Time's Forbidden Flower (17 page)

I’ve reclined on the patio for three hours watching hilarity ensue. It started when Christopher bought a playhouse for the girls. Anna, now known as Mrs. My Husband Bought A Fixer-Upper And I Have To Deal With It, offered to help with the assembly—her husband offered to watch. This would be long over if Donovan hadn’t said, “Hey, this thing needs overhead lighting,” and escaped to the hardware store. Two hours later, Donovan has completed his useless contribution and reclines next to me; both of us partaking in spiritus frumenti while I fear my house will burn down.

“Hey, watch the effing and blinding,” I mind Christopher. “There are children and ladies present.”
 

“Honey, I think you may have crossed your wires,” Anna calls to Donovan as she examines his handiwork.

“Color me shocked,” I groan. “Donovan’s had his wires crossed ever since I can remember.”

“Nope! Only since Thanksgiving fourteen years ago,” he teases. “All right, I’ll get off my butt and help again.”

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” I offer out of guilt. Concurrently we sip our cocktails and sink deeper into our chairs.

Christopher’s head bounces as he rants. “Now why would we want to ruin your good time? I’m sure you’d rather lounge around and watch me go off.”

“Well, actually, yes. That would be far more entertaining,” I say.

“Yeah, we’d rather sit here and give you Omar Sharif,” Donovan adds.

“Omar Sharif?” I ask.

Christopher looks at me agape while Donovan lets me have it. “Man, Christopher is right. Your Cockney is so bad even your rhyming slang sucks.”

“Bloody ‘ell! Is that any way to talk to yur skin an blister?” I say to Donovan. In the corner of my eye, Christopher cringes.

Donovan is all too quick to reply. “Boy, that one sure fits. If anyone is a blister to me—”

Christopher turns indignant. “Oh, why don’t you two pissed-up cheeky yobs put a cork in it and bomb off somewhere.”

“What did he say?” Donovan asks with a snicker.

“He told us to go to hell.”

“Ah.”

Our antics are interrupted by the buzz of my cell phone. Sadly it was set to silent, else I would have recognized the custom ring tone of galloping horses representing the four horsemen of the Apocalypse and stayed in my chair. It’s either get this over with now or Buckaroo Pestilence will call the store. God only knows what Mom would say to the staff.

Slipping into the library for a moment of privacy, I hope for a rock to appear, not for me to hide under but to bang my head on. “Hi, Mom,” I answer brightly, certain that she can hear my eyes roll and my body cave.

“Hi, Lily. Has Christopher left for his tour yet?”

Lord! Already? “No, Mom. It doesn’t start for several months.”

“Tell me more about who he is touring with. Is Eric coming with him? Will they come to Rhode Island?”

“No, Mom. Definitely neither one of those things. He’s only hitting major stadiums in big cities.”

“I was thinking if they played at Larry’s Tavern they could come by, and I could fix them dinner. Are you sure they won’t be in the area?”

Donovan enters in search of a book. Finding one on cocktails, he pulls it down and flips through it. “Pretty sure, Mom,” I say. Slipping my hand over the phone I whisper to Donovan, “You are not going to believe this conversation! It’s a whole new level of crazy.”

Donovan smothers his face with his hand and groans, “Dear God, what now?”

“Is Christopher there?” Mom asks. “I was hoping to congratulate him in person.”

Oh, no way is that happening. How stupid does she think I am? “No, Mom. Christopher and Anna are setting up a playhouse for Antonia and Sunshine.”

“
Shh.
Now she’ll know I’m here!” Donovan whispers to me, his eyes stern.

“Oh, is Donovan there?” Mom asks. “Let me talk to him.”

“No, Mom. Donovan is helping.”

“Oh, I’ll just try his cell in a few minutes then.”

“Turn off your phone so it goes to voicemail,” I whisper to Donovan. “She’s going to call you.”

He throws his hands in the air. “Thanks for nothing!” He then motions for my phone. “Let me get it over with while I’m half-crocked.”

