Thorns

Matilda was running late. She knew so not because she’d looked at her phone and checked the time, but because she could feel it. As she brushed her teeth and stared at them in the mirror for a second too long, making sure she’d gotten all the spots, she could feel the tick-tacking of an unseen clock. 

She ran to the kitchen, had a piece of toast and gulped down black coffee. She sprinted back to the bathroom and brushed her teeth one more time, to get the bitter taste out: she despised coffee. 

Finally, having grabbed her purse and making sure she had everything she needed in it—car keys, pads, wallet, scrunchies, floss, an extra pair of earrings, mints, a bottle of water, headache medication, cramp medication, little bag of nuts, phone charger—, Matilda opened the front door.

It was cold, and she could see the vapor coming out of her mouth as she let out a breath. On her doormat, had been left a beautiful bouquet of roses. She picked it up curiously, knowing it wasn’t meant for her. It was not that she didn’t think someone would be inclined to send her flowers, perhaps her mother or a friend. It was rather that, just as she had felt she had been late earlier, she could feel what she was doing was wrong, like she was looking through a peephole into someone else’s life. 

She was right, too. As she studied the bouquet, she realized it came with an envelope addressed to Claudia Hughes. Matilda thought on it a little, stared at the flowers: they were red like the lipstick her mother used to wear, the one Matilda used to so desperately wish to steal when she was little; staring at her mother’s lips when she drank a glass of wine, the way the lipstick stained the corners. It was so grown up, so otherworldly. At thirty though, Matilda barely even wore lipgloss.

Maybe curiosity did kill the cat, but Matilda had always been a dog person. She carefully opened the envelope so that she could close it again later, and unfolded the letter. She shivered under her long overcoat, and began to read.

My dearest Claudia,

I miss you more than words can say. I miss your jovial smile, how it seemed to keep me young even when my back started to hurt and I could no longer read the tiny letters on documents. I went to Jonathan’s wedding the past weekend, and though I felt so glad to see my son be married, so blessed to be his father, I couldn’t help but envy him, remembering how beautiful you looked all those years ago.

I miss your green topaz eyes and the way they brightened the room when you laughed. I miss your soft skin and the way your touch could make any hardship better. How you never broke eye contact as you spoke, how your stare alone was enough to make anyone go mad if so you pleased.

I am aware I have wronged you many times, my dear. I am aware that I have made you suffer, and that I do not deserve you. But I have not heard from you in so long; you have not picked your phone up when I called, and I wonder whether you have blocked my number. If so, I will leave you alone. But if you think we can have another shot at love before we’re too old even to kiss, may we please meet, if even for one night.

Love,

Your George.

By the time Matilda finished reading, her eyes were glowing with tears, which she swiftly rubbed away with her fist. She knew it was wrong, reading about these strangers, and yet she felt an eerie inclination to help them somehow. This had clearly been delivered to the wrong door; perhaps this Claudia that George spoke of was one of her neighbors.

Matilda had never been a neighborly person, had never been to a potluck or participated in the neighborhood watch. Now was the perfect time for her to get to know the people she’d lived next-door to for the past six months, and maybe help one of them find a long-lost love along the way.

She picked up her phone and texted her mother. Hi mom, she typed. I’m sorry I’m late did your flight arrive yet? 

Matilda had a plan. First, she would rush to the airport, hoping she could beat the traffic and pick her mother up quickly enough so that the poor woman wouldn’t have to sit there and wait for hours. Then, she would fill her mother in on the story with the flowers, hoping she would have an idea of how to find this mysterious woman. Finally, they would together bring the woman and George together and love would win. It was perfect, like she was living inside a rom-com.

Hi baby, her mother texted back. She cringed a little at that word, baby. Her mother texted again: I’m here already. Don’t worry though, having a coffee. I’ll wait.

Matilda cursed under her breath. Her mother was, of course, furious. She didn’t like to fight on the phone, but Matilda was sure that once she arrived at the airport, her mother would give her an hour-long lecture about how tired she was, how ungrateful Matilda was, and how she’d raised her to be on-time. 

It was the first time Matilda was seeing her since she’d moved six months ago, and her mother was to help her set up the new place. Matilda knew, though, that her mother only wanted to get away from home a little. Matilda’s father used to be a screenwriter; technically, he still was, but very technically. Lately, he’d been trying to write a novel, a feat which Matilda’s mother, Ruth, once thought was a wonderful idea, as her husband had always dreamed of being a published author.

