The Broken Rose

         It had been a few days before she had even left the house in the first place, and now after being gone so long she wasn't sure she could go back in. She sat on the cold, hard concrete porch step while she tried to get up the nerve to put her key in the door and enter the house. The sun was sinking low in the western sky. There was a purple, painted stripe that banded the glowing horizon. The orange sun seemed to float in some sort of thick, life-giving, amniotic fluid. A broken bird nest, abandoned for the coming winter, lay on the edge of the walk where the concrete met the brown grass. The white lattice leaning against the red brick house badly needed a paint job. Their beautiful red roses, which he had planted for her on their first anniversary, were dead now after the abuse of the recent, harsh weather and neglect on her part. Piles of fallen colored leaves remained at the stumps of the trees in wet, icy, moldy mounds. Soon they would be covered with snow and over the next few months they would decompose. In the spring, no evidence of their existence would remain, but new leaves would spring from the branches above their ancestors' graves.
         As she watched the sun set, Diana wished she had not sat down. She wished she had just gone inside and shut the door firmly behind her. Her faded blue jeans offered no protection against the cold seat. The house key, at one time warm from the heat of her hands, had become cold. Her hands were cold, too. And they shook. She tried to concentrate on keeping them steady, but they only shook more. Her skin was a pale, translucent, almost-blue color. There were ugly, dark circles surrounding her blood-shot eyes. Normally her eyes were blue-- a sparkling sky blue, Mark had often said-- but now they could only be called a nondescript grey. Diana's dark brown hair had also lost its shine. It was thin and straight. She had allowed it to grow long; often these days she let it hang in her eyes. The ends were split and uneven, but Diana did not care.
         Finally she could no longer stand the chill and the growing darkness, so with a deep sigh Diana stood and brushed off the seat of her jeans. They were not snug, although at one time they did display nicely sculpted legs. They hung precariously from her bony hips, two sizes too large. Even her light pink sweater looked more like an afghan hung over her shoulders to cover her chest. Her shoulders were bony, too, but they seemed swallowed in thick yarn. She wore no bra.
         She grabbed her small suitcase and carry-on, and entered the house. Once inside she gently sat down her luggage, blindly flipped on the light that was at her immediate left and slid the chain lock in place. It was only then that she allowed herself any kind of a look at the house.
         It was musty and dark. The blinds and drapes had been pulled closed since the night she had left. The hanging spider plants in the front window had withered and died from lack of water, sunlight and fresh air. So had her violets and pothos. Diana took a finger tip to the small bookcase at her right and grimaced at the layer of dust. Several issues of the newspaper were still folded there. She picked up one and noticed the date, June 19, 1994. She should have known better than to pick up what she knew would be such a strong reminder of what had happened.
         Diana moved from the foyer on into the living room. She gently reached out to touch the nearest lamp and the room was flooded with a soft glow. Everything was just as she had left it. The back of the love seat was draped with one of her mother's pink and blue afghans. Pictures and trophies adorned the mantle above the fireplace. Cautiously, Diana went across the room and looked at the pictures. In one, a smiling, wet, college couple on a canoe trip laughed at the world and all its cares. Another was of Diana when she was just five, toothy grin and all. Her childish shoulders were thrown back and her chin jutted out in a Look-at-me-I-can-do-it expression. The very picture of kindergarten confidence! Next to her picture was one of a boy at about the same age. A mop of golden curls dominated the picture. His huge baby, brown eyes stared innocently at the camera in between the hair and his plaid bow-tie.          Diana traced the faint smile on his lips with her finger. A smile began to form on her lips, but something inside seized it and would not let it blossom. The next picture was considerably bigger. Diana picked it up gently, as if she were afraid she'd drop it. She eased into the nearest chair, his Lazyboy, as her pulse accelerated. She tucked her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath.
         Her dress was an excellent foil for his black tux. He stared down into those enchanting blue eyes, while she gazed upwards into his brown ones. She remembered thinking at the time how beautiful he was. They were holding both hands between them, fingering the new bands. In the blurry background was the reception of the family members and guests who had shared that special day. Diana's cheeks shone with a brightness that belongs only to a bride, and the groom had that impatient look that said he wished they were alone. To Diana there was no one else in the world.
         The tears began their familiar course down her cheeks immediately. She let the picture fall to her lap, leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. But all she saw were the other pictures in the album she knew was in the cabinet beneath the lamp on the end table. Images of the minister joining them; the sprawling cake; the champagne toast; the receiving line, where all her frail mother could do was snivel and her robust father stared sternly straight ahead; the bouquet of roses suspended in the air before her twelve year old sister, Marie, caught it. All this flashed before her eyes as if she were really turning the plastic pages herself.
