A White Rose

by Bekah Ferguson

  Though she was urged to spend the night, Dakota decided to go home and return again in the morning; greatly pleased to know she didn't have to spend Christmas day alone after all. It would be her first Christmas without her mother and the void left behind a vague uncertainty.

  A sense of displacement.

  Chapter 36

  Three days later, Dakota went to the hair salon and had her hair dyed a shade of amber to match her roots.

  She didn't have the courage to watch the progress in the mirror though, and waited until it was all said and done, her hair dried and curled, before taking a look. After two hours of flipping through fashion magazines, the hairstylist instructed her to close her eyes as she wheeled her chair around slowly; and when she was positioned just so, she was told to open her eyes.

  A young girl stared back from the mirror before her; green eyes wide.

  Fourteen-year-old Rose Reilly.

  The only thing missing was the well-concealed spray of freckles. Dakota blinked twice, swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to smile. Weakness seeped into her arms and legs.

  “It looks great,” she said in a tight voice, averting her gaze from the mirror. “Thank you.” She stood up on shaky legs and walked to the front counter with the stylist. She made her payment, pulled on her coat and went outside into the blistery cold.

  Dakota sat in her SUV a full twenty minutes before starting the engine. It was a shock to look in that salon mirror; the change being far more dramatic than she'd imagined. That little girl—Rose Reilly—had been dead and buried for fifteen years now.

  It was like seeing a ghost.

  “Well,” she said, sharp voice cutting into the silence of the vehicle's interior, “this is who I am.” She took a deep breath and pulled down the flap above the windshield, forcing herself to look into the mirror. “I am Rose Reilly.”

  She was done with hiding. Done with the charade of trying to be someone she wasn't. All these years of intentional phoniness and superficiality had exhausted her through and through. Ryan Hill may have taken her innocence and broken her heart but he could not be blamed for the years that followed. It was she who had slept with some thirty men—strangers. She and not anyone else. What had always seemed like mere adult fun—a good ol' time—was the very thing that had destroyed her mother. And now it was the very thing that stood between Rose and her one true love—Jason Sinclair. He had everything to give—his whole body, heart and soul. And she? She was used goods. What did she have to offer him? The long trail of men behind her could not be dotted out like mere freckles. They were out there—forever in the public—knowing her intimately. Why had this never bothered her before? Why did it seem so violating now?

  She drove home then and washed the concealer from her face, allowing the naked freckles to breathe.

  For ten long minutes, she just stood there, staring at her reflection. She reached up to wrap her fingers around the cool metal of chakra amulet and held it absently. The chain pulled against the back of her neck and she let go.

  She couldn't take it off.

  It was her only anchor in a world that tottered precariously beneath her feet.

  ***

  Mid-January, Jason called out of the blue, asking if she wanted to go cross-country skiing with him and a group of friends. She agreed eagerly, overjoyed to hear from him—that he actually wanted to spend time with her after all that had commenced.

  He made no mention of her profession of love in December but treated her like an old friend. The awkwardness she'd feared would be there on his part was not. It was an immense relief. At first sight, he seemed greatly startled by her change in appearance—shocked even—and had stared unabashedly for several seconds before grinning broadly his approval.

  “So, this is the woman you've been hiding?” he'd said some time later, a twinkle in his eye, when they'd a brief moment alone together. “You look gorgeous.”

  At her request, he'd introduced her to his friends as “Rose.” By now, Jaelynn was calling her Rose too, as was Josie Clark. Though she hadn't bothered to inform any other friends or business contacts of her name change, she'd endeavored to inform all new clientèle and acquaintances that her name was Rose.

  There was no going back now.

  The mask, the veneer, that was Dakota, had been firmly discarded alongside the boxed, ash-blond hair.

  ***

  Rose continued to meet with Josie biweekly over the winter months that followed. On Valentine's, she went to a movie with Jaelynn, and Easter weekend, she had turkey dinner with the Beaumont family for the first time; something she'd always found an excuse to avoid in the past. Jason continued to spend time with her on a regular basis—keeping up with his spontaneous nature for fun—but never alone. If not with a whole group of friends, then with Jaelynn and sometimes even Bonnie.

  Though he'd never said as much, she'd come to learn instinctively that he was protecting himself. He was a man after all and like any, with the potential to give in to her advances if she'd persisted. Clearly, he wasn't willing to risk that. She had no intention of seducing him now, but how could he know that for sure? Up until now, she'd never given him any reason to trust her. It would take time to build back that trust. Nevertheless, if all she ever had was his friendship, it would have to suffice; it was better by far than saying good-bye. Though if he should ever marry, she would have to cut her losses and move on. That was the one thing she wouldn't be able to bear.

  In April, she opened her book safe and decisively emptied its contents, throwing the rolling papers and tobacco in the garbage and flushing the weed down the toilet. She moved her collection of liqueurs into an out of the way cupboard. Without a sexual conquest, she'd lost the desire to drink herself numb; seeing various bottles of alcohol regularly only served to remind her of one man after another. She simply didn't want to remember them anymore.

