Bouquet: Sequel to 'In Full Bloom': The Trilogy of the Rose (Volume 3)

by B. A. Beers

  Frustrated by her lack of control, she pivoted and walked back toward the door. Reaching the wall, her legs gave out and her bottom made contact with the floor. The floodgates opened wide again. Drawing her legs toward her, she leaned forward, giving into the hopefully, soul-cleaning ritual.

  Awareness returned slowly as voices penetrated her tortured mind. Young voices, she thought, kids, probably pre-puberty, so innocent, and so carefree. Glancing around, she noticed long shadows, which were not there earlier. “How long have I been sitting here?” she verbalized to the empty restroom. Receiving no answer, she began to struggle to her feet. Her body fought her every movement with stabbing pain and soreness making this once simple effort a real chore. Rolling slowly to a hand/knee position, she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out, and waited several moments as the circulation returned to her legs. She silently prayed that no one would enter the room at this moment, for unthinkingly, she had her behind aimed right at the door.

  With the return of blood flow to her legs, she used the wall for support and got to her feet. She knew that if she stayed there too long on her right knee, it would begin to bother her due to the previous year’s arthroscopic surgery for a torn ligament. I’m getting too old for this, she thought angrily. Now on her feet, she kept one hand on the wall and took small steps to test her legs. They were unsteady, but held. To her relief (and joy) she realized her headache was just a memory.

  Pushing away from the wall, Tish stepped back in front of the sink. A tinkling sound caught her attention as her foot made contact with an object on the floor. Looking down, she spotted her key chain. Great, she thought, all I need at this point is to lose them. She tried to remember dropping them as she bent over to pick up the chain. This simple movement caused the blood in her head to start the rhythmic drumming again. With the keys securely in her right hand, she reached with her left hand for the edge of the sink to steady herself. Keeping her body in this bent position, she took several deep breaths hoping that the increased oxygen would ease the pounding. This action did the trick as the drumming decreased. Righting herself, she released the death grip on the sink, and brought her now-reddened left hand up to massage her left temple. ”This is stupid. I’m a married, middle-aged woman, who is behaving like a spoiled, pampered teenager.” She stuck out her tongue at her reflection. “Mrs. Independence has a big hole in her armor.” She continued, “The Band-Aids, which have sealed the holes for years, are not big or strong enough anymore, are they?”

  Tish saw her watch’s reflection in the mirror, and lowering her arm, she glanced at the time. Returning her eyes to her image, she continued her self-analysis. “You have been wallowing in this self-pity for over three hours. It’s time to swallow back this insanity and do something about it. Wendy might be right. You do need help.” The reflection started to cry. “Stop it! It’s time to wake up and smell the coffee. You can’t continue to go on like this. Do you hear me?” The reflection nodded once.

  ***

  TWO

  Bracing herself mentally, Tish stepped through the kitchen door on the side of her small, two-bedroom, single family home. It was Saturday and she knew that her husband, Bob, was home, as his truck was in the driveway. Quickly scanning the kitchen and living room from her vantage point, she didn’t see him. “Bob?” she called out.

  I’m back here,” his voice came to her from the enclosed patio area to her right.

  He is at the computer, she surmised. “I’ll start dinner in a few minutes,” she informed him, and turning to her left, rushed toward the back of the house.

  “There’s no hurry. How was your lunch with Wendy?” he asked, now standing in the archway between rooms.

  Tish froze in mid-stride. She could feel the underlying concern behind the question. Not wanting Bob to see her rattled state, she begged her legs to move forward and responded, in what she hoped was a light tone, “I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Something is definitely wrong, Bob thought, as he watched Tish quickly disappear around the corner. Worried, he crossed the distance of the kitchen and entered the main room just as he heard her close and lock the bathroom door. In the eight and a half years of marriage, she had never locked the door on him. Now that he thought about it, she usually left the door open. Warning bells went off in his head as he cautiously approached the locked door. He could hear water running on the other side. He tapped lightly on the door. “Tish?” he heard himself whisper. No response came forth. She either had not heard him or she refused to answer. He hoped it was the first option. He repeated his actions. This time he tried harder and louder than previously.

  “Coming,” she responded.

  Bob heard the water flow stop as the door unlocked and opened. Tish stood there, maybe three feet in front of him, not speaking. He took in her appearance, and his concern mounted. Her hair was damp and pulled back away from her face. The area around her eyes was puffy and red. He noticed the redness within her eyes. Glancing into the bathroom, he spotted the eyewash on the counter. Turning back to her, he saw that she had dropped her head and appeared to be staring at the floor between them. Without a word spoken, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around this woman he loved. “Honey,” he cooed softly. He felt Tish become rigid within his embrace. Now, what have I done? he thought guiltily. Part of him wanted to pull away from her in anger, but the other part fought this impulse, knowing instinctively that this time it was not his fault. Granted, he had been the cause of her distress several times in the past. He also knew it was her innate defense mechanism which drew her into herself, pushing off any comfort. Concern over this reaction in the past had made him consult her mother about it, and even limited his sometimes-overzealous impulses.

