Idle Bloom

by Jewel E. Ann

  “It’s where we’ve been for the past two days. Works for me.” I smirk, sucking the juice off her finger.

  “What time will you arrive in Boston on Friday?”

  I “accidentally” drop a dollop of Greek yogurt on her nipple. She rolls her eyes as I clean it up with just my tongue. “Five Boston time.”

  “So you’ll make it for rehearsal dinner?”

  “I should unless I get delayed.”

  She nods and stares at me with lines of tension along her face, as if she’s trying to figure something out.

  “Are you going to see Caroline today?”

  Her question blindsides me. “No.”

  I feel her judgmental eyes on me, so I focus on the toast I’m buttering to perfection.

  “You can. I’ll be fine here by myself for a while.”

  “No need.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  I shrug wishing she’d drop it. “It’s been a little while.”

  “So she’s doing better?”

  “She’s in a mental hospital with a family history of depression and doped up on a million meds. It’s only going to get so good, Vivian.” I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m sorry …” I detest the unnerving feeling of anger that overpowers my resistance.

  She rests her comforting hand on mine. I open my eyes and look at her. I hate lying to her. I hate Caroline for putting me in this position. Why can’t she just get better and let me go or stop fucking failing at her pathetic suicide attempts. “I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving.”

  “Why?”

  What the hell?

  “What do you mean why? I just told you I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving and your reaction is why?”

  Vivian’s eyes widen as my volume escalates.

  “You should be shocked or angry, but you’re not. You knew didn’t you?”

  “Oli—”

  “Don’t Oli me, Vivian. You knew, didn’t you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Who told you? Did Caroline’s parents call you? Did my mom find out? She told you, didn’t she?”

  She continues to shake her head.

  “Tell me!” I swat the tray of food off the bed sending the plates and glasses crashing against the wall and floor. Vivian cups her hand over her mouth as tears … fucking pity tears fall from her eyes.

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me to come home?”

  “You weren’t ready.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I stand, slip on my pants, and pace the floor, rubbing my throbbing temples. “Ready for what?” My voice breaks.

  She kneels on the bed, pulling the sheet up to her chest. “Ready to deal with your past. Oli … you kept the pillow that was used to …” She can’t say it. Of course she can’t. It’s too morbid.

  I shake my head. It feels like the whole fucking world is caving in on me. What did I do? I’m the victim. She killed Melanie and left me with nothing. Why does everyone think I’m the one with the problem? I hate her … she’s turning everyone I love against me, making me seem like the crazy one.

  “She killed her, not me.”

  “Oliver—”

  “No, she killed her. I was working …” I shake my head. “I wasn’t there.”

  “Oliver—”

  “She did it. She took everything from me. God … I hate her so much!”

  “Oliver, stop!”

  I hold out my hand to keep her from touching me. “No. Why is this happening? Why is everyone blaming me?”

  “Oliver, please …” I hear Vivian’s sobs, but I don’t feel her. I don’t feel anything.

  “What does that mean?” I squeeze my eyes closed. “Tell me! What does that mean?” I open my eyes and Vivian is reaching for her phone. No fucking way. She’s not calling anyone, not until she tells me. I grab her phone and throw it into the wall shattering her screen. She’s shaking like a leaf. What’s her problem? No one’s making her feel crazy. No one’s telling her to deal with her past.

  “Oli—”

  I grab her shoulders and shake her. “My wife suffocated my baby girl with a fucking pillow! That’s my past, I can’t change it! So would you please Tell. Me. What the fuck do you mean, Deal. With. My. Past? How in God’s name do I do that?”

  She cries.

  I see it, but I refuse to hear it.

  She pleads for me to let go.

  I don’t.

  And then she wrecks me with two simple words.

  “Forgive her.”

  I release her and stumble backwards. It feels like she shot me in the heart.

  “It’s not h-her f-fault. She was s-sick.” She sobs.

  I stare at familiar eyes, but I don’t really see her. A voice … I hear her voice, but I feel numb, completely numb.

