A moment of Roses

              A Moment of Roses                                            Jessica Lawrence 

    She cries at my door late at night like a beggar.  “Forgive me.  God forgive me.”

It is God who must forgive her.  I cannot.  Not now, maybe not ever.  She says, “I did

not understand he loved you.” 

    It is not my fault I was born first.  It was not my fault that I was given things she

wanted.  Was I loved more?  She thinks so.  Perhaps, it is true.  I favored my mother.  We

both had the same dark eyes and hair and the gift of “seeing.”  Father smiled on me more

because of our resemblance.  I tried to love her more to make up for what she should

have had from our parents.  Who would have known it would come to this?  It is

good mama is not alive to see such betrayal.  It is good that papa is too feeble to realize

what has occurred.  I do not explain what really happened, not even to the doctor.  All I

do is write.  My journal is my confidant.  Once, it had been my sister.  Once, it had been

my husband.  Now the only thing I trust is paper, paper in a red leather journal.  Red.  It

is so fitting. Red as in blood as in the heart which is so wounded with betrayal.  I do not

know how to live with betrayal.   

           
    I know he loves me.  He swears he did not know she loved him.  Is it true?  I who

have inherited my mother’s visions cannot not “see.”  I who others call a “seer” did not

see my own destiny.  My vision was made blind by love.  Love is not only blind, it is

dumb and senseless. 

    It is my husband’s ego, the fault in him I overlooked that led me down that steep

stairway as if he had pushed me himself.  Too late, I see it.  The tragedy has cleared my

inner vision.  I see him now, smiling at her, encouraging her.  How did he not see the

smiles he gave her were mistaken, smiles that I encouraged so she would feel good about

herself, she returned with love? Now my sister feels it is really she he loves, not me. 

What was it that I said in the moment before her hands became weapons?  What was it

turned flesh into tools of darkness?  I try to remember.  My memory seems to fail me

now.  But her face, I remember.  I remember the rage in her eyes, the blue that takes on

black, black and blue like bruise.  I saw it only as I started to descend.  A sister lost

cannot be found.   

    “Not everyone loves you,” she said.  “He loves me.  Your Edward loves me.” 

    I saw smoke around her, in a moment, the flash of hate and rage was so strong that

my heart crumbled by the darkness that engulfed her, then the arms, those arms and

hands so big they almost weren’t human shoved me.  The hoop beneath my skirt seemed

to propel me round and down, round and down.  My sister, my husband, my heart, I

thought as I hit the landing where like a doll I shattered but did not scream.  No

words came but hers.

    “Oh, my God, what have I done?” My sister rushed down the stairs where I lay,

in a heap of skirt.  She cried, “Forgive me.”  But as I lost consciousness, I thought,

You are no sister. 

    The doctor said it will take a long time for me to recover.  He does not know if I will

walk.  But I see myself walking.  I see myself in the garden walking.  My gait is slow

but I walk.  I did not tell him that I called in angels to help me heal.  I called in

Archangel Michael and Archangel Raphael.  I tell no one that I do so.  The doctor shakes

his head as I tell him, “I will walk.”

    My husband’s face is somber as the doctor speaks to him in the corner.  I know what

he is saying.  I know what both are thinking.  One is doom, the other dumb. I will walk. 

    They move my bed to the window.  I look out at the garden.  I see the bushes and the

butterflies.  I marvel at the Marigolds.  The bees are busy.  The nectar is sweet.  The rose

bushes are red.  My husband brings me roses.

    “How can I make it up to you?” he asks, putting the roses in a crystal vase that

belonged to my grandmother.
   
    “Is there nothing I can do?” He asks again, hoping.

    I do not answer.  No answer is an answer.   
             
    “I have brought you soup,” my sister says, and she comes in carrying a tray. I think,

a tray of betrayal.   

    She is handsome, my sister.  Yes, that is what they call her.  She does not like the term.

She wants to be petit like me and my mother.  She wants the little hands and feet and

body that we have.  I loved her as she was.  I saw beauty in that strong frame.  I did not

suspect envy.  I did not suspect jealousy.  Yet there were clues.  Yes, as I think back, I

would see her glare.  She would yell at me for something stupid and just as quickly as it

came, the dark rage went.

    “I will walk,” I tell the doctor. 

    People come to see me.  I send them away.  I must heal first.  The doctor thinks its

only physical.  He has no idea about emotional wounds.  He knows nothing of betrayal. 

    The roses in the room are budding.  They are red.  I no longer want red roses.  I cannot

breathe in the smell of roses.  I had just put the red roses from my husband into a vase

before she pushed me in a moment of roses. 

    “Edward brought these from the garden,” I told my sister.  “He said that I was his

rose.”  And then the downstairs door opened with Edward entering. 

    “My love,” he said, as he looked up and saw me.  Just then, our dog barked and

Edward turned as I started my descent with her behind me.  As my foot was in the air, the

push of hands shoved me.  The hoop beneath my skirt seemed to propel me round and

down, round and down.  Edward could not catch me fast enough.  Crumpled in a ball of

pain, I lay there.  My sister ran down the stairs.  “My God, what have I done?”

    The hate in Edward’s eyes burned.  He lifted his hands to strike her.  She did not

scream when he hit her. 

    “I am sorry.” She looked at Edward who was holding me.  “It is your fault,” she said.

    Confusion filled Edward’s face. I read his thoughts.  He was thinking, how?  And the

look showed what I saw to be true come to surface.  He did not know.

    “I did not mean. . . .“ And pain showed upon his face. 

    “I will go for the doctor,” my sister said. 

    By now the pain was unbearable.

    “I should not move you,” Edward looked at me with the blue eyes that I had so loved.   

    The tears kept coming.  The pain screamed inside me.  Every bone in my back was

screaming.  But it was my heart that screamed most.  I could not look at Edward. 

    “It was not my fault,” he said.  “I did not know it would come to this.”

    He was crying.  I saw he loved me. 

    “I never said I loved her,” he added. 

    “You never said you didn’t.” 

       
    As I got better, people came to see me.  I had quietly resumed my work as a psychic,

giving readings to the local women, first from my bed, later from the chair.  The day

I took my first steps outside beside the rose bush, Edward was there.  I had not noticed

how much he had aged.  He had grown pale and frail.  You would have thought he was

the patient though I still hurt.  The doctor said it was a miracle.  Some locals said it was

proof that I was a witch which made more women come to me to help them heal.  Guilt

drove my sister out the door.  Her letters sit unopened on the table of forgiveness, where

a vase once held roses. 


    Today, wearing jeans and boots, I fall by a rose bush in my friend’s garden.  I recover

quickly and get up as the door opens.

    “I just fell,” I tell her.

    “Are you okay?” she asks.

    For years my friend and I have had our hardships.  We used to fuss like sisters. 

There is no question that I love her like a sister.  There is no question that she loves me

like a sister.  I believe we had once been sisters. 

    In the night, I crawl under covers.  In the dark, I see myself crumpled at the bottom of

the stairs in a petticoat and long skirt.  The bone in my back, the site of several surgeries

in this life is painful.  I see the shadow of a figure standing at the top of the stairs.  In a

moment her hands become weapons. In a moment, petals of love turn to betrayal.  As I

tumble down the stairs I see him in another time, another life. In this one, Edward looks

different.  He doesn't understand why I no longer love him in this life.  It is too painful a

tale to tell, so I tell some it was because he never gave me roses. Part of that is true.  In all

the years, he never gave me roses.  Perhaps, he still remembers that I can’t breathe

around roses.