Time's Forbidden Flower (21 page)

My eyes beg for Donovan’s heart to liberate all it has sealed inside. “You can say anything, irrational or not. We need to both let go.”
 

With tightened eyes he draws in calming oxygen, centering himself. “There has to have been something I could have done differently,” he anguishes. “Maybe if I didn’t fight her every step of the way we all could have come out of this less damaged. Maybe then she never would have started drinking herself to death. Maybe—”

“Maybe she would have died a bitter old fool anyway,” I snip. Donovan's reserved pain has just punched my snapping point. I’ve already let go of my real mother, now it’s time to say goodbye to the monster in the dirt.

“Mom treated you worse than a prisoner of war.” I back away from Donovan so my arms can flail out my anger and accent my words. “Hell, the Geneva Convention was created to ban what happened to you. Why can’t you just hate her? She deserves that. I hate that bitch! I absolutely fucking hate her! How can you give her even a drop of your compassion? She forced you to hurt me while using me in an attempt to gain information to support her delusional theories about you. Theories that were driven by hatred of a stereotype that you wanted nothing to do with. Look at both of you right now. Who’s the victim? There’s a vast difference between the Mom we loved and the devil she became. I’m not the least bit sorry for that bitch and neither should you be!”

Softly I cup his red, tear streaked cheek in my hand. “Donovan, why you have struggled for so long to find forgiveness?”

Loosely hooded eyes reflect his quest for inner peace that calms his breath like a stream on level ground. “Because I had a crazy dream,” he confesses. “Remember how dedicated Mom’s parents were? They enjoyed nearly sixty years of marriage and died never having kissed another, surrounded to the end with love from their family. I wanted that. I wanted to find one woman and have everything with her. It’s one of the reasons why I couldn’t bring myself to act on us early on, but I couldn’t fight it anymore. My feelings for you were too strong—so strong that I knew the one person I truly wanted was already in front of me. The cruel reality of it was unimaginable.”

He takes a moment to gather himself, inhaling another cleansing breath of frigid winter air. “It killed me inside when you lost your virginity to Christopher—like my dream died. God knows I wasn’t perfect, but when that happened it was like I had already lost and all my waiting was in vain. When I met Marcia I thought I could move forward. Then I screwed that up, and I kept losing more and more of what I wanted. The last bit I could cling to was all of us getting together for Christmas every year. For all the nightmares it brought, for as awkward and scary as it always was, I don’t regret a moment of it. Mom was the last of her generation. At least we passed on a taste of that to our children.”

His eyes turn deep into the dirt-lined cavern before him, his tears splattering like the pain in my soul. Donovan’s voice strengthens, morphing from hurt to intensely serious. “We could have had it, Lily. It was in our hands, and I don’t understand why we were robbed.”

Snow falls like tears from heaven upon us, as if the angels mourn fate’s cruel joke. Stolen moments like these are all that remain of Donovan’s dream.

Christmas Eve finds my home all a-glitter and sparkle, like an enchanted wonderland. Twinkling lights and boughs of pine and holly enliven my home, but it’s the nine-foot tree in the family room that captivates me. The Balsam Fir, enshrouded in colored lights and ornaments dating back to Christopher's great-grandparents and mine brings forth sweet memories. Tucked up towards its top is the Teddy bear Donovan gave me, still adorned with a silver football necklace, his note sewn inside the hat.

This Christmas brings forth the dawn of new traditions. In what may be my worst idea ever, after Christmas Eve dinner we all rough it out for the night on the family room floor next to a roaring fire. After singing carols over video chat with Christopher’s family as they welcome Christmas morning, we all fall asleep, only to soon be awakened by the jingling of bells.

A jolly “Ho, Ho, Ho!” emits from the kitchen as Donovan strolls to us in a full Santa suit and carrying a huge sack, reminding me of how Dad loved to dress as Santa Claus when we were kids. The children bolt out of their sleeping bags and go in for the attack, gathering at Santa’s feet as his butt hits the sofa. Anna grabs her camera to preserve every bit of the sight. Where the heck is Christopher?

“Ladies first,” Santa says.

Anna nudges Sunshine to sit on Santa’s lap. Sunshine looks up to Santa in awe, completely speechless at the man in the funny suit—her eyes wide, her mouth silent and agape, her brown hair a mess of loose curls. She holds the silent pose as Santa asks what is on her list and continues to maintain it as he reaches into his bag and hands her a stash of gifts. Finally Anna takes Sunshine away, her little gaze still locked on the man with the bag.

“Okay, Antonia. Your turn,” Santa encourages.

“Christopher,” I call out, still wondering where he is.

Antonia shoots me an incredulous look, taking a caved stance, like we are putting her on. She plops into Santa’s lap, looks up at him, then back at me. “Please, this isn’t—” In a near panic, Anna and I
shh
her. Antonia returns her sights to Santa, giving him a half-hearted snicker. He replies with a blinking eye roll and adds a wink before forking over her stash.

Damn it, Christopher, where are you? You’re missing Christmas.

Next is Graham’s turn, but he defaults to Anna and I. “Santa said ladies first.” I don’t think I could be any more proud of the kid. Seriously though, where is his father?

Santa then calls Anna over, clearing his throat, claiming to have presents for the big girls, too. The contrast between Santa’s big puffy suit and Anna’s small frame is comical. When my turn arrives, Santa whispers words that turn my veins into a network of gleeful tingles. “Tomorrow night, check the book in the library where you kept the phony notes. The one in there now really is from me.” He follows it with a quick peck on the cheek and a brotherly shove off of his lap.

