+1+
February 2016
“Rose”, I asked her after she gave me a particularly ugly scratch, “What do I have to do to get you to be nice ?”
She kept her eyes on the picture she was drawing, her headphones securely in place. It was time for her radiation therapy and I’d been left to the task of taking her pencil and paper away.
“I’ll be a good girl if you take me home.” she said not even looking at me. It had been three months of this. She promised she’d do all sorts of things if I just took her home.
“Rose, You won’t get better if you go home.”
“I don’t want to get better, Mommy”, she said, “I want to die—“
“Rose”, I snapped the door was open and the other children didn't need to hear that, “You have no idea how fortunate you are. Come on let’s go.”
She kept scribbling intently, she was drawing a countryside with a smiling sun and a tall thin house with a bell. Far in the distance was a little tiny city being rained on by a frowning cloud. I had to admit her lines were clean and precise. Her pictures were imaginative but still down to earth.
“Rose, please’, I said calmly.
She said nothing and I bravely reached for the pencil again. When I snatched it from her, the white cord of her headphones fell out and Rose started screaming. It was deafening.
“Ros-“
She clasped her hands over her ears and started thrashing. I hit the emergency button and the closest nurses and nurse's assistants came in. In the melee someone in scrubs turned to me,
“What happened.”
“I. . . I think she’s in pain.”
They kept trying to ask her what hurt and when she wouldn’t answer, they gave her a light sedative and tried to calm her down with some positive reinforcement. I took the time to slip out of the room. I knew the staff would get her what she needed.
I left the hospital and went back to
the St. Regis to change. There was something . . . comforting about ending the
day in such a beautiful suite. I also didn’t mind having a hotel with an amazing spa and heated pool.
I took a quick shower, my clothes and hair always smelled like a hospital. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to squeeze my just over size eight body into an old size two halter red sundress.
I’d been unusually stagnant since coming to Houston. Things with Rose were so unpredictable that I spent a lot of time sitting around the hospital working on the scrapbook I was making with the photos I’d found in the summer house. It had become my pet project, I focused on happy memories of my parents and sisters. I spent way to many hours in the local craft store, having nowhere else to go.
In between there was a lot of monotony and my mood didn’t lend itself well to making music. All I was doing was waiting and waiting. Sometimes in the hospital I’d engage in passing conversation with the other parents. Most of them were older than me with more children, they’d made a lot of sacrifices to be here.
Mr. Feirro’s schedule was
unpredictable, he was still working closely with Emile and the time difference
effected both their sleep schedules. Something else rather strange happened, The Le
Fleur Marche roses had started to wilt. Emile told me they'd spent money on two specialist and none of them could figure out what was wrong with the plants.
For dinners I’d become acquainted with the BBQ restaurants in the area, I’d just settle into a seat at the end of the bar with a book or my music notebook. Sometimes I’d be furiously filling (from memory ) the log I was supposed to be keeping of Rose’s numbers, while ignoring the southern gentlemen who sauntered up to me. Even if they had cute accents.
I’d come back from dinner that night (this time Erik's
Southern Style-Q) to find Mr. Fierro in the St. Regis lobby intently reading
a bright yellow French-to-English dictionary. His worn leather travel bag by
his feet. He’d left somedays ago to England and must have just gotten back. He was always gone or going somewhere
I was hesitant about approaching him in
a dress I could barely breath in, but I was lonely
“What’s this ?”, I asked
“French”, he said turning a page.
He’s just glanced at me. Just a glance.
“Why are you studying French ?, I asked.
“Augustine, quit.” he said simply.
“Who ?”
“My assistant, Ms. DeLune. He refused to come to America. ”
“Oh right I thought . . . he was American”
“So did I . . . but it’s no matter—“
“Oh”, I said, “Oh. He was your translator for all the French flower people. You and Emile really need to consider taking up a new language.”
I sighed and sat back. Emile had yet to learn another language, claiming he was too old. I vaguely understood Mr. Fierro refuse to learn French simply because of my grandfather and the war. . . I think.
“I could teach you”, I offered, “I am a professional educator and French is a second language to me. Well third. A bit of a fourth--”
“I’ll make due—“
“. . . or I could help. Actually help. . .I could replace Augustine.”
“Ms. DeLune you should--"
“Why not? I can help. “, I tried not to sound desperate, “I speak French, Spanish and Italian. I have a pleasant phone voice, I work well with Emile, I don’t mind computers… also it might make things easier.”
“What do you mean ?”
