Bitter Rose

by Melody Carlson

  Work is a drag. I mean, it’s busy and the time goes by pretty quickly, but working on your birthday is so wrong. As I pick up my check and tell my aunt good night, I am on the verge of tears.

  “Are you okay, Magdela?” she asks with a frown.

  “Just bummed.”

  She nods. “Any particular reason?”

  I can tell by her expression that her head is probably hurting, so I decide not to burden her with my troubles. It’s not like she can do anything about them anyway. “Just life.”

  She kind of smiles. “Yes, I know how that can be.”

  “So what do you do about it?” I ask suddenly. “I mean, how do you deal with it without losing your mind?”

  She looks slightly surprised. “I would think you’d know the answer to that one, Magdela.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I guess because of things that Rosa has told me in the past.”

  “Huh?”

  She gives me that look—the one she uses to correct my bad grammar or warn me to mind my manners.

  “I mean, pardon?”

  She nods, satisfied. “Well, a few years ago, your mother gave me quite a little speech about praying and how there are ways to pray your own prayers without using a rosary—prayers that come right from your heart.”

  I study her for a long moment. “So do you do that? Do you pray right from your heart?”

  “Sometimes.” She sighs. “Like when I’m having an especially bad headache, or when I’m worried about my boys.”

  I’m sure my face looks surprised or maybe even skeptical.

  “I suppose I thought you did the same, Magdela.”

  I think about this. “I used to.”

  “Used to?”

  Now I’m uncomfortable. I can’t believe that Tia Louisa is actually talking to me about praying. My parents always acted like the rest of their family, the ones who go to the traditional Catholic church, were somehow less spiritual than our family, as if they didn’t have a personal relationship with God or were somehow less “born again.” Once again, it looks like we were wrong.

  “Maybe you should try it again,” she tells me with a half smile. “I don’t think it could hurt.”

  I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat.

  “Don’t forget your paycheck,” she says, nodding to the table where, as usual, they are laid out.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, picking it up. “You know what?” I say suddenly, not even sure why, except maybe I just need some sympathy.

  “What, Magdela?”

  “It’s my eighteenth birthday today.” And then I start crying. “And no one even remembered.”

  She gets up from her chair now, comes over, and puts her arms around me. “Oh, Magdela, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”

  “No, that’s okay, Tia Louisa. But Mom forgot too. And, of course, Dad did. And I don’t know why, but it really hurts. It’s like my family is gone—like they’ve been nuked or something. I just hate it.”

  She strokes my hair now. “Poor Maggie. It’s been a hard year for you.”

  I consider telling her about Ned too but think better of it. Finally, I quit crying, and she hands me a tissue. “Thanks for letting me dump on you.”

  “Glad I could be here. And believe it or not, Maggie, this too will pass. And in the end, you really will be stronger for it. Trust me, you will.” She looks thoughtful as she strokes the silver crucifix hanging so elegantly over her black cashmere sweater.

  I nod. “I hope so.”

  “In the meantime, you might want to try praying again.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then she unlatches her crucifix and hands it to me. “This is for you, Magdela.”

  I feel my eyes opening wide as I stare at the beautiful piece of jewelry. I know it’s been in the family for generations. In fact, my mom has often wished it were hers. “No way. You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious. Happy birthday.”

  “But—”

  “Please don’t argue with me, Magdela. That piece was given to me by my father, your grandfather. It was his mother’s and her mother’s before her, and so on. I have the history all written out at home. Because Papa had no sisters and he was the oldest son, it was given to him, and he saved it for his firstborn daughter, which was me. And now, as you know, I have no daughters.”

  “But what about a granddaughter someday?”

  She laughs. “Knowing my two boys, well, I’m not holding my breath.” Then she puts her hand on my shoulder. “If I’d had a daughter, Magdela, I would’ve wanted her to be just like you.”

  I don’t know what to say, and I feel fresh tears coming, but these are a different kind of tears.

  As I drive home, I think about what Tia Louisa said about praying. Who would’ve thought she had a real relationship with God? I mean, it’s not that she ever seemed like a bad person, but she’s never really talked about her faith much before—maybe because my parents were always talking about theirs so much, trying to convince everyone in the family to come to our reformed church. Not that there’s anything wrong with our church. I know there’s not. I guess there was just something wrong with us—or Dad, since he sort of started this whole mess.

  Mom’s not home when I get there. I assume she’s out with stupid Rich again, and I don’t know if I even care anymore. It’s not like I can do anything about it anyway. I feel exhausted as I get ready for bed, like I could sleep for a week. But before I go to sleep, I remember my aunt’s encouragement and actually manage to eke out a pathetic little prayer.

  “God, help me,” I whisper into the darkness. “I know that I need to talk to you, but I’m not sure what I should say. It’s been so long. I’m not even sure you’ll want to talk to me at all. Please help me out of this dark hole.”

  The next morning, I am surprised to wake up fairly early— early enough to go to church, although I tell myself that I don’t have to go, that no one will miss me or care whether I show or not. After all, I haven’t been there in weeks. Plus, as quiet as the house is, I’m pretty sure Mom will be sleeping in today. I am positive she has no plans to go to church. We don’t even talk about it anymore. It’s like that part of our lives, like so much else, is just over now.