Three years later and not even a first-draft ready, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Ruth watched as her husband spent his days staring out the window, another blank page on his computer, the light reflecting on his glasses. He wrote a couple sentences, then stopped, went to have lunch, smoked a cigarette, had a coffee, had a nap. Then he went back to the computer, to stare at the blank page and write a sentence or two. At this rate, Ruth thought, he’d have a novel ready in a decade. 

When Matilda picked her up at the airport, she began speaking frantically about a bouquet of roses and a mysterious letter. Ruth reprimanded her daughter for twenty minutes afterwards: ten minutes were about meddling in other people’s personal business, and another ten were about being late to pick up her mother who wanted to help her. Once she was done with the reprimanding, they began to discuss what to do about the flowers.

“Do you not know any of your neighbors?” Ruth scorned. “This was clearly addressed to an older woman with green eyes called Claudia Hughes. Should be pretty easy to find if you know this person.”

Matilda tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as they stopped at a red light. “Right. I haven’t spoken to most of my neighbors though. Just the one across the street from me, but he’s a single dad.” 

“It’s probably your next-door neighbor,” her mother said. “They must’ve gotten your door and hers confused. You’ve never seen her?”

Matilda clicked her tongue. “No, Mom, I told you. I’m almost never home, I don’t see my neighbors often. I have to work.”

“And I don’t? I worked and took care of three children and still had time to meet my neighbors and make friends, didn’t I?”

They arrived at Matilda’s house and Matilda helped her mother take her luggage out of the car. She noticed that her mother had brought a little more than a weekend bag. “Mom,” she said, “how long are you staying?”

Ruth’s eyes widened the way they used to when Matilda was younger and started to make a scene in public. “Why?” Ruth asked her daughter. “I just got here and you already want me out.”

“No, I’m just… Just asking, Mom. You can stay as long as you want.”

After they had settled all of Ruth’s things in the guest room, mother and daughter sat together in the kitchen, as Ruth read the letter attached to the roses. “This is beautifully written,” she observed. “I’ll send a photo of this to your father. Maybe it’ll inspire him. Lord knows he needs it.”

Matilda and her mother decided to knock on the neighbors’s house; if the woman behind the door was Claudia, they would know it right away. They brought the flowers and the letter along with them, hoping they’d get it right.

Not too long after they knocked, a woman with short graying hair that had once been blonde opened the door. “Morning,” she said sweetly. “How can I help you?”

Matilda’s eyes lit up. It was her, she knew it. The woman had the green eyes George had described, and seemed so genuine, so kind. Matilda excitedly noticed no rings on her slender fingers.

“Morning!” Matilda said, her voice much higher-pitched than it usually was. “Are you by any chance Ms. Hughes?”

The woman showed a tender smile. She wore a kitchen apron, and Matilda could picture her baking in the kitchen, could almost smell the chocolate-chip cookies coming from inside. “That would be me.”

Matilda looked at her mother, and they raised eyebrows at each other. “Ms. Hughes,” Ruth said, “this bouquet was left by mistake at my daughter’s doorstep. We think it must be for you.”

Ruth handed Ms. Hughes the roses, who gawked at them, dumbfounded. She asked: “Does it say who they’re from?” 

Ruth nodded. “They’re from a gentleman by the name of George.”

“George!” The woman laughed, raised a hand to cover her teeth. “Oh, my dear George. I didn’t think he even remembered me! Thank you, oh, thank you so much. I’ll call him right away.”

“There’s a letter too,” Matilda said. “An envelope that came with the flowers.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t need to read it. I’ll invite him over and we can talk in person. Thank you! You’ve made me very happy.”

Matilda smiled. “It’s our pleasure.”

That night, Matilda took her mother out to dinner at the nicest restaurant she knew in town. They laughed over glasses of wine in a way they had never done; they talked about the past, joked about Matilda’s brothers and her father. Matilda looked at her mother, for what seemed like the first time, as a full person rather than simply a mother. Later, she lay in her bed with a full belly and a heart so proud of what she’d accomplished, that she was finally hopeful. She didn’t know what was to come, but she was sure it would be good.

In the morning, she made herself and her mother pancakes for breakfast, while her mother slept in. She put music on and danced by herself in the kitchen. It was a gloomy Sunday morning, and she was cozy in her pajamas. When she heard someone scream for the first time, she didn’t even think much of it.

It was the second scream that startled her. The screaming seemed to be coming from outside, so she ran to the window. There, right in front of Ms. Hughes’ house, was a man in his seventies, wearing a sweater that looked just like the kind Matilda’s grandfather used to wear. Another scream echoed and Matilda saw that a pile of books were being thrown out a window towards the man. He blocked his head with his arms, and the books knocked on them before smashing down on the sidewalk.