Graham takes his turn, but Santa’s sack has gone empty. He then asks his elves to find where the present could have gone. Anna and I look behind the sofa where a new guitar was to reside but is now missing. As if the perfect timing had been pre-orchestrated, the guitar appears in the hands of Christopher who is dressed as Father Christmas. He looks ridiculous in his coat that is almost a long dress and pontiff style hat with curved walking stick yelling, “Happy Christmas!” His eyes survey his family who is at a collective loss for words. He is too, until Donovan dashes to him.
 

The hinge on Christopher’s mouth sways before Martin and Lewis start their act. “Oh, bugger! I thought I was taking care of this,” he whispers to Donovan.

Donovan clones the hushed tone. “Seriously? This is what you meant when you said you were going to put on a bit of a fancy dress to do? I was kind of worried. Actually, you do look a little like Uncle Miltie.”

“Uncle who?” Christopher asks.

“Come on, Christopher. How long have you lived here? Wait, are you even wearing pants?”

“Bloody well right I’m wearing trousers. It’s brass monkeys out there!”

Donovan looks astounded. “Seriously, Christopher, no one else in the world sounds like you. Where do you get this stuff?”

I bring the guitar to Graham and wish him a Merry Christmas while the Santas continue their unarmed battle of wits. When it comes to men, I really know how to pick them.

On Christmas afternoon, the children drag Christopher and Anna out to the yard to break in their new soccer ball. Feeling lazy from too much time in the kitchen, Donovan joins me in the family room with the intent of finding a Christmas movie on TV that we haven’t already seen 50,000 times. Instead of dominating the adjoining sofa as per usual, Donovan plops down so close his leg grazes mine. We exchange little grins before he lands the channel selection on
A Christmas Story
.

“I thought we were going to find something new?” I ask.

“Nah, I feel like reliving old times.” He tosses the remote onto the coffee table before surveying the room—his words muted. “Remember the last time we watched this together on that amazing Christmas weekend we had? The only one we spent alone?”

“How could I ever forget? You spent all of Christmas Eve day distracting me with temptation while I fixed a feast for two. Then we had an undesirable visitor—”

“Yeah, thanks a lot for inviting Cruelana DeScrooge to drop by.”

I come to my own defense. “If I hadn’t called her—”

“Then I never would have called her to pay for Harley, and I wouldn’t be here right now.” His lips gently grace my ear, and the touch makes me feel as if I have slid onto a bed of satin and clouds. My gaze casts downward in fear that if I look up someone will be watching. “After I got past my brain hemorrhage we had a wonderful, romantic night curled up by the tree that took up half of your apartment.”

He pulls back, and my eyes lock onto his, my words blooming forth in awe. “The next day you played Santa Claus while I sweated it out cooking at a shelter.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” he corrects as his finger traces my jaw, his lips nearly fluttering on mine. My God, what is he doing? “I seem to recall the ‘real’ Santa supposedly got sick and you volunteered me as a replacement.”
 

“And you fought me every step of the way.”

The ocean in his eyes enrobes my soul in waves that pull me under, begging me to drown with him. “Only because those alleged therapists told me if I ever looked at children they would practically burst into flames from God’s wrath. I was shaking when that first kid hit my lap, but eventually I saw how wrong those people were. If it hadn’t been for the hope I got then…” My hand touches his check, absorbing a drop of the sorrow that seeps from his eyes as he continues. “A week later we had the most amazing New Year’s Eve. I got to spend the night holding you and telling you I love you.”

My being enlivens at the memory. “You said it constantly and each time in a different language.”

“Twenty-two of them, one for each month I spent hurting you. I’ve never said it to anyone else in anything but English. That was one of the best days of my life,” he asserts in delicate reverie. “Every day with you was one of the best of my life. I miss you.” From the tree he pulls off the Teddy bear, removes the necklace that adorns it, and fastens it around my neck before touching his lips to my cheek. “I’ve never recovered from that fall.”

My eyes draw into his with a devotion that has not been seen since the days of chivalry. “Donovan, what’s bringing this on? You’re usually not so open about this stuff when people are near.”

“ ‘This stuff’ is us, Lily. Just because we’ve been denied it doesn’t mean we don’t still exist. Others need to live with who we are, just like we do. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend we’re something different.”

Dear God, I don’t know either.
 

From outside, a soccer ball hits the family room window, jerking me back into reality. Taking advantage of the intrusion I jump up. “We shouldn’t be missing out on the reason we split.” Without haste I head outside, into the cloudy winter day and join the game.

The light of the alarm clock covers my face in a soft glow while its progressing numbers remind me that life is passing by. Finally, Christopher's breath deepens into a low snore. Like a paranoid ninja I slip out of bed and head down the stairs.

Is the frigidity of the knob on the library door brought about by the weather outside, or the betrayal I feel stepping through this portal, knowing a letter from a former lover awaits?

Grabbing the designated book off of the shelf, excitement and apprehension course through my nervous system. Hidden in the section on making gum paste lilies is a sheet of stationary that bares an uncanny resemblance to the stationary on which I once wrote letters to Donovan, sharing in the madness of an alternate reality.

To My Lovely Lady,

You are, and will always be, the force that drives and inspires me. On my brightest days, you are the warmth that shines upon me. In the darkest nights, you provide the voice that soothes me. Because of you I face each day knowing who I am and the good I bring into the world. Because of you, I am whole.