Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  I shove at him again and again, hating that each blow ebbs away at my agony. He accepts the violence, almost as punishment for everything that has transpired between us. My arms grow lax, but I continue fighting, because once I stop, I’ll be sure to break down and cry.

  “How i-is this f-fair?” I scream, thrashing wildly, my tiny fists not even making a dent.

  “None of this is fair!” he exclaims, finally having enough and snaring my wrists.

  I try to break free, but it’s futile. He’s too strong, and I’ve run out of fight.

  He wraps his arms around me, scooping me into his trembling embrace. I want to escape, but he holds on tight. I need time to think.

  “Will you change your mind?” I lean my cheek against his chest. The strong thrumming of his heart is a betrayal because it’s failing him every single day.

  His silence is all the answer I need.

  Never thinking I’d ever say these words aloud, I whisper, “Please let me go.”

  “Lola…”

  “No, I need time.” He begrudgingly loosens his hold, and I slip free, but I’ve never felt more trapped.

  “Time for what?” he poses, nothing but heartbreak surrounding him.

  “Time to think. You throw me this curveball and expect me to accept it. I will not. I especially won’t when you won’t even negotiate your decision.”

  He tips his head upward and pushes out an exasperated breath. “This was never up for negotiation. This is why I didn’t tell you. This is my life.”

  I step back, hearing all I needed to hear. “I thought I was part of your life?”

  He averts his gaze, as I’ve obviously struck a nerve.

  “I’ve run out of goodbyes,” I declare, holding in my sadness. “You want to leave me, and all I can think about is spending every last minute, every last second I have left holding your hand. But I guess that’s the difference between us. I want to fight, even with the odds against us. And you, all you want to do is say goodbye, time and time again.”

  A single tear slips past the floodgates, but I brush it away. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Lola…” He charges forward, but I thrust out my hand.

  “No, don’t. Please, just give me space.”

  It’s apparent he would rather rip off his own arms, but he nods. “Let me give you money for a cab.” He digs into his back pocket, but I shake my head.

  “No, I’ll walk. The fresh air will do me good.” I can see it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to protest.

  I’m not trying to be difficult. I just need time to get my head around something which makes no sense. He’s going away September first so Teddy can inject him with a lethal dose of something to end his battle for good. I never was opposed to euthanasia. How could I be? In some cases, it would have been the humane thing to do. But when we’re talking about the man I love, it’s not humane. It’s the complete opposite.

  Taking one last look at the man who was my shelter, I wonder what happens when he’s gone.

  I thought my head would clear after walking the streets of Manhattan, but it hasn’t. There is no way to process all this without wanting to scream, cry, and fight. My results have been furthest away from my thoughts because I’ve experienced it before. Same prognosis, different time. Not much has changed.

  But the bombshell Roman dropped; I don’t even know where to start.

  I understand his decision, and I respect it. It takes guts to end your life. But it takes the heart of a true champion to live it. Our future is far from ideal, but I’m willing to tackle it head-on.

  Dr. Carter said I have one month—four weeks, thirty days—to live. Time is ticking away, and it’s time I don’t want to waste fighting. But I can’t force Roman to live. He may have done so with me, but deep down, I wanted him to. I needed someone to fight for me when I was too scared to.

  When June told me about Scarlett, before I knew who she was, I remember thinking how ironic her dying of a hole in the heart because I’m sure June felt that every single day when thinking about her. But now, that’s exactly how I feel.

  If my day wasn’t filled with enough drama, my dad called and said they returned from Europe early. He wanted me to come over for dinner. I could sense the seriousness to his tone, and although I wasn’t in any frame of mind, I agreed.

  The moment the door opens, I know my father sees it. “Are you all right?” he asks, clearly concerned.

  “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. I didn’t sleep well.” I quash down my sickness, playing it down, as I don’t want to worry him. “Why are you back early?”

  My father welcomes me into their palace, while I attempt to block out the bad juju this place has. I attempt to walk, but my legs give out on me, and I go down.

  “Lola!” Thankfully, my dad catches me before I hit the hard floor. “You need to lie down.”

  “I’m fine,” I reiterate, but my trembling body says otherwise.

  He ignores me and leads me into the living room. It takes five minutes for the room to stop spinning.

  “Stop worrying.” I smooth out the crinkles between his furrowed brows.

  “Impossible.” He places a hand to my forehead. “You’re running a fever.” He goes to stand, but I snare his wrist.

  “I’m okay. I saw Dr. Carter today.”

  Dad’s ears prick. “Dr. Carter? Why are you seeing him?”

  “I’m undergoing a new trial,” I reply, not having the heart to tell him the truth until after dinner.

  “You are?” My father looks at me like he’s only just seen me for the first time. “I didn’t know, Lola. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I decide to leave out the fact that until I met Roman, I didn’t even know I wanted to live.

  He has never been one for words, but I just assumed it was because my mom did all the talking. But now that he’s not shrouded by her overbearing shadow, it’s like I too have just seen him for the first time. “I let you down. I am so sorry for everything. Your mother—”

  “Let’s not ruin a nice conversation,” I butt in, not wanting to hear any excuses for her.