  But then, just as I’m taking a swig of orange juice, I realize that I want to go to church. I really do want to go. I glance up at the kitchen clock and see that I can still make it if I hurry, so I hurry. I throw on the same outfit I wore to work last night and hop in my car and go.

  I walk into the service just as the worship music begins, and as I slip into one of the back rows, it feels so right. The music sounds so good, so familiar, and I realize that I feel more at home here than I have felt anywhere during these last few months. Then Father Thomas begins to speak, and the words of his sermon slice right through the thick of my life, cutting me right where it hurts—where it hurts so good—and there are tears running down my face.

  nineteen

  AS I’M DRIVING HOME FROM CHURCH PONDERING FATHER THOMAS’S words, my cell phone begins to chime. Since I’m not in traffic I decide to answer, but when I hear Mom’s slightly hysterical voice I pull over.

  “What is it?” I ask her with mild irritation. She’s turned into the drama queen of the family, a role that used to be designated to me.

  “It’s Louisa,” she sobs.

  “Tia Louisa?” I ask.

  “Yes. She … she’s dead, Maggie.”

  I feel everything around me start to shake as if I’m experiencing an earthquake, but then I realize it’s just me. “Mom?” I say loudly, certain that I’ve gotten this wrong somehow. “Did I hear you right? What did you just say?”

  “Louisa is dead. She got one of her migraines early this morning and—and it got worse and she passed out and Vito called 911 and they think she had an aneurism or a blood clot, but she died instantly.” She lets out a loud cry. �
��My only sister is dead!”

  “I’m almost home, Mom,” I tell her as I start driving again. My hands are shaking so hard that I’m not sure I can actually steer, and the tears blurring my eyes make it hard to see, but somehow I get there within minutes. I run into the house and find Mom still in her bathrobe and just sobbing. I hug her, and we hold on to each other for several minutes just crying hard.

  “I really loved Tia Louisa,” I say to Mom when we finally quit hugging and sit down. “I cannot believe she’s gone.” Then I remember her gift to me last night. I hold it up for Mom to see.

  “Louisa’s crucifix!” she shrieks as if I had stolen it. “Where did you get it?”

  “She gave it to me last night,” I explain. “For my birthday.”

  Mom’s eyes grow wide. “Your birthday, mi hija, oh, dear! I totally forgot.”

  “I know.”

  “And Louisa gave you this?” She reaches to touch the cross, almost as if it is holy. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I couldn’t believe it either, Mom, but she insisted.” Then I tell her the whole story, including what my aunt said about praying.

  My mom looks incredulous. “Louisa really said that?”

  “She did. And because of her, I did pray again. It was the first time in months, Mom. And then I even went to church today, all because of her.” Now I start crying again. “I can’t believe she’s really gone. I am going to miss her so much.”

  The extended family gathers at Vito and Louisa’s house in the afternoon. I guess it’s kind of like a wake. The women cook lots of food and cry. The men stay in the living room drinking and crying too. Everyone is talking about Louisa, remembering things, saying how she will be missed and what a fine woman she was. By evening, her sons have made it into town, and there is more food and more crying. Finally, the group begins breaking up, until Mom and I are the only ones left except for Louisa’s immediate family.

  Vito looks at the crucifix hanging around my neck. “Louisa told me about that,” he says. “That she gave it to you for your birthday last night. She seemed happy about doing that.” And then he starts crying again and I hug him.

  “Tia Louisa was amazing,” I say quietly. “I will never, never forget her, Tio Vito, not for as long as I live.” I stop hugging him and then tap my chest. “She is going to be with me in here—always.”

  He nods sadly, thanks me, and then turns away.

  Mom and I are silent as I drive us home. It’s like there are no more words to say—just sadness, and missing.

  Tia Louisa’s funeral is held at Saint Peter’s downtown on Thursday. I haven’t been to this church since my grandfather died almost two years ago, but I am once again astounded at the old-world beauty of the carvings and windows and artwork. I am also astounded at the nerve of my father to show his face at her funeral. And it’s no surprise that no one speaks to him. He is properly shunned. But I must admit to feeling just a little bit sorry for him as I see him slinking out a side door afterward. He looks like a beaten man to me, and I wonder whether his wonderful new life has really been as great as he expected it would be.

  After the service, there is a reception at the restaurant, which will be closed until next week. Tio Eduardo is handling all the restaurant details, as well as the reception today. He’s had the whole thing catered and made sure that all the restaurant staff was invited. And now it seems quite natural that they’re mixing with all of Louisa’s relatives and expressing their sympathy to poor Tio Vito, whose eyes are bloodshot from too many tears and, according to my mom, too much tequila.

  “I’m sorry,” Ned says when I finally run into him on my way to the ladies’ room. “For your loss, I mean.”

  I nod somberly. “Thanks.”

