The Daisies

Laura Ye

First

-If I bled roses, would you love me more?

Red

The living room was soaked in red. Or it seemed that way. The lonely light bulb that dangled from the ceiling was surrounded by strands of red crystals that Mommy had hung up. They enveloped every last bit of the bulb’s white light — circles within circles, strands aside strands, crystals upon crystals, red, then more red — no light could penetrate that and remain white.

Everything that the light touched was made red, almost like roses but not quite, including Mommy. She sat by the dinner table, writing. She wrote with such grace and fluidity, her hands seemed like they were swimming in the red ocean. Every now and then she looked up and saw me, or maybe all she saw was just another red shape, not red enough. Never red enough.

Second

-If I bled roses, would you love me more?

-Don’t say ‘if’. You will bleed roses and I do love you.

I’m Sorry

“I talked to Sara’s mother today,” Mommy said during dinner. “She said Sara started bleeding yesterday.”

“Mommy — ”

“She bled roses,” she paused, “and so did Jason and Molly.”

“I’m sorry Mommy, I promise I’ll try harder.”

“Give me your hand.”

I reached my left hand across the table. Mommy picked up the butter knife next to her plate, held my hand and put it to my palm where a messy scar was. Her hand was gentle, the knife was not. Its jags were nowhere sharp enough to make a clean cut, so they dragged on my skin, against the scar, tearing through the thin membrane, threatening flesh. A cut formed and a single white petal popped out, still shifting, struggling between its liquid and solid states. Then another petal and another and another, until a single daisy flowed out of the cut and, with my heart, dropped. The table caught the flower with infinite gentleness, and I was caught between the pain of self-loathing and the dried wound of cracked skin.

There was a moment of silence, a burning silence that threatened to turn everything to ashes.

“Go back to your room,” Mommy said, her finger brushing over the cut. “Finish your homework.”

Third

-If I bled roses, would you love me more?

-Stop asking me that question.

-Mommy?

-What is it?

-I’m sorry.

-…It’s not your fault.

Birthday

With my neck bent back uncomfortably, I watched the blue sky and studied how the clouds went by. It was my eighth birthday. My body was numb from sitting on the porch in the same position for so long, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off of the grass, the houses, the sky, the clouds, everything.

The door creaked. Mommy walked out of the house. Reluctantly, I plucked my gaze out of the blue to look at her. I rubbed my sore neck.

“Happy Birthday, dear.” She held up a little bottle of red paint with a little red bow stuck to the lid. “I heard from your teacher that you’re learning to paint at school.”

The bottle didn’t have a label on it, allowing the burning color to be on full display through transparent plastic. Her faint smile was warm and I smiled back.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

“When is Sara coming over? Should I start preparing dinner?”

My eyes wandered, certain to avoid her gaze. “She can’t come.”

“Why is that?”

“She said her mommy didn’t want her to hang out with me anymore, because I can’t bleed roses.”

Her smile faded ever so slowly. What was left was neither anger nor disappointment, only fatigue that weighed down her existence.

“I’ll get dinner started.” I followed her back into the house. The dying sun outside was beginning to tint the sky.

Mommy didn’t say a word that night.

Fourth

-If I bled roses, would you love me more?

-Not now, I’m writing. Go play on your own.

-What are you writing about, Mommy?

-Dreams.

A Gift

It was Sunday night. Mommy and I curled up on the couch and watched TV. The room wasn’t red that night; there was only the silver glow of the moon outside the window. Mommy had turned off the lights, and I saw on her face, illuminated by the TV, a relaxed expression.

“Mommy, did Daddy bleed roses?”

I watched the muscles on her face tense up subtly.

“Yes.”

“Then why can’t I bleed roses too?”

She did not answer.

“Where is Daddy?”

“He left.”

“Is it because I can’t bleed roses?”

“No.”

“Then why? Why did Daddy have to leave?”

Annoyance flashed on her face.

“Because I loved him too much.”

I did not understand. She just kept staring at the T.V. I turned away and got up.

“Where are you going?”