I sat across from him, putting my purse over my lap.
“Friendship has been difficult for us and anything more is out the question, so perhaps it would be easier if I was your employee . . . again. Just until this is all over. I could use something to do and—“
“Ms. DeLune-“
“If it makes you feel better you can pay me.”
“I can’t offer much. The roses aren’t
doing well. I'll need to go back to check on them" ,he said but he never actually did pay me.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out”, I said.
“I don’t think there is anything I can do, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He closed the book and looked me in the eye.
“Alright. Ms. Delune, you’re hired.”
I stood up to shake his hand and Rose’s pink iPod shuffle fell out of my purse. I quickly picked it up realizing I’d taken it when she’d had her tantrum.
“Oh, it’s Roses', " I explained, "She'll be so fussy without it. It um—It plays music.”
“I know”, he said closing the dictionary. I noted his watch for the first time.
“Right.” I clipped the player to my purse and put in the headphones, “I think I’m going to go for a walk—“
I stopped and turned up the volume on the song.
I clicked to the next one
And the next one
“Ms. DeLune ?”, Mr. Fierro said noting my still expression.
I clicked to the next song and the
next. My ears were burning with the sound coming through.
“What is it ?”
All of the songs
Every last one of them was static.
Screeching white noise filled my ears. I took a close look at the files and realized Rose had somehow managed to changed the music I'd put on her into harsh ambient white noise. Was this what Rose listened too ?
I bit my lip thinking about how calm she’d been when she had her earphones in, listening to this screeching nonsense. I ripped the earphones out and tossed the shuffle on the floor.
“Ms.—“
“No, I have to go. Somethings not. . . I-
“Clara-”
“I have to go. I’ll start tomorrow, okay ?”
I felt like I could still hear the
white noise. If Mr. Fierro said anything else I didn’t hear it. I just had to
get as far away from that sound.
The next morning when I went to the hospital I saw Rose sitting up in her bed with her iPod. Mr. Fierro had apparently returned it to her before he made an emergency trip back to London. She smiled at the wall and turned the volume up. I never tried to take it from Rose again
+++
I slowly began getting into my role as Mr. Fierro’s assistant. I hadn’t realized how much Mr. Fierro had put on the man. For one Mr. Fierro didn’t bother with e-mails, cell phones or computers, so I had to answer every call and e-mail that came in, plus translate conversations for Emile at odd hours of the day. Even though Mr. Fierro wasn't one for business I had to print out all the reports Emile generated and prepare them as hard copies.
It was tedious, but could be done right from Rose’s bedside. I could sit with my computer and get lost in translating while Rose focused intently on whatever she was drawing. Her right eye lacked any real life and was covered with a patch because it was so sensitive.
The medicine was hard on her, and she’d
been prescribed Art therapy. Every Tuesday and Thursday they gave her a fresh canvas and finger paints to express herself and
Rose took to it. She liked to mix primary colors with white and swirl her
fingers over the canvas creating pale colored flowers on a bright blue
background. Her designs were pretty, clean and colorful.
Whenever he was in town, Mr. Fierro would
sit on her other side doing things I hadn’t had the heart to tell him were odd. For example he wrote letters to Emile, Ms. Lancaster and crazy Professor Essex. So many
to Professor Essex.
“Ms. DeLune”, Mr. Fierro called form Rose’s bedside
“Yes”, I was still translating out a complaint e-mail from a Parisian florist and debating if I should put the curse words in.
“There are pages missing.”, He was
holding our the e-mails I’d printed out. A quick glance confirmed that I'd accidentally printed out a few pages of Buffy fanfiction I'd been reading. I sighed.
“I’m sorry Mr. Fierro. I’ll fix it. Printers are the worse”
I could run back to the Hotel and
reprint it, Rose wasn’t scheduled for anything until later. She was just
sulking now curled up in her pillow with her stuffed elephant next to her.
“Mr. Fierro, I can stop and get some coffee if you—“
I stopped when I saw him touch the side of Rose' face. His eyes were suddenly as kind as possible as he watched her try to hold in tears. He looked at her like she was the most perfect thing in the entire world. . She was miserable, sad and tired of fighting. Since his kind eyes weren't enough he offered her the smallest of smiles. He pressed his face into the side of hers , I wasn’t sure if he was crying or praying.
They fact that he may be doing either made me feel . . . well I felt like I’d intruded on something . . . even though I was leaving.
