Waking Rose: A Fairy Tale Retold (Fairy Tale Novels)

by Regina Doman

There was a silence. Then Paul looked at Alex.

  “She knows Chesterton.”

  “She lives,” said Alex.

  Ten minutes later they were all sitting at one of the round cafeteria tables, having successfully crossed the bridge from small talk to what Rose termed “real talk.” Philosophy, Theology, and Political Ideology had joined the conversation, and Chesterton was wrestling with Lord Acton in magnificent contest.

  While Paul and Leroy took sides over which economic system was more compatible with the Catholic faith, Alex and Rose speculated about what Thomas Aquinas would have to say about the latest summer movie.

  “So what are you doing for your bioethics class paper?” Paul asked her during a lull in the conversation, as they went to refill their plates.

  “I’m actually thinking of something on the treatment of patients in hospitals—maybe the treatment of comatose patients,” Rose said. “My sister was in a coma once after an accident, so I’m sort of interested in the issue. Also, my dad apparently had done some research on the topic when he was a news reporter.” She told him what she knew about her dad’s interviews with the nurse.

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” Paul said appreciatively. “I had thought about doing medical cannibalism in Asian countries, but this sounds interesting too.”

  “Medical what?” Rose repeated, flabbergasted.

  Paul helped himself to some strawberry Jell-O and said, “In China, there have been cases of doctors recommending that their patients eat dishes made from the remains of aborted babies for certain ailments. Some Western reporters didn’t believe them, so they posed as patients and went to the doctors, and were given jars of the remains for cooking with.”

  “Oh,” said Rose, losing her appetite.

  Leroy winced, overhearing them. “Paul, stop being so medical! Not everyone has as strong a stomach as you do.”

  “Oh,” Paul said, catching himself. “I guess it’s not good lunch conversation. Anyhow, I was going to take an unusual angle on the subject. You see, I’m interested in Eastern medicine. I was going to argue that cannibalism contradicts the inherent principles of healing in Asian medicine.”

  “My,” Rose said.

  “I’m pre-med, but I can’t decide if I’d rather do the traditional kind of Western medicine, or do something more alternative, like acupuncture. When I was recovering from a basketball injury in high school, I started going to this one acupuncturist, and it got me interested. The Army—I’m in the National Guard, by the way—will pay for med school, but they probably won’t pay for say, acupuncture training.”

  “What’s acupuncture again?” Rose asked, as they sat back down at the table.

  “Also not a proper topic for meal conversation,” Leroy said. “Ask him some other time, and he’ll tell you all about it.”

  “What, Leroy? Are you grossed out by the thought of having sixteen-inch pins stuck all over your body?” Alex asked, munching potato chips.

  “It’s not what I want to think about right now,” Leroy said.

  “But really, it’s fascinating,” Paul insisted, but Rose could see that there was a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. “They’re actually needles, and they’re not inserted into the skin terribly far. Most people barely feel them...”

  “Speaking of pins and needles, I like sewing,” Rose said, raising her voice a bit. “Quite a lot.”

  The company groaned. “You just reminded us that you’re a girl,” Alex said. “Stop right there or we’ll run away screaming ‘Cooties.’ Back to something sensible. If you want to talk Asian, let’s talk about Godzilla. We never did see that movie you got, Paul. When are you going to bring it out?”

  HIS

  There had been a call from his lawyer that afternoon, with news Fish didn’t enjoy hearing.

  “I realize that you’re in school just now,” his lawyer had said. “Is it too difficult for you to make the trip?”

  “No, I’ll come,” he said, rubbing his temples, where he could feel a headache already beginning.

  After hanging up, he got up and tried to return to the paper he had been writing. But what his mind wouldn’t think about, his body traitorously wouldn’t forget. Soon he had to get up and go searching for aspirin.

  “Hell,” he said to the wall in the bathroom. It was a fairly apt description, not a curse.

  After he had paced around the house restlessly, he gave up, grabbed his rock climbing backpack, a few other things, and took off for the woods.

