“Who says I wouldn’t?”
“You do,” Sonya says it with such definitiveness it takes me off guard. “You make that choice, just like he did.”
“You honestly believe that it’s that easy?” I shake my head, unable to accept what she’s saying. “We walked through darkness. How do you find the light?”
“Wherever you can.” Sonya plucks at the bedspread, avoiding my eyes. There’s something she’s not telling me. I wonder how far our web of secrets has been woven and whether we will ever be able to fully untangle ourselves from it.
“Are you afraid?” I think of her travels, her love of photography. It dawns on me that my sister is talking from experience. She found her light the only place she knew—as far away from us as possible, trusting the world through the lens of her camera more than through her own eyes.
“Every minute of my life,” she admits. Stepping away from me, she lets me know the discussion is over. “What are you going to do?” she repeats.
“I don’t know,” I admit, still not having an answer. “I honestly have no idea.”
When I am not sleeping, I lose myself in the garden. Mama has an array of flowers in the back that the gardener tends to every week. There were tulips a few weeks ago, and now there are roses among the fruit trees and green foliage. There’s a small waterfall to the side, an addition Mama sanctioned after Papa fell into the coma. The water flows over the rocks, the noise drowning out the sound of my own thoughts. I sit and stare at the presentation, the beauty available for anyone wishing to bask in it.
Each stem of the rosebush intertwines with the others, a medley of splendor. Like life, it is exquisiteness intermixed with thorns. A prick if you touch without caution. People often make the mistake of believing the rose’s magnificence is just in the flower, failing to see the whole picture. But the thorn is there to protect, to keep the rose safe.
Once upon a time, I too would have clipped the barbs before arranging a bouquet. Now I see that every flower needs the good and bad to bloom; it must stand strong, its face toward the sun, absorbing the rays it needs to stay alive when darkness falls.
I loved interior designing. First, you have to learn about the people, understand them before creating their home or work space. Everyone’s needs are unique; one client’s vision of perfection can be another’s idea of catastrophe. I would spend hours listening to clients’ needs, their ideas about what their abodes should look like. Retreating to the privacy of my own space, I would go through color schemes, matching one with another, careful not to stray too far from the boundaries they left unspoken.
The real joy was in the shopping. Bringing an array of pieces together, fitting them to make a whole set. From one place, I would buy a modern piece of art, and from another an antique lamp, using colors and the other pieces to connect the two. Every time, without fail, I made it work. My clients were astounded with the results, gushing that they never would have thought to do the same. My response was always the same: “It’s hard to believe until you try.”
Now I am the empty house, and I’m trying to put together all the pieces—the memories and experiences of my life—to make me whole. How do you connect the tragedy with the joy, the heartbreak with the serenity? Who am I when I can’t even remember the night that defined my life? How do you characterize a person if they are undefined, a fa?ade still waiting to be exposed? Maybe when one door shuts, another one doesn’t really open. Maybe, instead, it’s just a sign that you are locked in forever.
Reaching out, I prick my finger on the thorn, watching the blood drip out, slowly, then each drop faster than the last. Laying my head on my knees, I wrap my arms around my legs, listening to the water, the only sound that makes sense.