I sometimes forgot how much Rose meant
to Fierro. That maybe he took to her
because he had to. He had no one else left. His foster family had liked but never loved him. As far as love went his entire life existed around one
premise and that was that he and Lucie would be in love and together as a family. He hadn’t banked on
needing anyone else because he though he had a lifetime guarantee with Lucie. For the firs time I realized that when he saw Rose she was the smallest blood connection he'd ever have to his former wife.
I was halfway out the door when I heard beeping
I turned to see the nurses and doctors’ storming the room next door, They swarmed around a figure, before the noise deliberate cut. . . followed by a hollow scream and woman clawing at the glass, clawing at the doctors.
Rose's eyes suddenly became focused, she watched the scene through the glass, her eyes moving like she was watching something.
I had the sinking feeling that Rose was next.
+2+
I remember how that day started. I had been looking at my twitching right eye, I'd begun to notice it whenever I put my mascara on for the day. I ignored it and shook out my hair which had managed to grow just past my ears.
It was on one of these extremely busy days that I decided to take
Mr. Fierro up on his standing dinner offer. I’d spent all day translating
hundreds of e-mails and documents and I still had more to go.
Mr. Fiero ate every meal in the hotel restaurant when he was in town, and I wondered if I should have offered to cook. Or at least heat something up.
Anyway, I met Mr. Fierro in the lobby for dinner and since it was a nice place I threw on a white top and squeezed into a high-waist rose pattern skirt.
The Remington was a moderately priced restaurant in the St. Regis hotel lobby. It was packed that particular night and that really should have been our first clue. Mr. Fierro had a standing reservation for lunch and dinner, so we were led right through the well very dressed crowd.
The plan had been to work, but it was difficult with candles and vases on the small table. My laptop wouldn’t even fit. I’d thought about asking for a bigger table when the server gave us a laminated prix frxe menu. Mr. Fierro didn’t even look up from the agriculture book he was reading.
“What’s this ?”, I asked the waitress.
“It’s our Valentine’s Day prix fixe menu.”
“But—“
Mr. Fierro looked at his watch and I pulled out my phone. It was in fact February 14th. Time kept getting away from me. Us, apparently
The woman looked at me sideways and I looked at the menu with its little hearts on it, I glanced around and realized the dining room was packed with couples. The woman gave me a weak smile an made her way back to the kitchen.
“. . . Is this weird ? . . . should we leave ? I know a few good brisket places.”
“I’m afraid I’m a vegetarian, Ms. DeLune”
“Oh, I. . . I knew that.”
“I won’t stop you if you would like to—“
“No, I—it’s fine. This explains why there have been so many flower orders. It’s odd how you lose track of time.” I sat back and put my laptop away.
“Time and I have never been agreeable”, he said studying his
hand and I couldn’t unsee that engraved wedding band on his hand, with the
birth and death date of his wife.
“. . . this means you missed your birthday--”
“I didn’t miss it Ms. DeLune. I just let it pass. I don’t think much of it.”
There was a very tense awkward silence, and I became so aware of the intimate conversations around us. He sat back in his chair and relaxed. I tried really hard to do the same.
“This kind of feels like a date.”
“If you can feel that way while your daughter is suffering in a hospital. . .” he said quietly
“She’s not suffering. The nurses said she isn’t in any pain. I bet you haven’t been on a date in. . . decades.”
“I am starting to realize that you don’t know me very well at all, Ms. DeLune.”
I sat back as the waitress poured a glass of cheap complimentary champagne.
“What ?”
“I am not immune to wanting interesting conversation and dinner”
I shook my head. None of this made sense to me.
“Sorry, I guess I didn’t think you would.”
“I no longer wish to remake he mistakes of my past. Isolation is no good.”
“Wow. It’s just you never leave your house how could you meet anyone—oh.”, I thought about it, "Your neighbor ?”
“She was very kind to Rose. She was a history professor. .. she has an interesting perspective and a wealth of knowledge.”
I didn’t know what to do with my face, so I went for nonplussed.
“That is. . . illuminating”, I decided on.
“It's also in the past”, he
said wistfully.
After a moment I decided to ante up something about myself.
“Peter proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. It was ages ago. We were having dinner on the rooftop of his condo and . . . that is also in the past. Sorry”
“Take it from me, Ms. DeLune the past has a way of catching up with you.”
“Yes, sir”, I said carefully cutting my eyes at him.
Our conversation pretty much ended there. I had salmon. I think Mr. Fierro did too, although once again I could never remember seeing him eat or maybe I’d blocked it out.