  He knotted his rope to a strong branch at the top of a cliff and slid down to the bottom, thirty feet below. This cliff face was particularly challenging, and he had never made it up before. Since he was working alone, he had an extra safety rope.

  Painstakingly, he worked with his toes and fingers to find holds in the rock, and began inching his way upwards. He fell only once, near the bottom, and the ropes caught him. He swore more than he needed to, and started again.

  ...You’re not worth much, boy. Wouldn’t get more than five dollars in Times Square in the old days...

  The fragment of past conversation flew out at him as a pebble he had dislodged hit him in the face. He frowned and tried to clamp his memory down by taking a more difficult way. But he found he only got more frustrated.

  When he got halfway up, he realized he was at an impasse—the part where the rock jutted out above his head. He couldn’t get any further without risking another fall. Relentlessly, he tried to work around it, ignoring the obvious, and soon found himself swinging in midair at the end of his ropes. He turned to catch himself with his hands before he smashed into the cliff face and steadied himself. No, this was not his day. It was getting dark, too. He gave up.

  No good, boy. Still no good.

  He couldn’t go home yet. Packing up his gear, he trekked further into the forest, pressing on through the dark woods. At last, weary and getting chilly in the autumn night, he stopped and turned back home. He had to live with it, somehow. He had to go on.

  Hers

  Rose tried on three different outfits without making up her mind, and finally resorted to raiding Kateri’s closet before she found the perfect sweater. Pulling it on, she gathered up her books and looked around at her tiny dorm room before leaving. It was a mess, a real mess. She groaned. Kateri was a bit of a neat freak, and Rose knew she would have to clean it up as soon as she could. A happy roommate meant a happy living situation.

  Besides, I like a neat room, too, she thought, closing the door on the shambles behind her and going down the hall.

  As she rounded the corner of the hallway, she almost ran into Donna. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she stuttered, seeing who it was.

  Donna was tall, with straight blond hair, a narrow face with a perfect Grecian nose. But there was something about her eyes that made her face unpleasant. Now she fixed her cold blue eyes on Rose with a strange expression, and kept her eyes on her as she stepped disdainfully away and swept down the hall. Rose shuddered as she hurried down the hall.

  It had been like this ever since play practice had started. It was common knowledge among the cast that Donna, a seasoned actress who was playing the part of Goneril, had wanted the role of Cordelia badly and resented losing the part to a greenhorn like Rose. Rose had a feeling Donna was playing some kind of payback game, and disliked it intensely.

  She freaks me out, and she probably knows it, Rose thought to herself. Donna had given her that stare during play practice. On stage, it worked, but off stage, Rose wasn’t sure how much was acting and how much was real life.

  A damper on her spirits, she hurried out into the lounge and out the door to class.

  She tried hard to enjoy the day, with its blue skies and brisk wind. So different here than in New York. There were no buildings and comparatively little smog. Green trees instead of gray concrete. She enjoyed that.

  She was passing the smallest male dormitory, a long low building running along three sides of a square courtyard, with the name Sacra Cor, Latin transliteration for �
��Sacred Heart,” on the sign in front. That was where Paul, Alex, and Leroy lived, she had found out. It was the smallest of the men’s dorms—the other two dorms, “Lumen Christi” and “Mater Dei,” were the size of the women’s dorms.

  As she passed the courtyard, she heard a shout, “Sacra Cor!” in a huge, magnified tone. Paul charged through a doorway, a silver sword flashing in his hand. He bolted up a nearby slope and stood with his back to her, facing the door he had exited, brandishing the weapon. Rose had never seen such a sword, which was at least three feet long and looked heavy. It well matched Paul’s physique, and despite herself, she took a second look.

  Then she saw Leroy rush out of the dorm, flourishing another sword. They faced each other, weapons out, and for a moment, Rose wondered if they were going to fight. But then Paul jabbed his sword into the ground, turned a flip—she had learned by now that it was as easy for him to do as breathing—and stood up in an attack stance. Leroy thrust his weapon into the grass as well and advanced. Then abruptly both guys threw themselves at each other in a full-fledged wrestling match, landing on the ground. Rose couldn’t help laughing, and waited to see the outcome.