  Her mother's trailer sold in May. It was a warm spring day with wide blue skies—the grove of young pines standing spiky and darkly green beyond the brown and cream-striped trailer. The miniature picket fence warbled where the weight of snow had damaged it over the winter, and the patio table on the Astroturf porch seemed forlorn without any sweating bottles of beer. The deal closed, Rose gave one final look at the trailer before driving away for the last time.

  Never again would she drive up to that trailer to find Mona Reilly leaning back in a chair; cigarette between her lips; pin-straight hair hanging down over her shoulders; current male companion at her side. Never again those garish lips crinkling in the corners, smiling a greeting… Never again a slight wave and “Hey, Rose, how ya bin, Kid?”

  With one final, wistful glance at the empty trailer, she put her foot to the gas and drove away. “Good-bye, Mom,” she'd whispered, feeling the first real sense of budding peace and acceptance since her mother's death eight months prior.

  ***

  As every spring before, there was so much work involved in preparing the greenhouses and fastidiously tending to all the new ornamental plants, ground cover, shrubs, herbs, and flowers, that idle time was incomprehensible.

  Rose was glad to be keeping busy, however. It helped to lessen the amount of time spent alone in her boring white house. Occasionally she entertained Jason, Jaelynn and some of the new friends she'd acquired through them, but she much preferred to go to Jason's place. At his place there were acres of forestland to be explored; at her place, a boxed backyard with a solitary crabapple tree. Some day soon, maybe even this year, she intended to sell her house and move to the country. She'd squandered her inheritance on the mortgage—the ring—but with the sale of the house, she hoped to redeem that act somehow. Though Mona's engagement ring was long gone now, some of the retrieved money could be used to buy her a respectable granite headstone. Her grave was currently marked by a flat plaque in the ground.

  Despite these future plans, Rose was content to pour her time and concentration into her business; it was her passion, after all. There was little time to think
about clubbing during the growing season, but when she did, she was surprised to find she wasn't missing it. Sure, she missed having sex, but there was something much more satisfying about the recreational time she was spending with her new friends instead. They were having genuine, life-giving fun together instead of just using each other as disposable springboards.

  By June, she and Jason were going for coffee together on a regular basis—the only circumstance in which they spent time alone. She felt they were close now, as close as good friends could be—and no longer disdained his beliefs and morals. He knew all the gory details of her past now, including Ryan Hill, and she knew all about Lyndsay.

  Jason's continued care and consideration for her as a person brought her to tears from time to time—to realize men could value her for more than outward appearance alone. In this sense, old age was no longer frightening or repellent; she could age and wrinkle and gain weight and still remain lovable, so long as she sought out friendships from other equally authentic people.

  She'd originally viewed Jason as uptight and “missing out” as a virgin; had considered Christianity to be austere and riddled with unreasonable rules. Yet of all the men she'd known, he was the most full of life. He was strong, intelligent, robust… he knew how to laugh and be spontaneous… he loved nature and animals and art and there were no limits to his explorations of the great outdoors. No, she'd been entirely wrong in her initial assessment of him. He wasn't hung-up or stoic in disposition—the healthy sexuality she sensed in him was almost palpable. His treatment and perception of women, his inner peace and self-respect, all stemmed directly from his sexual purity. How many men did she know who were crass, crude and cynical? Of course they believed women were the love of their life—attractive women, that is—but perhaps many of them were much like herself: unwilling or unable to love for fear of being hurt.

  It had been hard to tell Jason about her mother's HIV, knowing she herself had likely escaped untold numbers of STI's—maybe even AIDS itself—in spite of what seemed to be careful responsibility. All it would've taken was one broken or slipped condom, one lie, one oversight… But even if she had made it through the coming years by the skin of her teeth, lonesome old age (or as Mona had put it, “miserable, rotten spinsterhood”) would have perpetually cast a long, leaden shadow over her heart—a foreboding sense of dread.

  It was as though her mother's suicide had knocked the beer goggles from her face.

  What would it be like to hold a man she loved—to want to wake up next to him in the morning? She was beginning to grasp the spiritual side of her sexuality and it was like seeing things in 3D for the first time. Here she'd slept with more than two dozen men but had no grasp of true sexual intimacy.

  And more than anything, she wanted to be like Clarice some day: a beautiful old woman surrounded by a large, loving family. Perhaps she'd always subconsciously desired this. She thought again of what Clarice had said at Christmastime: “You can only live one life, and every single decision you make will guide the course it takes.”

  Though her love for Jason continued to grow in strength and maturity as time passed, he made no indication that he felt anything more towards her than friendship.

  Once, casually, mid-June, he pulled her aside briefly, saying, “I wanted you to know I haven't forgotten what you told me in December… at the Salvation Army. It meant a lot to me—your honesty… ” But that was it; nothing more. It was kind of him to acknowledge her that way but painful all the same—for he did not say, “I love you, too,” and she knew he never would.

  That is, not unless he truly meant it.

  Chapter 37

  July

  After a busy Friday working in the greenhouses, Rose was exhausted and decided to call it quits come four-thirty. It was a good exhaustion though—brought about by the kind of exercise out in the beating sunshine that leaves you feeling ruddy and exhilarated and full of life.

