Duncan's Rose

by Safi, Suzannah

  “Son, don’t be sad,” the doctor said.

  Sad? Sorrow wasn’t the emotion choking him. He felt relief, and that distressed him; the last member of his family had left him alone. Not even Miranda wanted to stay with him. Instead of grief, he felt impatient to have everything done, to be alone with his emotions. He swiped at the moisture on his forehead.

  Mac heard the Doc’s voice as he opened the door. “We didn’t kill your parents, Mac. “Your uncle was wrong.” His voice was kind and unruffled.

  Mac swung his head toward the doctor. A rising wave of heat stung his eyes. “Oh?”

  “If you had heard it from me or from the people on the island, you wouldn’t have believed any of us. The book in your uncle’s hand is your mother’s diary. Just read it and you’ll understand. I’ve had it in my house all these years, in a safe box—I don’t know how he got it. His men must’ve stolen it while I was here.”

  Mac slumped into a chair, not wanting to hear more. “I want you to know one thing before you read it, Mac,” the doctor said. “Your mother and I did what we believed was best for you. I promised her to be tightlipped about…the things you will read in that diary. I’ll be in your office, waiting for you.” The door closed swiftly behind him.

  Mac stared at the closed door, bewildered by how the doctor knew his mother even had a diary. He reached for the diary; although his uncle’s fingers curled around the book, he was able to wrench it free.

  Mac stared at the pink book: his mother’s words. He took a deep breath and opened it.

  His mother had started writing in the diary early in her marriage. The memory of his parents stung him deeply. Mac opened the book and started reading…thirty years ago.

  His eyes widened with each word he read, and it felt as if everything was pacing around him at tremendous speed…

  June 15, 1970

  Dear Diary,

  Before today, you were as blank as my life. Today I met Dr. Elroy Bradford, a nice gentleman. I called him for Alfred, who hadn’t been feeling himself lately. Dr. Bradford and I talked for hours on the patio. I have to shamefully confess, dear diary, that the understanding and compassion he showed me were something I have missed with Alfred.

  I felt alive with this man.

  Mac flipped the pages, his heart racing and threatening to stop short, his eyes blurry from the rising heat in his veins.

  Dec. 03, 1970

  Dear Diary,

  Alfred’s health has become worse. He is so much into his project that he has lost touch with the world and me altogether. He will hug me briefly, place his head on my shoulder, and stay still for hours. I’ve asked many times what the reason for his moods was, but he won’t tell me. My relationship with Elroy has become solid; I visited him asking for his advice on how to deal with Alfred, or at least how to handle him. And then…it just happened. After a tear from me and a hug from him, we made the mistake that we have tried avoiding many times. I have found the love I’ve longed for and never got from Alfred. Being with Elroy is beyond explanation. I feel joy, happiness, and a reason to live for something so important.

  I want to leave Alfred, but my conscience won’t allow it.

  Jan. 01, 1971

  Dear Diary,

  I am pregnant.

  Oh dear, I am pregnant and I‘m filled with joy, despite the fact that it’s not Alfred’s; we both knew he couldn’t have children. The baby is Elroy’s; oh God, what will I do? I have to say something to Alfred. I must confess to him. Elroy is happy and actually planning for our child’s future.

  I don’t know what to do.

  With shaky hands, Mac snapped the book shut and growled, his voice rising from a strangled whisper to a harsh shriek. “No!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The early morning birds chirped outside her window as Miranda finished packing.

  I will not wait. I have to leave now.

  Determined to find Mac, she closed her handbag and picked it up. As she headed to the door, the sound of nearing footsteps reached her ears and she heard a door open with a ragged force.

  Sounds of arguing erupted from the office. She sidled against the wall and neared the half-open door. An object slammed against the wall, followed by Mac’s furious voice.

  “This diary is a lie!” Mac shouted. “How did you know about this?”

  “I wouldn’t call your mother a liar, Son.” Miranda heard the doctor’s voice loud and clear. Why was Mac fighting with the doctor? And what diary?

  Miranda didn’t like eavesdropping, but curiosity got the best of her, and she had to know.

  “Don’t touch me, and don’t call me son,” Mac said, his voice miserable. “You can’t be my father. How? She married my father. How could she cheat on him, how could…I can’t believe any of this!”

  “We didn’t consider it cheating,” the doctor was saying. “When she made it clear to your father that she would leave him, he almost lost his mind. And then your uncle stepped in and ruined our plans, mainly for the money.”

  “How did he ruin it?”

  “She came to see me that night and told me about her suspicions in regards to Ken; she felt that he was up to something. I told her to get you and we would leave the island. We were so close to getting away—but your uncle moved fast and burned the place down with your mother and his brother in it. I tried to save them with the villagers, but we couldn’t.”

  “Liar! I saw the villagers burn the house.”

  “Your uncle twisted the facts in your mind. He told you stories and you believed every word he said. You were ten years old, a child.”