  “She was a great woman.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “And I’m sorry about us too,” he says quietly. “I know I hurt you, Maggie, and I never meant to—not really.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. And strangely enough, as I walk away, I think it actually is okay. Whether it’s the shock of losing my aunt or the fact that I know I am returning to my faith once again, I realize that I am really over him. I have absolutely no desire to be involved with him, none at all—well, other than as coworkers. And since I promised Tio Eduardo that I would continue working in the restaurant, I can see that it’s inevitable—and probably for the best too.

  “It’s what Tia Louisa would expect me to do,” I told my uncle earlier this week when he was trying to decide whether to reopen or to shut the place down for good.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sure she would want Casa del Sol to go on as well.”

  Both Elisa and Marc made it here for the funeral, and after the reception, the four of us drive home together in Mom’s car— almost like old times, except, of course, Dad is missing.

  “I can’t believe that Dad had the nerve to show up today,” says Marc bitterly. “He obviously has no respect for the dead.”

  I consider this, wondering what Tia Louisa would really think about my dad’s appearance at her funeral. I think back to the times when she and I talked about him in regard to my parents’ marriage breakup. She was surprisingly gracious. In fact, she even told me that I should listen to his side of the story too and also that I should never forget that he is still my father.

  As Mom and Marc, and now even Elisa, do a thorough job of Dad bashing, I am starting to recall the sermon that hit me so hard last Sunday, shortly before I learned of my aunt’s death. It was about forgiveness, and it actually sounded somewhat familiar. In fact, I think Father Thomas preached about this exact same thing last fall, when I pretty much ignored his words. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one. Maybe Father Thomas realizes we need to hear about this particular topic on a fairly regular basis. I’m sure that I do since I obviously didn’t get it then. Maybe I don’t even totally grasp it now.

  But as I hear Marc going on and on about Dad and how messed up he is and how he hopes Mom’s divorce lawyer really takes him to the cleaners later this month, I realize with a very distinct clarity that I need to forgive my dad. But even as this hits me, I have no idea how I can accomplish such a feat, and so I silently pray, asking God to help me.

  After we get home, I hang out with my family for a while, but it’s not long before they’re all doing their own thing. Marc is watching a basketball game, Elisa is doing something on the computer, and Mom is going over some paperwork for a house she thinks may have sold.

  Without telling anyone where I’m going, I slip out, get in my car, and start driving toward Dad’s place. This time, unlike the last time, I pull over and call him first. No way do I want to interrupt anything with Stephanie.

  “Yes, I am home, Maggie,” he says, sounding eager. “Do you want to stop by?”

  “Yes,” I say, hoping that I can do this—that I won’t chicken out. “See you in a few minutes.”

  And the next thing I know, I am there, walking toward the town house and wishing I’d thought to ask him to meet me someplace else. “Dear God, help me,” I whisper as I go up the stairs. But then I notice that his Explorer isn’t parked in his space, and I wonder if perhaps he’s the one who chickened out and left. But when I knock on the door, he opens it and gives me a sad little smile.

  “It’s been a while,” he says as he opens the door.

  I notice right away that he’s shaved his stupid goatee, but he appears to have several days of stubble on his face, and his hair has grown out to how it used to be, except that it looks uncombed and dirty. “Yeah, it has,” I say as I go inside.

  Not much seems to have changed in his town house—well, other than it’s a lot messier than before. Newspapers and dishes and clutter seem to be all over the place, and it smells pretty stale, kind of like gross laundry that’s been sitting too long. He clears off a spot for me to sit, and I just shake my head. “Can’t say much for your housekeeping, Dad.”

  He looks embarrassed. “Sorry.”

 
“Doesn’t Stephanie know how to clean?”

  “Oh, we broke up.”

  “Really?” I study him more closely now. My observations from the funeral seem to be spot-on. He does look like a beaten man. “What happened?”

  He looks unsure as to whether he wants to tell me.

  “Come on,” I urge him. “What happened?”

  So then he just opens up, pouring out the saddest story of how the boss found out that he and Stephanie were “involved” and how that was strictly against corporate policy.

  I just shake my head, but I guess I’m thinking he was asking for it.

  “He called Stephanie in to talk to him first,” Dad continues. “I didn’t even know about it. And she, well, she was really worried about losing her job. She’s got a little boy, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, yeah, she does. And she didn’t want to get fired, so she told the boss that I had sexually harassed her.”

  I feel my eyes growing wide. “No way!”

  He’s looking down at the floor now as if he’s interested in the pair of dirty socks partially hidden beneath a magazine, but he nods. “Yep, she did. By the time I heard the accusation, I was pretty much history.”

  “Didn’t you deny it?”

  “Of course. But it was her word against mine.”

  “But I saw her here, Dad. She was obviously here by her own free will. She didn’t look harassed to me.”

  “Well, I couldn’t exactly call you in as a witness, especially since you weren’t speaking to me at the time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I agreed to leave my job quietly with a very small severance package, but I can never get a job recommendation from there. Do you know how hard it is to find work without that?”

  “So you haven’t been working at all?”

  “Nope. I have been officially unemployed since shortly before Christmas. I’ve applied to every place I can think of, but it looks like I’m washed-up around here. I don’t think I could even get arrested in this town.” Then he leans forward, puts his head in his hands, and actually begins to cry—just quietly, but it cuts right through me just the same.