11. Yellow Tulips
ELEVEN
Yellow Tulips
MELISSA
Hospitals smelled wrong. They were too clean or perhaps not clean enough. A pervasive odor of sickness hung in the air, something even the best disinfectant couldn’t hide. The staff was obnoxiously loud. Their conversations, all day and night, kept Melissa painfully awake.
And the lights!
She couldn’t wait to get away from the harsh fluorescents. She’d barely slept in the past two days, and what sleep she caught had been filled with pain.
Hospitals were the worst place to be if you wanted to get well, and she couldn’t wait to be discharged.
She shifted in her bed. Everywhere ached. Even her hair hurt. After two days on the soft mattress, her back screamed to be in its comfortable bed at home. The bruising over her left side was spectacular. Every time she moved, her body begged for her to stop. Three tiny bandages marked her belly, and a rainbow of bruises marred her side. But, she moved as much as she was able. Her ticket home depended on getting up.
She’d undergone emergency laparoscopic surgery. The procedure was supposed to have been less painful than cutting her open with a knife. Three small holes had been punched in her belly, one for a camera and the others for surgical ports. The surgeons inserted tools through the ports that controlled tiny knives, scissors, and other things she didn’t understand.
Her healing was supposed to take far less time than if they’d opened her up. Still hurt like hell. Pain medication took the edge off the worst of it, but the pills made her foggy.
To make things worse, all the air they’d injected into her belly had her looking five months pregnant. She’d been assured her body would return to normal. In the meantime, she ran her fingers over the three tiny bandages, which also made her skin itch.
Every color of the rainbow represented itself over her left side, from deep purple and blue to a softening yellow, orange, and even sickly greens. From hip to shoulder, the bruising reminded her how close she’d come to death.
Her thoughts turned to CJ and his smile. Her chivalrous knight, with his chiseled jaw, thicker-than-thick biceps, and sculpted chest, had the softest eyes and biggest heart she’d ever run across. His sky blue eyes had twinkled with mischief when she’d caught him peeking at the lace of her bra. But, he hadn’t made her feel self-conscious. She’d been vulnerable, and he’d made her feel safe.
She shouldn’t think about him, but couldn’t stop doing just that. He’d blown in and out of her life with the same speed and devastation as that tornado. Wreckage remained in his wake because he’d stirred up an aching loneliness she’d suppressed since Scott’s arrest.
In the three years since her ex-husband had been taken away, she’d not once thought about the possibility of another man.
CJ’s interest, as small as it had been, had her hopeful. His touch stirred something deep inside. Something she hoped to explore, but she was realistic. He’d been nothing more than a fantasy.
Her fitful dreams had been filled with the real-life superman that was CJ. The funny thing was her life had needed saving, but not from a tornado.
She’d wanted to thank CJ, but the nursing staff had no information about the man who’d dropped her off in the emergency room. Her hero had become a ghost.
But, it was a time for new beginnings. Scott was gone. She had a new life stretching ahead. It was time to heal. In body, mind, and soul, Melissa vowed to take back her life.
Her nurse breezed into her hospital room, followed by a deliveryman carrying flowers.
“Got something for you, Miss Evans.” Charles comforted Melissa. His massive size, rather than intimidating, conjured images of a squishy teddy bear. Everything he did made her feel better. It was in the tiny things, like the way he fluffed her pillow, held the straw so she could sip her water, and even in how he maintained her dignity while exposing her body to care for her wounds. He soothed her fears about needles when he had to stick her arm, distracting her with jokes and silly songs.
“Special delivery!” The deliveryman held out a bouquet of tulips with an expectant expression. Nearly as tall as Charles, the man had the lean build of an athlete, like a runner or a cyclist.
Her heart missed a beat, and she stifled a gasp. That message was one she knew all too well. But, there was something new nestled within the blooms.
A flash of crimson drew her attention to the single blood-red rose gracing the yellow tulips.
Her stomach heaved, and she grasped the bed rails as blood pounded in her veins. This couldn’t be happening.
