Flora

Of all the people who have come and gone, there is only one I can recall with perfect detail. Flora Mayhew. I first laid eyes on her junior year of high school, and I last saw her on the day of our senior graduation, and in all the years since then, I haven't forgotten any details about her. The scar above her left eyebrow, the golden-brown patch in her left, bright blue eye, her smile. To this day, years and years since I last saw her on that brilliantly sunny June afternoon, I can still conjure up a crystal-clear image of her as if she was standing right in front of me. I wish that I had been able to see her again. On our graduation day, her red hair was done up as regal as a queen's, her eyes had sparkled with all the possibilities the world was presenting her with that day, unfurling before her like the petals of a flower. And then she was gone, without a single word, as if she had never been there at all. I wish I had talked to her before that summer day. Maybe everything would have turned out different. Instead of her leaving alone from our school for the last time, we could have been leaving together. We could have spent time together, maybe married. She'd be here in this big empty house with me, as age slowly cripples me. But that's not the way that life works, and I suspect you know that already. Flora didn't leave graduation with me, she left by all by herself, hair flaming in the summer sun. We didn't spend time together after that day, we didn't get married, and she's not here with me, happily getting older in each other's company, because Flora Mayhew died in the wee hours of the next morning, while we were all getting drunk and celebrating our freedom. 

June twenty-first, 1993.

The sun was beating, hot and heavy, on the stifling black caps and robes of the seven-hundred odd graduating students of Saint Carlisle High. Our valedictorian, Amy Mathers, was standing at the podium, blonde hair perfectly straightened, superior air apparent even from the twelfth row. “Today is the day that we start the rest of our lives.” Flora was sitting two rows in front of me. Everyone else looked the same from behind, but her hair was unmistakable, as russet as fox fur. “We are the future, and the future is now.” Amy finished. Everyone clapped, half of them really only because they wanted to sleep with her. The principal began calling names. I'm not going to lie, I didn't care about any name other than mine, until they called out for, “Mayhew, Flora.” She walked up on to the stage, lightly, as if she wasn't affected by gravity like we were. Flora accepted her diploma and without a glance at the crowd, she walked back off and sat back down. I stared at the back of her head, wondering if she would come to the after party. Flora never came to parties, her parents were strict, and she was a straight-A student. “Stevens, Oliver.” I stood up and walked up to the stage. I shook hands with the principal, and accepted my diploma. I waved to my friends, and my family, and walked off the stage, finally free. After all the names were called, everyone mingled around, saying good-bye, promising to write from school, wherever that was. (Even then, we knew that was a farce. We didn't write. Not after Flora.) I hugged my parents, and took the obligatory set of photos, and then I was off, heading towards my car with my friends in tow.

This group included my sort-of girlfriend Marissa Edgewood. She was the all-American dream kind of girl, with long brown hair, sweet brown eyes, genuinely kind. I liked her plenty, but it turned me off that her dream was the white picket fence and two-and-a-quarter kids. She didn't want to go to college, to travel, nothing. She wanted to stay here, live here, die here. That frightened me. My desire to get out was all-consuming. It wasn't until I was at my car that I noticed Flora. She was alone, no family around, walking the bicycle that she had diligently rode all four years of high-school, rain or shine. She had taken off her gown, and she was wearing a plain white dress. She looked as pure and timeless, so full of potential as the day she was born. It was at this moment that I had the overwhelming urge to call out to her, invite her to come with us, to be as free as we were. "Ollie?" Marissa asked. "Are you okay?" I nodded, and cast one last look over my shoulder for Flora. But she was gone.

That was the last time I ever saw Flora. To be more accurate, that was the last time anyone ever saw her, alive. She was found deep in the woods surrounding Sparrow Park, sitting against a tree, several hours after she was reported missing by her parents. The policeman who found her thought she was asleep, at first. His first clue to how wrong he was were the deep slashes in her pale wrists, those that had spilled blood across the forest floor and seeped into the roots of the nearby trees. The second indicator was how her eyes, formerly so lively and bright, were wide open, blankly staring, clouded over like a rainy day. She left no note, no explanation. I was there when the ambulance carrying her body drove silently through the city, the promise of a funeral procession following in it's lightless wake. The autopsy determined that bleeding from the self-inflicted wounds on her forearms was the cause of her death. A cloud settled over our formerly-welcoming town. How could no one have seen this coming? Was anyone even watching? 

Our entire graduation class attended her funeral. Her parents, Margaret and Joseph Mayhew, sat silently in the front pew. Being devout Christians, it wasn't uncommon to see them sitting in the rather lovely church, although Margaret's eyes were never such a soft, sore red, and Joseph's hands never trembled like an alcoholic three days from the drink. The preacher spoke of how smart Flora was, how much she'd be missed, of how she was survived by her two devoted parents. There was no mention of how she died. He should have spoken about her tinkly laugh, how her hair captured sunlight, how amazing she was. But of course, he didn't. As I sat, four rows back from Margaret and Joseph, with Marissa crying on my shoulder, I wondered if the Mayhew's believed Flora would be waiting in Heaven with them, having committed suicide. I hope they were able to at least take comfort in the notion that their daughter was somewhere better. 

I am now forty three years old. I attended college the year after Flora's death, majored in business. I kept dating Marissa, and we got married three years after Flora. Our first daughter, Grace, was born six months later, her sister Olivia following two years later. Marissa and I moved out of our hometown after Grace was born. After having a daughter of our own, the fact that someone else's had died on the forest floor that we used to play on as children cast a curse upon the entire town. From what my mother tells me, Margaret and Joseph still live in the house they raised Flora in. Margaret has kept Flora's room the same as it was all those years ago, on her last day in 1993. She's as bogged down by her daughter's memory as I am, although she can never escape the fact that the child she carried in her womb for nine long months chose to forsake the life she was given. Do you think Margaret imagined what Flora's life would be like? Did she imagine her first steps, her first words, her wedding, her children? Do you think she ever imagined this outcome? 

I will never truly forget Flora Mayhew. As I age, as the world casts it's harsh hand upon me, I will never forget the last image of Flora, on graduation day, fiery hair shining in the sun, sky-blue eyes as beautiful as the vast horizon above her. Forgetting isn't an option, but wishing I could have changed anything won't bring Flora back. I have to worry about my own daughters now. Goodbye, Flora. Be free.