Waxflowers

The black tea swirled in her cup, murky and foamy from the milk residue that the previous cappuccino left behind. These days, trivialities like dishes didn’t mean much. Allison Robeline drank coffee and tea to cope with the hands life dealt her in the same way that many utilize their alcohol. It was more comfortable to feel the warmth spread through the cup to your hands than to try to replace that warmth to your heart when it’s straining, she thought, and was never much for numbness, either. Thus, she found her solace in cafes and tea bags.

And preferably, far, far away from flower shops.

Everything that happens is from now on, she thinks to herself and presses her eyes shut tight.

The corpses of irises and small white waxflowers littered the floor and the bottom of the wastebasket and her eyes and heart, and soon the teacup was set down with a sharp ting and that was all there was.

Those

fucking

flowers.

They had been in love since the seventh grade. Not in love, maybe, but Allison felt the beginnings of it before she knew what it was. She felt something stir in her four feet and six inches when she looked at his scruffy brown hair, freckled nose, soft pink lips. Theirs was unique, a love story unrealistic and unbelievable. Perhaps the Fates had let this one slip, so naturally they had to see to it that something was done to uphold their reputations. Through high school and college and age twenty-three and five months, sixteen days, and four days of her life, their love was one of the truest friendship and deepest soul-lust, never ceasing and constantly finding a way. Through everything, there was a way.

Then- “Dear, there’s something wrong. I feel it, I can’t tell you why or what, but something’s wrong.”

“That’s not good. Something you ate?”

“I haven’t eaten in two days. I’ve completely lost my appetite.” He paused to allow her to absorb this information, and to overcome the wave of guilt that would inevitably arise as she realized that she had barely looked up from the stack of manuscripts she had been poring over for the last week.

“You? Lost your appetite? I think we need to rush you to the E.R.,” she half-joked. There was no amusement in his eyes.

“I’m serious,” he replied. “Something’s not right.”

Something wasn’t right. Naegleria fowleri wasn’t right, to be specific.

The parasite hitchhiked into Fleurs de John at some point on a carnation or possibly a lily without notice or a warning, without a chance for one more café au lait at nine or without one more episode or conversation. It didn’t care that it would ruin at least three lives, or that it would leave at least one completely, irrevocably empty.

John, with the dreams and head for math and flowers, who found as much beauty in numbers as he did in the blossoms, who was taken in and examined and prodded just before they realized that there was nothing to be done. John, who loved Allison with everything he was and could be and John, who slipped out of consciousness holding her hand.

Allison, who begged and begged and convinced the balding men in the white coats that he would be okay, just give him a few days. And then a few weeks. And then a few more years. Fifteen, to be exact.

The hospital bore a connotation of hope and peace for Allison that was as rare as her love. Every day, after three or four hours of work in the office, she would drive to PJ’s and order a small cappuccino, occasionally with hazelnut, and one cup of plain black coffee. The goods in tow, she climbed up one, two, three, four, five, six, seven flights of stairs and landed in room 716. Where her life began and ended.

She always set the black coffee down on the windowsill and settled into the cozy leather chair that the hospital staff moved in especially for her, on the third or fourth year.

“Hello, love,” she would begin. Her words had strengthened with the years, the strained cry of loss condensing into a concrete vibration across her heartstrings. “How are we doing today?”

The little monitor would display a frequency jumping across, and in the top right corner, an emotional indicator. Every day, it displayed golden joy. And then whatever else the conversation led to. John could feel, it told her. He was still there inside that precious golden-brown head. The skin pale and withered with the years, but still there. The lips dry and motionless, but grazed every single day with her own. There they existed: the impossible, improbable, hopeless love.

The black coffee would sit untouched until hours and hours later, when the words had all escaped her mouth and risen to the ceiling and a fragile silence filled the room; until the moment the staff came in for their daily dismissal. She didn’t cry anymore when she was escorted out, but it still hurt every single night.

But, you see, he can feel the stars out his window now, she would think to herself, always pulling the curtains open a bit prior to her departure.

Then, she would retire home to the empty house. Get a dog, she kept telling herself. So did all the others. But we won’t discuss the others, or what they thought or said or recommended for Allison and her life. She came home to an empty house on a certain Thursday, and soaked the tea bag in the water until color bloomed to life and some things felt a little bit better.

And here she sits, staring into the cup and reaching for the thick stack of envelopes that lay on the side table.

A hospital bill, a Toyota advertisement, a plea for donations, and a letter from a certain Henry Ellington. A handwritten rarity, addressed to her. She regards the letter and hesitantly pries open the flap, ripping jagged fragments of paper away as she goes. Inside lays a cream-colored piece of paper, seemingly ripped from a journal.

Dear Mrs. Robeline,

Before I say anything, I just wanted to tell you that I completely understand if you hate me. I recently moved from the other side of the city and I’ve heard all the stories, and I understand what you’ve gone through. I can’t tell you why, but I feel like a piece of shit for buying this store. I don’t even know you but I feel like a piece of shit. If I had enough money, I would keep looking and leave this alone, but this store is my only feasible option. So, this is an apology of sorts. And I suppose it’s a warning, of sorts. And also a thank-you note. I don’t know and you probably think I’m an idiot but this is all I wanted to say, and I might be overstepping my boundaries but I just thought it was fair to let you know. Also, come in whenever you want. Everything is free for you. I hope this will be as painless as possible, and I wish you my sincerest condolences.

Sincerely,

Henry Ellington

The Daily Bloom

Allison lets out a long, slow sigh and folds the letter. Then she reaches for her cell phone and opens her messages to send a text to Adrienne Williams, her financial advisor.