  Miranda’s heart sank in her ribs. Her hand crept to her lips. Mac is the doctor’s son? There was no resemblance; Mac looked just like his mother, except his forehead; maybe he’d gotten his hair texture from the Doc. The uncle’s involvement in the burning of Mac’s house and killing his parents made her pause. Ken was capable of killing me, too. A cold shiver slid a along her spine as she remembered the way she had accused Mac and the fear he’d seen in her eyes. How he had flinched with pain and disbelief at her cruel accusations. Miranda shook her head; she was so deep in her thoughts she realized she must have missed part of their conversation.

  “She had me while she was married to him—what would that make her?” Mac asked. “I hate her. Both of you cheated on the poor man! He was my father, not you.”

  “Don’t hate her,” the doctor said, his voice softening as if he were begging. “Just read the diary and you’ll know how she suffered.”

  “She could have left him instead of cheating.”

  “She pitied him. And feared your uncle. Ken was insane and powerful. He could have easily found and killed us all. She feared for your life, mostly.”

  “Oh, really?” Mac’s laughter rang with sarcasm. “Now it’s all my fault?”

  “No, it’s not your fault. If it were only us, we might have risked trying to start a new life elsewhere. But we couldn’t risk your life; she wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You’ve treated my uncle for years, and he didn’t even flinch when he saw you. Why would I believe what you say, or my mother’s scribbles, for that matter?”

  “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of what your uncle would do to you.”

  “Yet you treated his illnesses all these years?”

  “I’m a doctor, and that’s my duty. Besides, it was my only chance to see you and make sure you were being well-treated.”

  “How noble of you,” Mac growled. “Why didn’t he get rid of you, then?”

  “No one would have believed me, and I would end up dead, anyway. He knew he had the upper hand, I was no threat to him, I cared for your safety, and that was enough for me to shut up and say nothing.”

  The doctor sighed heavily, then fell silent. “Read the diary,” he said.

  Miranda’s throat was dry. She decided to leave all the research materials with Mac. She couldn’t expose something that would hurt him, and with
that new information, there was no way now she would tell the world what happened. What should she write? The dysfunctional family of the un-dead Marcas Wardlaw?

  “Leave me!” Mac’s voice came out choked with rage.

  Silence stretched between them. “What about Ken’s funeral?”

  “I’ll arrange it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded toward the door. Miranda’s heart raced and she looked around for a place to hide. In order to get to her room, she would have to cross in front of the door. She started to walk quickly in the other direction, but stumbled as she tried to hide behind the corner of the office. Miranda closed her eyes, hoping Dr. Bradford wouldn’t see her.

  The doctor spotted her and reached his hand for her. “Are you okay?”

  Damn, too late.

  “Sorry, I really don’t do that often. I was looking for Mac when I heard you two arguing,” she whispered, aware of the lameness of her excuse.

  “I understand. For your book.”

  “No, no, no! That’s not it.”

  “Then what?” he asked, his voice matching her whisper as he helped her to stand.

  “I just wanted to know—call it curiosity.” Miranda shrugged, embarrassed by her action.

  The doctor rubbed his forehead with his hand, a frown twining his eyebrows.

  “Don’t be sad, he’ll come around,” Miranda said, trying to assure him.

  “Dunno about that, dear. He’s shaking with fury. I don’t blame him. And his uncle just passed away.”

  “I heard. I am so sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going home. The funeral will take place tomorrow.”

  Miranda watched as he walked down the stairs and out the door. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the bag in her hand. Then she set the bag down, opened it, and looked for the floppy disks she had backed up her story on. She knew what she had to do next.

  * * * *

  A knock on the door drew Mac’s attention from the garden view. His gloomy, mingled thoughts about the new discovery and the upcoming funeral—which would be held with no one but him—pressed on his mind.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he said as he heard the door open. Miranda’s head peeked through. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t arrange the car to take you yet. My uncle…”

  “I know…I heard.” She entered and closed the door behind her. Biting her lower lip, she kept her eyes averted from his. “Sorry, but I was coming to see you, and I heard…it…all.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t mean to. Sorry about your uncle.”

  “That’s okay. Thank you for understanding. I mean about the car.”

  Miranda held floppy disks in her hand; she walked to his desk and placed them there. “I am leaving these with the rest of my research materials. You can destroy them if you want.”

  That was her goodbye? The “I’m doing you a favor” type of goodbye? If she thought he would just stand there and let her destroy everything they had shared, then she was damned wrong.

  “Why?” Mac swallowed the dry lump in his throat, a headache building at his temples.

  “I no longer wish to publish it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to give it up. He’s dead now and I don’t care. Except for my mother’s diary, I don’t care what you publish.”

  “Thank you, but I have no interest anymore.” Miranda’s voice had a determined tone to it.

  “Miranda…” He paused. Fear and loathing for oneself were never a good mix. He couldn’t hold her here, and he couldn’t force her to feel what she didn’t. But he wondered how he was going to survive losing her.

  “Yes?” She turned to face him.

  His hand dived into his pocket and pulled out her necklace. As he looked at it, his heart tore with agony. “I got your necklace.”

  Her eyes widened, and she reached for the necklace, but he pulled it away.

  “I thought I’d lost it,” she breathed softly.

