Chapter 13
Grief and Living
JOHANNA
Roses.
Someone gave me roses.
Someone other than Max gave me roses.
Someone other than Max, who knew he gave me a mix of red and pink, roses sent the same—except with an equal number of white.
No hiding the symbolism: the sender didn’t subtract or replace Max’s red, merely added white.
Something new along with the old. Or someone?
Fortunately, the florist stripped the thorns from the stems, since I scramble among them searching for a card or any sign of the giver.
A weak hint of rose perfume mingles with the scents of Corin and his daughters and Anamaria’s guests, but nothing else that I can catch—not even a hint of the person who’d prepared the bouquet.
“What are you doing?” Caity seems disturbed by the disarray caused by my search through the flowers. The instant I pull back to stare at the blooms, her fingers twitch them into a semblance of order, flanking each pink bud with a red and a white, which gives it rather a target-like appearance.
“There’s no card,” I say, memory failing to identify if that was the original arrangement or not.
“Check the gift.” Caity points at the square package on the table.
I’d all but forgotten, too taken by the roses. A soft rumble escapes Corin as I pick it up. Any louder, and I’d call it a growl.
Hefting the package, which has the weight and semblance of a wrapped book, I glance around. They’re all watching my hands, but with such very different expressions.
Anamaria’s friends—or Bebe’s or Caity’s or all three of theirs—evidence only mild interest, but Anamaria herself is aglow, the shadows in her eyes starting to fade.
Caity has slung her arm around her oldest sister’s shoulder, head back in an attitude of studied indifference.
Her fingers continue to twitch, hinting at the impatience lurking beneath her nonchalance; somewhere she’s still the little girl who hates not knowing what’s inside any wrapped gift whether for her or not.
Bebe’s lips quirk to the side in a half-smile beneath a hooded gaze. She’s far less romantic than Max, but has always appreciated a touch of mystery and the unknown.
Corin holds his head high, looking down his nose at the flowers and gift, but another grumble escapes him as I slip a finger under the ribbon. He grabs his glass and drinks, emptying it as his hand squeezes its base.
Beneath the layers of tissue cascading to the table the gift is, indeed, a book.
No title, no author. The cover bears only a pink rose, embossed on paler pink cloth.
An artificial rose fragrance clings to its cover and pages, more pungent than that from the living roses.
It makes my nose twitch, though not in a bad way, completely overwhelming any lingering hint of the sender’s scent that might be lingering.
It’s a blank book, but when I flip through the pages each bears an inscription in legible, but not picture-perfect, cursive that almost looks familiar.
The how and why elude me; I hardly ever see anything handwritten these days except the occasional note around the house from the four people surrounding me, and even they’re more likely to text.
The giver took the time to handwrite a saying on every page. Dozens of them—how many pages does the book have? Most include the original source and a date. Others lack any attribution, such as the very first, suggesting they’re straight from the giver.
There’s nothing there to identify who sent this to me, yet there’s an unsigned message at the front.
Grief wrapped my heart and lungs. Every beat and every breath hurt, barbed with thorns that would not let me forget, even if I wanted to.
I raged at the universe, but nothing and no one answered.
They are gone for no reason, no rhyme. I am left bereft but unable to follow.
They would not want me to be lost without them, yet I am.
Things change whether or not we will them to. The grief that swallowed me whole shrank to become my shadow rather than my full self. Thorns lodged in my flesh transformed into scars that pinch and pain, and yet allow movement.
Sometimes a breath brushes sharp edges, and I shatter in remembrance. More often, I breathe with less pain.
The deaths, the losses, the grief are a part of me, but no longer restrict me.
I live.
I love.
I wish the same for you.
I trace the words, lingering over the dents where the writer pressed the pen harder. They speak of an experience both similar to and different from mine.
Max’s loss didn’t hit me hard after the fact, likely because I spent so much time mourning him while he lay in a drugged sleep trying to escape pain.
The thorns had crept into me earlier, over the preceding months, years, as I worried, nagging him to keep medical appointments and occasionally panicked—admittedly with little cause—any time he delayed responding to calls or texts in a reasonable fashion.
He's lodged in my heart and lungs, but I don’t think of him with every breath or even every other, merely countless times a day, ever more wistfully wishing that he were here to see, smile, touch, laugh.
At least one of the giver’s wishes is true.
I live.
As for the other …
If they meant love generally—platonic, familial—those didn’t die with Max.
Yet the choice of flowers, the addition of white blooms, the pink wrapping and cover, suggest awareness that pink is my favorite color.
This, plus the time invested in inscribing the quotes, speaks of affection for me. Perhaps, even, romantic love?
Who would do this?
Corin breaks the silence to ask about the book.
I tell him, them, what it is, what it contains, and what’s missing—the giver’s name—all the while holding it against my chest. I’m not willing to share it, not yet, not until I’ve had time to study every inscription to see which resonate with me, and search of any hint as to the giver’s identity.
Whoever sent it meant the contents for me.
My nieces exchange pointed glances, but assure me they understand when I excuse myself to huddle in a comfy chair in the living room, pouring over the inscribed words.
Corin says nothing, merely settles opposite me on the sofa with a tablet perched on his lap, no doubt putting out many of the little fires that started in the business over the past months.
His apple-cider scent fills the room, overriding the rose perfume clinging to the book except when I hold it close to my nose.
The girls’ voices chime in the distance as Bebe, Caity, and their friends help Anamaria unpack, then slowly drift down and away with polite farewells in passing.
Bebe and Caity stop for longer hugs before they depart for their respective dorms. I break from reading long enough to embrace them, but return to the book at the first opportunity.
I still don’t recognize the handwriting. Too many people could know about Max sending me red and pink roses for that to narrow down the options down much.
Only the words, the choices of quotes, and the few unattributed passages—which might have come from my unknown benefactor directly—offer any clues, and even there, nothing strikes a chord.
Save that the quotes taken together speak of grief never leaving, but rather shifting to become a part of one’s daily breaths in new and less painful ways—each in their own time.
The message resonates. It’s what happened to me when my parents passed.
The immediacy of thinking of them every day, remembering I couldn’t call, dwindled to now and then, in differing degrees.
Maybe it’s just because that’s what I want to take from the words. I love Max—that will never change—but I long to live on and enjoy my life.
And I want to know who sent this.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Corin says, brushing his thumb against my cheek as he tucks away his tablet away and turns off the light on the far side of the room. “Tomorrow will be a full day. Get some sleep.”
The muscles in his throat work as though he’s swallowing more words, but he turns and leaves me to the book without asking what I’ve learned.
His silence is more eloquent than he may know, for an invitation from the morning repeats in my ears as he leaves. ‘Stay with me again?’
Except my mind plays tricks on me and changes it after the third repetition to ‘Stay with me tonight.’