Time's Forbidden Flower (9 page)

“Don’t you have to work?”

“We need to eat quickly. I have a client arriving in twenty minutes.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying. I just brought enou—”

“Lil-y.” His eyes smile into mine as he tugs my hand. “Come on. Join me.”

With a little bop of my head, I follow him into his office, praying his appointment falls victim to a miraculous recovery.

Like a wannabe ninja, Antonia stealthily slips her napkin out of her lap, pretends to wipe her lips, and spits broccoli into it. Per the rules of motherhood, I bust her. “Seriously, Antonia. Where did you learn to do that?” Duh! “Never mind, it’s in your nature. You need to eat your broccoli. Tell me how to make it better next time.”

“Bury it in the neighbor’s yard,” she says. The retort is so Donovan-like I let out a snort.

Christopher tries to be the proper father. “Apologize to your mum. She worked hard to make that for you.”

“Sorry, Mom,” she sings half-heartedly.

Christopher chuckles. “What do you mean, ‘It’s in her nature?’ Don’t tell me you used to do that?”

“Nope. Guess again.” I roll my eyes and blink them for dramatic effect.

“Blimey! Those two really are alike.” Christopher looks at Donovan’s clone with amusement. “I hear you two had quite the time the other night. Did you have fun at Pizza Playland?”

Antonia’s brows scrunch, and I solve her mystery. “Daddy means last week with Uncle Scooby and I, honey.”

“Last week? Really?” Christopher asks, his eyes wandering back and forth as if searching for lost time.

“Yeah,” Graham says, beaming. “I won two stuffed animals and gave them to Sunshine and Antonia.” My snicker causes him to look at me as if puzzled. “Did I do something wrong, Mum?”

“Not at all. You are just like your father. I’m very proud of you.”

“Dad, if I’m like you, who are you like?” Graham asks.

Dear Lord, Graham has no idea what kind of creepy-crawlies squirm in the can he’s blown open. Christopher scratches his head in thought. “Well, I’m exactly like your grandfathers back home. They and your nan taught me everything I know, so I guess I’m just like them.”

“Do you look like your dad?” Graham asks.

“Not at all. I mostly look like me mum, though not much really. I probably look like me ancestors.”

I try to slam the lid back onto the can. “You know, Graham, sometimes people who are related look nothing alike. Uncle Donovan and I don’t look alike at all, and he looks nothing like our mother.”

Christopher fidgets with his glass of wine. Quickly he changes the subject. “Have you children decided how to dress for Halloween?”

My eyes close as I grunt. The first night in a week Christopher sneaks in dinner with us and he sabotages me. It’s October, and we’ve been making pumpkin desserts like crazy. How have I neglected Halloween costumes?

Christopher looks to me with an apologetic cringe as the kids spout out their dream costumes. “Tell you what,” he says to the children. “I’ll take you shopping, and you can choose anything you like. We can go next weekend,” he says with resolve, only to retract his statement. “No, wait, I’m fully committed. Next Wednesday night… No, can’t do that either.” Looking up, he sees my exasperation.

“I’ll take them over the weekend,” I moan regarding his schedule. “I’ve nothing else going on except for Sunday dinner with Donovan and crew. Will you be here?”

“No, I…” Christopher tosses down his napkin in disgust with himself. “Of course I’ll be here, right after I take the children shopping.” He shoots me a beautiful smile that begs me to tell him he did well in saving the day.

“Thank you,” I say while the children go wild with ideas. Thank God he’s remembering the rest of us exist.

At 4 A.M. I discover Christopher sitting on the floor of the family room, drinking tea and pouring over old photos. He’s been like this before, but never to this extent.

Sitting next to him, my head snuggles onto his shoulder as he wraps his arm around me while staring at two collages he’s created. One of them consists of generations of Grace’s family, the other of Paul’s. “You know, you have three choices,” I tell him. “Talk to Grace, accept that not everyone looks like their relatives, or let this bother you for eternity.”