After finishing the complimentary glass of cheap champagne , I splurged on something a little more expensive and we shared what we didn’t drink with the tables next to us.
“Thanks for dinner”, I said when we walked out. I carefully looped my arm around his.
“I should be thanking you for the work you’ve done. I think I underestimated you . . . when I previously employed you.”
“I think I’ve actually grown a lot since then. I was kind of spoiled. . .Do you want to go for a walk ?”
“No. I’m heading back to England on the red eye tomorrow morning and Emile and I have a early morning phon-”
“I understand.” I said trying to figure out why I felt so disappointed.
+3+
I still had my arm in his as we walked through the lobby. I watched his still profile until the elevator arrived and we both stepped in pressing the button to our respective floors. We were alone and I couldn't stop staring at him. I tried to think about what I'd wear to the hospital tomorrow, the scrapbook I needed to work on and what music I'd listen to so I didn't cry myself to sleep.
Isolation is no good.
I bit my lip as the elevator doors closed.
“Mr. Fierro—“
“Yes”
I kept my eyes on his profile. I’d completely miscalculated his reaction, because he didn’t turn to me. I sighed.
“Mr. Fierro, look at me”
He turned
“Yes, what is—“
I stood on my toes and pulled him into a kiss, I'd caught him mid-sentence. He was still at first . . . then I heard a bell somewhere in the distance. Slowly he put his arm around my waist and bought me closer, my lips parted in surprise, carefully deepening the kiss. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that I realized the bell I heard was the elevator. I’d missed my floor.
The door opened to the seventh floor and we stepped out the elevator still entangled with each other. I heard the lock beep and the door to his suite open. I’d been in there hundreds of times and never thought twice about it until now.
I probably should have left but I didn’t, I wanted to see how far this could go. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d kissed someone like that. It was warm, intense, quick and addictive.
When he kissed me . . .
It reminded me of Rome.
Before Rose
Before Fierro and I were reunited----
There had been Peter Morrati, Rome and me. Peter and I had reunited just weeks after I’d been freed from being “kidnapped” by Lucie
Peter and I had this apartment. . .
I'd closed my eyes and pictured it; the high vaulted ceilings and floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the Tiber river. It was a home Peter Morrati had been more than willing to share with me. Peter took me in as a good friend and we became. . . something else.
I could vividly see the outline of Peter’s bare back as he sat on the end of the massive king bed we shared. He had been sculpted like a Roman statute from years of playing water polo. He was strong, tall and tan. Yet, he played the most delicate music from the violin perched on his shoulder. The music gently trying to lull me to sleep, he’d get up from the bed and the music would follow him around the room, his intense gaze always on me.
I hadn’t cared how I acted, who I had to be or what I wore (or didn’t wear) around Peter. I didn’t have to compete with anyone, his eyes would always be on me.
“My Muse”, he would say in soft Italian, his dark eyes taking in all of my bare skin. The music would work into a frenzy as he came closer to me and leaned in. He’d finish the song on a strong note toss aside the priceless violin and I’d take him in my arms. The only thing better than learning to make love with Peter was making music afterward. Slowly serenading each other.
I had a split second where I thought those weeks of intense passion with Peter had created a life but time was almost never on my side—
I'd snapped myself back to that warm Texas evening. I was sitting on the side of the bed, My eyes focused on my floral print shoes. I kicked off my shoes and slipped off my diamond earrings. My hands were shaking as I unclipped them. In that moment there were things I wanted to say . . . but I couldn’t make myself.
I could feel him on the other side of the bed, sitting in
the same position with his back to me. Perhaps thinking the same thing. If we
couldn’t talk to each other about Rose
how were we supposed to talk about this ?
I shook my head.
I opened my mouth to say something about whatever was going to happen next, but. I decided not to waste my time thinking and turn off the lights.
+++
A shrill ring woke me up and I bolted up. I reached over to pick up my phone, keeping the sheets very decently around me, even though I was still wearing my bra.
“Hello.”
“Clara, it’s Emile.”
I laid back down in a huff. It was 5am. What was Emile thinking?
“Do you know what time it is here?” I yawned.
He took a moment to figure it out.
“5 am ?”, He said. “Well, Clara I’m glad I caught you. Essex keeps calling me. He’s been asking for your number, he says he might have a solution to your damaged art problem.”
“What?”
Then I remembered the mysteriously disfigured art in my apartment. Mr. Fierro must have told Essex about it.
