looking for Iris. Iris Bowen?”

  The young woman considered the stranger a moment and got up. “She’s not here.”

  “Is she all right?” He spoke with a little too much urgency and a little too quickly and he knew he’d surprised her.

  “Yeeesss. She’s fine,” she said cautiously. “Um … does she know you?”

  “You must be Rose…” he said then, and walked a little nearer. “I met your mom when she was in Boston last week.”

  “O … kay…” Rose paused. “She didn’t mention meeting anyone except the lady at the guesthouse.”

  “That’d be Grace Hale. Another nice lady … like Iris … I mean, your mother.” He took another step closer and held out his hand. “I’m Hector Sherr.” They shook hands. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Rose.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Hector shifted his weight, but Rose stood still. “Your mom talked a lot about you. You’re a musician, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Oh. Nice … um … was Mum expecting you?”

  “Actually, no. It was a sort of a spur of the moment thing. I just wanted to see how she was. I mean—”

  “I don’t know when she’ll be back, but I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  “Yes. Please … I’d really like to—”

  “Where are you staying?”

  She was a tough marker, Hector thought. How could he blame her? A stranger walks into your mother’s garden, out of the blue, and starts nosing around. “In a place called Done Beg.”

  “Doonbeg.” She smiled. “I’ll tell her so.”

  “I hear there’s a music festival on this weekend?” Still, she didn’t say anything. Hector wanted her to say, Yes, there’s a festival and we’ll be there and I’ll bring my mother and we’ll all have a nice time. But this girl didn’t give anything away. And she wasn’t going to. She wasn’t going to tell him what he wanted to know: Is Iris all right? Hector, man, he thought, be cool. What if the news wasn’t good? She wasn’t going to tell him. It was none of his damn business.

  “I’ll get going then.” But he didn’t move. He waited, still hoping Rose would give him some encouragement. “Nice to meet you, Rose,” he said at last, then he turned and walked back along the line of potted plants, through the gap in the high hedge, and out. He got in the car and headed west.

  He would return there the next day.

  And the day after that.

  And all the days after until he saw Iris Bowen again.

  * * *

  The small village of Doonbeg was an unlikely setting for an international music festival and, except for its position so near the sea, it might have gone unnoticed in the calendar of Irish summer festivals. It was a thing the Irish did to counter the often-compromising weather, organize and attend festivals. Every year since the turn of the millennium a group of local people orchestrated the event that brought semiprofessional musicians from all over the world to play. One of their tenets was to make the festival free to all, so volunteers came from all walks of life from the West Clare community to lend support. Tess’s husband, Sean, was on the development committee and Tess took tickets for the raffle at the door on Saturday night. For her part, Iris contributed a floral arrangement. The festival was a boon for local hotels and guesthouses that helped sponsor it. Before Luke died he, too, had volunteered, ferrying musicians from the airport and coordinating their accommodations.

  * * *

  The day of the opening concert Iris met Tess for lunch in the garden of the hotel in Ennis. They were lucky to find a bright spell in an otherwise gray day and sat in the sunshine filtering through an old copper beech. Gardeners were trimming the boxwood hedge. She would have preferred to be in her own garden as gardening had a way of helping her work things out—and she did have some things to work out, like the surprising appearance of a young man in her daughter’s life, and what was she going to do with herself now that she wasn’t going to die—but she was anxious to confide in someone about Hector. Her garden could wait. The more she thought about Hector, the more she believed perhaps she’d been too hasty in her judgment to leave without saying good-bye. He’d been a breath of fresh air and, to be quite honest, she missed the attention. Keeping him a secret made her feel as if she’d done something wrong.

  But still. She wanted someone to know there had been sparks. That there was some life left in her. Just when she was about to tell her friend, Tess’s phoned buzzed. She read the text: Boys to be collected from football training, then I have to get to the community center. She sighed and, as she stood, she asked, “What were you going to say?”

  “Oh, nothing. Tell you later.” Iris waved a hand and smiled and Tess dashed away. Iris sat a while longer in the garden.

  * * *

  Now, shortly after four, Iris arrived back home with groceries. She could hear music playing when she stepped from the car. She paused, listening, stilled by the rising melody that leapt up above the trills of the fiddle. It was “Over the Rainbow.” So Rose is going to play at the concert, she thought. With Conor. She was glad because her daughter’s account of the stroppy Mr. Ballantyne made her wonder if she should suggest Rose take a break from her studies in London. Maybe she would be better off back home in Ireland. Take one of those gap years and travel. Or something. Rose had never had a job, maybe she’d like that. They’d put down two very demanding years and now that Iris had been given the all clear, now that her architectural distortion was just some calcification, maybe the two of them should travel. But it was all conjecture. There was someone new in Rose’s life now. And for a moment Iris was happy-sad thinking about it, the way only mothers know.

