Time's Forbidden Flower (27 page)

“Yes!” Eric yells back.

I ignore them and continue. It’s not easy to come up with this stuff. “Mickey’s real name is George Michael Dolenz. So George Michael Peter totally works.”

Christopher leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Do you really think we should name our child George Michael?”

My lips purse. “Oooh… Good point.” Dennis runs up to Christopher and shakes him. “What are you doing?” I say, laughing.

Dennis throws his arms out in anticipation of applause. “I’m waking him up before we go-go. Come on, let’s get out of here!”

“I’m ghost, luv. See you in the morning!”

“How about Raymond David Michael?” Christopher asks while pacing through the kitchen.

“Heavens, not again,” Eric groans. Shutting the water off at the sink, he turns with crossed arms to watch the sideshow.

I’m with him. Besides, I’m tired of always sounding like a twonk when it comes to music. However, Christopher already has me stumped. “Who would that be from?”

Eric’s brows cross in bewilderment before Christopher turns into a puppet version of himself with his bobbing head and display of hand gestures. “Really, Lilyanna! I’m embarrassed for you.”

“Not helping,” I sigh.

Christopher thwarts his hands onto his hips and huffs, “The Kinks!”

“Oh.” Yeah, because those names are not at all common.
 

“What do you mean,
oh
?”

“Not doing it for me.”

He strolls around the kitchen as if the answer is on the floor. “Okay, how about Peter Roger Keith? Never mind. That’s terrible.”
 

Lord! At least that one I got. Eric’s been blasting The Who for two days. It is an excellent lead-in for me though. “Oh! How about Paul Mark Keith?”

Christopher's eyes flick back and forth. He’s totally lost; meaning his impending wobbly is going to be awesome! He fusses with the pepper grinder on the counter. After weeks of searching for the perfect taunt, I’m going to smash salt into his paper cut.
 

I milk his torture as I pretend to ponder. “Hmm… Actually, that doesn’t really work. How about Paul Mark Phil or Drake Michael Paul? Oh, that last one isn’t bad!”

Christopher attempts a detour. “Speaking of Pauls—”

“Oh, no you don’t! No changing the subject because you’re lost,” I nag.

Eric bites a nail, searching for the answer as well. At least I know he’ll get the joke, since he was once in a tug-of-war on the charts with these guys.
 

“No. Not exactly.” Christopher draws out his words, stalling. “Paul is a very common name.”

“Yeah, but Drake isn’t.”

Christopher throws his hands into the air, disheveling his mane. “All right. I give. Who is it?”

With the thump of my foot my hands thrust onto my hips, mocking his earlier gesture. His squirming is delightful! “Paul Revere and the Raiders.”

Christopher’s mouth drops as he stammers. “You mean those American blokes in the Revolutionary War costumes? No bloody way!”

Eric breaks into applauses, catcalling at my trump card. I bow to him before my focus returns to taunting Christopher. “In 1967 alone they had three gold albums. Not even the Beatles can top that. The Raiders were America’s answer to the British Invasion.”

“Exactly. They’re Yanks who represented a revolt against my kind.”

“What’s wrong with Yanks? May I remind you that you are married to one, both of your children are Yanks by birth, and you have a dual-citizenship, making you half Yank, just like your children are half Scouser.”

His mouth goes agape at the killing blow of the “S” word. “There’s no need to get nasty!”

The chime of the doorbell signals the end of this round and allows me to quit while ahead. Answering the door to Donovan, I whisper, “Remember, play along.”
 

“Hello to you, too,” he says as I drag him into the kitchen. He waves at Eric and Christopher as I nudge him into a chair.

“Sit, please,” I request, suddenly feeling discomfort over having him and Christopher in the same room.

“What’s going on?” Christopher asks.

Donovan rolls his eyes in the endearingly cocky way that only he, and my daughter, can. “Welcome home,” he grumbles. “I’m assuming you mouthed off and we’re about to go through another round of palate training.”

Christopher’s eyes widen in panic that he’s blown it. I give him a stress-relieving shake of my head as I hand Donovan a plastic tube with the letter B on it. “What’s this for?” he asks.

“DNA test. Swab your mouth.”