“I’m one of five sons,” he laments. “All me brothers look like Paul Eccles—tall, blonde, and built like your brother. They even act alike. The only thing we have in common is blue eyes and pale skin. Our hands, ears, all of our features are completely different.”

“Wow, you really are delving in this time. Why don’t you just talk to Grace?”

“Because how the hell do you ask your mum if your dad is really your dad? I’m not adopted. I’ve seen snaps of Mum pregnant around the time she would’ve been with me. She had some rough times with Dad, and he and I were like chalk and cheese, but that doesn’t mean she did something she shouldn’t. Besides, she’s repeatedly told me I’m named after me father, and I do hold Paul as my middle name. You’re right. Look at Antonia. She looks exactly like Donovan who looks nothing like your mum.”

“Christopher, you’ve been pouring over your brothers, but you’ve yet to get a good look at your daughter. You two practically have the same ears. Donovan barely has any lobes and mine aren’t much bigger. Yours are perfect, and because of it she can pierce them like crazy and wear all kinds of wild jewelry that I can’t.”

“Oh, thanks loads! That’s what I needed to hear!”

“Her hands are also like yours. Donovan struggles with his guitar. I bet in a few years Antonia could have him beat, and she can already sing. Donovan couldn’t hit a note if you epoxied it to a punching bag. Also, she may have his facial features, but she has your natural build. There isn’t a muscle on that girl.” I shoot him a sly grin. Truthful toying is the best toying.

“Ah, nice! So me daughter can be a pierced, scrawny rock star. I liked her better when I didn’t see the resemblance.”

“Face it Christopher, with what she’s gotten from you and the way she can be sly like Donovan, we’re going to have our hands full when she hits puberty.”

“Aw, pants!” Christopher gathers the photos and tosses them back into their box. “I’m going to bed before you tell me one of the children resembles my Great Aunt Georgina, the sideshow performer.”

“What was she known for?”

“Something I’m glad Antonia didn’t get from me.”
 

Finding a reputable hypnotherapist in Los Angeles that suited my needs was far easier than expected. L.A. County is filled to the brim with people who give advice on how to sort out your brain. Of the ten people I spoke to, only one didn’t hesitate to fulfill my request of avoiding outside influence as much as possible. Thus, when I entered Susan’s office it was already dark—the only light coming from the hall outside before the door was closed. To me, Susan is a guide, not a person, and is therefore best faceless. Her voice is as comforting as snuggling into an old sofa with a soft blanket and warm cocoa made of fine chocolate.

Courage has finally been braved to delve into my soul’s distant past, yet skepticism and apprehension cloud the beginning of my journey down a spiraled stairway. Its thirty stairs represent my thirty years of life. At various ages I’m asked to stop and reveal my experiences. Happy flashes of childhood sprinkle my mind, but a blank screen resides where I expect a movie to play.

Susan guides me to the bottom of the stairway—the moment of my birth. Still the movie won’t start—not even a trailer. What if my mind creates a false antiquity? What if my discoveries match Donovan’s? Can we handle yet another curlicue in our saga?

Before me lies a deep, inky hallway containing numerous doors at various intervals. Inside the first portal I expect to see a movie. Instead, an alabaster brilliance swallows me into an alternate, three-dimensional reality.

“Where are you?” Susan asks.

“I—I don’t know,” I reply, feeling disoriented.

“Trust your instincts,” Susan instructs, her voice delicate and distant. “It will soon become clear. Is it day or night?”

“Night. Inside.” The facts are known with no understanding of how.

“Do you see anything?”

My film appears to be at intermission.

Susan continues, “Look down and tell me what you see. Can you see your feet? What covers them?”

The image before me is detached yet so real—like I’m possessed by a dream. “A desk
—
wooden, battered. A single lamp burns—I think.”

“Trust whatever information comes,” Susan assures. “Things will clarify as you progress. What is on the desk?”

“A letter.”

“Is it dated?”

