Eden Undone

Lola sat on the edge of the bed, too weak to stand. Her fragile, weathered frame now more gaunt than elegantly thin, more worn out than broken in.
As she teetered on the brink of falling face forward onto the floor, the glow of the afternoon sun through the window across the room caught her eye. She cradled her too heavy head in her delicate right hand, using her elbow to stay upright. She gingerly made her way the few steps to the chair by the window.
From her tiny retirement community room, she could see two little girls circling a swing one of the neighbors had thoughtfully hung from her favorite oak tree. She imagined that, once again, she was the strong and mighty oak, immovable and useful, included in a world that seemed to now have forgotten her in favor of newer models. Not that she was bitter – far from it.
From her rural upbringing in the windy, desolate Wales countryside to her status as one of the most famous actresses to grace the London stage, she had carved out her share of bliss. “LOLA! LOLA! LOLA! they would chant, clamoring for any microscopic shard of her attention.
She used her maiden name - Taylor - back then, determined to ensure there would be no question that she succeeded because of her own talent and name, not because of her husbands’ worth.
She grinned a bit as the smallest girl, no more than four, jumped onto the swing and began begging her older sister to push her. As the tiny one rocked her legs back and forth beneath her, Lola’s face suddenly dropped ever so slightly as a stark realization overcame her like a wave crashing to shore: Life would go on without her.
It was a thought that had somehow thus far escaped her. Both of those young girls would grow up, God willing, to experience many of the same things she had during her ninety plus years, and hopefully even more. That tree will live much longer than she did, despite the fact that it was there at her birth. In fact, she chose this place to die because this was the spot on which her childhood home once stood, so tiny and weak, much like she had become.
Her eyes lit up once again as a car pulled slowly into the u-shaped driveway. What color was it? It could be black…or maybe dark blue? God, why do they paint everything the same these days? When she was young, cars only came in a few colors, but hardly anyone had one, so it didn’t really matter. Horses, that’s how her family got around. Now that was a noble form of transportation.
As the driver climbed out of his side, a lazy orange glow reflected off his head. Bald? No, as far as she knew, her son Robby had not gone bald. It wasn’t them.
“They were supposed to be here by now,” she muttered to no one, glancing at the door to her right.
It was her birthday, after all - the one day every year that loved ones and strangers alike had to give credence to her for simply hanging in there another year. Once seventy is a distant memory, every birthday should be met with proper pomp and circumstance. Queen, that’s what they should do for her to reward her simply for the sheer will to survive.
Her thoughts rewound to a day and time so long ago that the colors within her memory, once so sharp and vibrant, had faded and blurred. But the sounds of the theatre were razor sharp.
Her first audition for the London stage. She met her future second husband Simon there and together, they had a theatrical run and a torrid love affair that all of British society seemed to envy endlessly.
Her first marriage was not so glamorous. Daniel, an American soldier stationed near her hometown, was a kind and gentle man, but had none of the qualities she thought she wanted at that time. Things like wealth…fame…genius. Those things seemed so dreadfully important then, in a time when she was trapped in her own ambition, worn across her face like the veil of a new hat.
Unfortunately, Simon, David, Neil and Frederick had all wooed her with what she thought she wanted and ended up giving her nothing she needed. In fact, most of them lavished more attention on their aging cars or antique guns than their aging spouse.
Granted, it wasn’t easy for them to cope with a woman they could not easily control. She was independent and outspoken in a day when those were not admirable virtues for a young woman. She wanted to be the Dorothy Parker of her Round Table and instead became the unwilling hostess of a ceaseless string of dinner parties where the food was splendid and the conversation deplorable.
Every time one of her ‘society’ friends engaged in witless small talk over clinking wine glasses, she knew they really wanted to ask the important questions:
Was she still refusing to sleep with Simon? Did she still keep the box of love notes Daniel sent before he died – more than one hundred before he was killed in action? Did she still have the flag that held his patriotism within its folds? Did David or Neil ever find out she was keeping Costas on the side? Oh, COSTAS! How could she have forgotten him for a minute?
Shame on them for such silly thoughts! If she wondered about their lives, she would simply get down to it and ask in her typical, somewhat brash way.
“So…Lilly,” she began one night after the opera.
“Did Michael ever stop trying to get you to do that thing in bed? I mean, if you ask me, that is a pretty abnormal request. Has he considered some sort of sex therapy?”
Lilly’s young, taught face instantly filled in a lovely shade of crimson, her eyes darting across the room to her husband Michael, a mere few feet away. He was laughing hysterically at something Lola was almost positive was not nearly that humorous. He was such a pretentious horse’s ass. In fact, that's an insult to his horse.
“Come on, you can tell me,” Lola prodded with a wink and a grin, softly nudging Lilly with her elbow.
“I won’t tell a soul.”
And she wouldn’t. She never told one lousy secret in her entire lousy life. No one knew, after all, that her ex husband David’s heart attack came not from overexerting himself during early morning polo practice, but had indeed been brought on by an exhausting bout of pre-dawn sex. The kind of sex that melted wallpaper off the walls and made the hounds – and David – howl. Bet his mistress never did THAT for him.