  More petals dropped from the clematis, leaving behind feathery heads with silver threads. The summer was already transitioning toward autumn. She stood listening a few moments longer before entering the house.

  “Hey, Mum!” Rose laid down her violin. “Nice lunch?”

  “Yes. Lovely. I stayed until the rain threatened.” Iris put her shopping on the counter. “The piece sounds really great. I can’t wait to hear your duet.”

  “Rose Bowen is an actual star,” Conor said. “Festival crowd won’t know what
hit them when this classy violinist starts playing jazz—with the fiddler from Kinvara, Conor Flynn.”

  Rose smiled and Iris began to unpack. “So … Mum?” Rose glanced to Conor and then back at her mother. “Do you know someone named Hector?”

  Iris froze. She turned to Rose and stared but said nothing.

  “Wasn’t that the name I told you, Conor?” said Rose, keeping her eyes on her mother.

  “Tall guy, you said, and friendly, American. Hawaiian shirt.”

  “Hector?” was all Iris could manage.

  “He said he met you in Boston,” Rose said.

  Iris looked away and continued unpacking. She couldn’t believe it. Hector? Here? It made no sense. Hector? She lined up the sugar and raisins and buttermilk and tomato sauce. Incongruous and mad, and yet … she turned away her blushing face.

  “Mum?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. Not … I can’t. No. I’m too busy now. I have to … I have to post on my blog. And I promised Tess I’d make an arrangement for tonight.” She opened the refrigerator and stood, shielded behind the door.

  “He seemed pretty nice,” Rose finally said. “Maybe a bit loopy, but in a nice way.”

  “Shouldn’t you be practicing?”

  “Details, Mum.”

  “No. Go. Not now, Rose.”

  Rose shrugged and led Conor to the sunroom, but she threw her mother one over-the-shoulder glance. Rose had caught her smiling.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Iris said. “Okay?”

  “Sure. Can’t wait.”

  Soon Rose and Conor were playing and Iris was left to think. What? Hector? How had he got here? How had he found her? Hector? It was as if a Californian poppy had unexpectedly appeared in her flower border. What did he want? It was mad, just mad.

  She escaped outside to finish making the centerpiece. Tons of lady’s mantle bloomed along the path. Somewhat wildly, Iris clipped a large bunch and dropped it in her basket. She gathered a few love-in-a-mist seed heads and two fat hosta leaves, then began to arrange them with cosmos in a black watering can she had chosen as a container. She needed more color and hesitantly snipped her two last red poppies from the border in front of the sunroom.

  Inside the shed her hands were shaking as she made final adjustments. What the … Hector? Here in Ashwood? Had he seen her garden? Talked with Rose? She tried to concentrate on the arrangement, but the flowers kept falling sideways. She placed a long red rose in the center and the arrangement held.

  “Mum?” Rose was on the path. “Mum? Conor’s van is back. All fixed. We’re going to get a bite to eat in Doonbeg. Is it okay if we see you there? Conor needs to meet someone.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re okay?” Rose waited.

  “Sure … you’re home. That’s all I need. And … I get to hear you play tonight.”

  Rose only half smiled. She turned and followed Conor, but had only taken a few steps when she came back to her mother. “Do you think he’d mind?”

  Iris was holding the centerpiece in both hands. The large faces of the poppies obscured her own face. “Who? Mind what?”

  “You know! Dadda?”

  Iris’s face flushed.

  “Would he mind me…?”

  “Oh!” Iris said, realizing Rose wasn’t asking if Luke would mind about Hector.

  “Would he mind me playing ‘Over the Rainbow’?”

  Iris lowered the centerpiece. “I think he’d be happy.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? It’s wonderful.” She put the centerpiece on the wooden table under the porch and then her arm around Rose and led her out to where Conor was looking at his repaired van, like it was a temperamental friend he’d now forgiven.

  “All right, then, ready for road?” he said. “’Bye, Mrs. Bowen.”

  “I think you can call me Iris.”

  Rose kissed her mother and whispered, “You’re not off the hook yet. I want to hear all about Mr. Hector Sherr.”

  Iris waved her hand at her daughter. “Go!”

  Along the path back to the house she picked up Cicero and brought him inside. She decided against making a supper just for herself and instead got some crackers and some cheese from the refrigerator. She cut a few slices for the cat.

  “Is he a nice man?” she asked Cicero. “Hmmm? Isn’t he?” Waiting for the kettle to boil, she ran her hands over the cat’s back. She hadn’t gardened in two weeks and noticed her fingers were beginning to look, well, normal. The chapped edges of her forefingers were softening. Even her nails were growing. Her wedding ring clinked against the cat’s collar and, all of a sudden, she remembered the dream of Luke smiling and walking out of the sea toward her. He was carrying a box. It was an open box.

