The House of Roses

  The House of Roses

  Holden Robinson

  Black Rose Writing

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 2010 by Holden Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First printing

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-935605-52-2

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  The House of Roses is printed in 12-point Constantia

  As stated, the characters and events in this book are fictional. Any similarity to individuals or events, past or present, is coincidence. However; hospice care is very real. I would be remiss if I didn't say thank you to all the hospice care professionals who come into our lives during our darkest hours. A special thank you to all who cared for my daddy, Frederick Holden, as he faced the final days of his brave fight with cancer. I do not remember your names or faces, and for this, I apologize. I will always remember what you meant to our family. This could never be forgotten.

  Acknowledgments

  I cannot begin to thank everyone who helped and supported me along this journey. Thank you to Mom, my rose, who has done more for me than she will ever know, including helping to title this book. Without your love and limitless support, none of this would have been possible. To my daughter, Heather Ann Robinson, who holds me to a special standard she knows I can achieve. You make me want to be a better person. I don't know what I would have become, if not for you.

  To my girls, Cindy Ruffo, Anna Holt, and Kristie Holden, thank you for the fun, for reading my words, and for your patience when I talked of nothing but this book and the many others to come. To my brother, William Holden, who is a talent waiting to be discovered, and a kind and gentle man. To Tyler Ruffo, who was delighted by the car AC gave him for his sixteenth birthday, even though it said Matchbox on it. To my sister, Joanne Stevenson, whose arrival in my life a few years ago reminded me that the greatest gifts are the miracles we don't expect, and that family is a word that is constantly redefined. To those whose names I have not mentioned, thank you for tolerating my drama. I know it is not always easy.

  A special thank you to Deb Morrissey, my soul sister, whose support gets me through the dark times, and whose calls remind me that it's okay to be crazy. To John Goleeke, who thought I was beautiful, despite my flaws. You made me believe anything was possible, and I miss you. To Jill Kraft, who made me feel like a superstar when I couldn't afford milk. Thank you! I really needed to feel that way.

  To Anita Melograna, and Fran Molinaro of Crosswinds Agency. You never tired of my endless emails, my persistent whining, and my fading tolerance. It has been an honor to share this journey with you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. To Bill Thompson, one of the first to recognize my ability, who reminded me that it is honorable to have passion. Without you, Bill, I am not sure I would have pressed on when things got tough.

  In loving memory of my father, Frederick Holden, whose death, while painfully tragic, taught me how to live.

  And, of Kat Kraengel, my very best friend, who knew I was unique in every sense of the word, and loved me anyway.

  Thanks, Kat. You reunited the girls of the CV class of 1983.

  You are both missed, and will remain forever in my heart.

  The House of Roses

  One

  It was such an unusual feeling, as if hundreds of butterflies had taken flight and fluttered about in a majestic dance. It could have been indigestion. Less than an hour earlier, she had quieted her massive appetite with fat-filled pastries. The bakery delivered, providing comfort food to the immobile, and as she brushed away crumbs from the massive protrusion beneath her breasts, she felt shame and disgust at her gluttony. It had to be the donuts. Just to be sure, she watched the clock to see if the discomfort would pass. Five minutes passed – five minutes that felt like a lifetime – and suddenly forty-four year old Caitlin Goodrich knew it wasn't butterflies, or the dietary misdemeanor. It was full blown labor. She reluctantly called her mother, and Rita Hollings answered on the first ring.

  “Is it time?” her mother asked, without saying hello.

  “Yes,” Caitlin replied breathlessly.

  “I'm coming.”

  “Mom, wait....,” Caitlin said, hearing the phone disconnect. “Here we go,” she whispered to the empty room. “Oh, Georgie, what am I doing?” she whined to her ancient Persian cat who sat eying her from the back of the sofa. Georgie blinked twice and laid his head on his paws. In typical feline fashion, he offered no response, and remained oblivious to the mass chaos about to invade his peaceful existence.

  Two babies, not one, would soon descend upon the domicile, replete with all the paraphernalia necessary to insure the infants' comfort. When the pain subsided, Caitlin recalled gently touching each item before placing it in the tastefully decorated nursery she had finished hours before. Obviously, just in time, she thought.

  Her reverie was interrupted by her abdomen, which seemed to be taking on a life of its own. Her stomach muscles contracted again, announcing she should get to the hospital without delay.

  “Oh, babies, not now,” Caitlin whispered, as she stood motionless in the living room of her Brooklyn apartment. “CSI Miami reruns are on tonight, and there are dirty dishes in the sink. Could you wait until Monday or Tuesday?”

  She plodded carefully through the living room, feeling the plush gray carpet soothe her bare feet. She couldn't imagine leaving the safety of her sanctuary, couldn't imagine putting shoes on the feet that had betrayed her and now looked more like thighs with toes.

  “Ugh,” she said to the empty room, as another contraction threatened to tear her apart. “Mom!” she hollered, although Rita Hollings was still en route.