         Diana opened her eyes, sniffed, and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She put the picture back in its place. There was still that thick, persistent lump in her throat. A cup of herbal tea before bed would help settle her down. In the kitchen, Diana found the tea pot still on the stove. She dumped the rusty, stale water in the sink and filled it with fresh water from the tap. After replacing it on the burner, she turned the stove on "high." In the cabinet above the sink, she pulled out the box of tea packets. She unwrapped a bag carefully so as not to puncture the fragile package. She found a mug in the drain board beside the sink. It was still full of dishes. Diana was reminded of the many times that Mark would do the dishes while she sat at the table after dinner sipping a similar cup of tea and working on reports. He always wanted to talk; she needed the time to work. She never understood why he asked about her day; he was never much interested in the accounts with which she was dealing.
         It was such a predictable pattern, though, and she couldn't remember him ever deviating from it. She got her tea, organized her notes and settled in with her work. In the mean time, he pulled out the DAWN, squirted a blue puddle in the dish basin, and tried to make a few Lawrence Welk bubbles. Then he ran the water until it was scalding hot, introduced it to the suds, tucked the small drying towel in his waistband, and bent his six foot three inch frame over the sink. After washing the glasses and cups in silence he inevitably asked, "Did anything interesting happen at work today, sweetheart?" Diana mumbled something, but eventually he drew her out of her work, and they discussed their day. Even with his back to her Diana knew that Mark heard everything she said. Every once in awhile, when she was trying to get back to work, he flicked bubbles at her. Anger arose within her, but disappeared as soon as she saw the enchanting, playful, boyish grin across his tanned face. She laughed. He turned back to the dishes. Oh, both of their work took longer but it was much more fun, she must admit. And then silently he finished the dishes, emptied the basin, dried the dishes and wiped the counter. Suddenly, peacefully, his arms wrapped around her and the chair. Gently, like a feather, a kiss descended on the nape of her neck. She sank into the embrace until the whisper came. "I love you." Diana stiffened and retreated.
         The tea kettle blew its shrilling whistle. Diana shook her head and the images fled. She snatched the tea pot from the red-hot burner and poured. The steam carried the sent of freshly brewed tea to her nostrils. She wrapped her cold hands around the mug and sat in silence at the kitchen table, waiting for the tea to cool.
         After she finished the tea, Diana decided it was time to try to get some sleep. She still had the nightmares and woke up in cold sweats. It had only been two weeks ago that she had started to sleep for any large amount of time. And three days ago she had only woken twice and she did not even have to get out of bed. She felt somewhat renewed, although last night was rough, probably because she was not sure about going home. Maybe tonight wouldn't be perfect, but she knew she had to try it.
         Diana took the suitcase into the bedroom. She paused at the doorway. The door was slightly closed. Cautiously she put down the suitcase and eased open the door. The bed was unmade; the sheets were tangled, the comforter was on the floor, and both pillows had that scrunched up look that resulted from a night's sleep. For a moment she was sure that he would pad in from the kitchen carrying his cup of coffee to see if she were awake, but then she saw the closet.
Hastily, Diana shifted her eyes to somewhere else in the room. First they collided with the bed. No, not the bed. Next they darted to the dresser. At first that seemed safe, but then she got a glimpse of his half-empty, cologne bottle that had been a birthday gift from her, and the gold band lying on the dusty surface. Her eyes returned to the closet.
Its brown, wooden sliding doors were open. She recalled the resounding bang they made when one slid them just a tad too hard and they ran into the baseboard. It echoed throughout the house. She had learned to ignore it. When they first moved into the house, the banging frightened her. She'd be working in another room and suddenly a loud bang would cause her to tremble with fear that Mark was angry at her for something. He never was, she learned. Well, only once.
         Except for shelves and hangers, the closet was empty. There were no dress shoes or gym shoes, no bowling bags or duffle bags on the floor of the closet. There were no boxes for memories or tax receipts on the shelves. A dozen or so cold, metal hangers hung like rusty skeletons tangled in confusion and desolation. They were bent and contorted. It seemed to Diana that the inflexible rage that had left them in such a disarray was still trapped in the stillness of the empty closet. An awareness of the same emptiness inside her grew in the very pit of her being. She pushed back the image of the furious man yanking clothes from the closet as her hand flew to her mouth, and the horror entered her heart.