  In the back room of the flower shop, she removed her coveralls and straightened her jean shorts and avocado-green tank top. She pulled the elastic from her hair, ran a brush through the windblown tangles, and donned a straw hat. She unfastened the buckles of her work boots and slipped on a pair of beaded sandals over her bare feet. Then, after retrieving a water bottle from the cupboard, she breezed out the back door and made her way across the lawn toward the white arbor that led into her garden.

  Entering the garden, she sat down at the bistro table and twisted the cap off her drink. Water trickled from the lion head fountain spouts and a breeze moved through the plumy evergreens overlooking the garden. On impulse, she went back to the shop and retrieved a pair of shears. Having returned, she carefully cut off a stem of fringed pink blooms from a five-foot hollyhock growing against the fence, and brought it back to the table with her. Leaning back, she ran her thumb over the tissue-like petals of the flowers and examined it carefully, lost in thought.

  The swish of footfalls through the grass of the backyard drew her attention and she glanced up in time to see Jason duck under the arbor and step inside the enclosed garden.

  He grinned a greeting and slid onto the wrought-iron chair across from her. Passing her a small bag with “Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory” printed on the front, he leaned back with a wink. With a bright smile in return, she set down the hollyhock stem and opened the bag, pulling out a wrapped wedge of maple fudge.

  “Oh, gosh, Jay!” She put a hand to her heart. “My favorite. There goes supper—and my diet.” She laughed. “Thank you. You're a sweetie pie.” She cupped her straw hat in the palm of her hand, set it on the table next to the shears and ran a hand through her hair. Tossing the tresses over her shoulder, she leaned back happily and smiled at the man she loved.

  “Your hair looks so vibrant,” he said, “d'you know that? All gold and orange in the sunlight. It really suits you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off and rolled her eyes. “And I suppose the freckles add character?”

  He laughed. “They do. In a good way!”

  She crooked a smile. “So… what brings you here today?”

  “Picking up Jaelynn at five. She suckered me into an evening of horseback riding.”

  She stifled a laugh. Suckered? Right. Jason loved anything to do with athletics, animals and the outdoors; she was surprised he didn't own a horse himself.

  “But,” he was saying, glancing at his watch, “I've got twenty minutes to kill and Jaelynn said you were out here in the garden all by your lonesome—so-o-o, here I am.” And there was that affable look he always wore. That easy-going expression, so charming and safe.

  She took a sip of spring water and offered him some. He took it. It was a hot summer day, cotton-ball clouds puffy in the sky between wide expanses of blue. Jason was wearing faded boot-cut jeans, a T-shirt and a red bandanna; slight curls of blond hair fringing out behind his ears and at the nape of his neck where the bandanna was knotted. For a moment, she thought of her former male friends and the social settings they frequented with their impeccable wardrobes—all the crisp French-cuffs and spiffy black sketchers. Jason would be out of place in every single one of them—even in his clean-cut Sunday attire. He was as rustic in his apparel as his hand-hewn log house; unafraid to be himself.

  After another sip of water, she picked up the pink-blossomed stem again and resumed her examination of the orbicular leaves between each flower.

  Since Christmas, a faith in Jesus had been budding within her; gradually—with measure and careful deliberation. She wanted to know him and was attending church on occasion—sometimes at Clarice's, other times with Jason. Easter weekend, Clarice had presented her with a white leather Bible, saying, “Rose, you have no idea how long ago I bought this. I've been waiting, year after year after year, for the time to come when you'd be willing to receive it.” With interest and intrigue, she'd been reading the Bible since then with great interest and a sense of intrigue. One verse in particular had caught her eye from the start:

  For the messa
ge of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.

  She glanced at Jason. He was drumming his fingertips along the curve of the table, right arm draped over the edge of his seat back. She sought his gaze and held it, searching his face.

  “You've got that far-away look in your eyes,” he said. “What's up?”

  A wane smile. “I was thinking about biology,”—she shrugged—“the origins of life.” A pause. “I want to believe that Jesus is Creator God—but I keep coming back to the Big Bang. I've always believed life evolved gradually and I just can't reject science to embrace religion. Do you know what I mean?” She sighed. “It just goes against my intellectual integrity… It really is a road block for me.”

  Jason crossed an ankle over his knee, as casual as ever. “I guess the question you have to ask yourself,” he said lightly, “is where did that first cell come from? Louis Pasteur disproved spontaneous generation more than a hundred years ago, proving that organic life from non-life is scientifically impossible—that life only comes from life.” He held her gaze thoughtfully but said nothing more.

  “Go on… ”

  “Well… look at asepsis in surgery, for example—Germs don't just appear out of nowhere.” He chuckled. “Remember when doctors used to perform autopsies and then delivered babies without washing their hands in between, wondering why women were dying in droves?” He paused to swat a mosquito on his forearm and raised an eyebrow at her. “Or hey, how about mosquitoes? They'll never breed in a chlorinated swimming pool. Now a swamp, on the other hand… ”

  She nodded. “Mm-hm. I get what you're saying. It's a good question—Where'd that first cell come from.”