The Crying Rose: The Trilogy of the Rose (Volume 1)

by B. A. Beers

  Eyeing the rest of the room, Mark stated matter-of-factly, “Next to the desk is a small recliner.” His eyes continued to journey around the room resting on another cedar chest. “A cedar chest, that makes four cedar chests so far,” he spoke into the recorder.

  Mark turned around in the chair, and found he was gazing at a wall of books. Rising out of the chair, he walked towards the bookcases. “The wall opposite the window is covered from ceiling to floor with shelves.” He walked parallel to the shelves. “These shelves house reading material arranged by types: hardback books, paperback books, and large binders that are all labeled neatly with what appears to be magazine names and issue dates.”

  Scanning the titles of the hardback books, searching for a recurring theme, Mark found a wide range of topics – adventure, classic, mystery, poetry, romance, self-help and travel. “She appears to be an avid reader, yet I feel like I have walked into a bookstore. All these books are separated by theme then organized by author’s name. I must give her credit for her talent. She keeps a very well organized life.”

  Mark switched off the recorder. The more he probed for clues, the more his frustration grew from his failure to locate answers. His gut told him that things were not as they appeared. He was again struck by how very sterile the whole scene was, with not a hint of anything personal. He focused on the books trying, with all his might, to see beyond the jackets, and hoped that somehow they would reveal some deep down secret, but could find none.

  Mark continued down the shelves into the paperback section, and noted it was similar to the hardback side. All here was very neat and organized. Even the large binders revealed nothing but pure order. I am missing something here, he thought, something extremely important, something besides the obvious. He scanned the room slowly, taking in everything. The answer eluded him, and his frustration grew. “Calm down, Mark. Be patient,” he heard himself utter.

  Mark accidentally dropped his recorder, and as he reached for it, he noticed that, in the pattern of the carpet, was another clue. There, shouting back at him, were the footprints that marked his path made moments earlier. The carpet looked brand new, but breathing in deeply, he could not detect the odor of new carpet. All he could smell was the faint odor of lemons that hung in the air from recent cleaning. Examining the carpet, he could see no worn areas.

  Focusing on the tracks on the carpet reminded him of his early morning walks on the beach, when he had lived in California, where footprints were left in the wave-cleaned sand. It had always given him the feeling of being the only one in the world, walking where no one had walked before, like the astronaut ‘s experiences on the Moon. Stay on task, he thought, gather the facts. Rescanning the room, he noticed that it, like everything else he had seen so far, was spotless, which is a pretty difficult feat when one lives in a desert climate where dust hangs in the air waiting for a clean surface on which to land. That meant someone had recently dusted the articles in this room.

  Mark started the recorder. “Standing here in the library, workroom, den, office, or whatever, I can literally retrace my footsteps. I half expect to see a robotic vacuum cleaner, with warning bells and flashing lights, come charging out of the closet to erase my tracks,” he chuckled. “Reminder to self to stop watching the sci-fi channel.”

  “Erase?” he frowned as he pondered this word. “Eraser!” A smile slowly formed on his face. “Another clue, Mrs. Carter. I do believe I have uncovered another clue.”

  Mark glanced back at the recliner near the window. A brightly- colored, knitted afghan was neatly folded over one of the recliner’s arms. He scanned to see if there was a book near the chair, but found none. Again, he noted that nothing was out of place. “Mrs. Carter, what do your friends and family think?” he wondered. “Is your real name Mrs. Clean?” He smiled as he walked out of the room.

  Leaving the recorder on as he continued down the hall, Mark stepped next into what he had dubbed earlier as ‘the craft room’. The painting in progress caught his eye as it did before. “The painting on the easel portrays a single rustic barn-style house that is complete,” he spoke out loud to capture his thoughts on the recorder. “However, the background of the forest is still being developed. She has a gift. This unfinished work emanates a feeling all its own – peace, serenity, yet isolation. I guess the setting to be twilight for one window pane appears to have a light burning somewhere in the house.”

  Mark moved to the canvasses stacked against the wall. “It appears that there are at least a couple dozen canvasses in the stack here.” Placing the recorder on the easel he bent over, using his legs as support, and began to study each canvass. “The first two canvasses are new, waiting for their chance to come alive under her brush stroke. The rest appear to be completed works,” he spoke as each painting came into his view. “The pictures are predominantly dark, with lots of black and shadows. The setting for all seems to be the forest around dusk. Like the barn-style house, there is a theme of oneness--one duck swimming away on a pond, one eagle soaring toward the horizon, one white-tailed deer fleeing over a fallen log and one cotton-tail rabbit scrambling down into its hole.” He leaned back to see the complete painting of the rabbit, wondering just what did they all appeared to be fleeing.

  A bit of green color, on the bottom right-hand side, caught his eye. Mark lifted the painting a little to see better. “I have located her signature crest--a small ‘SA’ encased in a large ‘C’.” He sensed a feeling of familiarity, believing he had seen this signature before. Pausing, he wondered where he had seen it, but he was unable to recall.