  *

  Vivian

  I think I broke him. Oliver’s experienced the unimaginable in his life, but I’ve never thought of him as broken—until now. His eyes are on me, but his gaze goes through me. I want to crawl to him and hold him in my arms, but I’m scared. He’s shown me a side I’ve never seen before, and I’m not sure he recognizes me or even himself right now.

  I move with caution to the edge of the bed and ease onto the floor, keeping the sheet wrapped around me. He’s several feet away, slumped against the wall. “You said it yourself, Oli—less than point one percent. It was a tragedy. That’s all it was … an awful tragedy.”

  His whole body is stone-cold still and void of all emotion. I wish I could have a tiny glimpse into his mind right now. I wipe my eyes and wait. I don’t want this wrenching moment to be our first Christmas together, but time is running out. Oliver is getting ready to leave Portland with the same hatred and resentment he’s had for years. The crippling emotions that have held him hostage since that fatal night are threatening to steal the rest of his life.

  Hating someone does that to you. It’s a virus that infiltrates your life and takes hold of everyone that matters to you, then it rips them away one at a time until you’re all alone, empty, and dead inside. Hatred breeds resentment and murders happiness. It’s opportunistic and will suck the life out of you until you’re nothing but an empty shell.

  That is … if you let it.

  I can’t watch Oliver fall victim to it any longer. My love for him is too strong. I will sacrifice us to save him.

  “Oliver?”

  He finally blinks and I see him recognize me as his eyes start to focus, but his expression remains lifeless.

  “Go home.”

  His words shatter me inside, but I refuse to let him see it. I swallow back every single emotion that’s threatening on the surface as I stand and get dressed. He’ll come back to you. Jackie’s words strum through my head, but they don’t give me comfort. Looking at him now, I’m not sure he’ll ever come back to any of us.

  I gather my stuff and zip my suitcase. Oliver doesn’t even flinch. I set my suitcase and purse by the door and grab my broken phone. Then I hunch down in front of him.

  He closes his eyes. “I’ll wait for you at home.” I lean in and press my lips to his forehead. “But only for forever.” I press my palm to his cheek and move my lips to his ear. “No take backs, Oli.”

  I find a cheap hotel near the airport to stay the night. Luckily my phone still works even though the screen is cracked into jagged lines and chipped pieces. It’s Christmas so I imagine both my family and Oliver’s are enjoying their own festivities and time with loved ones. As much as my heart needs comforting and my mind needs reassurance, I don’t call anyone. One day isn’t going to make a difference except to ruin someone else’s day. Mine and Oliver’s is enough.

  I’m not giving up on him. I could never do that. He told me to leave and I’m giving him space. My love is his—it’s unconditional, patient, and waiting for his return. Sometimes the only way to hold on to someone is to let them go. I regret nothing. Melanie’s tragic death cannot be erased, it cannot be forgotten, and it cann
ot be ignored. He laid her tiny body to rest and gave her brief, but no less important, life necessary closure. Now he needs to do the same for himself. Oliver needs to lay his anger and hatred to rest. Forgiveness is letting go and letting go is painful. It’s not something we do for others; it’s something we do for ourselves.

  *

  I put on my clown face. Alex is getting married in three days, and I will not let her see how crushed I am on the inside. Jackie and Hugh are the only ones who know what happened on Christmas in Portland with Oliver. As his parents, they needed to know that he’s hit bottom and that I can no longer help him. Jackie boarded a plane yesterday for Portland … I’d hoped she would.

  “You didn’t do anything lame like book pedicures and dinner at some family restaurant by the harbor, did you, Flower?” Alex squints at my reflection in the mirror as I curl her hair.

  “Yes, that’s why the invitations said masquerade ball attire.” I roll my eyes.

  “Will there be a naked guy? There better be, it was my only stipulation.”

  “Will there be a naked girl at Sean’s bachelor party tonight?”

  Alex laughs. “I can’t believe you’re even asking that. Kai’s in charge … I’m sure there will be more than one naked girl.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?” I pin up some of her spiraled curls as she puts on her mascara.