  Bob felt Tish’s hands on his chest. She was trying to break his hold on her. Locking his hands behind her, he pulled her closer to him. “Don’t push me away,” he requested, keeping his voice soft.

  Her hands stayed on his chest, but the light pressure ceased. “Bob, release me,” she began, pleading in a singsong voice. “I need to start dinner.”

  “Not until you tell me what is wrong,” he responded, tightening his hold.

  “I’m fine,” she retorted, resuming the pressure on his chest.

  “Yeah, right,” he muttered defiantly.

  “Believe me, it’s nothing to worry about. I just need to work some things out,” she explained, talking into his chest.

  “Let me help you,” he offered.

  “No,” she snapped angrily. “Give me time.”

  “Time?” he shot back. “It has already been a couple of weeks.” Regret filled him the minute the words left his mouth. He had not meant to voice those thoughts. She became a tigress in his arms. He broke his grip, fearing permanent damage, either to himself or her, due to his ill-timed outburst.

  She backed up further into the bathroom, wanting as much room as possible between them. Her eyes were glued on him with her hands still out in front of her, ready to fend off another approach. Her foot came in contact with the bathtub. Without thinking, she hoisted her leg over the rim and stepped into it. Pressing her back to the tile surface, she stood ready to defend herself.

  Bewildered, Bob watched her journey across the bathroom. His heart was breaking and his mind was terrified. “Tish! My God, what is happening here?” he cried out to her. Taking a step forward, he was stilled by the look in her eyes. Her arms swung out wildly in his general direction. “You need help,” he stated in a frightened voice, as he backed out of the bathroom.

  Turning, he rushed to the telephone. I need help, he thought. “Whom do I call?” he begged for the portable phone in his hand to answer him. Grasping the phone tighter, he mulled over his options. “Her mother or Wendy,” he muttered, thinking aloud. He frowned at both options. He had spoken to both of these women earlier this week and again within the past few hours regarding Tish’s behavior. Both had shown concern, but neither was alarmed by her state of mi
nd. Wendy had even informed him that she had provided Tish with the business card of her own psychiatric therapist. Recalling this conversation, Bob dialed Wendy’s number. While the phone was ringing, he retraced his steps back to the bathroom.

  The ringing stopped at the same moment he stepped into the doorway of the bathroom. His heart stopped when he peered into the interior of the room. Tish was still in the tub, but she wasn’t standing anymore. She was lying down in the dry tub on her side, facing away from him. Her right index finger was pressed against the back tile, appearing to be writing something in invisible ink on the wall.

  Entranced by what he was witnessing, he slowly became aware of Wendy’s voice on the phone. “Bob, what’s wrong with Tish?” Her voice was distraught.

  Stunned, not only with what he was witnessing but with Wendy’s question, he stammered, “How did you know it was me?”

  “My first clue was when your blood-curdling scream of Tish’s name deafened my ear when I picked up the receiver,” she explained rapidly. “What has happened? Where is she? Bob, talk to me!”

  “Wendy, I need your help,” he simply stated, not knowing where to begin.

  “How bad is she?” Wendy asked, choking down her emotions.

  “Bad,” he answered weakly. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m on my way,” she responded, more in control. “Hang on, Bob.”

  “One favor,” Bob spoke, before he lost contact with Wendy, “Call Grace for me.”

  “I’ll do one better than that,” she replied. “I’ll go get her on my way. Besides, I don’t want her to drive, knowing that her daughter is in trouble.”

  “Thanks, Wendy,” Bob acknowledged, feeling a little bit calmer inside now that help was on its way.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” she informed him before hanging up.

  Bob disconnected the line and walked into the bathroom. Standing by the rim of the tub, he gazed down at Tish curled up, seemingly unaware of his presence. “Honey?” he spoke softly. She didn’t respond to him. Reaching out, he closed the lid of the commode and sat down, never taking his eyes off her.

  ***

  Mesmerized by the hypnotic movement of her index finger on the tile, Bob wasn’t aware of the passing of time. He was brought back to the ‘now’ by the appearance of Grace, kneeling by the tub.

  “Sweetheart, Mommy’s here,” Grace cried to Tish, who was still stretched out in the tub.

  Bob watched for any signs from Tish that she had heard her mother, but after a couple of seconds, it was apparent that she had not. Grace reached out to touch Tish, but Bob quickly grabbed her arm. Shocked and stunned, Grace glared at Bob. “Don’t touch her,” he explained. “It might draw her away further.” Releasing his grip, Grace lowered her arm. “I tried that earlier, before she entered into this state,” he continued. “She was in one of those ‘don’t touch me moods’. I think I might have pushed too hard.”

  Grace nodded her head, knowing only too well to what he was referring. “Tish is just like her father in that regard.” She tried to justify to them the cause for this reaction.