  Placing the painting of the rabbit back into the stack, he scanned the top of the rest of the paintings. Spotting a bit of pink, Mark voiced, “The last canvass in the stack stands out against the other dark ones for it has pink paint showing.” He pulled the rest of the canvasses back to reveal it. “I wonder why this one is reversed from the rest, facing the wall.” Carefully, he lifted it out and away from the stack and turned it around. He was caught unprepared for what he saw and his heart skipped a couple of beats.

  “The painting’s background is in shades of pink, giving the impression of satin, begging the observer to dispute the smooth appearance as anything but satin,” he verbalized softly. “On this tapestry of pink satin is an ivory ribbon cradling a single, long stem, fire ‘n’ ice rose in full bloom. It appears that great care has been taken in the beautiful details of each petal. Like snowflakes, each petal has its own design, each equally beautiful in its own right.” He felt he could reach out and feel the velvet-like texture of each petal. “This painting invokes such a strong essence that I feel that I can actually smell the rose’s fragrance.”

  He did not consider himself to be an art critic, but he knew that he had just been graced with a glimpse of pure mastery of one’s craft. “I have read somewhere that the color of a rose stands for different meanings: red for love; yellow for joy; black for death. The white meant purity, innocence, and almost virgin-like qualities with the reddish tips showing signs of deep-hidden passion. Well, I believe, she has captured those feelings and more with the strokes from her brush.”

  Removing the recorder from the easel, he placed the painting over the one in progress. Stepping back several feet to get a better view, he felt he could reach out and gently pluck the rose from the painting. “Thorns?” he cried. “My God, the stem of the rose is covered in menacing-looking, claw-like thorns.”

  He had not seen them earlier as he had been so consumed with the bloom itself that he had overlooked the danger that lurked beneath. A warning flag? He would have to tread lightly and make sure he avoided all the hazards if he was going to succeed in capturing this rose.

  Mark stopped, needing to clear his mind. What’s wrong here? Why am I feeling this way? Why am I so captivated by this painting and this woman? Have she and I met prior to this encounter? I feel driven to reach this woman, and I sense that we have some common bond. His mind was racing, his heart was pounding and everything within him was
drawing him toward this woman. He had not been this affected by another soul since his former wife. He knew that before he could answers any of these questions, he would have to reach her first. Returning his focus to the painting, he had an overwhelming feeling that he was witnessing Sami’s soul.

  This painting didn’t follow the dark theme of the others; its uniqueness made it even more important. A smile broadened his handsome face. “You have left me a warning, haven’t you, Sami?” He took a step closer to the painting, “But, you also have left me a map to find you.”

  ***

  EIGHT

  A sudden vibrating sensation caused Mark to jump. It felt as if a snake had struck him. My pager, he realized; it must be Mrs. Mills. Reaching for it, he saw that he was correct; the number of the clinic appeared on the pager’s display. He replaced the pager, and with one last glimpse at the painting, he moved to answer the phone. Instead of going to the front room directly to use that phone, he stepped back to the doorway of the bedroom. Sami hadn’t moved. “I will find you, Mrs. Carter,” he whispered, as he turned and headed toward the front of the house.

  Picking up the handset, Mark dialed the clinic.

  “Is that you Dr. Stevens?” Jan’s anxious voice greeted him. The sound of her voice didn’t sound promising.

  Mark knew, from the tone of her voice, that he was not going to like what he was about to hear. Bracing himself, he decided to get right to the point. “Mrs. Mills, I can tell by your tone that there is a problem.”

  “I could never hide anything from you,” Jan quirked back. “I have good news and bad news,” she began rapidly. Mark concentrated on her words. “I have been on the phone constantly since I last spoke to you,” she sighed heavily. “I have spoken to each of the centers that are our regular contacts plus every place in the entire book. Dr. Stevens, there is no bed in town,” her voice cracked with frustration. “Christmas and the millennium have definitely been a boom to the centers. They are not only full, but they are bursting at the seams.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I am sorry, Dr. Stevens, that I was unable to work my magic.”

  Mark unclenched his fist that he had subconsciously been forming since he had heard her tone. Looking at his fingers as the blood returned, he forced himself to relax. “Don’t take it so personal.” He tried to keep his voice controlled, not wanting Mrs. Mills to know that he was inwardly shaken. “I know you well enough to believe you gave it your all. Now, you said you also had good news.” He deliberately changed the direction of the conversation.

  “Yes!” came the excited response, sounding to Mark like the weight of the world had suddenly been taken off her shoulders. “Dr. Peterson’s house sitter called during my search. She was able to contact the hotel where he is currently staying. Dr. Peterson was not at the hotel, but she left a message for him to contact us as soon as he returned,” Jan replied a bit more cheerful.

  Mark’s hope rose, thinking finally it was the beginning that he needed in order to reach Sami. “Great news,” he blurted out, “do you know when he was due back?”

