Will Rose

Willa Rose by Karen E. Osborne

Often, I wake with a familiar ache. I stay in bed, willing my grief away. Today, it lingered through breakfast, but no longer. My commute seemed lighter, and my mood more hopeful. Perhaps that’s why I noticed her.

I stopped, trying to appear as if I were searching for something or somebody. My gaze swept past her and back. A tan suit fit around curves, but not too tight. A ponytail, brown with copper streaks, swayed as she walked along the boulevard on the other side of the street. She appeared… Willa’s voice finished the sentence in my head, “Confident.”

Briefcase in her left hand, pumping right arm propelling her forward, she strode along the median that sliced Boston’s Surface Road. Her sneakers were not city gear, the fashionable kind professional women wore before switching to dress shoes at work. These were hikers, showing off defined calves, and a tattoo, thin black lines woven along suntanned skin. A spot of red in the mix. She reached the corner across from me–a busy four-way intersection.

My daughter Mia’s ringtone, Dave Brubeck’s Body and Soul, flowed up from my pants’ pocket. I chose this piece with a touch of irony since it soothed me on some of my darker days, and Mia brought anything but peace.

“Hi.” We spoke at least once a day, but after work or late at night.

“Hey, Dad.”

“What’s up?”

“They laid me off.” Fast and agitated, Mia always sounded the same, whether a real or imagined crisis existed.

At the light, the woman bounced on her toes like an impatient runner. Behind her, tourists swamped the area, cameras and cell phones documenting their day. Was she a native or one of them?

“What happened?” I asked Mia.

“Nothing.”

Mia’s first job and first time off the family dole. “Did you screw up?” I recognized the edge in my voice too late.

“One mistake. No big deal.”

“Did you fix it?”

“Carl, the meanest boss ever, never teaches me stuff.”

“Did you own your error and take responsibility?” If Willa heard me, she’d scold me with her eyes. She parented with patience and laughter and taught me how to listen.

“They’re firing people for no reason. Nickie, too.”

Remembering Willa’s lessons, I softened my tone. “Laid off, or fired for cause?”

“Carl hates Nickie because she points out his petty ways.”

“And?”

“He hates me too.”

The light turned green. The woman crossed the boulevard and strode toward me. To my left, the entrance to the Aquarium rose from the street, a glass pyramid refracting August sunlight. Vendors offered Red Sox hats, miniature American flags, cold bottled Aquafina, and ice cream cones. A food wagon claimed twenty varieties of grilled cheese sandwiches.

“It’s so hot.” Mia made a huffing noise. “I came outside for privacy, but I’m suffocating.”

Heat shimmered up from the asphalt, penetrating the soles of my oxfords. A coffee house’s air-conditioning beckoned, but Mia and the woman kept me sweating in place.

“Go to HR. Find out your rights,” I said.

The phone clicked off, but not before Mia groaned.

Not her fault. For five years, cancer destroyed Willa’s insides. We fought it with conventional drugs, surgery, and radiation. When desperation attacked our judgement, we grasped experimental treatments. Friends recommended garlic and ginseng. We meditated. Nothing worked. It sucked out our energy, our joy, and toward the end, our hope, leaving nothing for Mia.

The woman passed right by me. I tried not to stare or twist around too fast so I could follow her with my eyes. The inked design appeared to be brambles and thorns twisting up her leg. Just off center, a red rose bloomed. As if she sensed my scrutiny, she stopped, turned, and looked at me. Straight on with liquid brown eyes full of query. And then she smiled.

Something quickened in me, something long forgotten. During Willa’s last days, she made me swear to find someone else to love. I promised of course, but did nothing.

The woman pivoted and hurried on. I stuffed the phone away and followed her at a distance. It felt reckless and exhilarating. Would she think I’m stalking her? Wasn’t I? My heart rate up-ticked. I don’t do things like this.

I’m often oblivious to the secret codes of the females in my life. If Willa were here, I’d ask her what the smile meant. Willa’s sardonic laugh sometimes cut, but I knew she intended amusement and not derision, her eyes kinder than her tone. “You’re kidding, right? Women always come on to you.”

