Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  June rises from a chair in the front row and walks to the white podium—our shepherd standing in front of her flock.

  “Seeing this pavilion packed full makes me happy beyond words. I want you to have fun and make friends. The people you see around you are not only your friends but your family as well. Make happy memories and live.”

  June has a way with words, and I can see each and every one of us is touched.

  “Tonight is about getting to know one another, and I welcome anyone who feels comfortable to come up and introduce themselves. I’m June Carrington, and Strawberry Fields is my home…and I welcome you.”

  As June steps down from the podium, everyone looks around, wondering who has the balls to be the first one to break the ice. I too helplessly gaze around, hoping someone will man up and step up to the plate, but no one does.

  Exhaling loudly, I wipe my sweaty palms down my dress before I slowly get to my feet. The movement draws the attention of everyone present, and they all turn, eyes focused on me. I squirm, feeling like a circus sideshow freak. But I’m here to make a difference.

  That thought gives me the strength I need, and I make my way to the front. When I’m almost there, my skin tingles with an enigmatic burn. I turn to the left, wondering why. When I see Dr. Archibald leaning against the trunk of an enormous, flourishing elm tree, I know he is the reason. My body is somehow in step to his, scaring and exciting me all in the same breath. His same impassive expression keeps me guessing to his thoughts.

  As I continue walking forward, the corner of Dr. Archibald’s lips lifts ever so noticeably. I wonder why for all of three seconds until his words come back to haunt me.

  “You’re a brave young woman.”

  Breaking our secret exchange, I focus on what’s important, and that’s remembering why I came here to start with.

  “Hi,” I mumble into the microphone. Feedback squeals loudly, highlighting my epic failure. However, I pull my shoulders back, hating that Dr. Archibald’s words spur me on.

  “My name is Lola.” I push my glasses up my nose. “And I’m a volunteer here. I really am looking forward to getting to know everyone.”

  I risk a glance into the crowd and see that I’ve bored everyone to tears. But I don’t blame them. I came here to be real, and although these kids are merely that, they’ve been introduced to a world that has matured them beyond their years.

  Pulling back my shoulders, I smile. “I feel privileged to be here because, just like you, I know how important every moment is. I’m here for you. I promise. I know what you’re going through…because I’ve been there too. I still am there.” I swallow, frightened I’ve shared too much.

  But when I see something change in everyone sitting before me, I know that I’ve shared just enough. “So any time you need me, know that my door is always open. I’m here for the good and the bad.” When I witness smiles brightening the faces of those watching me, my heart swells. “So let’s celebrate life, and let’s…just have fun. Thank you.”

  As I make my way down the path, I’m speechless when a brunette I’ve never seen before jumps up and hugs me. I loosely hug her back because I’m taken off guard.

  It takes me double the time to get back to Zoe and Sadie because I’m stopped every step of the way. Most want to express their appreciation for what I said while others just want to hug me.

  When I finally reach Zoe and Sadie, Zoe stands and throws her arms around me. This time, the affection is welcome.

  “What you said was just beautiful.”

  Sadie stands off to the side as we hug. I gesture with my hand, and she hesitates for a moment before joining the human sandwich.

  After a few introductions are made and the crowd disperses, I see Dr. Archibald and Tamara talking awfully close. He is his usual cool, calm, and collected self, keeping his cards close to his chest.

  Why does it bother me so much that she’s advancing and he’s not backing away?

  “Because you like him,” a voice that sounds a lot like Georgia whispers loudly into my ear.

  This is a new level of crazy. Maybe I need to see a shrink. To cope with Georgia’s death, am I now hearing her like she’s my subconscious? I really must lay off the caffeine.

  Tamara stands on tippy toes and whispers into Dr. Archibald’s ear. He seems to ponder what she just said, then nods. She is elated while my stomach drops. They walk toward the mansion, leaning in close as they talk.

  Sighing, I push down whatever this feeling swarming inside me is because it can’t lead to anything good.

