Remembering Hope Findlay

Chapter 4 - Who did that?

My sleep-filled eyes opened to the sound of pages on a book turning. I rolled over, pulling the sheet up above my head. I was now facing the plain grey wall at the back of the room. Through the short window I could see a sad looking garden filled with... ugh, what's the name for those flowers again... they were my mother's favourite.

"You coming out to help me honey? I'm planting some new flowers in the garden." My mother asked while I had my face dug deep into a magazine. I was only young, in this flashback - about the time when I couldn't read, but I loved to look at all the pretty pictures of the women in dresses. I flipped to the next page of the Woman's Day; a page filled with more pictures of the best dressed on the Red Carpet. 

Mum cleared her throat. I instantly looked up - whenever she did this she meant that the answer to the question she just asked was a 'yes.' I dropped the magazine and jogged up to my room. It was a pale blue with a single bay window covered with white curtains. Mum had already made my bed like she usually did early in the morning while I was seated in our white leather lounge watching Spongebob Squarepants. Occasionally laughing at Patrick the starfish being so... Patrick. 

I opened my shiny cupboard doors carefully and found an old yellow shirt that I wore when I helped Dad fish and then found some green shorts that had been my Mum's when she was my size. I tore down the birch wood stairs to find Mum waiting for me. She wore her old high-waisted jeans and a faded blue t-shirt that had numerous fake badges stiched into it. Probably fashion from the seventies or something. I took the wide-brimmed hat she had been holding out for me and we made our way outside. Mum looked beautiful, as usual. I think that she must have been a model or something when she was younger - before she became a mum. She was a bit chubby now, but still pretty.

When we reached the back door and stepped out a wave of heat hit me - a great difference between the cool tempurature in the house - twenty-three degrees Celsius - to be exact. Then reaching a sweaty thirty-four degrees. Sweat broke out on my petite nose. Mum handed me some purpley flowered gloves and I gently slipped my clean hand in the toasty glove.

The lawn was a forest green colour and all the same length. A water feature stood in the middle of the grass next to the outdoor seating area - covered by a gigantic umbrella. I ran into the shade from in the sun and sighed as the tempurature eased to thirty degrees Celsius. I looked back and sure enough Mummy was beckoning to me with her hand to return to her. I walked over with my head down - reluctant to be leaving the cool shade.

Mum was now standing over at the garden bed which held flowers from hot pinks to blacks and even to cross colours like gold and brass. There were Bluebells, Violets and Forget-me-not's. Some daisies were sprinkled through the garden beds like snowflakes in winter.

I kneeled next to Mum over adjascent to the blood red poppies in the garden. From behind her Mum extracted a tray of seedlings, about three centimetres tall. They were a lime green colour and full of life. 

I reached out my hand to touch one of therir lushious leaves, but Mummy pulled the tray away. 

"No baby, don't touch them. You might break their new growth and then we'll have to give them extra TLC - tender loving care."

I retracted my hand from its outstretched position. Mum gently placed the tray on the ground as if it was an extremely fragile, antique vase. I moved in closer to it. 

"Hope, we're going to put these flowers here. So if you could dig the hole and I'll place them in that would be fantastic." 

"Okay Mummy."

"Good girl. Off you go." She said with a kind smile.

"But Mum... what's the name of these flowers?"

"Sweetie, these are called roses, but these ones are special... they're white roses."

"I thought roses were red and pink..."

"These are special though. The white roses are my favourites - so be careful."

"I will Mummy. My favourite flowers are those little red ones."

"The poppies?"

"I think that's what they're called." I replied signalling to the patch of the red flowers in the back corner. 

I turned my attention back to the white roses as Mum and I developed a rhythm of dig, lift, place, fill. Dig, lift, place, fill. 

"Roses." I whispered to myself. "They are roses."

I rolled onto my back again, still hearing the occasional turning of paper. I opened my heavy eyelids and looked to my left - the window with blood red roses and a single white rose sprouting underneath the others. Sort of like the underdogs at school... how do I remember that? The underdogs at school are more interesting than the same popular person always blending in with the others.

I gasped. I could remember things!

I sat up in bed as fast as a racehorse. Looking to my right I could see the mysterious noise of paper turning - it was the same tall male nurse as before. His 6"3 sturcture was now laboured as he was sitting in the only chair in my room. It was only plastic, but it looked very comfortable. He was quite satisfied there with his book and iPod blasting music in his ears. Eventually he noticed me sitting up and staring at him. He looked back at me and walked out of the room with his book and iPod still in his ears.

I waited half an hour until someone finally came. It was my normal nurse. She came over to my bed immediately as she walked in the door - seeing as I was sitting up.

"Tell me everything." She said quickly.

I looked at her confused.

"Tell me what you remember." She explained frantically.

"I...I remember somethings..."

She pulled a face as though she wanted me to expand on that.

"Well, I remember my mum-"

The nurse looked a bit happier then, but as I continued her face saddened.

"-'s favourite flower - the rose, white to be exact."

"And...?"

"And I remember that at school there are underdogs... also known as the regular people and towering over them are the popular people, but the popular people are all the same and the 'underdogs' are even more beautiful and interesting than the popular people. If that makes sense?"

"Yes.. yes it does." She said taking notes on her notepad. With that she was out of the room and outside the windows I could see her walking over to the reception desk. Where, yet again, the people in black, or should I say Special Agents, were standing there - ready to recieve the nurse's notes.                   

 I felt so tired now though, not just any tired though: emotionally tired from all that remembering.

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