Sunflowers and Roses

4:29pm:

“Will you set these on the table?” Mrs. Rosenthal handed her daughter, Maya, eight folded napkins. Mrs. Rosenthal suffered from severe OCD, so she was a perfectionist. She had spent over thirty minutes in Home Goods yesterday morning holding up different napkins with different napkin rings to see which matched better. “The cream may be too harsh against the dark wood table,” she thought, “perhaps I’ll get a tablecloth as well.” “If I get a deep autumnal red tablecloth, then the gold napkin rings would work better,” she continued to think, “but would that go with the flower arrangement?” The train of thought continued, “I suppose if I switch the vases for the ornamental gold…Perfect!” Except it wasn’t perfect. The tablecloth looked horrid against the wall color in the dining room. Nobody noticed but Mrs. Rosenthal. She felt as though hand sanitizer was pouring in her eyes when she walked in the dining room. She decided to pour another glass of wine.

Maya had placed a napkin by all eight plates that had been set out. “Olivia must’ve done this earlier,” she thought, “Olivia was always mom’s first choice to help her with decorating.” They were like twins. Mrs. Rosenthal was a writer, Olivia wanted to be writer. Olivia like to paint, draw, and read, Mom likes to paint, draw, and read. They even looked the same. Olivia had long dirty blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. Mrs. Rosenthal’s hair was long and grey (but once dirty blonde), she had fair skin, and blue eyes as well. Maya reflected on her own appearance; Her curly brown hair and muddy brown eyes. Even her own father had blue eyes. “What does a guy need nice eyes for?” Maya wondered.

She was always being compared to her sister, academically, but the worst was physically. Whenever Maya’s friends came over they would always say: “Your older sister is so pretty,” “I hope we look like her when we’re sixteen,” “Olivia is so cool.” Maya rolled her eyes just thinking about it. Click, click, click. “Speak of the devil…” Maya thought.

Olivia walked downstairs, her red heels clacking on each wooden step. “There you are-Oh you look so beautiful!” Mrs. Rosenthal said embracing her older daughter.

“Thanks Mom,” Olivia sheepishly smiled, “Where’s Maya?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Rosenthal exclaimed, “Here. Bring these to the table.” She handed Olivia an assortment of cutlery.

Click, click, click. Maya heard her sister coming. “Great,” she thought sarcastically, “I wonder what extravagant outfit she has on this time.” Maya scanned her sister head to toe as soon as she walked into the room. Olivia was wearing red heels, black tights, a corduroy skirt, and a cream sweater.

“I thought it was Thanksgiving dinner, not the Oscars.” Maya said with a smirk.

“Sorry, some of us don’t want to wear leggings and a hoodie to the one dinner, that comes once a year, and is the only dinner we see Dad, and Grandpa, and Grandma, and Aunt Susan, and Uncle-”

“OK I get it.” Maya cut her sister off, “I still prefer comfort over impressing old relatives.”

 Olivia rolled her eyes. She had tried to be nice to her sister. She remembered visiting Maya in the nursery, playing barbies with her, dressing her up and doing her make up. “What happened?” she thought, “When did Maya go from being her best friend to her arch nemesis.” Olivia didn’t hate Maya though, but for some reason, unbeknownst to her, Maya stopped liking her.

Mr. Rosenthal arrived at the house at 10 past six. “Where are my favorite girls?” He bellowed, as he stepped through the door.

 “Dad!” Maya ran, top speed, in tattered bunny slippers, almost tripping into her father’s arms. “I missed you.” She said into his flannel.

“I missed you too Bumblebee.” Mr. Rosenthal grinned. Click, click, click. “Wow,” Mr. Rosenthal said, “Is that Olivia? I can’t tell… under all that make-up, and those heels? Did you grow 5 inches?”

“Hi dad.” Olivia said and gave him a small hug.

“Wow, I mean, you really grew up, Olivia.” Mr. Rosenthal said, still shocked at his daughter’s transformation. He tried to remember back to last Thanksgiving, but he remembered that these were the transformative years, and it had been a whole year. He still couldn’t help but mourn the passage of his little girls to young women. He remembered their young faces, as babies, then toddlers, little girls, and then the day he lost them forever. That day he recalls them looking sad but confused because they weren’t sure what was happening, the gravity of the situation, but they would learn, and they did.

Losing custody of them had been the hardest day of his life. He hadn’t cried in probably 10 years give or take, but that day, after court, he sat in his truck, in the courthouse parking lot, and cried. Cried because he lost his wife, his daughters, his home, his life, and it was all his fault.

“Peter,” Mrs. Rosenthal interrupted the reunion, “It’s wonderful to see you.” And for Mrs. Rosenthal it truly was. The first few Thanksgivings after they divorced were rough for Mrs. Rosenthal. She probably had more wine and pills, then turkey and pie those years. But this year marks the fifth thanksgiving and Mrs. Rosenthal can confidently say she’s moved on. Although seeing him in the doorway, his peppered curly hair and short beard, with clunky black boots, dark jeans, flannel, and a coat, a warm feeling passed through her. “It had been so easy to fall in love with him,” she thought.