  After twenty minutes of mingling, Sadie yawns, appearing just as tired as me. “I’ll walk you to your room?”

  She nods.

  We make our way toward her room in silence, but I can sense something is playing on Sadie’s mind. “Your friend Georgia…” I wait, giving her time to continue. “Do you have the same thing she did?”

  When we reach her door, she makes clear she won’t enter until I answer her question. “Yes.”

  The unspoken lingers, but what I said earlier confirms that we’re all on borrowed time.

  I’m not sure how Sadie will react, but she shows me what a remarkable person she truly is when she wraps her tiny arms around me. “Night, Lola.”

  “Good night, Sadie.” I gently return her warm embrace, and it means more to me than she’ll ever know.

  She pulls away first and gives me a small wave before entering her room.

  I stand outside her door after it’s closed, digesting everything that’s happened over the few short hours I’ve been here. I came to Strawberry Fields to help other people who are just like me. But each minute spent here reveals that maybe I was wrong. Maybe we’re here to help one another.

  A light whimper catches on the still night air, interrupting my thoughts. I would have missed it if not for the fact the sound is in concert with my soul. I should turn away and go to my room, but I can’t. I feel like I’m now somehow involved.

  I follow the sound, tiptoeing down the hallway like a common thief in the night. It gets louder and louder the farther I advance. I round the corner, not sure what I will find. The weeping is now muddled with a jumble of words. I stop just before an open door, knowing the sound comes from within.

  This is incredibly rude, and I should let whoever is inside grieve in peace. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I peer around the doorjamb. At first, the darkness shrouds whoever is locked away inside, but a moment later, the full moon shines through the stained-glass window, lighting up the altar and who is contained within. There is no mistaking that long golden hair.

  It’s June.

  Her downturned head and muted sobs touch my heart, and I feel her sorrow. What’s made her so sad? She’s kneeling at a pew, her hands interlocked as she mumbles, “Why,” on a loop.

  The small chapel isn’t as extravagant as the rest of this place, but it doesn’t need to be. The heavy cross which sits on the clothed altar is all the comfort one who comes here needs. One doesn’t come here to marvel at the elegance, but to get away from it and just be with their maker. I’m not a religious person; how can I be? I don’t understand my sacrifice, but June appears comforted being here and letting her guard down.

  I’ve imposed on her privacy long enough and creep away just as quietly as I arrived.

  My mind is plagued because, on the surface, June looks happy—the perfect mainstay of joy—but we all have our demons.

  Slipping out of my clothes and climbing into bed, I’m exhausted, and it’s only day one. As my eyes slip shut, I can’t help but wonder what day two holds.

  It’s still dark out when I wake.

  Reaching for my cell, I see that it’s 5:15 a.m. Too worked up to go back to sleep, I decide to take a shower and get an early start on the day.

  When I step out, I dry off and stand in front of the mirror. It’s fogged up, thanks to my blistering shower, so I swipe my hand down the glass, leaving a slash in its wake. I peer at myself in the shred, half my face
and body obscured, but I can see enough.

  I’ve changed so much. Each day robs me of breath. It’s like Georgia took a piece of me with her.

  A small, bothersome voice whispers in my ear that I’ve given up too easily. I could call Dr. Carter and ask to trial the new drugs available, but I won’t. Since being diagnosed, I’ve had the choice made for me. I was going to die. But lately, the line has been blurred because I wonder each day if I’m scared of dying…or am I scared to live? Am I afraid that it will work, and therefore, I get to…live? Why am I given such luxuries when Georgia was never given a chance?

  I don’t bother drying my hair and tie it into a messy ponytail. After sliding into jean shorts and the official volunteer polo, I apply a touch of makeup. When I look semi-human, I slip on my sneakers, take my pills, and then make my way into the hall.