The florist reached into the flowers and pulled out the red rose. He brought it to his nose, inhaled, and then presented it with another grand gesture. There was a raw beauty about his features, and something disturbing about the intensity of his gaze.
Rimless glasses framed a long narrow face. His gaze shifted between the rose and her hand—a brittleness out of synch with the friendly gesture.
She reached out, hand trembling, and took the rose.
“Who did these come from?” She knew the answer but had to hear the truth. Her voice quivered, showing a weakness she thought long buried.
She hadn’t seen the execution. Scott had demanded her presence, but she’d refused. Her lawyer was to let her know of Scott’s death, but in the confusion of the storm and her hospitalization, her lawyer didn’t know where she was, and she’d lost her phone.
She placed the rose on her lap without smelling it and hid the tremors shaking her hands. She had nothing to give the delivery man for a tip and hoped he’d take the hint and leave.
He gave a curious look, a frown framed with irritation.
Charles moved around the room, methodical while he worked. He hummed a tune while he strung new fluids in the IV pumps beside her bed, a full bag of clear liquid to replace the one which had emptied into her veins.
Charles paused. “Beautiful arrangement. Are tulips your favorite?”
Memories she’d tried to forget surfaced with a wave of anguish, bringing with them a clamminess she couldn’t ignore. Dizziness caused her to clutch at the side rails of her bed. If she hadn’t been confined to the bed, she might have collapsed.
How had Scott sent flowers? Was it some sadistic torture he planned in the days leading to his execution?
Charles plucked the card out of the flowers. He handed her the envelope. “Maybe it’s from your hero?”
“Hero?” The deliveryman’s brows scrunched up. “What do you mean, hero?” Disapproval hung heavy in the man’s voice.
Why was the deliveryman lingering?
“Miss Evans was saved from a tornado,” Charles said.
CJ had pretended to be her husband when he dropped her off in the emergency department. He did it to stay close while they completed her initial assessment. Only after her surgery did she admit the truth to the staff. The hospital still had her listed as aJane Doe, something she’d been told would be straightened out at discharge when she paid her bill. She shared her story with Charles and may have gushed over CJ with the narcotics floating in her veins.
She tried to steady her hand and clutched the envelope to her chest. Memories of Scott surged with each constricted breath. Was it possible he hadn’t died? Knowing how calculating he was, he’d probably arranged for the delivery before his death, a ‘fuck you,you’re still mine’gesture.
He’d given her three yellow tulips on their first anniversary. Three tulips, he said, one for his undying love, the second for his smoldering passion, and the third for his everlasting loyalty. The following year she received six, nine the year after, and then twelve, fifteen, and then eighteen in that horrible last year when everything had fallen apart.
Three tulips for each year of marriage.
The flowers had been a symbol not of love, passion, and loyalty, but something much worse. They’d been stolen lives.
But in those six years, not once had he given her a rose. The flowers had always been yellow tulips—his favorite, not hers—and always multiples of three.
She hadn’t understood the significance behind the tulips, at least not until the trial. But when the prosecutors pulled out the princess outfits, her world, as imperfect as it had been, imploded with horror. She’d been the first to wear the princess outfits but hadn’t been the last.
That story became a thing fit for the tabloids and shared in national news.
Love. Passion. Loyalty.
Might as well have been pain, torture, and death.
She used to joke with him that if he continued adding three every year, he’d have to buy an entire delivery truck at their fiftieth anniversary.
One hundred and fifty tulips.
The tabloids had made connections where there had been none. She’d been as much of a victim as those poor women, but the tabloids vilified her, intimating she had been his accomplice. Twisting the truth brought more sales, and they painted her in the worst light. While they made millions, Melissa struggled to breathe and make it to the end of the day.
Scott had made her into the perfect fool.
After Scott’s conviction, the deliveries stopped. She hadn’t seen a yellow tulip since and couldn’t look at the delicate flower without her stomach heaving.