“Amanda,” Mr. Rosenthal warmly greeted her, “You look lovely.”

 “She really did,” thought Mr. Rosenthal. He gazed at his former wife, admiring her long, combed silver hair, and her fair skin, and light blue eyes. The dark red dress made her eyes pop. He liked it.

6:42pm:

Maya was not a fan of small talk. Being seated in between Aunt Susan and Grandma Lynn, was her worse nightmare. She looked at her sister across the table. Olivia didn’t mind small talk; in fact, she’d only talk about things on a shallow level if she could. She hated talking about herself or her problems, she was the designated shoulder to cry on. Her mother had spent the first year after the divorce weeping to Olivia every night. Olivia consoled and listened, and she let her own worries and problems fade away into the depths of her mind, so she wouldn’t have to think or confront them again. Olivia would’ve much rather sat in between her aunt and grandmother though, since Uncle Stew and Grandpa Martin took up their seat and half of hers.

“I love when you wear your hair like that Olivia,” Grandma Lynn said smiling fondly at her granddaughter. Olivia’s long blonde hair was tied loosely in a French braid. “Oh,” she turned to her other granddaughter, “and Maya, those curls, so lovely you don’t even have to style them!” Maya’s hand instinctively rose to touch her brown, curly hair cut just above her shoulders.

Olivia looked at her sister and wondered if she was sad. Sad that she didn’t have long manageable hair that she could braid and style. She tried to think about how to help the situation and ease Maya’s mind. “Reassurance,” she thought, “Maya needs reassurance.”

“I love Maya’s hair,” Olivia said smiling at her sister, “I wish mine was like yours.”

Maya couldn’t believe her sister’s audacity. Olivia’s hair was her most prized possession. She took up most of their shower with her various hair care products. She spent at least an hour every night just looking at herself in the mirror, brushing her hair, putting this on and taking that off, smiling, pouting, staring, posing. “What a liar,” she thought.

 “No, you don’t.” Maya said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I do it’s so pretty-” Olivia began to speak, but she was beginning to reconsider if she said the right thing. Maybe she should’ve done what she does best and just sit quietly, while the world falls apart around her.

“Would you just shut up?” Maya interrupted.

“Maya.” Mr. Rosenthal said sternly.

“You know what? No!” Maya responded, “She’s lying, and you all are buying into it. She would never want my hair because she knows it would make her uglier and she would hate that because she’s the pretty sister and I’m the ugly sister.” Maya said. “What?” she continued, “You all won’t agree with me, but I know you think it’s true.”

“That’s enough.” Mrs. Rosenthal finally spoke, “No one thinks that.” She looked at her ex-husband hoping that he would notice her signal and say something encouraging.

Mr. Rosenthal felt two eyes bore into his skull and looked up to see his ex-wife staring at him. “I should probably say something,” he thought. “Maya, honey,” Mr. Rosenthal said calmly, “Your appearance is the least important thing about you, ok?”

Maya stared silently at the tablecloth in front of her. It was a pretty red color that reminded her of blood. It also matched the napkins. Maya felt her throat start to close up, and hot water pooled in her eyes. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,” she repeated to herself in her head.

“Your dad’s right you know,” Grandpa Martin said, “Beauty fades. I mean, hell, in my prime, I was-” Grandpa whistled dramatically. “That he was,” Grandma Lynn smiled at her husband, “that he was.”

Olivia stared silently at the flower arrangement in the center of the table. There was a handful of red roses, an abundance of carnations, and a sunflower.

“Carnations were inexpensive,” she thought, “maybe because they were easy to grow, or maybe because they weren’t as nice to look at as roses. That being said, people still bought carnations because you could get different colors, different bundles, etc. for a smaller price compared to a bouquet of roses. Because there are so many carnations in a traditional bouquet, in a classroom full of students 2/3 are bound to be carnations.

Roses were more rare. They were traditional. Classic. Like her. Her beauty was objective. Everyone could say with certainty that she was good looking, but Maya was something special. In a world full of roses every now and then there was a sunflower.”

Sunflowers are special because they follow the sun, and Maya, well, she follows her sun, her heart. Her passions were frequently overlooked because of Olivia’s accolades, but that didn’t make them any less important.

Maya had something she didn’t have and would never have, something special, something that made her a sunflower (someone with a quality you can’t describe, but you know when you see it,) in a vase full of roses and carnations.

10:40pm:

“The apple pie was delicious, Amanda,” Mr. Rosenthal thanked his ex-wife. Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Stew, and Aunt Susan went home about 30 minutes ago. The girls had gone up to their separate rooms. Neither had said much after the incident.

Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal were now sitting in the living room. Mr. Rosenthal was sitting on the grey couch; the family cat, Pepper, was purring in his lap. He took a sip of his coffee. Mrs. Rosenthal sat in the recliner parallel to him. She was staring at the deep mahogany substance in her wine glass. She took a sip.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Mrs. Rosenthal smiled into her glass, “apple pie was always your favorite.” A silence passed between them. Mrs. Rosenthal remembered the taste of the apple pie she made the day she found out. She had had a slice with an entire bottle of wine, but all she could taste was warm garbage.