  The lights are dimmed, subdued so as not to wake the individuals still sleeping. My first class is art with Tamara, so I decide to go to the art room and set up the supplies. When I pass the chapel, the memory of June’s gut-wrenching sobs echoes loudly in my ears. It’s a sound I won’t ever forget. To express such pain can only mean one thing—she’s lost someone she loved. I can feel her pain because I’ve felt it too, and I’ve cried her hollow tears.

  The distinct sound of someone taking out their raw frustrations can be heard ahead of me. The fitness center is three doors down, so I decide to see who’s punishing that punching bag with forceful blows. A long, rectangular window on the door allows a perfect view.

  Something red catches my eye, followed by a quick succession of walloping punches. Standing on my tippy toes, I crane my neck to the right and see a punching bag swing from side to side. I can’t see who delivers the blows, but whoever it is, is showing no mercy.

  I watch, mesmerized, the hint of tanned flesh coming into view for a second before disappearing behind the bag as quickly as it appeared. My nose is inches away from being pressed to the cool glass, desperate to see who this champion is. Just as the bag moves in the right way, I hear a door close and footsteps padding softly along the carpet.

  I snap my head to the left and can just make out June coming down the hall. I don’t plan to avoid her the entire time I’m here, but after last night, I need to put some distance between us. Her empty cries still etch away at my heart.

  I can’t turn right, as I’ll bump straight into her, and left isn’t a better option either as it’s a dead end. So with no other choice, I open the door and dive into the sanctuary of the gym. I sidestep away from the door just in case June walks past and sees me standing like a statue in the middle of the room.

  The punching doesn’t cease, and now that I’m actually inside, I can hear the ferocity and viciousness of the strikes. There is anger behind each punch. Something I can relate to all too well. Stepping forward, I peer around the pole, latching on to it when I see just who the boxer is.

  This explains his ripped physique, but who knew Dr. Archibald could pack a punch? He’s a dark horse with a secret.

  He hasn’t seen me as his bare, taut back faces me. His bulging muscles ripple as he delivers each vigorous blow. Beads of sweat coat his glistening flesh, slithering down between his shoulder blades and into his low slung black sweats.

  He is truly magnificent, and I watch for minutes, unable to tear my eyes away. He’s dominant but tortured all in the same stroke. When he delivers a right hook, his flank catches the light, and a scripted tattoo comes into view. It runs the length of his ribs. I lean forward, still using the pole as my support, curious to see what it says.

  Eleanor.

  I’ve encroached on a private moment, as I’m sure Dr. Archibald wasn’t planning on being shirtless with an audience. This tattoo remains hidden for a reason. It’s not for show. It’s there for his eyes only as a reminder of someone he cares deeply enough about to have her name permanently inked onto his flesh.

  I turn quickly, too quickly, ready to flee, and in my haste, I trip over a rowing machine, performing a lopsided somersault. I tumble onto my ass ungracefully, screeching in shock. The mats break my fall, so I’m not hurt. I’m more embarrassed because the commotion has forewarned Dr. Archibald that he has company.

  “Goddamn,” I curse under my breath when he turns over his shoulder, slipping off his headphones.

  “Lola? Are you all right?” he asks breathlessly when he sees me sprawled out on the floor. I frantically hunt for my glasses. They are nowhere to be seen because I’m searching for them blindly.

  “I’m fine.” My far from convincing response has me wishing I was a better liar.

  “Unless you’re fishing for quarters down there, then I dare say you’re not.” I hear him slip on a T-shirt, then storm over in three huge strides.

  “That machine came out of nowhere,” I tease, a blanket of nerves holding me tight.

  “Are you sure nothing hurts?”

  “Other than my pride? I’m fine. Promise.”

  I’m still rummaging the floor for my glasses, so when Dr. Archibald stretches behind me and places them in my palm, I almost holler in delight.

  Once he’s done examining me, he nods, appearing satisfied that I sustained no injuries. “What are you doing here?”

  I gulp as I can’t exactly divulge I was spying. The thought has me remembering the way his strong body moved with forceful strokes. It also is a reminder that his burly body is inches away from me. His signature fragrance is even more refined, and I can’t help but take it all in.