  He pulls in his lips, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “She loves you. There are things about her…”

  I scoff, leaning backward and folding my arms in defiance. My nausea has thankfully passed, replaced with indifference. “It’s fine. You don’t have to make excuses for me. She is what she is.” I refrain from saying what she is―a gigantic, judgmental bitch.

  “I think your mother would like to know about these developments.”

  “I doubt it.” My refusal hurts. I can see it, and I instantly feel guilty.

  Thoughts of June and Roman’s strained relationship play over in my mind. If Roman could forgive his mother, then maybe I should too.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom.” He reads my need for silence and nods.

  Once I’m steady enough to stand, I take a detour to my old room. The bright pink ballerina music box catches my eye. I remember when my mother gave it to me. I was eleven. She wanted to buy me some fancy riches, but all I wanted was that damn music box. The wind-up ballerina inside, snuggled among the pink silk, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I would sit for hours watching her dance, wishing I could mimic her graceful movements because I had two left feet.

  My mom used to brush my hair while I watched the ballerina spin to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. I reach for the box with trembling hands. It feels so small, but I suppose my hands have grown since the last time I picked it up. Holding it up to eye level, I close one eye, wishing I viewed the world how I once did. Turning it upside down, I wind the small copper handle and run my finger across the ballerina mid-pirouette.

  The twirling ballerina is my pendulum, and I’m completely under her spell. If I only knew then what I know now, I would trade places with her in a heartbeat.

  “You used to love that music box.” I slam the lid shut, almost severing two fingers in t
he process.

  “I used to love a lot of things,” I curtly reply, replacing the box on the dresser. Spinning, I cross my arms when I see my mother standing in the doorway. What does she want?

  Taking a moment to observe her, I notice something different about her. She looks less…evil. Her white pantsuit might be the reason for her saintly look.

  “Your father told me you went to see Dr. Carter. You’re doing another trial?” She appears genuinely interested.

  I roll my eyes. It’s too late for the concerned motherly act. “Yes, I was. But it didn’t work. I should be out of your hair in about a month’s time.”

  I’m expecting some sort of reaction like a hip, hip hooray. But for the first time in a long time, I see guilt. It unnerves me to see a human emotion pass across her usual stoic face.

  “Lola, may we speak?”

  “Speak about what, exactly?”

  She clears her throat, evidently uncomfortable with whatever she wishes to say. “I want to clear the air between us.”’

  “Excuse me?” I thump my fist to my chest, hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat. When I see that she is serious, I can’t help the sarcastic snicker from slipping from my lips. “I’m not sure if you heard me correctly, but I said I have one month to live.”

  She recoils, wounded that I would imply it would take far longer than that to do what she proposes.

  She enters the room, and I instinctively take two steps back. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

  “Angry? That’s being lenient.”

  “I don’t know the exact moment things fell apart between us.” She advances forward, each step leaving me more and more curious to what she wants.

  “How about the time you disowned me as your daughter? Or the fact you’re ashamed to have an imperfect child?” I throw options her way. Surely, one will fit the profile.

  She lowers her eyes, and I feel guilty for snapping. I don’t like it. I’m so used to bickering with my mom that I don’t know how to handle this side of her—this human side of her.

  She sits at the foot of my bed, pensive. “I was never ashamed of you.”

  “You could have fooled me,” I declare, folding my arms across my chest.

  “There are so many things I would have done differently. I’m…I’m sorry. I’ve been an awful mother to you.”

  My mouth pops open. I have never been more stunned than I am right now. When I regain my composure, I ask, “Why are you telling me this? It’s only come about four years too late.”

  “I know.” Who is this person sitting before me? She wears my mother’s face, but there is no way this is her.

  Lifting her eyes, I gasp when I see they are wet. Does she have something in them because no way are they wet with tears.

  “What is the matter with you? Are you dying?” I ask, as that’s the only explanation to why she’s behaving this way.

  She closes her eyes for a second. “If it means you’d live, then I would, happily.”

  I am actually speechless. I need to sit. Slumping onto the satin settee, I attempt to decipher what the hell is going on.

  “You think I’m ashamed of you.” I have no choice but to listen to her, as I’m bewitched. “The truth is…I’m ashamed of myself. I failed you.”

  Something has happened for her to behave this way, and the only thing is that she’s been given a second chance.

  “What happened?”

  She tugs at the pearls around her neck, a sure sign I’m right. I’ve never seen Camille Van Allen squirm, not until now. “A few days ago, I found a lump…in my breast.”

  I blink. That was not what I was expecting.

  “I thought nothing of it, but I decided to get it checked out. That’s why we cut our trip short.”

  I wait with bated breath.

  “I got the results today.”

  “And?”

  She lowers her gaze, her lower lip trembling. “It’s all clear. I’m fine.”

