Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Twenty

My stomach churned, palms sweated, lungs ached. Harry's lips against my neck, hands on my hips, chest pressed to my back.

"You'll be fine."

"I know."

"No, you don't," Harry chuckled.

"I know."

I stared at the yellow house on Second Street, the one with the cut lawn, the one with the heavy front door, the one with the trees, the flowers, the river. I could remember being happy whenever I was a young girl, running around the yard with sticky popsicle on my chin, tumbling over on my bike, kissing my brother's cheeks, singing any song that happened to burst into my mind, executing grasshoppers beneath soft soled shoes. Yet, as I stared at the house, a profound feeling of loneliness fell over my heart. I had grown up there, but I had not been loved the way I deserved.

"I can go in with you," Harry said, "or I can wait out here. You can take as long as you'd like."

Harry kissed the back of my neck once more, let his hot breath fan over my baby hairs, made sure my coat was zipped, then pushed me forward gently. Apprehensively, my feet carried me all the way into the house. It was dark, cold, empty. My fingers grazed the old wooden banister that had splintered me, my feet dragged through the shaggy carpet my mother cleaned twice monthly, my eyes fell upon the walls I had scribbled on.

"What are you doing?"

The voice came from behind me. I did not have to turn around to know that my mother was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase, eyes dark, back straight.

"I've only come to collect some of my belongings."

Facing my mother, she saw my bruised cheek. She did not gasp, nor comfort me. She waited at the bottom of the stairs, unusually underdressed for it being noon. A silk robe hugged her petite figure and her stiff hair was peculiarly soft and thrown into a clip on the back of her head. Not a drop of makeup touched her face, not an ounce of lotion moisturized her skin.

"I want you to come sit with me for a moment. I'd like to talk before you leave."

Hesitating, I gripped the railing next to me. As if sensing my apprehension, my mother gently whispered that my father was not home.

I followed her figure, gostlike all dressed in white and with flowing robes, all the way to the kitchen. I sat beside her at the kitchen table and watched the snow behind her head as she held her chin in her hands. I could tell that she had been sitting there before I had arrived. Crumpled tissues and puddles of tears sat before her. An empty bowl of what used to be oats sat beside her. There was a glass of white wine, half finished, too.

"I want to let you know a couple things," my mother whispered, "and then you'll be free of me forever, if that's what you like."

My fingers were numb.

"I married young. I was sixteen. Your father was twenty-one. I got pregnant with your brother on our honeymoon. I was unhappy. I wasn't ready to become a mother so young. It was hard, for a long time. I was so busy worrying that I forgot to enjoy motherhood. By the time you were born, I wanted to run a tight ship. For your entire life," my mother stared at the empty table before me with fat tears dribbling down her chin, with her tongue against her lips, "I have only been concerned with what's in my best interest. I have pushed certain things upon you that I shouldn't have. Perhaps if I hadn't pushed you so hard to be like me, to peruse one man and stick with him, to live under the care of others..." my mother sniffled, wiped tears away, reached for her wine glass. "Anyway. I'm regretful of many decisions. Many. But you are not a mistake. You and Eugene are the greatest loves I have ever known."