  Alex emerged from his room, a curved wooden sword in his hand, ambled over to her, stuck the point of the sword in the ground in front of him, and watched the two meditatively. As usual, he was in black—this time, wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed “Abortion is Mean.”

  “Not bad,” he reflected. “Another semester of training, maybe, and Leroy’ll be ready.”

  “For what?” she pursued.

  “Knighthood. Paul’s ready. You can tell. His training has paid off.”

  “Do you train them?” she asked solemnly.

  “Yes,” he answered in the same tone. “Martial arts, swordplay, wrestling—all necessary skills for any man in today’s world.”

  “Really,” she said.

  “And for women too, though most of them around here aren’t as interested.” He pulled the sword from the grass and handed it to her. “Try this.”

  She took it curiously, and looked at it. It was a curved sword, light and strong. “What’s this?”

  “A Japanese boken. I use it for training. Those guys have Western swords. Sometimes the Japanese sword is easier for women. Let me show you.”

  He took the sword back and swept it around in a graceful movement, ending with a lunge. “Try it.”

  She set down her books, and, taking the sword, tried to imitate his movements, which were more difficult than she had expected. Alex gave her a few pointers, and she found herself intrigued. “I like this,” she said.

  “Do you? Not scared off? Good, well, I’ll have to show you more sometime.” He glanced over at the wrestling match, which was drawing to a close with Leroy sitting on Paul. “Oh, very good, Leroy. Great technique.”

  “I let him win!” bellowed Paul, and Leroy punched him again.

  “I’ve got to run to class,” Rose said regretfully. “See you around.”

  “Ciao,” Alex said, waving goodbye. He grabbed his sword and strode over to the other two.

  What an unusual group, Rose said to herself. But she liked them, despite their black trench coats and dangerous air. She was beginning to find out that behind that aura of bad behavior was a genuine goodness. She had also run into students at Mercy who appeared clean-cut on the outside, but who were bending rules whenever they thought no one was looking.

  As she passed the chapel, she saw two blue-gowned figures. One nun in full habit was pushing another in a wheelchair. A third nun, with the same light blue veil and dark blue robe, emerged from its depths. Rose started with excitement when she recognized the familiar face. “Sister Maria!” she cried. “I didn’t know you went to Mass here!”

  Her elderly cousin accepted Rose’s enthusiastic hug and patted her hand, laughing. “Sometimes we do go to noon Mass, when Father can’t make it to our convent. We thought we might run into you. The Holy Spirit was nudging.”

  “How are you, godmother?” Rose asked affectionately.

  “I’m doing very well, and so are Sister Carmen and Therese.” Sister Maria’s aging face creased into a smile and her unusually young blue eyes sparkled. “And how are you, godchild?”

  “I’m doing quite well,” Rose said, warmth coming into her face as she looked at the two other nuns, who smiled at her. Sister Carmen was very old, and Sister Therese was clearly the youngest. Rose had been receiving Mass Cards from Sister Maria and her fellow nuns all her life, but rarely saw them. “It’s so good to run into you like this, so casually. It’s almost luxury.”

  “A true gift,” Sister Carmen said in a gravelly voice.

  “And is there anything that you would like us to pray for?” Sister Maria said solemnly.

  “You talk as though it’s your job,” Rose laughed.

  “So it is,” Sister Maria nodded. “As contemplative nuns, you could say it is our job, though we’ve had to become more active lately, as there are only three left in our convent! We do pray for you every day.”

  “Really? Well, that explains a lot!” Rose exclaimed. “Perhaps that’s why my life has turned out so well, with you three watching my back.”

  Sister Maria looked thoughtful. “Well, you are our godchild. We’ll never cease to do that,” she said. “I know you’re on your way to class, so I won’t keep you. But we should like to have you come and visit us. Perhaps for dinner.”

