Orange Flowers in the Wintertime

            by Sophie Meryash

 

The table was long. Its sharp edges jutted out like kitchen knives and its smooth surface had been stripped of all dust or food crumbs that might have once inhabited it. Ms. Linden stared at her daughter from across the table, examining her posture and appearance, both of which she felt were unacceptable. The two women faced one another; their stiff wooden chairs were perfectly aligned and strategically placed parallel to the center of the table. Metal knives and forks scraped glass plates, creating noise in the otherwise silent room. Ms. Linden looked at the table, noticing how the red, blue, and black hues of the sky bled onto it, producing dark shadows around her flower vases. What a perfect moment, she thought as a slight smile emerged on her face. Her eyes scanned the room and she felt content. But her smile was short lived, as her gaze fixed upon the one out of place object, Jennifer.

            Jennifer Linden was tall and skinny. Her cheek bones appeared to be the only structure holding up her sunken eyes, and, in contrast to her body, her head looked abnormally large. Ms. Linden didn’t mind her daughter’s addiction to cocaine, but once that addiction switched focus to a more satisfying drug, heroin, and the neighbors began to notice her emaciated figure, Ms. Linden was forced to intervene. Jennifer’s once slim shape had shrunken to a drastically smaller size. Ms. Linden was once pleased with her daughters presentably slim body, yet now that Jennifer’s skin had begun to sink in all the wrong places, Ms. Linden could no longer be seen with her in public. She studied Jennifer, noticing how rubbery and thin her skin looked, as if someone had stretched it almost to breaking point over her bones.

            “Dear, sit up straight. You look bad enough as it is. The least you can do is have some good posture. Please dear, do it for your mother,” Ms. Linden said. Jennifer could hear the annoyance in her mother’s voice. Her words were sharp and choppy and fed the dinning room with her coldness.

            Ms. Linden watched intently as her daughter muscled an appropriate dining pose and lifelessly stared down at the small hill of salad on her plate, picking off the fruits and walnuts. 

            “So, mom, Bobby is coming over to pick me up. I’m leaving after dinner,” Jennifer muttered in a hoarse voice, whispering each word as if she was being forced to speak.

            Ms. Linden dropped her knife and the edges of her mouth curved downward. The last light of the day crept into the dining room table, intensifying the shadow of her frown. She craned her neck and her tiny form became menacing and tall.

            “What? Jennifer dear, I told you that I no longer want you seeing that boy. He’s not good for you, he’s not good for us,” Ms. Linden’s voice began to quicken. “What if the neighbors see him? What will they think? Some older boy, strung out on drugs visiting our house, visiting our neighborhood. Did you ever think of that? That boy does not belong in the Lilac Meadows community.  That little prick, coming over here ruining my reputation, ruining you! How dare you invite him to my home!”

            Jennifer flinched as her mom’s sharp words ripped at her heart. She knew her mother had a hidden ferocity but even she was surprised when her mother’s composure was broken.

            “Mom, I know you don’t like him. But I’m eighteen now, if I want to be with him I will.” Jennifer stuttered, “I love him, and I wish you would just accept it, I’m not your little girl anymore.”

            “You don’t love him Jennifer; you love what he gives you. You love the drugs and the attention. I will not stand for this behavior. You’re right, you aren’t my little girl anymore, you aren’t anything to me anymore,” Ms. Linden felt good as she spoke, her words encapsulated her rage. She hated Bobby. He was killing her daughter; stripping her of her innocence and perfection. Now she was a mess, a heroin abuser, a drug addict.

            “But mom, if you just gave him a chance…” Her words trailed off into tears. Jennifer pulled at her sleeves to cover the needle tracks and bruising, “he does have a problem I know, but I can help him mom, I want you to believe me, he’s a sweet man, I want you to believe me mom.”

            For the first time in at least three days Jennifer looked into her mother’s eyes.  Ms. Linden knew as well as her daughter did that Bobby had a problem, not only with abusing drugs but with abusing Jennifer. Her stare was strong and harsh against her daughter’s. If she let Jennifer go she would disappear forever, spiral down into an endless oblivion. And what would her neighbors think? This family was supposed to be perfect; a drug addict for a daughter was far from perfect. A tear rolled down Ms. Linden’ cheek, her daughter was lost. Jennifer was a bruise on her mother’s reputation. At one point she believed Jennifer had a chance, she could regain her innocence, become an acceptable daughter, but now the cold hard reality of her daughter’s fate set in. Jennifer would not be coming home.            

            “Oh don’t you dare make me the bad one. I’ve done all I can for you, this is your choice. You leave this home and you leave me.”

            “You’ve done all you can? Stop lying to yourself mother. You were to ashamed to even take me to counseling. Ever since dad died you’ve been this impersonal bitch. I can’t take it anymore. You know what, I’m glad I’m leaving this place, I’m glad I’m leaving you. And I hope the fucking neighbors hear me saying this too! You killed your happy innocent daughter mom, it was you. You made me this way and I don’t want you getting off easy thinking Bobby did this. Don’t blame him. It was you mom…” Jennifer was sobbing yet her voice was strong. This was the first time in her life she had defended herself against her mother.