  “She was in that same mood at lunch today,” Wendy spoke from behind them. “I tried to reach out to her when we were saying goodbye, but she visibly tensed at the very idea.” Both Bob and Grace nodded in response to her comment. All three of them had been on the receiving end of Tish’s mood swings numerous times. “By the way, Bob, when did she get home? When I talked to you at three o’clock, she still wasn’t back,” Wendy asked.

  “She had just gotten home. . . maybe about five or ten minutes before I called you,” he answered, turning and viewing Wendy for the first time since she entered the bathroom.

  “Bob!” Wendy gasped when she saw his face. Four, ugly, bleeding scratches marred the left side of his face. She grabbed a nearby washcloth, tossed it into the sink and turned on the water.

  “What?” he questioned.

  “Your face is bleeding,” Wendy answered, wringing out the water from the cloth.

  Grace was on her feet. “What happened?” she asked anxiously.

  “It’s not important. Besides, it doesn’t hurt,” Bob stated, while Wendy washed off the blood. Grabbing the washcloth out of her hand, he stood up and turned to the mirror. Placing the phone he still had in his hand on the counter, he viewed his image. The scratches were long, running from just under his eye to his jaw line, but none were very deep. His T-shirt was dotted with blood, but he knew it would wash out. He took his focus off his reflection, and saw the two concerned faces in the mirror. “I’ll be fine,” he stated over his shoulder to them. “Our concern should be on Tish’s welfare, not mine.” In unison, all three turned and faced the bathtub.

  “What is she writing?” Wendy voiced the question that all three were thinking.

  Holding the cloth to his injured cheek, Bob answered first. “I haven’t been able to figure it out yet. I’ve been watching her since I called you, and every time I think I have a hint, it would change. There is no pattern that I can make out. I don’t believe that she is repeating something over and over. I’ve even thought about putting a pencil in her hand, but vetoed it when I noticed that she is using her index finger, not a writing grip.”

  Grace knelt beside the tub again while he spoke, and concentrated on the patterns her daughter was making. “You’re right. She is writing something all in cursive including punctuation, I believe,” she whispered, awed by this ability. “I’ve seen her do this before, as a child. I caught her a couple of times doing this trick. She explained to me that it was her "secret writing" – a way of getting things out of her soul. She had read somewhere that a way to face your problems was to write them down. She had liked the idea, but she feared that someone might read it, so she taught herself to do this method. Knowing that no one would ever be able to read this "writing", she explained. “It helped her cope.”

  “Is that what she is doing now? Coping?” Wendy asked.

  “I believe so,” Grace answered. “Yet, I have never seen her shut herself off like this before.”

  “So, you don’t know if she will come out of this trance?” Bob asked in a tired voice.

  “No, Bob, I’m sorry. I wish I knew.” She felt his pain as she turned to him.

  Bob gave her a weak smile, and he turned his attention to Wendy. “Can you help her?”

  “Me?” Wendy was surprised, placing her right hand on her chest. “Why ask me?” She glanced at Bob, and then at Grace.

  Grace nodded her head. “Because, dear, you are the only one in this room who is seeing professional help. That, I figure makes you the resident expert in this.”

  “Great! I just love pressure,” Wendy retorted. Both Bob and Grace beseeched her with their eyes. “Okay, put me on the spot.” Reacting quickly was one thing when it came to herself, but thinking quickly was a new ball game for her. “Granted, I’m seeing a psychiatric therapist,” she began slowly, “but our cases are different.”

  “You’re making excuses,” Bob pressed.

  “Okay, okay,” she sighed. “I did provide Tish with his card at lunch today.” Turning to Bob, she continued. “I told you before; she didn’t like the idea, but ended up taking the card with her.” Rotating her head a little to the left, she took in the scene in the bathtub. “He doesn’t have office hours on the weekend, but I could call his service and have him call me here,” she offered. “I could ask his advice on what to do.” She spoke her thoughts aloud.

  “Do you think he would mind?” Grace asked, concerned.

  “I don’t think so,” Wendy answered honestly. “He has told me many times that if I ever needed him, to call.”

  “Yeah, that might be true, Wendy, but this isn’t about you,” Bob reminded her.

  “You’re wrong, Bob. This does affect me,” she cried, glaring at him.

  “Sorry, Wendy, that didn’t come out right,” Bob apologized quickly.

  “It’s okay, I understand,” she fumed, mentally counting to ten. Turnin
g, she rushed out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “I’m going to call.”

  “Wendy,” Bob called out after her, as he picked up the phone from the counter, “the phone is right here.”

  His words abruptly stopped her forward movement. Dropping her head, she did an about-face. Embarrassed by her rash and daring behavior, she slowly brought her eyes up until she spotted the bloodied phone. With her focus on the phone, and avoiding eye contact, she snatched the phone from Bob’s hand, backing out of the room slowly. “I’ll call from out here,” she told them before disappearing from sight.

  ***

  After Wendy’s second departure, this time with the phone in hand, Bob turned back to Tish. “Where are you?” his words were heavy with confusion.