  “Hell no. They’re strippers, not prostitutes.”

  I raise a brow and smirk.

  “Well … okay, you never know what Kai will do, but I trust Sean.”

  “You should. He adores you.”

  “Wow, that’s quite the endorsement considering how much shit you two give each other.”

  I shrug. “It’s all in good fun. Now let’s get your dress and mask on.”

  “Eek! I can’t believe you got everyone masks. This is going to be so much fun!”

  We put on our party dresses. Alex’s is light pink lace and satin, and her laser cut butterfly mask is white. The rest of us girls will have black masks. My dress is a gold strapless chiffon with a short skirt and my hair is pulled up exposing the top of my tattoo. But who cares? I’ll never look at myself the same way again: It will always be through Oliver’s eyes—beautiful.

  “Oh my God … look at you!” The eight other girls dressed in cocktail dresses and black masks on the party bus greet the bride-to-be with enthusiastic squeals.

  I take a deep breath. I can do this. Maybe tonight is what I need to forget about Oliver, even if only for a few hours.

  “Thank you all for reading your invitations!” I look around at eight girls with naked lips, then I hold up a bag filled with tubes of lipstick and pass it around. “Everyone gets a different color and don’t try to find something subtle and elegant. They’re all obnoxiously bright and wild.”

  More squeals, clapping, and bouncing ensue as we add the finishing touch to our hot, sexy, here-comes-trouble look for the night. I can do this … I can forget about Oliver.

  *

  I can’t do this. I can’t stop thinking about Oliver. Even after three beers and four shots, all I see is him. The party bus takes us to a club in the theater district and the bare ass shaking six inches from my face is Oliver’s. So I do the only thing I can … I spank it.

  “Now who’s on the naughty list?” I giggle.

  His jiggly glutes come to a firm halt. Then he turns and stares at me with wide-eyed shock. I adjust my mask thinking that it’s causing my blurred vision, but it’s not. I was wrong. The guy … Mr. Shaky Buns—not Oliver.

  “Miss?” A guy in a black suit taps my shoulder.

  I look up.

  “I have to ask you to refrain from that type of interaction with the performers. If you’d like to pay for something more hands-on I could arrange for a private room.”

  I look at Mr. Shaky Buns. He grins and winks at me.

  “I’m … uh … good. Sorry.”

  “Oh my God!” Alex collapses on my lap with her hands around my neck. “You spanked him!” She closes her glazed-over eyes and laughs.

  The night continues on in similar fashion. My mind is altered by alcohol and Oliver … not a safe combination for the unfortunate citizens of Boston that encounter our rowdy group. We leave our stamp—lip stamp—everywhere we go: doors, mirrors, tables, booths, DJ’s, strippers, and unsuspecting bystanders.

  It’s three a.m. by the time the bus drops off the last bridesmaid before taking me and Alex home.

  “Best. Bachelorette. Party. Ever!” Alex leans against me as the bus approaches our place. Her eyes fight to stay open as her tongue gets in the way, slurring her words.

  I kiss her forehead, leaving my purple stamp next to the eight other colorful lip prints on her face, then I take a picture of her. “I’m glad you had fun. Now … time to sleep.”

  We both stumble off the bus in a giggly fit and call it a night or morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Forgiveness

  Oliver

  Fucking hangovers! I should be used to the pounding headaches and the taste of monkeys shitting in my mouth by now.

  Prior to my move to Portland three years ago, the last time I was this intoxicated was my freshman year of college. Since the move back to Cambridge, I can’t even count how many times I’ve felt like I do right now.

  “Welcome back.”

  I try to peel open my eyes. It feels like sandpaper against my pupils. “Blinds.”

  “Nope, they stay open, dear.”

  “Mom?” I sit up and rub my temples.

  She hands me a glass of water. “I should be upset that you’ve been binge drinking for the past two days, but had you been in your right and stubborn mind you might not have told me where you were staying.”