He dangles it in front of him like he’s examining a dead insect. “Lily, are you sure about this? We might open a new can of worms.”

“Please humor me.”

As Donovan complies, I tilt Christopher’s head back, and swipe inside. “Blimey, what’s that for?”

“Control test. You should show as not related to us.” Labeling it C, I toss it back into the paper bag.

“Got another of those?” Eric asks. Either this is his confessional or he’s checking up on baby brother.
 

“Why you?” Christopher asks.

“Control point. If it shows me as related to Lilyanna, we know the test is flawed.”

“Excellent idea, Eric! Here you go,” I say, handing him a kit labeled D.

Donovan’s eyes jet to me, as he now gets the reason for my grandstanding.
Seriously?
His eyes float between the two of them.
Oh, it makes so much sense. Damn it, how is it Christopher always gets what I wish I had?

Donovan’s attention returns to the tube he just capped. “It’s too bad we don’t have Mom’s DNA. Who’s to say there isn’t paperwork I didn’t find.”

“Ah, but we do!” From the bag of DNA kits I remove my grandmother’s old brush—the one that Mom kept on her dresser and often used. Holding it up, I make a spokesmodel-worthy gesture around it. “I packed this without removing Mom’s hair. There’s a major lab in Los Angeles. I’ll drop everything off tomorrow, and we’ll have the results in a few days.”

Now I just need to swab Antonia tonight while she sleeps.

This is one of those days—the ones where, unexplainably, nothing feels right no matter how well things are going. Though it’s not uncommon for people to have enigmatic twangs of discomfort, the fluttering that resounds in me is nothing short of ominous.

Donovan has been at the forefront of my mind all day. While that may not be new by any means, the fact that it is coupled with the feeling a hissing cobra is about to strike through my stomach invokes dread.

My heart hums in my throat as I arrive unannounced and open the door to Donovan’s vacant lobby. While his colleagues have long left, he remains in his office, which is all but quiet. “Stop sitting on your hands and face me like a man!” Anna’s voice barks from inside. In my slit of a view from his ajar office door, Donovan rests his head on his desk, his hands covering it. “Anna, please stop hitting me. You know I won’t fight you.”

“You don’t love me enough to fight. You want me mutilated so I’ll hide in shame and leave you alone. Fine! I’ll give you what you want.”

Anna grabs something off of the desk and darts across the room.
Thumps
and
pops
resound as little, sharp grunts of pain release from Anna’s mouth.

“Anna, stop!” Donovan yells with panic. He runs around the desk while the noises continue. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want!”

“Jesus Christ, Anna, give me that stapler!” Now out of my view, the scampering continues, until someone is shoved against the wall.

“Ouch!” Donovan utters, just before a cracking
smack
resounds. “Ow! Crap!” He then runs past, and his chair is slid aside. More rustling is heard.

“Give me back that stapler!” Anna screams, coming after him. “Get out from under that desk you coward! Handle this like a man!”

“Stop kicking me!” Donovan yells, his voice covered by Anna’s grunts of force. How he can remain calm is bewildering.

“I’m not kicking you. You’re kicking yourself,” she screams as the kicks continue, followed by Donovan’s occasional wince of pain.

“I will not succumb to what you are doing. You were supposed to be past this a long time ago.”

“Past this? How past it are you, Dr. Big Shot? Why am I now always the victim?”

“Anna, I’m calling the police. You can either stop this nonsense now or keep it going for them to settle. The 911 operator will record the call, and you won’t have a prayer in court of keeping Sunshine. So you either stop and keep your therapy appointment tonight, or you forfeit everything.
Choose now.
”

“Fine! You win, as always,” she concedes, heading for the door as I scamper under the secretary’s desk. “You always get what you want!” she screams through sobs. Exiting his office, she slams both it then the lobby door, as if getting in the last word.

After a brief moment of silence, I brave emerging. “Donovan?” I call gently. “Are you okay?”

A brief moan comes as he staggers out, wondering why he now needs to face me. Blood drips from a small gash over his right eye. Why does this poor, innocent victim look shamed and filled with guilt? And why is Donovan always the one to suffer?

Grabbing a tissue, I dab away the falling blood. “Why the hell do you put up with that? Why don't you just pick up your daughter and leave?”