  She had just enough time to wash her hair, so she grabbed some shampoo from the cupboard and washed in the sink. The lather released a scent of apples and cinnamon. Then with toweled-up hair, she sat and finished the blog post that had been gathering in her mind.

  Sea change. Rainy summer is in full swing, but nothing can dampen the turning of the world. It goes on with or without you—the seasons and the garden and the very music of life itself. You’d think the rain might have a slowing-down effect. Even hope it will. But nothing can deter the steady passage of summer into autumn. The cuckoo flies south. The baby swallows leave the roof beams. The purple moor grass turns orange.

  Neither wind nor rain nor sun nor gray skies can hold back the changing seasons. So perhaps they change in us, too. The thing your slow, redheaded gardener realized in her garden today was not to resist. The garden teaches trust. Accept the change.

  Cry out: Onward, hail and olé.

  And celebrate.

  At seven o’clock Iris drove westward toward the sea. She was running late and so drove fast, constantly glancing sideways to mind the old black watering can doddering in the backseat. She should never have filled it with water. The rain had shifted east and the sky showed blue between parting clouds. Sunlight shone out beyond Spanish Point. In midsummer dusk didn’t fall until eleven. This was her country at its best.

  Iris had decided not to tell Rose about Hilary, at least not yet. There was no need now. Iris wasn’t going to die. Not yet, anyway, thank God. She had reacted out of fear. Fear that Rose would be alone, and unable to manage without her. Tess was right. You can’t prepare for every eventuality. Rose had her own life to live and, judging by recent events, she was doing pretty damn well on her own. Hadn’t she managed her master class? Hadn’t she landed herself into a promising-looking relationship with Conor? In fact, she was blooming before Iris’s eyes. Blooming in a way that proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all the nurturing, nourishing, wiping away tears, encouraging, consoling, challenging, and battling at times, all the guiding, supporting, parenting, and mothering—yes, real mothering—had given Rose the best possible circumstances in which to flourish.

  In time, life was going to take her daughter away from Ashwood, probably before Iris was ready. That was one eventuality she could prepare for—and she would, and somehow it would be fine. Sonia McGowan, too, had been right. It was up to Rose to ask questions if she wanted to know about her birth mother. That’s the way it works. And even though there was no indication of a birth father, it would still be Rose’s decision to initiate the process of tracing information about her birth parents. Her natural parents.

  It was ironic, but in discovering that Hilary was dead, Iris felt anchored to Rose in a way she hadn’t before. That was natural.

  The fact was, hard as it was to take, Iris had lost her mate. And the truth was, she was learning, albeit slowly, that she had to get on without him. As for her promise to Luke, she had tried to find Hilary. The journey had taken her though a season of melancholia. A new season was emerging. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany, but Iris acknowledged, today, she hadn’t been able to see grief as a process that takes its own time. Waves come and go. And wash over you.
<
br />   Allow grief to be a badge of courage, an inspiration, a transformative sea change—Luke was saying in the dream. Honor what is best. See it in me. In yourself. In Rose. That is my gift to you.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the Doonbeg Community Center. Cars were arriving and parking every which way as was the custom in that part of the world. She pulled over as near to the front door as she could and got out and eased the centerpiece from the backseat. Inside the foyer, a small crowd had gathered and stood admiring a children’s art competition on the walls, the theme being jazz. There were drawings of wild-haired drummers, and yellow saxophones, and crazy crooked pianos. One blue guitar had won first prize.

  “There you are!”

  “A bit late, sorry, Tess.”

  “No bother, pet.” She stood back. “You look nice.”

  “Have you seen Rose?”

  “Inside. Bring the flowers and we’ll put them on stage.” Tess started through the double doors in the hall, then stopped and said, “You really do look nice.”

  Iris blushed. She knew she had made an effort. And that was something new. But was it so noticeable? She followed Tess, snaking through the rows of chairs and up the stairs to the somewhat-bare stage. A drum set was arranged against a black curtain in the corner. Tess looked around for a place to put the flowers. “The piano will have to do. There’s nothing else. I’ll find something to put under it. Sean will have my head if I scratch the new piano. I’ll be right back.” Tess was wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a crazy patchwork pattern of flamboyant colors, some Spanish label she was fond of. Iris hated it. Tess knew that and knew, too, Iris preferred her flamboyant colors to be in the garden.

  Iris stood on the empty stage holding the flowers, feeling somewhat conspicuous. She’d missed last year’s concert and the one before that because of Luke. And now she realized there were a dozen people she hadn’t seen in two years. Marjorie O’Neill was waving to her. Una Brew and Mary O’Dea, school friends of Rose’s, were signaling: Is Rose here? Was Iris obliged to approach them all and redeem herself? Apologize for her absence? Maybe later. Musicians nodded as they ambled up onstage and passed by on the way to the dressing rooms. A young man with a black baseball cap unpacked a bass in the corner.