Brubeck. I fumbled for my cell.

“My boss said I don’t belong here. Is that legal?”

“Did you ask him what he meant?”

“Said I’m immature. That has to be against the law.”

Perhaps, but accurate. “Where are you now?”

“In the HR office waiting room. What should I do?”

“They’re probably expecting you.”

Mia stopped maturing the day Willa learned her fate. Fourteen and fragile some days, Mia’s palpable anger elicited tantrums of my own. Irrational, but understandable, she blamed us both for all the losses and pain Willa’s cancer caused.

When Willa died three years ago, I went numb. Self-preservation, but still wrong since it added up to eight years of Mia-neglect.

“What questions should I ask?”

“Find out about severance pay and unemployment insurance.” The woman disappeared inside the Marriott Wharf hotel. “Ask what kind of reference they’ll give you.”

“Not a good one.”

Willa tried. Prescription opioids eased the pain but left her catatonic. She wouldn’t take them unless the agony overwhelmed. On her best days, she gave everyone and everything a bit of attention and love–me, her writing, treasured friends, and of course, Mia.

Red-faced most of the time, Mia raged inside but said little. The final year was the worst. Holidays, school breaks, visits just to see her mom–whenever Mia came home from college, she returned to a house transformed into a dodgy hospital, one not in the business of healing, but in abetting death.

I tried too, but my fear and grief colored every visit. Sickness smells, dirty laundry, and unwashed dishes made my ineptness apparent. I should have hired someone, but it was my job to care for Willa. My friend since we were twelve years old, my lover from eighteen, my wife and life partner. I could do this. I had to. But I failed Willa, Mia, and myself.

“Ask questions and take notes when they explain the law and your benefits.”

“This is so unfair. I just needed more time.”

Her whine grated and wounded. I wanted to shout, “Life isn’t fair,” but why remind her of our shared assessment? Instead, I reassured. “We’ll work it out.”

“There’s no air-conditioning in the apartment. It broke, and the maintenance guy is a sloth. I can’t sleep.”

“One problem at a time.”

With no plan or expectations, I stood outside the hotel. Silly, of course. The woman with the tattoo could be in her room for the rest of the day, staying cool, or attending a meeting for hours. Perhaps meeting her husband for something fun.

Thirty minutes passed. Moisture coated my face. The woman pushed through the revolving door and walked to the brick curb. Still in her suit but now wearing shiny black flats. No longer an LL Bean girl from Maine. Wavy hair framed her face. Her skin glowed. She’d ditched the briefcase for a small purse.

Sweat tickled my palms. I could say hello and see what happens.

My pocket vibrated again, and Mia’s song pulled.

The woman stared. Even from this distance, the intensity of her gaze excited and intrigued me.

“Body and Soul” persisted. Mia had only me. Diminished, but no less bound. I grabbed the phone before voicemail kicked in. “What did they say?”

The woman, I dubbed her Rose, continued to watch. Hands clasped, one leg behind the other like a dancer in fourth position at one ballet Willa dragged me to. I tried to decipher her signals, not allow my loneliness and surfaced longing to send faulty messages to my brain. Did she want me to approach her, to speak? Was the almost-encounter a sign I should embrace?

Rose tilted her head in a gesture so like Willa, my breath caught.

I lifted my hand, palm up, angled somewhere between hello, please wait, and I’m sorry.

“If I have to go back to that apartment, I’ll die.”

Rose stood a few feet away.

Willa’s voice, low and weak, echoed in my mind. “What a shitty hand we’ve dealt our girl. When I’m gone, swear to me you’ll mend what I can’t.” I promised–held her hand and gave my word. “I’ll buy you a train ticket, sweetie. You can come home for a while.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” Sounds of relief colored her words. “Can Nickie come too?”

Rose raised one hand waist-high, rocked it the way one might to say hello or goodbye. I did nothing. She shrugged–an elegant lift of her shoulders as if she read my thoughts, perceived my muddled feelings, and understood.

“Sure. Bring Nickie.”

Rose turned away and climbed into the back seat of a hired car. Her red rose and brambles were the last part of her to disappear from my view.