  She grabbed the handset of the phone, tempted to call her mother's cell phone to see how close she was, but thought better of it. Once her mother arrived, she'd be in Caitlin's life nonstop for weeks, and she knew it was in her best interest to enjoy her last few moments of peace.

  Caitlin passed the mirror in the hallway, and against her better judgment, glanced at it. She paused, and although inclined, she didn't gasp. Who was this woman staring back at her with fear and doubt in her eyes? Caitlin was a barely recognizable version of her former self. Nine months before, she had been beautiful, not by her own definition, but by his. Her blond hair was the same. The soft curls lay against shoulders tense from pain. Her blue eyes remained prominent in the face swollen by the strain of third-trimester pregnancy. She was tall like her mother, but still she'd felt dwarfed next to him.

  The pain forced her to look away from the mirror.

  “Ugh,” she groaned again, her one word a mixture of sound and breath. She looked at the phone she still held in her hand. There was one more call she needed to make, but she wasn't ready. She knew she should call him, should tell him. He should know. But, how would she even start? What would she say? I'm scared. I need you. I was wrong to let you go. I love you. I never stopped.

  “I do love you,” Caitlin whispered, feeling a sharp pain in her chest unrelated to the imminent birth.

  She still saw him everywhere, still heard his voice in a crowd. No amount of detergent could erase his smell from the sheets where they'd slept. She remembered that last morning, no ma
tter how hard she tried to force the memory from her mind. The sadness and resignation in his eyes. The tightening in her chest that felt like an impending death.

  Their lives had been so different, so difficult to mesh into one. He was always emotionally detached, afraid to share his feelings with her. She tired of competing for his attention. There was always someone else, something else, and he seemed to have so little left over for her. She wanted to be the center of his world, but the world seemed to devour him, this man of medicine, and only when it was done, did it send what little was left of him, back to her. It hadn't seemed like enough.

  He gave so much of himself to his patients, fighting to save each one no matter how slim the odds. He was such a good man, a kind man. What had gone wrong?

  Caitlin was proud of him, but had she ever told him? She sensed a deep pain within him, this man who showed such great strength to the outside world, and she'd tried so many times to get him to open up to her. The last time had been on Christmas the previous year. He'd lost a patient the night before, a child, something that should never happen as the young lay dreaming of presents under holiday trees strung with twinkling lights. He'd arrived at her door on Christmas morning, just past dawn, his green eyes, red-rimmed. She'd never seen him so broken, and she had offered her support. She'd wanted to unburden him of his pain, but no amount of coaxing had enticed him to share his feelings with her. She needed him to open his heart and show her what was inside, but it wasn't within his capabilities. After that, she had simply stopped trying, and the distance between them had evolved into a chasm neither could cross. One month passed. One hellish month filled with tears, ugly words, and finally, resignation. They'd agreed to end it once and for all, promising to remain friends, both knowing it wasn't possible.

  On a cold January morning, in their final moments together, they'd stood in the pouring rain on the front steps of her brownstone. She'd struggled to memorize his face, his voice, the feel of him beside her. And then, as he'd walked away for the last time, she'd struggled to survive an unthinkable tragedy. The death of love.

  The weeks that followed were a living hell. She became the ultimate born again spinster, wallowing in self-pity in ugly sweat clothes, an aging and mostly deaf cat, her only companion. She cried tears, buckets of them, and even now they came without warning.

  “Colin,” she wailed, as the fiercest of the contractions gripped her.

  It was never as bad as she thought, but it had taken many sleepless nights to realize that. She'd loved him, she'd been in love with him, and still loved him. She'd loved the man he was, the man he would become. But, it was too late. She'd heard from a friend of a friend that he'd met someone and was happy. Things had worked out for him. He'd moved on, keeping the promise they'd made one another in the final moments they had shared. He hadn't kissed her but squeezed her hand, and she'd only met his stare for a moment – long enough to see the unshed tears lingering in his eyes. She should have stopped him. Maybe he would have stayed. Maybe the angry words they'd exchanged the night before hadn't been a means to an end. Maybe they should have fallen into bed and had the best make-up sex ever, and eventually they had. In the early morning hours, after the accusations had quieted, the tears had dried, and the painful decision to part had been made, he'd taken her hand, and led her quietly from the sofa to her bed. Their last hours had been the most incredible of her life, but they had left her heart ravaged. It had been like a symphony, a joining of souls, as if all the uncertainly was gone, and they were free to be what they always could be, just to each other. But as dawn arrived, the music had taken on a funereal tone, as if death was imminent. And, it was. As the sun rose that Sunday morning nine months before, her dreams had died.

  Suddenly Caitlin was reminded of birth, not death, as another contraction grabbed her, nearly taking her to her knees. As she struggled to maintain her balance, she heard a key in the front door.

  “Time for the shoes,” were the only words her frazzled mind conjured up.

