Time's Forbidden Flower (33 page)

“Yay! New drama!” Donovan says, mocking childish joy. “Lord, what now?”
 

“Look at who the judge is that signed the papers,” Eric fumes as we dash in. “There’s no way I’m believing this is a coincidence.”

King Midas’ finger points to a signature that reveals this paper is gold—fool’s gold. “Can I see that and borrow your reading glasses?” I ask Eric. He whips them off like the Superman he is before storming out of his seat.
 

Donning the specks, not only does the signature become clear, so does the intent of the charade. “All those years of grilling me,” I say in realization. “All those late nights watching her movies.”

“You do know who that is, right?” Eric asks. “Because I find it highly unlikely Rhode Island ever had a judge named Anthony Wedgwood Benn.”

Donovan’s face is a ball of confusion. “Oh, come on! You know this!” I practically shout. “How many times did Mom watch
Pirate Radio
? Anthony Wedgwood Benn was the actual guy who led the bill that stopped offshore radio stations. She bitched he was British Rock’s biggest villain. Mom intentionally did this to hurt us!”

Oh you failed, Mom. Wherever you are, I hope you can see the nail you intended for my coffin just got thrown back into yours.

Eric looks like an angry father. “How could she have so convincingly faked those papers?”

Donovan scrutinizes the faux documents while looking over my shoulder. “Mom was a Litigation Paralegal when she met Dad. After he died she went back to work part time as a secretary in the same field. She knew how papers looked, but how the hell did she get her hands on the state seal?”

Even with Eric’s glasses, the imprint is too faint to make out—almost like someone barely applied enough pressure for an indent to appear. Grabbing a pencil, I gently rub the side of the graphite against the paper, pronouncing the image that makes my brain feel as if it is contorting in shame of its idiocy. “Take a good look at it now. It’s the seal of Dad’s Rotary Club!”

Donovan takes the papers, looking to them in resignation of how much the woman he tried to help wronged him. “I can’t believe she hated me that much.”

“Why would your mum forge such falsehood?” Eric asks with fury. “She should be ashamed for not seeing who you are. I’d be proud to call you son!”

Donovan peers up at Eric, his eyes sag nearly to his knees, reflecting a painful truth of unfairness. “Thank you. My own father never said he was proud of me. At least Christopher has always known you and Grace love him. Well, one part of Mom’s final mystery is solved. I doubt if the rest ever will be. I’ll a—I’ll take these to the office and shred them,” he says, heading out the front door.
 

Following him outside, with a soft touch to his arm I stop him once we are far from anyone’s earshot. “Those are mine,” I softly assert, looking at the sheaves of hatred. “They are why Mom squandered the opportunity to tell Christopher about us while on her death bed. Instead of risking his understanding, she threw gasoline on me, hoping I would strike the match. That judge’s name was her way of saying I should have listened when she tried to pull us apart. If Aunt Audrey had died later, my name would be on these papers.” Donovan’s eyes lower, and I dip my face under his, recapturing his view. “These are proof that we are doing the right thing in standing by our families just as much as they are the reason why someday you and I are going to be together. Now go home and take care of your wife, so we can keep proving Mom wrong about us.”

Walking up the steps to the Venice bungalow, my body trembles as my knuckles rap upon the door. I’m an unexpected, and hopefully not unwelcome, visitor on this drearisome day before Anna’s double mastectomy.

Anna opens the door. Her pale skin and red eyes show her disease is getting the best of her. “Hey,” I whisper, nudging my head to encourage her outside. With what I need to do I’d prefer if Donovan didn’t know I was here.

I give her a sly little smile as she steps out, like we are about to get away with something. Forcing myself to think of this as fun game and forget what I am really doing, I hand her an envelope with a little bounce and a forced smile that she sees right through.

“What is this?” Anna asks as she extracts the contents.

“It’s a coupon book. Whenever you need something, you use it. Take a peek.”

“One girl’s night out,” she reads aloud. “One home cooked meal, delivered. One night of babysitting. Boy there sure are a lot of those,” she says, her voice locking.

Suddenly I feel as if I’m about to hurl out my guts. “You’ll need them when you see what’s at the end.”

On the last page she finds a substantially sized Victoria’s Secret gift card. The tears that have been welling in her eyes turn to gushers. It amplifies the pain I feel—pain for her, for her suffering, and for knowing what that coupon really means for her and for my soul mate.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks with a hearty sniffle, her hands quaking.

My voice quivers as I fight my tears. “Because I’ve chosen you as my sister. No blood test on earth will change that.”

I lose the battle over the waterworks, and we bring our arms around each other in consolation of the other’s misery. Donovan appears from inside, holding an electric razor, his head completely shaven sans his eyebrows. We freeze, each not expecting to see the other. My insides turn to falling rain in new understanding of how real Anna’s situation is. This is supposed to happen to other people, not to you, not to the ones you love.

Anna hides her face, not wanting to expose even more of herself, knowing that this is the last time for a long time to come that her beautiful hair will veil her discomfort.
 

My eyes return to Donovan, our hearts breaking anew. Stepping up to him, I impose myself. “Here,” I say, reaching for the razor. “I’ll hold this, you hold her.”

Donovan guides a sobbing Anna to the bathroom. She looks into the mirror, her fingers yanking her hair in hatred of her situation. No one should have to suffer like this.