“I’m going to be sick.”
Weak from her injuries, she could barely lean over the side of the bed.
Charles scooped up a trash can and placed it under her mouth moments before she emptied the contents of her stomach. Wonderful man that he was, he held her hair out of the way.
The deliveryman inched back to the doorway. If he was expecting a tip, he would have to wait a long time.
“Since when have you been feeling nauseous?” Charles felt her forehead and then checked her pulse.
“I haven’t.” It was the tulips, but she didn’t want to explain the reaction. The single red rose fell to the floor.
How had Scott orchestrated this delivery? And how had he known to deliver it here? No one knew she had been hospitalized.
“I’m getting the doctor.” Charles pressed the call bell located over her bed.
In a few seconds, another nurse popped her head into the room. “Need help?”
“Call Dr. Sims.”
“I’ll be fine.” Melissa protested with a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, my bee-hind.” Charles used his smile to comfort her, but her insides twisted.
“Can you please take the flowers out of the room?”
Charles cocked his head. “Just lay back. Try to relax while we check this out.”
She gestured to her belly, drawing a circle over the bandages beneath her hospital gown. “Spleen’s all good. Nothing else wrong. I’m supposed to be getting out of here.” Even to her ears, she sounded like a petulant child.
“You’re not fine. Dr. Sims will make sure everything’s okay.”
She counted the flowers. Eighteen tulips. Eighteen lives snuffed out of existence.
Scott should be suffering as the devil welcomed him to his eternal resting place in hell. Her eyes cut to the florist when he picked up the rose and tried to hand it to her.
“I don’t want the flowers.”
Charles cocked his head. “You sure?”
“I’m hypersensitive to their smell.”
Charles’s forehead creased. “I smell nothing.”
“Please, just make them go away. I don’t want them.”
Charles handed the bouquet back to the deliveryman and ushered him out of the room.
Doctor Sims walked in. “What’s wrong?” He pulled his stethoscope out of his white coat pocket.
“Nothing.”
Charles returned. “She’s nauseous. Vomited. Her vitals are steady.”
Dr. Sims placed the stethoscope on her chest. “Take a breath.”
While she breathed, he listened, examined her wounds, pushed on her belly, and then ordered a battery of tests.
Charles squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s just a precaution.” He left to get the supplies required to draw the blood work her doctor had ordered.
Melissa turned the envelope over in her hand. She stared at it for minutes before she found the courage to open it.
My beautiful Queen,
Love to keep us.
Passion to fuel the fire.
Loyalty to bind us.
You belong to me.
Yours to serve.
Mine to rule.
Your loving King
Her lungs pinched as they struggled to pull oxygen past constricted airways. The ringing in her ears escalated until it turned deafening.
He’s dead. He can’t hurt me. I’m free. Free to live. Free to forget. He’s dead.
I AM SAFE!
He can’t hurt me anymore.
She repeated the litany until Charles returned with his needles and empty tubes. If she said the words enough times, then maybe one day they would be true.
No, it was true.
It was finally and unequivocally real. TheFairytale Killerhad been sent to the pits of hell where he belonged. Scott couldn’t touch her anymore. He couldn’t hurt her ever again. As Charles prepared to take her blood, the single red rose on the table caught her attention.
She glanced at the note again. Scott had asked her to call him many things in their years of marriage. She’d always been his fairytale princess, and he was her prince charming. Scott had never once called himself aKing. A tremor worked its way up her spine, and she jumped as Charles inserted a needle into her skin.
“Sorry.” He worked with brisk efficiency, collecting the required blood into his vials.
A simple needle stick was nothing compared to what she’d endured at the hands of the man who’d vowed to honor, love, and protect.
“Charles?”
“Yes?”
“Can you check on something for me, please?”
“Sure thing.”
“I need to know about my husband.”
“Your hero?” Charles gave her a big grin.
“No, not him. My ex-husband.”
If he was still alive, she needed to know. And if he hadn’t sent the flowers, then who had?