            “Get out,” rage churned inside Ms. Lindens eyes. “You little cunt. Who are you to speak to me this way? Get out.” She whispered each word as if containing an unspeakable anger.

            Jennifer sat up. Her fragile hands gripped one of her mother’s plates and smashed it against the wall. Salty tears blinded her as she ran for the door. Ms. Linden sat with a composed expression and perfect posture in her chair.

            “Goodbye mother,” Jennifer said with spite as she exited their home.

            Ms. Linden stared at the empty doorway. It was raining outside and her daughter had left the door wide open. She looked intently at the hardwood floor as the heavy raindrops entered her home. Her glance shifted to the broken glass across from her, the plate was shattered and little pieces were scattered throughout the room. A tear rolled down her check. She broke my china, Ms. Linden thought. That bitch broke my china.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were red. Salt traces stained Ms. Lindens face, a product of her tears the night before. She stared out of her window fixated on the street lamp cemented to the ground. It was raining hard. The large water drops created dirty gray puddles on the sidewalk. Ms. Linden furrowed her brows and squeezed her tiny palms together until her knuckles were white, as she engulfed herself in an ancient memory. A tiny figure danced through Ms. Linden’s thoughts. She was dressed in a pink tutu, covered in sparkles and strawberry perfume.

            “Mommy,” the girl said. “When I get older I’m gonna be a famous ballerina. I’m gonna dance in a theater and you and daddy and lots of other people will be sitting in the crowd watching me. Will you be there mommy, when I become a ballerina?”

            Pools of tears filled the corners of Ms. Linden’s eyes.

            “Of course I’ll be there,” Ms. Linden had said. “But Jennifer, if you’re really serious about this you might have to sacrifice a little. You know those yummy ice cream cones that you eat after dinner sometimes? If you want to be a real ballerina, you might have to give that up. Ballerinas don’t eat that type of food. You must be slim and graceful, and honey that ice cream might make you a little heavy so that you can’t do those pretty ballerina twirls anymore. Will you give up ice cream cones Jennifer?”

            “Yes momma, of coarse I’ll give up ice cream cones, I’d rather be a ballerina.”

Ms. Linden loved her daughter. She loved her obedience and her perfection. Jennifer was once beautiful. Her hair was long and golden like Ms. Lindens, her nose was perfectly aligned with her face and she had dark cherry lips, voluptuous and wide. But these things changed once her father died. Her hair was colored black and her nose began to cave into her face. But the lips, the lips that Ms. Linden loved the most, the lips that were a reflection of hers, became colorless and dull, drained by a pointy needle. Jennifer was not her daughter anymore; she was a stranger both physically and emotionally. It pained Ms. Linden to look at her, every time she saw Jennifer it reminded her of what she used to be, a beautiful ballerina. Bobby had taken her away. Her innocent daughter, prone to manipulation. Bobby and Jennifer had killed her little girl.

            The moon was setting and the sky began to emit a pale glow. Ms. Linden’s curtains danced in the morning wind, allowing the scent of the lavender bushes outside to creep inside her room. She was still, her head propped up on two sturdy pillows. Her mind was in a place far from Lilac meadows, enveloped in a feverish sleep. She dreamt of her little girl, small and beautiful, as helpless as a newborn. Her hair was long and curly like it once had been, and her lips were fresh and new. The girl was standing under a maple tree with an orange flower in her hair, dancing and laughing as the silent wind tickled her skin. Ms. Linden watched intently as each strand of her daughters hair became interwoven, causing blond knots to form. Ms. Linden wanted to smooth it out, braid her hair again and again, until it was perfect. But she was paralyzed, only there to observe. A rain drop fell on her daughter’s moist skin. And soon another and another. Her blond hair became saturated with heavy rain, discoloring it; dark black. The young girl stared at her through the heavy rain drops. Ms. Linden could see the Milky Way inside of her eyes. But as the rain became heavier and more persistent, the stars died out and her eyes were blank. Bruising began to form on her fragile skin, blue and purple and black, tattooed on her body. The bruises quickly multiplied, consuming her daughter. Ms. Linden struggled to move, but her muscles were stiff. She attempted to yell, but all she could do was whisper. She watched helplessly as her little girl crumbled quietly to the ground under the maple tree.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Her neighbors said it had been at least five days since anyone had last seen her. They said they heard yelling from her home, but at the time they had thought nothing of it. Jennifer her daughter, was a problem child they said, she was a drug addict, a nuisance to the neighborhood. Ms. Linden was a respectable woman, they said, she was put together, a strong soul who survived the death of her husband. Mr. Tom Bailey, they said, had unexpectedly visited Ms. Linden’s home after failing to reach her through a few phone calls. He was worried, they said. He entered a room, with this strange rearrangement of furniture, like the kitchen chair had been displaced over night, they said, not like Ms. Linden to have things out of order. It must have been her daughters sudden death, they said, that caused Ms. Linden to leave her home so suddenly. A women can only take so much, they said, poor women. After hearing about the findings of my child’s body crumpled up like a dried leaf, dead under a maple tree, they said, I would’ve done the same thing. She disappeared, they said, that sad women, disappeared like orange flowers in the wintertime.