  “You called?” I take a sip of water. Jeez, my mouth tastes like shit.

  “Thirty-two times. The thirty-first time you finally answered and told me your room number. The thirty-second time you told me the name of the hotel in exchange for me, and I quote ‘fucking off’.”

  I cringe.

  “Of course there’s more than one Hilton here in Portland, so after several misses and weird looks when knocking on the right door at the wrong hotel, I finally found you. Lucky for me I knocked on your door a whole five minutes before you passed out. Otherwise I would have been calling the authorities with reason to believe my son was in danger of injuring himself.”

  “Why are you here?” I finally make eye contact.

  “Because I’m afraid you’re going to hurt yourself.” She folds her hands in her lap.

  “God, I’m not suicidal.” I shake my head.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She stands and walks over to the bed and brushes her fingers through my hair. “You’re going to lose another person in your life that you dearly love. And it’s going to wreck you beyond repair if you don’t figure this out soon. I’ve given you three years to work through this and you haven’t. I wanted you back home with us but not because you were running away, Oliver. It should have been because you were moving on.”

  “I can’t … I don’t know what to do.” Even though she’s my mom, I hate that these stupid tears sting my eyes and she’s here to witness me like this.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “She killed my baby.” I suck in a shaky breath but can’t hold it, not anymore. A sob cuts through me and she pulls me into her like she did when I was a little boy. That’s what I feel like, a lost child.

  “She killed her baby too because she was sick, Oliver, so sick. Caroline couldn’t see Melanie. Her mind wouldn’t let her see anything but the pain. She was putting an end to the pain.”

  “Oh … God! It hurts so bad.” I sob with excruciating pain seizing every part of my body.

  “I know it does, sweetie, I know …” She rocks me in her arms and so many thoughts and emotions that I’ve never allowed myself to think and feel crash into my heart like a wrecking ball.

  *

  I met Caroline Sue Welch at t
he campus bookstore. She was working behind the counter and I was immediately drawn to her curly blond hair and rich hazel eyes. I was three people back in line and she kept peeking up at me while trying to help other customers. She was innocent and flirty. I was young and horny. When it was my turn in line, she gave me her address and phone number, in case I had any questions about The Story of My Life by Clarence Darrow, the book I was purchasing. A week later I called her up and asked her to dinner. Over margaritas and guacamole in a loud Mexican restaurant, I found out she had never read The Story of My Life by Clarence Darrow.

  I have a million wonderful memories of Caroline. Everyone loved her, including me. But she’s gone and I don’t know where she went or what took her from me. The woman before me is a stranger—a stranger in my Caroline’s body. I wonder when I lost her or if she tried to tell me. Did I not see the signs? Did I not hear her fading voice?

  “What do you want, Oliver?” Her hazel eyes are the only part of her body that reminds me of that day in the book store. She’s twenty-seven but her malnourished body looks thirty years older.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

  I fight past the three years of emotion that have been stuck in my chest, climbing up my throat, and threatening to steal my breath.

  “I didn’t know … I didn’t see it. The doctors said it was common, but I should have seen it. A man should know when his wife is slipping away. I worked too many hours. I wasn’t there enough.” I swipe away a stray tear.

  She looks away, a million miles out the window with an expressionless face. I’m not sure she even hears me. Maybe she never will. I start to stand. This feels like a waste of time. My Caroline’s gone.

  I walk to the door and it hits me. This is the last time I will ever see Caroline. I turn. She’s still looking out the window.

  “Caroline?”

  She turns.

  I feel my lower lip start to tremble as I blink back the tears. “I forgive you.”

  Those familiar hazel eyes fill with tears, but I walk away before they fall.

  *

  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to convey the gratitude I have for my mom. Only now, as we wait to board our plane to Boston, does the impact of her love over the past three years really resonate with me. She’s a fixer, as a mom and a psychiatrist, yet she stepped aside and let me fall apart over the last three years. Maybe she knew that’s what I needed, maybe she didn’t. Either way, it had to have taken an incredible amount of strength and love to watch in silence.