Matilda ran out the front door in her pajamas, concerned. “Sir!” she screamed, pacing towards him. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Well, I would be!” said the man angrily. “I would be very all right if this crazy woman would stop throwing her things at me!”

Matilda looked up towards the window, where she saw Ms. Hughes, disheveled hair around her head, looking nothing like the sweet lady she had met the day before; it was almost like she’d been possessed.

“Ms. Hughes!” Matilda called for her. “What are you doing?”

“Honey, you should go home!” Ms. Hughes replied. Matilda noticed she was holding up a flower pot. “Do not go anywhere near this man!”

Ms. Hughes threw the pot at him. She missed, and it smashed on the sidewalk, little pieces of ceramic scattering around. Matilda jumped back, startled.

“That’s it!” the man said, throwing his hands up. “I hoped we could talk about this like civilized people, but you’re just as mad as you were when I met you! I give up!”

Ms. Hughes rebuked: “You used to like that I was mad!”

The man, who Matilda was now fairly certain was George, though he was nothing like she had pictured him, turned to leave. He stepped closer to Matilda as he walked away. “You best stay away from her,” he advised. “She’s nothing like her sister.”

Matilda was baffled. She watched the man leave, then raised her chin towards Ms. Hughes’ window.

She yelled: “Ms. Hughes, what’s going on? Who was that man?”

“Oh honey, thank you so much for your help,” said Ms. Hughes. “Turns out that old bastard George is still madly in love with Claudia. You should’ve seen his face when he got here and saw me! The audicity! To come to my house to profess his love for another woman!”

“Wait, wait,” said Matilda, head spinning faster than a hamster on wheels. “You’re not Claudia Hughes?”

“I’m her sister! This house was hers, but she passed it on to me when she died three years ago. Apparently George thought she was alive. He’s a fool, is what he is. My sister despised him! They hadn’t talked in thirty years, not since Claudia found out he was married and she was just the other woman! Well, the other-other woman. The other woman was me, but my sister never knew. I started seeing him before her, even. I told him it wouldn't end well if he got involved with her, but George couldn't just have one sister, could he?”

Matilda thought of her mother, sleeping through this. She thought of the stern words she’d have to hear later, how Ruth would certainly make this all out to be her fault, and would lecture her on how she shouldn’t meddle in business that is not hers… What was worse was she knew her mother would be right. 

She thought of many things to say. She thought of expressing how grossed out she was about the whole situation, how she thought she was helping two lonely people who loved each other reconnect... Instead, she said: “I’m… Sorry for your loss?”

“It’s all right, honey,” said Ms. Hughes. “My sister died very happy. I’m glad this bastard George didn’t come sooner. You know, I always knew he liked her more than he liked me. But when I got those flowers, I thought maybe… Oh, I thought I might have a little fun, like in the good old days. I guess not. I wonder how his wife is… When my sister stopped seeing George, I had to stop seeing him too. I was terrified she would find out I was hiding something from her. I did miss him though. He used to give great gifts. The nerve on that man…”

Matilda was at a loss for words. She looked around at the sidewalk, noticing all the little things Ms. Hughes had thrown at poor George. But was he really poor George?

Matilda thought of his wife, whom Ms. Hughes had mentioned, and pitied the woman. She pitied Ms. Hughes' dead sister and even Ms. Hughes herself, even George. She realized that they were all fooled, by other people or themselves. She wanted nothing to do with them, or any stranger's business now, but for a moment she realized how strangely beautiful the mess of life was.

She wasn't in a rom-com, not how she'd dreamed she would be, and her father wasn't an author and her mother wasn't her best friend, and she hadn't made a single friend in six months. But she was also not a failure. She has a job she kind of liked; her mother didn't even reprimand her that much; her father was kind and loving; and even though the story with George and Ms. Hughes didn't end how she thought it would, she'd tried to do the right thing.

Matilda had an epiphany that life was never as good or as bad as she thought; it was somewhere in the middle, it was fine, it was just okay, and okay was actually pretty wonderful.

She picked up George's now-dying roses, which Ms. Hughes had thrown on the sidewalk.

"Ms. Hughes," she said, a little shy now, "can I keep them?"

"I have no use for them," said Ms. Hughes, gesturing dramatically. "My life is just thorns!"

Matilda smelled the roses, but because of the cold, her nose was runny and she couldn't really smell anything. She smiled. "Thank you," she said, and went home to have breakfast with her mother.