My hand quakes as I pick it up. Its contents are a smattering of words, scarcely revealing themselves through a giant haze. “I can’t read it.”

“Is it in a language you don’t understand?” Susan asks.

“No, it’s typed in English. I just can’t make it out.”

“That is fine. Tell me what you are wearing.”

The vision of my garments is unclouded, making me fear the contents of the letter. “An apron—tattered. It has little pink roses on it and ruffles that are starting to fall off. My hands are dry and chapped.” Unexplainably the reason becomes clear. “My nails, they’re jagged and dirty from scrubbing floors.”

“Good. Keep going,” Susan persists. “Do you see anything else in the room?”

“A young girl of eleven, asleep in the bedroom we share. Emily, my little sister.” Why does this girl feel so familiar?

“What is your name?” Susan asks.

“Rose.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe eighteen?” Where is this coming form?

“Let the judgment in your mind fall aside,” Susan unhurriedly leads. “Now, what year is it? Where are you?”

Again the answers sprint out. “1918. Kansas.”

“At the count of three you will be able to read that letter. One… Two… Three... What does it say?”

My voice stutters as I speak the words before me.

July 28, 1918

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hanover,

We regret to inform you that your son, Jonathan, was killed in the line of duty yesterday near Paris, France at the hands of the enemy.

“Oh, my God,” I utter.

“Do you know who Jonathan is?” Susan asks.

A hazy image of white roses appears. My vision raises to a tall, youthful man with medium brown hair and playful, yet virtuous, green eyes. “My boyfriend. No. Wait. My brother. No, stepbrother. My mother married his father when I was seven and she became pregnant with Emily. He was drafted. He tried to apply for CO status through the church, but Mom burned his papers instead of mailing them.”

Oh, Lord.

“Where are your parents?” Susan inquires.

“Dead—from a car crash a few weeks ago. I’ve been trying to get the army to bring Jonathan home so I don’t have to raise Emily by myself. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do.” My earthly being trembles. How will I ever support her?

“Just stay calm and relaxed. Is there anything else on the desk?” Susan asks.

My mind turns to my hands and reveals I hold more than a typed document. Underneath it is a handwritten letter from Jonathan. Instinct tells me to withhold the words from Susan.

My Lovely Rose,

Again you fill my thoughts. Before I left, you tried to tell me something incredibly precious. I was foolish for not listening. Now that moment feels so distant I question if it ever happened or if what you expressed was merely a falsehood in my mind. When I can finally see your face again, I will tell you all I feel inside.

I have no right to request this, but please, postpone your wedding. William is a wonderful man but—please do not make any decisions until my eyes behold you again.

All my love,

Jonathan

Hauntingly, this sounds like the notes Donovan wrote under the faux identity of Alex. My lie races out. “I—I don’t see anything else. I need to stop now.”

“Okay, let’s take you forward a few years,” Susan requests. “Bring yourself into the daylight. Feel the sun on your face. Can you feel the sun?”

My memory shifts to a drizzly spring day. “No, it’s raining.”

“Where are you?”

A dim reception area with walls of concrete surrounds me. It’s a frigid version of hell. “Walking into a jail,” I say, quaking from the chill. “Emily is holding my hand. There is a guard who greets me. Once a week he slips me a dollar, I have no idea why except that he must feel sorry for us. He seems so familiar, just like Emily, but I can’t place them.”

“Who are you there to see?”

“William, my husband. He stole vegetables off of a truck to feed us. Emily accidentally knocked over some fruit, and the scene caused him to get caught. They are making him do hard labor to help the war effort. I worry for him.”

“What does he look like?”

The mist forming in my earthly eyes turns to sobs as my mind sets its sights on an alternate version of Christopher. “Sandy hair, medium height. Weak from not eating, just like Emily and I. I’m so scared for him. He was only trying to help us.”

“Okay, Lily. Let’s return you to the present. At the count of three, let your mind release the image. One. Two. Three. Do you see yourself floating away from your body?”