         Diana found herself sinking against the wall in the hallway. She shook from within. "Damn it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" She pounded her fist against the wall in frustration. Finally, the shaking subsided and she breathed more freely. She would not deal with it like this. "Diana get a hold of yourself. The man is gone. You have work to do. It is time you got your life back on track. You have accounts to settle and clients up to your ears. You've fallen far enough behind. No more snivelling. You will not be your mother's daughter! He's not worth it. Tomorrow you can begin straightening and cleaning. Redecorate even. Go sleep on the couch, if you must! You did what you had to do. Just get on with your life."
         Diana retrieved the carry-on case from the receiving room and returned to the hallway bathroom. She turned on the light in the bathroom and put the carry-on on the seat of the toilet. She pulled out her long flannel nightshirt. Quietly, without looking in the full length mirror hanging on the door, Diana stripped out of her clothes and slipped into it. Next, she pulled her brush through her hair. The static crackled and the ends of her hair clung to the shoulders of the nightshirt. She put the brush on top of the toilet tank next to her body powder, and looked for her toothpaste and toothbrush in the carry-on. She found the paste, but realized she forgot to pack the pale-blue toothbrush. She could see it sitting next to the sink in her sister's house back in Indianapolis. Diana opened the medicine cabinet, knowing that there would be one of her old ones there; there was also obviously used, large, dark, red one and an almost empty, rolled-up tube of Colegate. Carefully Diana took out the white brush so as not to knock anything from the narrow cabinet. It was just a toothbrush, she firmly told herself. Her heart didn't see it that way. She shut the cabinet door.
         Staring back at her in the mirror was her red and tear-stained face, but beyond her was the semblance of her husband. There was something about him that caused fear to unfold inside of her. Anger and incredible pain was etched on his face. His lips were pressed into a firm line. A vein pulsated wildly at his temple. For a moment he allowed her to catch a glimpse of his soul. And then he closed his eyes, for she knew he could no longer bear to look at her. In her heart, without a word from him, she knew that he knew. How, she did not know. She had never wanted him to find out. He tried to speak, but his throat convulsed. He tried again and one, brief, soft word came from his eyes as much from his lips. Why? Diana just stared at Mark. Then she went back to her toothbrush and applied the paste. She was about to reach for the faucet when she heard him again ask Why?, except this time it came out a little stronger and more forceful. Diana paused mid-action and threw her chin up in the air. She eyed him through the glass of the mirror. At first she thought she'd pretend she didn't know what he was speaking about, but then she thought it better to be direct. "Because I didn't want it." She turned on the faucet.
         As soon as she had turned on the water, a large, tanned hand engulfed the knob and wrenched the water off. He struggled with the words. "Because. . .you didn't. . .want it?!"
         The last word seemed to bounce off every wall of the bathroom. Diana turned around and found herself pressed against the edge of the sink in an attempt to put some space between herself and Mark in the small bathroom. He was so big compared to her five foot, five inch feminine frame; however, she did not want to feel intimidated by him. She was in control of the situation. She knew she had done the right thing.
         "Mark," Diana began in a controlled, mature-sounding voice, "believe me, it was the right thing. I'm not ready for one. I don't have the time. If I slow down now, I won't get that promotion. I'm not quitting. And it would have cost so much. Have you ever seen the medical expenses? The shots and initial tests alone are enormous. Not too mention diapers and it would need an education eventually. We don't have the finances to go through all that. I honestly believe we should just hold off on this kind of thing until later. The doctor said there's no reason why we can't have one later." Diana smiled, "I'm still young. Twenty-nine is not over-the-hill."
         But Mark did not find anything amusing about what she had said. A knot formed in his stomach. "What about me?" His voice shook, "What about what I want? You know how much I've wanted children! We've been married seven years now. It's about time that we have kids."
         Diana turned back to the sink. "There's no reason why we need to rush into this. It would be much better to wait. Believe me, I know. Mama and Papa didn't wait and look at them. I've seen pictures of them before all of us kids. I wouldn't have known them. They look so young and in love. Now all they do is argue. Pa never stops yelling. Ma is always tired. The house is a mess, even though she constantly cleans. What has she got to show for her life? Ten squalling kids and ten thousand loads of diapers. Uh-uh. No way! That is not going to be me in fifteen years. I can wait for kids." Diana turned on the faucet and brushed her teeth. She felt, rather than heard, Mark leave the bathroom doorway, but suddenly she heard the banging of the closet door and she jumped. She told herself that was only normal, but her heart still raced nervously. The toothbrush fell into the sink with a clatter. Diana fled the bathroom.