I hand the crazy man the phone, concerned that he may need a new shrink. “Hi, Mom!” Donovan says a little too brightly. He then contorts his face as if gagging, causing me to chuckle. “Yeah, Mom. Everyone is fine. We were going to call you a little later.”

“Liar!” I whisper, swatting his arm and giggling.

“I don’t know. I think we are having ham because Lily always says you are what you eat, and you know what she’s like.”

“Hey!” I say. He reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me close and stealing a nibble off of my ear before putting his hand on my head and shoving me away, causing us both to snicker. It might be time for us to stop drinking those Pumpkin Pie Martinis.

“No, Mom, Lily and I are horsing around. She’s not only an amazing cook, she’s become quite the bartender.”“Don’t mention alcohol to a cranky lush with Cirrhosis!” I whisper fervently. Donovan's face contorts again, but this time it’s an exaggerated look of confusion. “What?” I ask.

He puts his hand over the receiver. “She’s laughing and calling me James again.”

My forehead scrunches as I baulk and leave. “I’m out of here. I’ve had enough crazy for the day.” Seriously, why on earth does that man try so hard?

Inside the kitchen, Anna searches a cabinet. “Can I help you find something?” I ask. She jerks at my voice.

“Oh, sorry,” she says timidly. “I just thought I’d try to lend a hand. Is there anything I can help with?”

Yeah, like I want
her
touching my food. “No, thanks. I think we are all set.” Donovan emerges from the library with his head hung low. “Hey,” I say to him. “You okay?”

He digests thought before he speaks. His flaring nostrils and grimace of irony tell me he’s a kaleidoscope of anger and confusion. “I’m fine,” he groans. “It’s just hard knowing Mom’s suffering. I also hate that a part of me feels she’s getting what she deserves.”

“Donovan, remember how she always told us you have to lie in the bed you make?”

“Yeah, but…” Donovan darts to Anna who has her hand over a pot of simmering stew. He yanks it back just as she releases, sending a large handful of salt flying over her shoulder. “Seeking luck?” he asks with a broad smile.

“I was only trying to help. It tasted a little bland.”

Donovan’s grip on her wrist tightens. “Anna, we’ve talked about this. I don’t know what it is with your taste buds, but you need to lay off the salt.” His eyes land on me.
Could I have possibly screwed up more? I never should have let you go.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. Have another one of those drinks ready.” I follow him to the door and he stops me. “Actually, cut me off indefinitely. People like me shouldn’t drink.” His eyes return to the road ahead as if it is paved in hot coals before walking away.

Gastric ulcers grow like fertilized bamboo as the phone rings. My task of verifying that Mom’s will is up to date feels like I’m burying a body before God has taken the spirit. Hopefully she won’t answer and will neglect calling me back. If I’m really lucky Godzilla will attack California, making it impossible for all calls to get through and planes to take off for the next decade.

“Hello?” a weak voice answers.

Damn. “Hi, Mom. It’s Lily.”

“Lily, dear! How is Christopher?”

Some things never change. “Everyone’s great, Mom. Look, I really don’t want to have this conversation, and it’s unfair to beat around the bush. I’ve been put in charge of making sure your final wishes are upheld. Would you please verify that the latest copy of your will is in your safe deposit box? We don’t want any question when we retrieve it.”

“You haven’t gone to my safe deposit box yet?” She sounds freaked. “You didn’t misplace the key, did you?”

“No, Mom. We will retrieve your will when the proper, respectful time comes.”

I sense her hand brushing me off. “If you had bothered to get it you would know that it is current. Everything goes to Graham and Sunshine.”

Two out of three, huh? Dementia is an evil beast. What a horrible thing to forget a grandchild exists. “That’s a great idea to leave everything to the grandchildren. Since trust funds for Graham and Antonia are already established, why don’t you leave everything to Sunshine?”

“I wouldn’t want Graham to think his grandmother does not love him. He should be included.”

“Okay, so everything goes to Graham, Antonia, and Sunshine.”