“Oh, Essex. . . he’s just. .. rambling you know. . . about Rose.”
“I don’t know. He said he wants to help you. I gave him your hotel room number instead of your cell so keep an ear out”
“Thanks.”
“How is Rose ?”
“Um, the same”, I said, “Which is good.”
Silence
“What else Emile ?”
“Oh, Fierro and I had a 5am conference call scheduled before he gets on the red eye today.”
“Well. . . why don’t you call his room ?”
“. . . I did.”
I look at the phone in my hand, now realizing I had picked up Mr. Fierro's room phone. I noticed the e-cigarrete, cigarettes, glasses and wedding band on the nightstand. I stared at the phone not sure what to do. I really wanted to hang up but Emile would like that too much.
“. . . .I. . well.. .” I started, “Emile look I—“
“It’s fine tell Mr. Fierro Im sorry I woke him”, he faux whispered then immediately hung up.
+++
Rose was a good buffer. Being around her made the awkwardness and uncertainly disappear. Or maybe I was the only one who felt it.
After Emile hung up I’d taken the stairs and dashed back to my room that morning and I wasn’t entirely sure why. I think I just wanted the option to pretend like it hadn’t happened, a well intention but very short unsatisfying fumbled attempt in the dark.
I pretend to focus on my scrapbook when he came in to Rose's room to say
good-bye to Rose. She was to weak to talk but blinked her eyes in an
understanding manner, her fingers were still a slight green from her finger paints.
I gave a nod of acknowledgment as he turned to leave.
In a sudden show of strength Rose reached a hand out towards me, her IV almost coming out her arm
“Rose ? Do you need the doctor”
She had enough energy to make an offended face and pointed
at the picture in my hand. I helped her sit up, surprised she was taking an interest
in my scrapbook. I had the feeling she hated how happy my life had been before her.
“You like it ?”, I asked, "I'm working on your section."
She didn’t answer but gestured for the photo again. It was the photo I’d taken in front of Ashford cottage. Rose studied the picture and smeared a steak of green paint over it.
“Rose”, I scolded her and quickly wiped it off.
Rose neatly folded her arms in her lap and layed back down
"I don't want to look at them.""Them ? Rose that's a picture of us."
I wiped the paint off the photo, but there was one smudge that I couldn't get off. I bought it up to the light and squinted at one top section.
It was there in the window. In the outline of the thin gossamer curtains of Ashford Cottage I saw a formidable woman standing
with a cherubic little girl. They were looking right into the camera. Smiling
I tried to stay calm.
I picked up the photo and slid it into my pocket.
“Rose I have to make a phone call.”, I get up and run outside to where I can use a phone
I call Essex using the number from Fierro's address book.
“What”, I barked, “What do you want . . . what do you know.”
“What you and your husband are in denial about.”
“He’s not my husband and I’m not in denial. What’s is wrong with my daughter.”
He laughed.
“There is nothing wrong with her. She has an amazing energy. The lost dead are always going to be drawn to her. She is a fascinating pretty little thing.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“Make it stop”, I whispered, "Can you make her normal ?"
“It’s never going to stop—‘
“Then why the hell did you want my number ?”
“Because, I know how you can save your daughter’s life."
I walked outside and sat down on a bench
“How”
“Your daughter is dying, correct”
“Yes”
“Well she can’t die if she doesn’t have a soul, also if she didn't have a soul. . .she wouldn't attract the spectres.”
I was taken back by how frank he was.
“I guess so”, I said
“You need to make her soul disappear for the time being, until she's older.”
“I don’t know how to. . .”, God. I didn't even know what to call it, “Do that.”
“But I bet you know someone who does.”
I looked up at the people coming and going from the hospital.
“Victor Bourdeaux. He’s done it before. I could find him.”
“I’d be more than willing to accompany you. I’ve seen very little wondrous things in my life--”
“I’m going alone.”
“Ah, but you are going.”
I grabbed the phone tighter.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know where to find him—“
I stopped. I did. I kind of did know how to find him.
“What ?”,Essex asked, “What is it ?”
“Nothing. Good-bye.”
I ended the call before he could respond, going over the logistics in my head.
I suddenly had to do a lot of lying.
+++
So, something I found out about Clara while working on this and Bellum is that Clara (and Mr. Fierro) aren’t comfortable talking about sex. Mostly because their previous partners have been people they’ve known for years.
Yeah, Clara does start fantasizing about Peter a little in this chapter. I realized I’m a big Peter/Clara fan