  Once I slip on my glasses, it’s almost impossible to ignore the way his tight T-shirt showcases his body. The neckline is cut low so I can see just a hint of dark hair sprinkled down his chest. He’s a lean, mean fighting machine.

  I should stop with the visual devouring, but I can’t help myself. Focusing on the tattoo—although now covered—I admire not only the beauty of it but also the canvas beneath.

  Standing, he offers me his hand, a lifeline I’m desperate to take. We’re standing chest to chest, and I suddenly feel so small, dwarfed by his huge frame. We stay unmoving, my hand still enfolded in his. His touch is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I feel charged. I feel alive. He opens his mouth, appearing to want to say something, but he changes his mind at the last minute. He drops my hand and turns his back, searching for his water bottle.

  Once he’s well hydrated, I can see he’s hesitant to turn around to look at me. Why? He unravels the tape from his hands, taking his time, then rubs a towel through his dark hair, tousling it further.

  “Will you take a drive with me?” he asks coolly as he turns, and I don’t hide my surprise.

  “I want to show you something. I won’t bite. Promise,” he avows when I raise a suspicious brow.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. Meet me in the parking lot after you’re done with your morning class?”

  “Fine.”

  He appears pleased that I didn’t refuse.

  I have the afternoon free, so I suppose I can entertain him. And besides, whatever he wants to show me, I can’t shake the feeling it has the potential to change my life forever.

  Dr. Archibald didn’t specify where exactly in the parking lot I was supposed to meet him, so I decide to take a seat on a tree stump, which provides a very comfortable waiting spot.

  As I wait, my thoughts drift to June. It’s clear she runs Strawberry Fields with the utmost care, but I can’t help but wonder what transpired for her to start an organization such as this one. Her harrowing cries resonate loudly, unveiling something heart-rending hidden beneath the surface.

  I don’t have time to think about it further because Dr. Archibald bounces down the steps looking casual in blue jeans and a gray crew neck T-shirt. Black sunglasses sit fashionably on his face. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on my shorts.

  What does he want to show me?

  “I didn’t know if you’d be here or hitchhiking down the road.” I smile, fond of his dry humor. He comes to a
stop a few feet away, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re wearing that?”

  I peer down at my jean shorts and “Wear pink, not mink” tank, raising a brow. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code,” I reply, a touch offended.

  Dr. Archibald has the audacity to laugh. He offers no explanation to his random question but instead turns and heads for a cluster of cars over to the left. I presume I’m to follow.

  I feel self-conscious as I didn’t realize wherever he’s taking me requires me to dress up. Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? If so, why bother asking me to accompany him in the first place?

  My head begins to throb, and this time, it’s not from the usual headaches, but rather me overthinking this entire thing. Just as I’m about to turn back around, Dr. Archibald comes to a stop. He fishes into his back pocket and produces a set of keys.

  My eyes widen, and I point at the vehicle he stands near. “What’s that?”

  “That?” he asks, feigning horror. “She is a 1968 low rider chopper. I rebuilt her myself.” The way he runs his palm over the black paintwork and shiny silver thingamajigs, I can see it’s true love.

  “That’s a really nice story, but why are we standing near it…her?” I correct when he looks like he’s about to cry.

  “Don’t listen to her, baby,” he coos to the bike. A smile touches my lips. “This is my vehicle; although, she’s so much more.” He fetches two helmets, which are resting on the handlebars. When he passes me a red one, I know he’s serious.

  “We’re riding that thing now?”

  This time, he doesn’t correct my oversight. “Yes, we are, and you’re going to love it. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you okay to ride? I mean yesterday…”

  “Yesterday, I fainted. No big deal. Now give me that helmet.” I thrust out my hand.

  I understand his reservations, but I’m fine. And I refuse to be treated any other way.

  When he passes me the helmet, I now understand why he asked about my clothes. There’s nothing to protect my skin from peeling off when I go flying through the air like Evel Knievel. But regardless, this is happening.