  “Yes, I’d love that!” Rose said with genuine feeling. “I’ll see you later then!” She gathered up her books and hurried up to class, feeling as though she had been given extraordinary gifts.

  How many people can boast of having three godmothers? Well, technically only Sister Maria is my godmother, but the other two consider me their adopted godchild. She pictured them as three powerful entities, robed and crowned, lifting up hands to heaven to shield and protect her.

  And in reality, that’s what they are, Rose told herself, glancing behind her at the three frail figures making their way down the hill to the parking lot. They’re not simply ordinary. No one really is.

  HIS

  Fish was sitting in his class with Dr. Anschlung, “Keats and the Romantic Movement.” He had grown to be more and more grateful for his professor and employer, who seemed to value literature for what it was. The other professors in the department seemed more intent on tearing literary works down than leading others to appreciate them. Now she was giving them their assignment for the midterm exam, which would be a paper. “You need to pick a long poem by Keats and give a complete analysis of it according to the methods we have studied,” she said, looking over the class.

  Fish paged through his course book, The Complete Poetry and Writings of John Keats. He had always been taken with the melancholy poem, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” but of course, that was too short and simple. However, according to the footnotes in his text, the poem was mentioned by name in another Keats poem, “The Eve of St. Agnes,” which was considerably longer. He had read it a long time ago—in jail, actually. It hung hauntingly in his memory, but not, fortunately, among his more painful remembrances. Actually, considering most of his time in juvenile detention, it had been rather positive.

  After class he ran down to the library and found several books with commentaries on the poem. Signing them out before anyone else in the class could do so, he thrust them in his backpack and hurried home. He would look over them this weekend.

  Keeping busy…keeping busy…

  Hers

  “Kateri, can I borrow your car tomorrow?” Rose asked, as she got ready to leave for play practice on Friday evening.

  “What for?” Her roommate was sitting on the ground, index cards and loose-leaf paper spread out around her, her wild black hair all in disarray around her almond-shaped eyes, which were fixed on her work. She was preparing for a test, in one of her sporadic periods of intense devotion to schoolwork.

  “I need to go looking for a barn in the country that belongs to my family,” Rose ex
plained.

  Kateri shook her head. “Sorry, got a protest tomorrow.”

  That was her roommate—study, study, then protest, protest. Rose mused as she looked at her friend. Kateri went down to the hospital every Saturday morning to lead prayers for the children who were being aborted there. Her commitment to pro-life activism was a consuming passion that dictated her actions like clockwork.

  “Sorry, otherwise I wouldn’t mind,” Kateri said.

  “That’s all right,” Rose mused. “Who else around here is friendly enough to lend out a car?”

  “Why don’t you ask one of those Cor guys? You certainly hang out with them enough.”

  “You know, the first few times I heard you call them that, I thought you meant students enrolled in the Marine Corps or something.” Rose said, flipping a brush through her ponytail. “But the name does fit. They’re so into weapons and war.”

  Kateri rolled her eyes. “Thoughtless violence,” she said. “Overgrown boys.”

  “Well, after all, they are boys,” Rose pointed out. “Don’t you like them?”

  Kateri looked up at her roommate, her black eyes dismissive. “They’re pretty odd,” she said. “If you like that sort of thing. Which I can see you do. I don’t have patience for those kinds of games.”

  Rose knew that Kateri, who was fairly offbeat herself, didn’t seem to care much for overly colorful people. “You seem to be more interested in Mater Dei guys,” Rose said, unable to resist teasing her.

  “That’s true,” Kateri inclined her head.

  Each of the three men’s dorms had a particular general character. The men of Lumen Christi tended to be athletes and business majors, and the men of Mater Dei were mostly theology or philosophy majors—including several quiet, earnest young men who seemed to admire Kateri for her serious activism, and she had “dated” a few of them (in the odd Mercy College dictionary, this could mean simply eating meals and studying together) over the course of the semester. Rose had met one or two of them and had found them pleasant, but lacking the strong personality of her roommate.