  A winded breath escapes me. I don’t understand. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

  She finally meets my confused stare. “Because the entire time, all I was thinking was, how does Lola do this? How has she done this her entire life? I was so scared, but I couldn’t remember the last time I saw you scared. You have been burdened for four years, and not once have I heard you say ‘why me?’

  “That’s all I could think when I was sitting there today, waiting for my life to change. I thought about what a strong, brave girl you are, and what a horrible, awful mother I’ve been to you.”

  Words escape me. I sit unmoving.

  “I was so preoccupied in busying myself because the moment I stopped, all I could think about is how I failed you. I couldn’t help you. That’s why I wanted to help so many others. What kind of a mother can’t help her child? I didn’t know what to do. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, so I said nothing at all.

  “I come from a family that doesn’t show emotion. But then I met your father, and he changed that. He showed me it was okay to cry and laugh and love. And we had that. But then you got sick. I didn’t know how to act. My only child was sick, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to make her better. All the money in the world made no difference. At the end of the day, you were dying, and I had to accept that.”

  She swallows, while I’m barely breathing.

  “I didn’t know how to act around you anymore, and I blamed you for that. I am so ashamed of myself. We grew further and further apart, and that was entirely my fault. It hurt to be around you, and I distanced myself because I was—I am—a coward.”

  A tear slides down my cheek, her confession stabbing at my heart.

  “This isn’t an excuse; this is an explanation, one that has come too late. But today, sitting there in that doctor’s office, I came to realize what a truly remarkable woman you are. I have never met anyone more courageous than you, and I am so proud to call you my daughter.”

  I jump up, unable to sit a moment longer. “I needed you, Mom. But you made me feel like I was never good enough.”

  She too stands, but I’m thankful she doesn’t try to reach out. “I know. I can never apologize enough for letting you down. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and regardless of what the results were today with Dr. Carter, I would have told you. I’m not telling you this to unburden my guilt. I’m telling you this because I want you to know that none of this was ever your fault.”

  A staggered sob breaks free. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hear. That and…

  She places a hand over her mouth, tears I’ve not seen before slipping free. “I love you, Lola. And I’m so sorry for everything. Please forgive me.”

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I’m unable to hold back the years of rejection and sadness I’ve kept bottled away. This does not excuse her behavior, but it’s a start. If death has taught me anything, it’s that life is too short to hold grudges.

  She waits patiently, sniffing back her sorrow. Her entire life, she’s been so afraid to be vulnerable, but at this moment, she’s never looked stronger. I don’t fully understand her reasoning, but the prospect of death makes you do weird things—like voluntary euthanasia.

  I could walk from this room and tell her the apology has come too late. But what would that achieve? It takes more effort to hate her than it does to accept that she made a mistake. A huge mistake, but one she seems truly sorry for.

  Wiping away my tears, I take a steadying breath. She looks on the verge of breaking down. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  She blinks twice, not expecting that response. It’s the best I can muster. I’m not ready to play happy family just yet, but I’m willing to try.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, but it’s bittersweet. I’m pleased at least one of us received good news today.

  So what happens now? It seems too clichéd to give her a hug and pretend all is forgiven. But on the flipside, I don’t want her to think I haven’t appreciated her honesty, so comin
g to a compromise, I raise my fist.

  She peers down at it, moving her lips from side to side.

  Unable to help myself, I playfully mock, “You can do it!”

  A lopsided smirk plays at her lips.

  She doesn’t leave me hanging and softly bumps her fist against mine, shaking her head at my absurdity. A universal fist bump is the first step toward our healing. Who would have thought?

  She looks like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and in a way, I know how she feels. “I’m going to get ready for dinner. Your father has gone a little overboard. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I went to Magnolia Bakery on the way home.”

  Camille Van Allen is making jokes? Today is truly a strange day.

  I’m thankful she doesn’t linger, and when she closes the door behind her, I stand in the middle of the room, digesting everything that just happened.

  The pink music box catches my eye. Maybe I’m finally free to dance like the ballerina after all.

  I can’t sleep.

  I told Dad about the trials, and he did something I never thought he’d do. He put down his silverware at the dinner table, and he cried. Seeing your father, who you always saw as big, strong, and invincible, sob like a baby, is disconcerting, but it was nice knowing he cared.

  My mom shed a tear, but I think she’s keeping them locked away, knowing many more are to come.

  After stuffing myself fuller than a piñata at a ten-year-old’s birthday party, I thanked my parents for dinner and went home. I thought I’d fall into an exhausted heap, considering the events of today, but I didn’t. I lie awake, staring up at my ceiling, wondering what happens now.

  Undergoing the remainder of the trials seems pointless; as Dr. Carter said, it’s just prolonging the inevitable. This decision will result in me crossing the finish line sooner rather than later, but it’s what I want.

  What I also want is Roman.

  I hate the way we left things. I needed time to clear my head, and although it’s not any clearer than it was, I do know I don’t want to spend my remaining time without him. I don’t agree with his decision, but if it’s what he wants, then I will try to support him.