The bloated old sot had it coming, most definitely. He couldn’t keep his hand out of the cookie tin if there was a bear trap lurking in the thing flashing red.
So maybe she helped him on his way just a bit by making sure that he had stayed up all night when his doctor so clearly lectured that any fatigue followed by strenuous activity after the heart attack could kill him instantly. Well, it wasn’t exactly instantly after all. The bloke took a good twenty minutes to die. The things one puts up with for love.
Well, at least he approached the Hereafter with a smile on his face and his wallet left conveniently on the dressing table. Who knew he carried that much cash? She had earned it, after all, and by the time his children were finished with the estate, she’d been very grateful for that small amount of compensation.
She let out a little giggle, convincing herself once again that the fact that her next husband, Neil, died in a similar manner was simply pure coincidence. Yes, he was much more lean and firm than the others, but he was also more impatient and moody. Stress is a known indicator of future cardiac problems, after all. Too bad really; he was her favorite husband.
Another car in the driveway, but definitely…
gold? Was it gold? Well, it didn’t really matter because she was sure as punch that Robby’s car was not gold. He would never be that flashy or showy.
An accountant, for cripey’s sake! Could one have a more boring occupation than squeezing numbers and trying to get back pennies and nickels for his ungrateful, whiney clientele. And her granddaughter Kate, named after another famous doyenne, going into the same line of work! With her delicate features and natural grace - not to mention the mane of flaming red hair she inherited from me - she could have been a movie star.
If she and Costas had children together, they would have been much better at risk taking, savvier at traversing the tumultuous, murky waters of life so that no moment was wasted.
Ah, dear, temperamental, brooding, passionate, talented fingered Costas. Apparently, they teach boys in Cuba more important lessons than how to saddle a horse before unleashing them upon the female population.
After one particularly earth-shattering night with her Latin lover, she had been so impressed that she sent his mother a check to cover a year’s worth of her house payments. Costas was so grateful she was able to get another three solid nights out of him until she had to go home to Neil, moments before he’d arrived home from his mistress’s flat.
Costas and those damn white suits that he always wore no matter what time of year it was. He’d wanted to marry her, of course, and had asked on more than one occasion.
“My dahhhhhhhling flower,” he would say with his deep Spanish accent. Yes, he had been in England for decades and not lost the accent, but who would want to?
“Be my beloved wife,” he would purr in her ear.
“Take my name and make me yours.”
Take his name? Why didn't he take HER name?
Instead, she was stuck with Mulberry of all creatures! She should have married Costas, but it was too late now. She was devastated to learn only a decade ago that he died in a boating mishap. Or was it a car accident? Either way, she should have informally adopted his name as an homage to him, or at least to allay guilt over not marrying him.
The memory of his hot breath on her neck still made the hairs stand up all over her body.
He was the best in bed she’d ever had, even though he was probably the lightest in the brain department too. Apparently, most of his bulk settled below the belt.
She’d have to remember to thank the Good Lord for that one before she died.
Another bloody SUV! How many did that make today? It had to be at least seven in and out of the parking lot since she awoke just before the sun. Even half the staff on site had those gas guzzling eye sores! So very American. She hated herself for loving them.
She stared out onto the manicured lawn again, the color of her favorite emerald and diamond earrings. Perhaps she should take them out and give the people at the restaurant something to look at. As she began to turn and make her way back across the room to her bureau, she halted suddenly, swaying a bit in her tracks.
“That’s right,” she whispered, remembering she had given the earrings to her granddaughter at her college graduation because she had no money left to buy a present. It was the last trinket she had, but it seemed so much less important and valuable than seeing Kate smile. She was such a sap for sentiment sometimes.
Suddenly, she heard the door creak open as one of the resident nurses entered the room. Young, bouncy, flirty, petite little Kelly.
She liked Kelly because she was kind despite having a butt that you could bounce a quarter off of. Heaven knows she could be a real bitch with a face and body like that. Bet she was a cheerleader only a few years ago.
“Mrs. Mulberry,” she said softly, her delicate hand settling on Lola’s back.
“Mrs. Mulberry, your son has called and said he is running late today and to apologize to you.”
Even Kelly didn’t believe the words to be sincere, but she tried to sound it just the same.
Lola lowered her head a bit, taking the lace from the bottom of her jacket and rubbing it between her fingers.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Mulberry, I know how much you are looking forward to seeing your family today,” Kelly continued in her most gentle tone.
“I’m sure they’ll be here within the next hour or so, at least that’s what he said.”
Lola didn’t answer, but instead lifted her hands a bit and smoothed the rayon of her red skirt over her thin thighs. She sat back down on the bed, which thankfully was right behind her, and pushed her tiny red satin purse with the glittering rhinestones a bit farther away from her body. She aligned her red satin pumps perfectly before her and gently touched the faux pearls encircling her neck.
“Mrs. Mulberry?” Kelly asked, concerned about the awkward silence.
“It’s Lola, dear. Just Lola.”

END