  Rita Hollings flew through the door in a flurry of mismatched clothes, old trench coat and unruly blond hair. At sixty-nine, Rita looked more like something from the sixties, as opposed to someone in her sixties. Caitlin padded back to the living room as fast as her massive self would allow, and thrust her swollen feet into the furry slippers Rita had brought the previous week. They were not attractive, surely not an accessory to any fine set of lingerie. Instead, their size alone nearly proved the existence of Big Foot.

  “Baby, the taxi's waiting,” Rita said, sounding panicked, her lack of composure doing little to calm her daughter's nerves.

  “Mom, I don't think I can wear shoes,” Caitlin complained.

  “Get in the taxi, shoes or not,” Rita said, reaching for her daughter's hand.

  “There are dirty dishes in the sink,” Caitlin whined and Rita rolled her eyes.

  “I'll do them when we get back.”

  “You never get them clean, Mom. You never did,” Caitlin criticized.

  “Forget the damn dishes. When we get back you can show me how to clean them properly,” Rita said, sounding hurt.

  Caitlin opened her mouth to argue, but her words disappeared into a scream brought about by excruciating pain.

  “Okay,” she squeaked, when she'd regained the ability to speak. She obediently followed her mother to the door, and Rita Hollings bent quickly to pick up the small bag that had been packed for days.

  “Are there shoes in here?” her mother asked, and Caitlin shrugged. “Doesn't matter, let's go,” she added, flipping off the main light in the living area. The room sat bathed in the glow cast by one small lamp in the far corner of the room. Georgie's eyes peered from the back of the sofa. Caitlin looked around thoughtfully, knowing when she returned everything would be different.

  “I love you,” she whispered as Rita disappeared down the stairs to the waiting taxi.

  The cat blinked in response. She did love that cat, he'd been her one true friend, but the words were not only for him. They were for another as well, and for the life she was leaving behind her.

  There was no turning back. Without so much as another glance, Caitlin closed the door, and followed her mother down the stairs toward whatever lay ahead.

  ***

  Colin Thomas sat behind the wheel of his late model Volvo, staring through the windshield at her apartment window. He had to tell her. He hated how the words sounded in his head, so cliché, “it's not you, it's me,” but in this case, it was the truth. Well, almost. What he really wanted to say is “you just aren't her,” but he could envision the pained look on her face, and so he sat, trying to find the right words to say to the woman he feared was falling in love with him, the woman he could never love.

  She'd often accused him of being somewhere else – not only when he was late, but while he was in the room with her. “A woman knows,” she'd said, the feelings she had for him written all over her face.

  He wanted to fall in love with her, and when he'd met her two months before, he thought he was ready to try.

  She was beautiful, petite, with long black hair, and beautiful brown eyes. She was kind and loving, but she wasn't Caitlin, and no matter how much she tried, she never would be. He was somewhere else. He'd admitted it to himself, and it was finally time to tell her. His heart wasn't in it, and he was certain she knew. His heart had never left the front stoop of Caitlin's apartment building. It still stood, beating rapidly, in the pouring rain, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked himself, his words sounding hollow in the empty car.

  How had he let her go? How had he given up so easily? Convinced that Caitlin deserved more, he'd walked away and left her to find it. He still saw friends they'd shared, but they were tight-lipped and revealed nothing about what her life was like now that he was no longer in it. Why hadn't he fought for her? He'd wanted to, but part of him had been so typically male, and he admitted to himself, he wondered if there was someone else
for him, too. The prospect of meeting someone new had excited him, at least in the early days, until he realized he wasn't looking for someone new, he was looking for Caitlin.

  Colin flipped on the overhead light in the car and checked his watch. Lorry would be home any moment. He glanced at the seat beside him, and the flowers that lay there, and chastised himself for being such an incredible asshole. He was bringing flowers to a woman he intended to break up with.

  She knocked on the window before he could collect his thoughts, and he smiled at her.

  “Shit,” he whispered, as he turned to reach for the flowers.

  “Hi,” Lorry Andrews said, as he climbed out of the car, his parting gift held tightly in his right hand.

  “Hi,” Colin replied, already feeling like the world's biggest jerk.

  “For me?” she asked, noticing the flowers.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “What's the occasion?” she asked with a smile that didn't meet her eyes.

  “I'm hoping you'll forgive me for being such a jerk,” he said, reaching for words.

  “Were you a jerk?” she asked, this time without the smile.

  “Not yet,” he replied, and he heard her sigh.

  “Parting gift?” she asked, and again he was amazed by her intuition.

  “Yeah.”

  “It's okay, I guess I saw it coming,” she said, her voice calm but flat.

  “It's not you.”

  “I know that,” she replied, and this time they both smiled. “You wanna talk about it?” she asked, and he was amazed by her kindness. At that moment he felt awful for wishing she were someone else. She was terrific just as she was.