[ She had gone out to the office to write that day. She always did her writing at the office on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that day had been Friday, February 11, 5 years ago. Her last book had been a major success, but the publishers were expecting something new, and she was supposed to have had an outline by the new year, but it was now February, and she had no clue what to write. She wasn’t inspired. She had never gone through a writers block before. She had always felt inspired. When she would write, words would just flow and flow and flow. She suddenly had the urge for a glass of wine. She had quit drinking when Maya was born. She had had some struggles with overindulging when Olivia was a baby, but she quit to be a better mom, “but has her writing suffered as a result?” she thought, “Did she need to be under the influence of something to be a good writer?” She decided that she needed to get out of her own head before she did something she would regret.

Her stress-reliever of choice was baking. She loved baking because the recipe was exact, and she was exact, and she wanted everything to be perfect and with baking she can achieve that perfection. So, she packed her bag, got in her car, and drove home. She pulled into the driveway of the house, parked in the garage, and went through the back door.

“Hi Charlie!” She exclaimed and held the door open for the puppy to play outside in the back yard. She took her coat off and immediately put it away, she took her boots off and placed them in the closet as well. She tidied the house that her husband had left in disarray this morning before taking the girls to school and heading to work. “Apple pie,” she thought, thinking of her husband, “Peter loves apple pie.” So, she began measuring, cleaning, whisking, cleaning, sautéing, cleaning, rolling, cleaning, plating, cleaning, and so on.

Mrs. Rosenthal took a few labored breaths as she leaned her back against the counter. The pie was in the oven and the dishes were cleaned and the kitchen looked as if she was never there.

Vrrrrrr. She heard a noise coming down the driveway. “Huh?” She thought, “No one should be home yet, the girls were at school and Peter was at work.” Charlie started barking. Pepper left the sunspot she was laying peacefully in. She peered out the window and saw that the car had stopped half-way down the driveway but was still running. It was her husband’s car. “What was he doing in there?” She thought. She was about to go outside and check on him when she saw the passenger door open, and a black heel step out.

Mrs. Rosenthal let out a gasp and slammed her back against the fridge. She could hear her husband’s voice and the woman’s. They were laughing and the laughter was getting closer. Mrs. Rosenthal stumbled into the dark pantry and shut the door in a panic. The front door opened.

“Hi Charlie!” She heard her husband say, “Charlie!” She heard the woman say, as if she had seen Charlie before. “You wanna go out buddy?” Mr. Rosenthal asked and walked to the back door and opened it, but Charlie just sat and stared at him. “I guess not.” Mr. Rosenthal said.

“That’s a little weird.” The woman said.

“Who cares?” Mr. Rosenthal responded, but he felt something was off.

In the pantry, Mrs. Rosenthal heard laughter and then silence and then rustling and then what sounded like moaning. She slumped to the floor and let tears fall silently down her cheek. She wanted nothing more than a bottle of wine in that moment. She decided that she would leave this house and get one. It’s all she needed; The only thing she could depend on. She just needed to gather her strength, but before she could, she heard her husband say something.

“Do you smell that?” He said to the woman.

“What?” She said, “Is that an apple cinnamon candle?”

The color drained from Mr. Rosenthal’s face and slowly, he stood up and walked to the oven and stopped. He didn’t even open the oven, but he knew. “No,” he said, “It’s a pie.”]

“I hope the girls aren’t at each other’s throats forever,” Mr. Rosenthal finally spoke.

Mrs. Rosenthal was snapped back to reality. She thought for a moment and said, “Maya won’t always be that cold,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, “It’s a phase. I can remember being so jealous of Susan as a teenager, it consumed me. It honestly wasn’t until college that I realized Susan was my friend and not my competition. I hope it doesn’t take Maya and Olivia that long. They had so much love for each other growing up.” Mr. Rosenthal pondered that. As an only child he never knew how to relate to his daughter’s sibling conflicts. He hadn’t been in a relationship since his wife, so he was out of touch with the problems of womanhood.

“You’re probably right,” Mr. Rosenthal agreed. Silence passed once more. Mr. Rosenthal heard the tick of the clock in the kitchen. He looked at his own watch. 10:46. “I should probably be going,” Mr. Rosenthal said as he shimmied himself under Pepper. She jumped off his lap and darted upstairs

“Oh,” Mrs. Rosenthal got up as well, “I didn’t know it had gotten so late.”

“So next Thanksgiving then?” Mrs. Rosenthal smiled, “Unless you can take time away from work for Christmas this year?”

“Maybe.” He sighed. He always said maybe. “If not Christmas, can I come for Maya and Olivia’s birthday?”

Mrs. Rosenthal smiled, “Of course. They’d love that… so much.” The cold November air sent a chill through the pair.

“Alright,” Mr. Rosenthal opened the front door, “January 27^th then.”

“Yup,” Mrs. Rosenthal said making her way to door, “Maya’s 14^th birthday. Big year.”

“I can’t wait.” Mr. Rosenthal responded. The two looked at each other, only a few seconds passed, but memories of the past flashed between them. Not the bad memories though, the good ones.

“Goodbye Peter.”

“Goodbye Amanda. I’ll see you soon.”

THE END