He grips a deep breath, keeping himself centered. “Because I was once her. I hurt myself out of desperation.”

“So you married her because you felt sorry for her?”

“That is not why I married her. Besides, these are recent occurrences.”

“How recent?”

His lips tighten, as his head cocks to the side before he twists it back with a deep wince. “I made a promise, okay? She has her own story, and I’m not going to cover for her, but I am also not going to betray her trust—especially when she shouldn't trust me in other areas.”

“You’re also afraid that if I know I won’t let you leave her.”

“Truthfully, yes, but I have to keep my promise.”

Finally the deeper meaning sinks in. “If you were once her then... You didn't meet in school, did you?”

His head oscillates with little jerks.

“Victims support?” Fearing the response, I sit on the sofa to brace myself.

His little jerks morph into nods. “Her father and brother are my polar opposite. Mom would have had every right to make them suffer, and then some.”

“They actually raped her?” I choke.

Donovan sits by my side, twisting to face me. “Repeatedly. She would have been lucky only to have been raped.”

A burn creeps into my esophagus. “But that's not what's causing the outbursts now.”

“No, but abusive situations lead to mind and body overload. Similar overloads trigger irrational behavior. Sometimes she sees pain as compassion. She wouldn’t know real compassion if it bit her in the ass, but she can put on a hell of a show. She became a nurse to help her distinguish those two things, but it’s been pretty unsuccessful. When she gets out of control she brings me secondary wounding, which is why I’m going to leave. She starts swinging, and I hear Dad saying I'm not manly enough to stand up to her. I won't reward her bad behavior by regressing.” Donovan juts a hand out. “Before you ask, yes, she is getting help—lots of it—and no, I'm not her doctor. Neither of us is that stupid.”

God, it all makes so much sense; self-defense classes, how she can often be so meek and intimidated, yet also so cruel. “Her body issues are a result, too?”

Again Donovan’s lips disappear into his mouth. “Just know that she struggled for years to become the person I married. As much as I want to stand by her and her help that person return, I can’t take any more risks with my daughter or myself.” Donovan stammers up. “Let me walk you to your car. She may still come back.”

A million questions fly through my mind as we head outside, all of them an invasion of privacy. Before driving off, I brave one he can’t fault me for asking. “Aren't you concerned about Sunshine?”

“Of course I am, which is why I need to leave in a way where I’m assured full custody. I’ve hidden cameras in the house, as soon as I know I can secure Sunshine, I’m gone.” In a rare moment, nothing feels magical when his eyes stare into mine due to the direness of his words. “No matter what happens, please promise that if I ever show up on your doorstep with my daughter you will take care of her.”

The chime of irony resounds to the bone. “I would treat her as my own.”

Donovan swallows back the hurt, and waves me off as I drive away, wishing I could rescue him.

The barbecued chicken Eric brings in from the patio smells divine. Thank God Eric was in charge. The last time Christopher barbecued the only aroma was that of lighter fluid and burnt fish. So much smoke was created that it set off the detector, causing the kids to flee in a screaming panic that had the neighbors calling the fire department.

“Ack!” An accidental taste from the wrong pot of beans makes my taste buds cringe. “England you never disappoint.” Grabbing two bowls of baked beans, I head into the dining room where everyone has gathered. Imported beans, straight from the can, are placed near Christopher. The homemade ones are placed near me.

“Two bowls?” Eric asks.

“That one is for your fellow Lobsterback,” I say, pointing to the bowl near Christopher. “The other is for those with taste buds. Frankly, I gag just over the thought of them.”

Christopher looks at me like I’ve lost all touch with reality. “I thought you didn’t like them?”

What? Oh, geez! Christopher’s inability to translate the difference between American English and British slang drives me a little nuts. “Gagging for something in England is far different than gagging over something in America.”

Eric scratches his head in confusion. “Don’t you like your wife’s cooking?” he asks Christopher.

“I love me wife’s cooking, but she doesn’t know beans about beans. Try those Yank ones and see for yourself.”

“May I?” Eric asks.

“Fill your boots,” I say, handing him the bowl. He takes small spoons of each while the children stare as if the act is too bizarre for comprehension. They’ve learned to always follow my lead whenever two of the same thing is served.