“I have homework.” I didn’t. I climbed up the stairs to my room. Without hesitation, I grabbed the scissors on my desk and positioned them above the scar on my left palm. I quickly closed my hand around the blade before the tears in my eyes could escape, and pressed as hard as I could until I felt the it pierce through. I released my hand and hoped desperately.

Daisies. One after another. Little white flowers oozed out from the cut and floated weightlessly onto the ground. My feet were almost completely covered with them. Then it stopped.

I stared at them as if they would magically turn into roses. My eyes watered. I picked up one of the daisies and kicked away the others. I opened the drawer under my desk, and took out the bottle of red paint that Mommy had gotten me for my birthday. I unscrewed the lid and pushed the flower into the bottle, ignoring the fact that my injured hand was completely covered in paint. Then I dragged the wet daisy, now red, out. It wasn’t red like roses, but almost. With the dripping flower in my hand, I walked back to the living room, ignoring how the paint stained the floor and my feet. Mommy was still looking at the TV, but wasn’t actually watching anything.

“Mommy,” I raised my arm and offered her the pathetic red daisy. “I have a gift for you.”

She took it without a word and cradled it in her hands for a moment. Then she crushed it in her fist.

Fifth

-If I bled roses, would you love me more?

-Maybe.

-I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bleed roses.

-Hmm.

Questions

I walk into the hospital with a bouquet of roses from the floral shop next door. They’re cheap, but roses nonetheless. Red dress on my body and roses in hand, I walk through the white like a drop of red paint falling, falling.

I stop in front of a door and open it with my scarred hand. Mom is sitting on her bed, writing, with an open window to her left, sending her fresh air. On the table between the bed and the window is a plastic bottle with roses in it, roses that are redder than mine. A gust of wind drowns the room and sweeps up a few red petals that were desperately hanging on to the stem. They land safely next to Mom’s hand. I put the bouquet down on a chair outside the room, then walk in.

She doesn’t look up at me, and fiddles with a petal between her fingers. I pull a chair towards her bed and sit down.

“Who are the roses from?”

“Do you ever get tired of starting a conversation with a question?” She’s still writing. “I asked the nurse to get me them. I paid her afterwards, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What are you writing?”

She smiles. “A poem.”

“Read it to me?”

“It’s not for you.” She shifts position and sits up straight. Then she starts reading,

“I dreamed that I was red

My hair was flaming auburn

My skin, crimson

Roses

Like roses

Crimson like roses

They cheered and applauded

They all did

But then I woke up

And saw that I wasn’t red

I was an oddly shaped cloud

I was a crooked paper plane

I was Grandma’s hair

I was spoiled milk

And they left me

They all did

So I cried and I cried

Until sorrow painted me red

And they loved me

They all did.”

Sixth

-Mom?

-What now?

-I hate you.

-I know.

The Daisies

Mom didn’t say a word after she finished the poem, and later in the silence she fell into slumber. The hospital is quiet at this time of day. The window is still open, granting the room a dim moonlight. The roses are soon to wither. A nurse calls me from the hallway, and I leave the room.

“Your mother’s condition isn’t critical at the moment, but she does need a blood transfusion.” The nurse turns toward me and says, “Usually close family members make the most ideal donors, so we pulled up your medical record and saw that you are a match.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Would you be the donor?”

I stupidly turn my head to look into the room at Mom who is still sound asleep. The roses are wilted completely. Some of the petals rest on the bed, decorating Mom even in her sleep. Unable to control myself, I let out a laugh.

“Miss?”

I keep my eyes fixed on Mom. “I’ll give her my blood.”

The nurse says something else that my ears fail to catch. I return to the room with light footsteps and close the door behind me. I sit back down in the chair, and slowly start to pick away the red petals that have fallen on Mom’s face and hair — they are beginning to disturb her dreams. For a while, I watch how the moon shines into the room and how my dress doesn’t look red anymore in the dark. I watch the wind blow, I watch the night tick away and I watch Mom sleep. Then I can’t stop crying. I curl up in my chair and cry.

Spring 2018 Issue

Fiction