         She found Mark in the bedroom. She hardly recognized him. He stood in front of the closet, furiously yanking clothes indiscriminately from their hangers. Diana caught a glimpse of his face as he threw a bundle on the bed. It was fiery red. Diana timidly sobbed, "Mark?"
         He stopped and stared at her standing in the doorway.
         "What are you doing?" she asked.
         "I don't know what I'm doing." He was breathing hard, as if he had just completed his late afternoon jog. "I can't...begin...to...to accept this! I can't believe you did this. You didn't even tell me you were...! Oh God!"
         "Mark. It wasn't supposed to happen. I thought I had made sure with the pills. I know you want kids, but not yet," Diana's voice still trembled as she struggled to defend her choice. "Just think what it would have done to our marriage. We'd be up all night. We'd be constantly cleaning, feeding and changing. We'd be exhausted. We'd never have time for just us. And you can forget about dancing. My feet would hurt too much. No more romantic nights eating out. No more quiet nights at home for that matter.
         "And I'm not ready to spend anymore of my days shoveling Gerbers into wailing mouths, wiping spit-up off of every conceivable piece of furniture, and counting the hours to dinner by the soaps, while you carry out a fulfilling career in your nice, cozy, temperature-controlled office everyday, only to be waited on hand and foot by a `sweet' secretary who has a cute, tight butt! Then five o'clock rolls around and it's, `What's for supper? Call me when its ready. I'll be reading the paper.' And there you'll plop down in the Lazy-boy, pop the tab off a beer can and push the crawling monsters off your lap and yell at me to get control of my kids. I've seen enough of that, thank you! It destroyed Mama and it would surely destroy our marriage, our life together."
         At her last sentence Mark looked up from his hands, which he was trying to control, and stared intently at her. Then something akin to acceptance passed over his face. His eyes became cold and his jaw relaxed. Mark rose from the bed and calmly folded and packed his clothes into a suitcase. Resolutely he moved about the room collecting his things, all the while avoiding her gaze. In the doorway, Diana stood clutching her folded hands tightly to her chest. She didn't know why but the tears she thought would pour shamefully out of her eyes never did. All she could think was, "Why am I not crying?" Then she heard the zipper on the suitcase close and Mark pushed passed her. The immediacy of the situation hit her.
         Diana hastened to followed her husband down the hallway to the front of the house. He paused and stared at the closed door, as if he were trying to decide what to say. A few moments passed, and then he reached for the doorknob.
         "Don't go Mark, please!" For the first time Diana's tears poured down her face and her voice shook noticeably, but Mark had already made up his mind. He left the house and headed down the front path. "Mark! Think about this. What are you doing? What about our marriage? What about. . . me? I love you!"
         Mark dropped his suitcase and turned around to face her. His dark face was wet with silent tears. "Damn it! How can you say that, after what you've done? You didn't think of me, our marriage or our child. You didn't think about loving me when you killed our baby. I was a fool."
         Mark took a ragged breath and continued, "Diana, I need a wife, not a roommate. I can't deal with your need for `independence' anymore. You have kept every part our lives separated like our bank accounts. Our friends, our jobs, our hobbies, even our gyms are separate. We don't share a thing! Not a damn thing, Diana, but the same address and bed. How long do you honestly think a charade like our marriage could last? You just snuffed out whatever chance it had!" With that Mark grabbed the suitcase, got in his car parked across the street and drove away.
         Diana found herself once again sitting on the front porch staring out into the sky that night. The sun was gone and night sounds surrounded her. A cold, northern wind blew through the empty trees and carried the smell of a lit, neighborhood fireplace. Goosebumps appeared all over her body beneath her nightshirt. A few late-falling leaves danced and skipped down the residential street. Long, sharp, purple shadows stretched across the overgrown lawn as a gibbous moon shown down brightly through the branches. To her left, Diana saw the eerie shadow cast on the brick of the house by the lattice work. The side of the house looked like a huge apple pie crust. Below the shadow were the dead rose bushes that would have to be dug up. Diana turned her face up to the softly glowing moon. In the distance, Diana could hear the traffic on the closest highway. If she listened hard enough she could make out the train as it barreled down the tracks way beyond. On warm summer nights when the bedroom window was open and she couldn't sleep, but Mark could, she used to lie there and listen for the whistle to blow. Now she heard its high pitch fade in the night air until it became a small, silent scream.