  “I would like to keep it.”

  “What? But…”

  “When I first gave it to you…” His heart pounded so fast, he was afraid it would stop mid-sentence, so he took a deep breath. “Two hundred years ago when I…Duncan, gave it to you…to Rose, I thought it was meant for us to stay together. I was wrong.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to comment but he pressed a finger against her parted lips, stopping her. “And when I found you and saw it, I thought we are among those people who were granted a second chance. But now...I think I was wrong again.” He paused. He looked at the necklace, which he held in one fist, as if he wished he could solve a puzzle, or find some answers to give him relief. Or cast a spell to make everything fine again.

  Mac tried to keep a cold grip on his nerves so he wouldn’t shake as he continued. “Maybe we’re among the ones who don’t deserve a second chance,” he said, his voice choked. “This necklace means a lot to me, but for you…it’s just…a necklace.” Mac refused to look in her direction, fearing she would see his unshed tears. He had been holding back those tears since he’d seen the look she gave him in the ruined house.

  “What makes you assume it’s not important to me?” Miranda’s lower lip trembled, her face flushed.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why, Miranda?”

  She shrugged and cleared her throat. “It’s mine, and I do believe that Rose is part of me. I will not leave without the necklace.”

  Maybe if he pressed on the necklace issue she would stay, Mac thought. Then maybe she would open up and confess she loved him, hated him, or anything that would clear the picture. Maybe he should be brave enough to stop beating around the bush and clear things up himself. It was time to lay it out.

  “The necklace needs repair.” Coward. Say it, he scolded himself.

  “Then I’ll stay until it’s fixed,” Miranda said, her eyes filled with determination. She turned to leave his office.

  “It may take weeks…I’m very busy.” Mac walked over and stood in front of her, his eyes locked with hers. He knew he would be putting her on the spot by bringing up the issue of the way the guards attacked her, and her suspicions that he’d been involved in that assault. But he needed to know, somehow, how she felt about it--and about him.

  “That’s fine, I’m not in a hurry,” Miranda said.

  “I thought you were.”

  “I would like to be at the funeral.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “After what you think I’ve done?”

  She stared at him; crimson color claimed her from the neck to her temples. Her rosy lips, full and plump, needed to be reclaimed, and he wanted to devour every inch of them.

  As much as he ached to beg her to forgive him for anything she thought he had done, he stood wordless. He also restrained his overwhelming urge to touch her. That tingling feeling that danced across his fingertips and crawled under his skin matched the vibrating fear in his thundering heart. The heat that rose to his eyeballs threatened to blow his head off. He longed to convince her with his lips, hands, and every muscle in his body that he loved her and he would never hurt her…ever.

  Mac winced at the dull pain in his chest, and at the thought of her enduring that attack, and…damn it, the whole thing was his fault, although he never realized they planned to hurt her. Still, he should have suspected something. In fact, he had suspected something, but hadn’t known what. He cursed under his breath, soundlessly.

  Just as he was on the verge of exploding from his inner turmoil, Miranda spoke up. “That…yes. I would like to talk about it after his funeral.”

  “Very well, I have something to talk about as well.”

  “Oh? What?” Miranda asked.

  “It will have to wait till after the funeral,” Mac replied.

  “Yes, but tell me at least what it concerns.”

 
; He ambled to the door, leaving her standing in the center of the room with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

  As he reached for the doorknob, he said softly, “I’ll tell you why you need to stay.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mac kneeled beside his parents’ graves as they lay in the shadow of what had once been their home. Their arched headstone read “Rest in peace, Aug. 06, 1981.” He sat on the fresh, wet, green grass next to his mother’s grave with her diary in his hand.

  “Mother, I only have your book to explain why you did what you did. I love you and I wish you were here. Now I understand, Mother.” His eyes stung with unshed tears, with anger kept for many days in his heart. He hadn’t visited his parents for a long time, avoiding any memories of his pain. But today, relief poured like a balm over his heart as he spoke to his mother. Somehow he knew she was there listening to every word he said and smiling at him with a heart filled with love.

  He opened the book and read from a page near the end.

  July 30, 1981

  Dear Dairy,

  You’re the only one I can talk to about what’s in my heart. Ken visited the island today. He is scaring me. They are fighting all the time for money. Ken wants his share from their inheritance, but Alfred won’t let him have it because he knows what he would do with it. He’d waste some on gambling and women, but mostly, Ken wants to control this island. He wants to buy it and play God. Ken found out about my relationship with Elroy and my son, Marcas, and he threw it in Alfred’s face. God bless Alfred’s heart, he forgave me for my mistake. Alfred has decided to settle for what he has: me and my son, a son he couldn’t have in a million years and a wife he loves.

  I can’t forget the anger, the rage in Alfred’s eyes when I confessed to him. I can’t blame him, but I also can’t blame myself for what happened. But losing me would be more of a challenge for him than I’d thought. His love is so great that, after the storm of his anger, he calmed down and forgave me. Sometimes now, I can see remnants of that rage buried underneath his calm features. Despite that, he has promised he will never harm Elroy or us.