Anna crumples as I plug in the razor, unable to face the mirror any longer. Donovan follows her down, taking her head in his. “You ready?” he asks. She gives a fast nod of approval, then cowers as I lower the razor. Donovan looks up at me, completely lost and unknowing how to help her. For once I am grateful that I am not the one in his arms.

Anna braves her eyes upward, her head still low. With one last look at Donovan I again start the razor, quickly spin to the mirror, and begin shaving my own head with the intention of leaving nothing behind but his favorite cluster of locks on each side.

Some things we are still in together.

Twenty-two Years Later…

Donovan whistles as he comes up the stairs, carrying the last of Christopher’s gear. On this eventful night, Christopher will partake in a concert celebrating the British Invasion by honoring the memory of his fathers.

 
“Here we are,” Anna practically sings while handing out cocktails. “My special recipe for a special occasion. Shall we drink to the obvious?”

The four of us take pause, sadness welling in our hearts. Simultaneously we raise our glasses to the long-gone man we’d give anything to bring back. “To Eric,” we all say.
 

The orange juice cocktail floods my mouth with a nice herbal tang. “Anna, this is fantastic. Does this have sage and gin?”

“I think there’s honey, too,” Donovan deduces.

Anna sighs. “I know I’m still not the best cook, but you would think that after all these years I could get something past you two.”

“It sure leaves a tingle on the lips. What makes it orange?” Christopher asks.

“That’s it!” My hands fly heavenward. “I truly give up! This is ridiculous, even for you.”

Donovan whispers to Christopher, “That would be the same thing that makes it taste like oranges.”

Christopher looks at the glass questioningly as we all snicker. “Oh, bloody hell! I officially surrender to the enemy,” he states with a bold smile and a kiss to my lips.

“All right, let’s get this amp loaded and get out of here,” Donovan says, interrupting us.

 
“What’s that doing here?” Christopher asks. “I loaded it first for a reason.”
 

“No, you thought you loaded it, I found it downstairs. Old age must be setting in and your mind is slipping.”

“Are you real? Oh, my giddy aunt,” Christopher babbles, mostly talking to himself. “After all the trouble it’s been giving me—”

Donovan cups his hand over Christopher’s mouth. I think he’s wanted to do that for decades. “Seriously Lil, what possessed you to marry this guy?” he asks, smiling.

“Love doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be true.”

Donovan gives me an adoring smile.
Truer words were never spoken.
“All right, let’s do this,” he says, taking the amp.

“You ready, luv?” I ask Christopher.

“Really, Lilyanna. There you go, stealing my lines again. You can’t just steal another person’s lines.”

“I love you too.” With an adoring kiss, we head out to the car.

My body waivers as I stare into the coffin. The image of my beloved Christopher is merely a blur from the haze of my tears.

Thirty-one years.

For thirty-one years we shared marital bliss, and I am so very grateful that I appreciated him for who he was, not casting him aside for who I wanted him to be.

It happened during the sound check, with all of us watching. As an impromptu jam lead Christopher into his best Pete Townsend impersonation, a jump and a swing brought him to the ground, straight to his knees, slumping over his guitar with a clutch to his heart. We all ran to him, but before we could make it he fell backward, all of his muscles going slack. Anna and Donovan tried to resuscitate him, but it quickly became obvious their efforts were in vain. Tears streamed down Donovan’s face as he realized the thrusts to Christopher’s chest were useless, his eyes almost pleading me for forgiveness as we saw that all hope was gone.

While the others tended to Christopher’s empty shell, I stood as tall as I could, turning to the heavens. I felt Christopher looking down from above, as if our eyes were locking one last time, and wondered if we would ever meet again or if we had found the end of our rainbow. Reaching my arms to heaven, I cried, “I love you, Christopher Paul Eccles, and never will there be a day that I forget or stop loving you.”
 

For thirty-one years we stood by each other as husband and wife, loving and supporting one another, no matter what transpired. We always accepted the other for who and what they were, all the while never doubting the special love we shared. My heart will be incomplete until I find him again.

In the week since Christopher's passing I’ve been without hope or complete thoughts. Try as my family might to enliven me, sorrow extinguishes all other emotions.
 

Cards and flowers continue to pour in as the news spreads and stuns. Much like for his father, Eric, people have come out of the woodwork with stories of how he touched their lives.

I’ve scarcely left my room since the funeral. Instead I cling to Christopher’s pillow, asking God why. Everyone wants me to get fresh air, but I hardly see the point. Donovan drags me out of bed for a walk. My scraggly hair, ratty, mismatched sweats, and filthy slippers make me look an embarrassment, but people are lucky I am dressed. Foolishly I’ve led us in the direction of the park where Christopher and I used to take the kids. Memories of playing with our children tear at my heart, and it’s like losing him all over again. My knees drop into the middle of a sandbox, as my eyes become faucets of despair that refuse to cease flowing.
 

My time with Christopher was like living on a playground—one happy game after another. In the rare times when we fell and got scraped the other was always there to kiss our wounds and lead us off to the next game. For all the madness and indecision in my life, my time with Christopher was nothing short of amazing.

One month ago my verve was blighted by the loss of my beautiful husband—the man who retained his boyish charms and sweet voice until the very end—the man who never faltered in his love of life, music, or his family. Nothing spares me from the severe pain that haunts my heart.