  “No,” Jan responded, “but, I won’t leave my desk until he calls.”

  Mark smiled. “I knew I could count on you. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Hearing the response that Mark heard often from her, he directed the conversation back to their immediate situation. “Okay, now back to the present problem….”

  “That’s my second bit of good news,” Jan interrupted. “I took the liberty of calling Grandma Jo.”

  “And?” Mark prompted. His thought turned to the person that the clinic fondly called their ‘Queen of Volunteers.’

  “She is at your disposal, if you need her. She is at home right now baking cookies, as usual, but she is willing to drop everything to help you, Dr. Stevens,” Jan said smiling.

  “What exactly did you tell her?” he sounded more harsh than he intended.

  “Not much, only that you were in a situation that might require her help,” she replied, rather taken back by his abruptness. “Did I do wrong?”

  “No, of course not.” Mark replied, trying to reassure her. “I am just concerned about this present situation.”

  “I understand, Dr. Stevens,” she acknowledged, thinking this was par for the course for Dr. Stevens. He always placed his patients first.

  Glancing up at the ceiling of Sami’s living room and evaluating Grandma Jo’s offer to help, Mark took a deep breath. “OK, Mrs. Mills, call her back and give her this address. Tell her that I will give her details once she arrives. Do you still have this address?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark smiled knowing that Jan was prepared. “Then, ask Dr. Myers if he can cover my appointments, if necessary, until I can fully appraise this situation.”

  “Can do,” she responded.

  “Lastly, I have a personal request to ask you.” He paused, waiting for a reply.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you still have the key to my house?”

  “I believe I do.” Jan opened the top drawer of her desk as she answered. “Why?”

  “I need you to stop by my place on your way home from work and feed Ollie,” Mark stated simply. His thoughts turned to his Springer Spaniel and frowned. He knew he would have to make it up to Ollie when he finally arrived home.

  “Will do,” Jan laughingly responded. “Where do you keep his food?” She knew how much Mark loved this dog. Ollie was his only family since his wife, Pat, had died two years ago. He even kept a framed picture of Ollie on his desk.

  “It’s in the laundry room, but don’t worry Ollie will show you where.” Mark’s tone was a bit softer when he thought about his beloved dog.

  “Do you want me to walk him also?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. He has the run of the house and access to the back yard through the doggy door,” Mark replied.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. It appears I will have to answer this phone from now on. Call me here after you have talked to Grandma Jo and Dr. Myers,” he directed. “Also, forward Dr. Peterson’s call here once it comes through.”

  “I’ll call you back soon,” she acknowledged and hung up.

  ***

  NINE

  Mark replaced the phone, and turned toward the back of the house. He had an almost overwhelming feeling to check on his patient. As he passed the craft room though, he paused to look at the still -displayed painting of the rose. He felt himself nod as if in response to some unasked, unheard question. What was his subconscious trying to tell him?

  “Does my image of Pat earlier have any relevance to this case?” he asked out loud. “What is Mrs. Carter trying to communicate through these paintings? Does she feel that she must protect herself from something that may hurt her, or is she running from it?” His mounting concern subconsciously caused a frown to mar his face.

  Mark moved to Sami’s bedroom door. She hadn’t moved. He walked around to the opposite side of the bed, and again knelt to get a better view of her still exposed face, half expecting her to open her eyes. “Sami?” he whispered. No response. He hoped and prayed that Dr. Peterson would be able to help him reach her.

  Grandma Jo. Mark’s thoughts turned hopefully to his arriving help. The frown on his face was softened by the image of this ‘Queen of the Volunteers’. She was definitely a perk to the job. He recalled his first day at the clinic. He was still rearranging his office, placing personal items here and there, when through the open doorway, this bundle of energy entered his life. In the first ten minutes, he had her whole history.

  Her relationship with the clinic started some twenty-five years ago, when her only son spent four years under treatment for depression with Dr. Peterson. She had spent so much time at the clinic during those years that, after her husband’s death nine years ago, she had volunteered her time to keep her days filled. Mark still recalled vividly her expression and response when he off-handedly inquired about her son’s progress since
the treatment program.

  “I know in my heart that he is at peace.” Grandma Jo’s face radiated pure love. “He was killed in a motorcycle collision in 1979. He has the best Therapist now in heaven.” Mark remembered feeling sorry that he had brought up those memories, but she had been quick to ease this discomfort. “Don’t worry,” she had stated, “I will be with them in the afterlife.”

  She had volunteered to assist him get settled into his new office. It was her influence in the decorating of his office that gave it a homey touch, for he would not have thought of the details. He smiled as he remembered how she scoured the clinic for knickknacks to complete the look she wanted. Mark knew even then not to argue with her. Besides, he liked the way she had arranged and decorated his office. Picturing his office in his mind, he saw his desk, the bookcases, and the layout of the furniture. Grandma Jo had captured the professional decorum, yet added a touch of home.