So, I heard that the shop sold. I’m sure this is for the best.

Adrienne, a longtime family friend, had been stating the obvious to Allison for years. It was the financially responsible decision to sell the shop, but the trust fund Allison inherited from her grandfather had sustained it for years. However, the time and money were expiring, and the for sale sign had serenaded the building for far too long. Allison tried to avoid driving past the shop whenever possible, so this letter bore the weight of what she hadn’t yet learned. Her family was probably rejoicing.

Oddly enough, the news didn’t sting too badly. Allison had ample time, fifteen years to be exact, to make peace with the decision. She knew, realistically, that she couldn’t afford to keep the store forever, and she had already kept it for much longer than expected. She didn’t know how she was going to break the news to John, though.

Allison decides to wait until tomorrow, and soon retires to bed where she sleeps a dreamless sleep.

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The next day as Allison is leaving work, her head is still bubbling over with uncertainty. The last thing in the world she wants to do is cause her husband any sort of pain, but she thought it unfair not to tell him. After all, when he woke up, it would be one less piece of the puzzle to sort out. And he’d probably be able to tell from her tone that something was off.

She pulls into the PJ’s parking lot and thinks, and walks inside and thinks some more against a backdrop of clinking espresso cups and smells of cinnamon swirling in the air. It’s October now, and the leaves have just begun to change color and dance away to the ground. She is so busy thinking that she doesn’t notice the man who stands at the counter, who turns his head to gaze at her for a few moments, and then proceeds to tell the barista that the next customer’s drink was on him.

“One small dark-roast, black, and one cappuccino, please,” she tells the barista. He’s a relatively new employee, and his cheery demeanor and absence of a sympathetic smile toward her indicate that he doesn’t know.

“Okay, ma’am, the man in the front of you covered your order. Working here restores my faith in humanity sometimes, you know?”

“Wow, that’s really kind of him. Thank you, yeah, it does,” she answers. A bemused smile crosses her features as she turns to look for her silent benefactor.

He was just exiting and catches Allison’s eye right before the door closes behind him. The man proceeds to bend down and unwrap the leash of a small white lab from around the metal bars around the patio area, scooping the tiny animal in his arms. As he smiles down at the creature, Allison feels a warmth spread through her chest. His eyes were blue and kind, his skin was tan and she could see the veins in his arms stretch to support the animal. He just looked comfortable, wearing a powder blue t-shirt and dark jeans, radiating an inexplicable safety.

STOP IT, Allison thinks, the gate to whatever she had just felt slamming shut. She felt dirty and unfaithful and all-around awful, looking at another man and feeling this, just as she was heading to spend time with her comatose husband. No, she told herself. Don’t look outside and don’t find the car he gets into and don’t feel what you’re feeling when you look at this stranger. Unfortunately, she does.

She grabs her two coffees, feeling the weight of thirty pieces of silver in her heart but trying to hide her internal horror, and praying that she would not let on what she just felt to John.

“Have a great day,” the clueless barista wishes her. “And hey, that was cute.”

“What was cute?” Allison asks, with a forcefulness that surprised even her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that was really personal. I meant that guy and you. It was cute, it seems like he was trying to get your attention. I’m sorry,” the flustered barista says.

Allison smiles weakly and shakes her head, grabbing her coffees. As she walks out of the cafe she thinks that maybe she was too hard on herself. It’s been 15 years, Alli, she thinks. Give yourself a break. It’s okay to think these thoughts.

And so her conscience went, seesawing back and forth and back and forth, until she arrives to the hospital.

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“Dear,” she begins, unsteadily, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

John’s monitor flashed purple in the top right corner, indicating concern.

“We finally got an offer on the shop. One we couldn’t pass up. I just can’t afford to keep paying for the store, my love. I wish I could do something but I just can’t.”

The monitor did not show grief, pain, or sadness. Or anything she expected.

The hue shifted from purple to pink to a soft white.

She wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but it was something she often interpreted as peace. Or tranquility.

“I wish I knew what you were feeling, my love. Really feeling,” she spoke for perhaps the ten millionth time.

The color stays a soft pearl, and Allison begins rambling.

“Are you okay with this? That surprises me a lot. I mean I know when you wake up we will find another place or maybe buy it back but I mean it means so much and I can’t bear it but it has to happen and maybe you’re happy that I’m letting it go but I’m never letting you go and I love you and I saw another man today, okay? He looked kind and he paid for my coffee and I’m mad at myself for thinking these thoughts but I’m not moving on, okay? I’m never moving on!”

Allison stops, finally, in horror of everything that just spilled from her lips.

Her eyes widen as the monitor flashes from color to color to color. He doesn’t know what to think, it says, and neither does she.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Waxflowers

Short Story (fiction)

Adult

Gabrielle Dufrene

The goal of this project is to make you feel; everybody needs to feel.

Waxflowers is a reflection on new and old love, what we sacrifice, and how we cope with loss. It handles the painful significance of coincidences and gives color to the reality of losing a loved one.

Bio: I bloomed into a world of jazz and cafe aut lait and rhythm, dancing through the city of New Orleans and finding myself in poetry.

My style: poetic and philosophical, contemplative

Education: Graduated in top 5% at the Woodlands High School, entering college at Loyola Chicago

Experience: Member of Crown Anthologies Poetry and Prose Volume 1, Reporter for Woodlands Villager

Hobbies: poetry, listening and dancing to jazz, coffee connoisseur

Age: 18

Hometown: New Orleans, LA