“Oh, no,” she says, as if giving a warning. “Nothing goes to Antonia. I will have no association with that demon spawn.”

“What?” I choke. That comment was so far over the line it jumped past the equator and landed at the South Pole.

“Then again, I suppose it is not her fault,” Mom continues. “I don’t blame you for not telling her, but have you at least told Christopher?”

“Told Christopher what?” My mortification makes it sound more like a demand than a question.

“Oh, Lily, please! You gave birth to her eight and a half months after you were here for Christmas. You and Donovan claimed that you had visited friends that morning. Christopher and Anna were off with Graham so you could have done anything you wanted and did. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured this one out yourself.”

My emotions take over, causing my diplomacy filter to fail. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve tolerated a lot of your bullshit, but this has gone too far!”

“Lilyanna Beckett, watch your language!”

“Eccles! It’s Eccles, Mom. It’s been Eccles, faithfully, for ten years.”

“Faithfully!” she mocks. “Then explain why Antonia looks just like Donovan. Christopher must be blind if he can’t see the truth. I thought more of him than that.”

 
Sadly, both sides of me know that her suspicions are not unfounded, because when there is no protection, it doesn’t take a male moment of pleasure for the little swimmers to release.

Damn it! We stopped! How much longer will I feel this guilt? Or is the question, when will I accept my error?

My voice booms like dynamite. “Antonia looks like Donovan because they are related through me, or have you forgotten that Donovan is your child too?”

“Sharing genes never mattered to either of you before.”

My brain is about to boil out of my skull. After over a decade of keeping my emotions in check and being a dutiful daughter, despite my better judgment, I finally let her have it.
 

“The hell it didn’t! Why do you think Donovan and I split? It had nothing to do with your twisted plan to keep us apart. We both wanted families and weren’t willing to involve a child in a web of lies. The only thing you have ever had a hand in with us is brutally destroying and nearly killing your son!” I manage to stop just short of calling her an evil, manipulating cunt. God, I don’t want my family to be this way.

Mom responds by plunging the jagged knife in even deeper, dragging it across my chest, then heading for the salt. “If that is how you choose to see it then obviously you are a terrible parent! I hope that someday karma will bite you in the ass and you will have to lock up your uncontrollable brats. Maybe if you had been beaten like Donovan your tone would be more respectful.”

God, please bring me my 1950’s subservient mother back. Who is this delusional woman filling her body?

“You don’t deserve Christopher!” she berates. “I don’t want to see you again unless you spare him of who you are. They would have a better life without you. In fact, don’t come home for Christmas, any of you! Just let me die the shamed woman I am. Hopefully someday you’ll find the same fate!” Hearing her phone fly across the room with a blood-curdling
slam
, she again banishes me from her life.

Smack!

My vegetable cleaver lands on a clove of garlic, smashing it to a pulp before I drag the knife over it, smearing its smelly goodness over the wood cutting board. This is much like how I kill spiders, not giving them a chance at mercy. If the creepy bastards cross into my territory, they asked for it.

Smack!
 

Again the cleaver mutilates a clove. The splat is then minced with heavy thuds that slam grooves into my cutting board and dull my knife.
That woman’s
words haunted me all night. I’ve strived to find virtue in her only to be rudely insulted time and time again.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Christopher flops onto a stool across from me at the kitchen bar, interrupting my slaughter. Dreamily he rests his chin in his hand, his head tilted to the side with his long, soft-brown hair shadowing his hooded gaze. His presence brings me back to the best part of my reality.

“Coffee,” he mutters.

“What? You hate coffee.”

“Coffee,” he repeats, barely conscious.

His natural glow brings out my smile and causes my anger to dissipate. “Seriously, who are you? Since when do you drink coffee?”

“I don’t. The stuff is bloody awful, but I’m at the end of me rope. The one night I had time to sleep and
someone
kept me awake with her tumbling and sighing. Then she finally gave me some peace at 4 A.M. by getting up, only to come down here and make a ruckus. After an hour I’m surrendering to the enemy.”