Love's Forbidden Flower (20 page)

Plopping down on the end of her bed, I already sound resigned. “You don’t think I should do this, do you?”

“Remember what you told me this morning? ‘It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. Mine is the only opinion that counts.’”

“Just start by telling me what you know. Anything at all.” I bury my head in the bed, bracing for bad news while Sally reminisces over the cumulative weeks she's spent in England.

“I think food would be your biggest issue. They have the basic fast food, which you don’t eat. People like to eat in pubs, and those are like the pubs we have here. Supposedly it's better there, but that was lost on me. There are all kinds of restaurants in London. Oh! And they eat a lot of curry. The afternoon tea thing is kind of fun.” Sally seems to have unearthed a treasure. “You'd really like that! It's similar to high tea here with the scones and all. Hey! We should go to a tearoom for fun! We could take Christopher and listen to him complain about how the Yanks screw it up. Oops. Sorry, Lily. I meant—”

I raise my head just enough to smile and roll my eyes. “You meant exactly what I was thinking. Let’s stop talking about food. If there's anything I'd change about Christopher it's his palate. Good Lord, no wonder why that guy's so skinny! He probably doesn’t eat much because his food has no flavor.”

“Lily, I’m really glad to hear some realism in your voice. Honestly, I think Christopher is amazing, but you considering moving is—”

“Absurd? Bats in the belfry? Institution worthy? Full on Van Gough? I know, but I need to keep going. Tell me something I'd like.”

“I saw some
really
cute boys there.”

“Not helpful.”

“The transportation system is great. I loved the tube. It will take you anywhere in London quickly.”

“Hey Sally. You know me pretty well. Do you think I'd like it there?”

“I think you'd enjoy London, but, honestly, it's so far away from Manchester that—”

“That unless I really want to live in London it’s not worth it? And unless the perfect school magically appears in Manchester I'm crazy?”

“Lily, why are you doing this? You know England is not the best decision. I know you love Christopher, but can’t you just join him after going to the right school instead of killing yourself while doing the wrong thing?”

I do love Christopher. But how can I possibly tell Sally that my entire tizzy is because my relationship with Donovan needs resolution. I can’t promise Christopher that if I stay here I’ll wait for him just like he couldn’t promise me he’d still want me once I got my head together.

I have forced myself mute in hopes of avoiding this inevitable moment. It’s time to accept my emotions fully, without fear of any of the dark places they may take me. Only then can I truly let Christopher go.

Pulling the handle on the dresser drawer, it feels as if an ancient tomb creaks open while I watch a picture of Donovan emerge. It's the real Donovan, before Dad imposed ideals upon him. Memories of him being a happy and loving person warm my being, fill my eyes with tears, and bring forth the truth.

“I don’t want to leave you behind, but maybe I should. It’s possible that I do have a choice, albeit not an ideal one. I don’t want this reality. I love Christopher so incredibly much that this is ripping me apart inside, but the truth is that I can’t go because I love you just as much in the same way and in so many others. If I didn’t I’d ask Christopher to wait for me and then commit to joining him after school ends, but I refuse to string him along until my path is clear.”

The acceptance of my situation and the reality of whom I love now hit on a whole new level. I used to be able to look at our relationship with defiance, but now my twisted reality is altering my future in discernable ways. Society’s hand smacks my face and causes all hell to break loose in my brain.

As my mind reels at my contorted fate, I need a face to talk to—not to listen, but to use as a focal point. I search the posters on my walls, but there is no face that tugs at my inner voice. Wisps of irrationality begin seeping into the air, and they need quelling.

Instinctively I flee downstairs, grab a stack of Mom's records, and bring them to my room. As I riffle though them, several become ornaments for my dressers and shelves while others are flung aside. Their faces are insignificant.

“Chad & Jeremy – no. Beatles – no. Billy J Kramer – yes. Mindbenders – yes. Small Faces – no. Herman’s Hermits – yes. The Monkees – sort of, skip it. Chestermen – yes. Hollies – yes. Peter & Gordon – no. Crap! How do I know this ridiculous stuff? Damn it, Mom!” I scream for the empty house to hear.

As my meltdown increases, some of Manchester’s best stare at me. This must be like Mom’s room over forty years before.

Pacing and yelling in tortured frustration my tears fall harder than ever. I'm losing it and am unable to control the pleading words that jettison forth.

“Tell me! One of you, tell me why my life is like this? Can anyone? Is there anyone of this earth that can explain my life to me? Yes, I know you can’t answer me, but work with me here!”

I grasp air and clench it. Turning my sights to one album, a particular face grabs me. My blazing rant momentarily shifts to a slow, soul eroding sorrow. It's like he's reaching out to me, telling me I'm entitled to this moment. I find myself pleading to the unknown guardian of my sanity.

“Why can’t I go with Christopher? I
want
to go with him. I certainly love him enough. It would be such a bad decision, but it would also be such a good one. I could escape all my problems and move on with a beautiful man who truly loves me. Why can't we just fly off together and leave this mess behind?”

Resentment fills my voice as I turn to the picture of Donovan. “I could escape you. You are one of the things keeping me here. Damn it! What will it take for me to be free of you? Will it ever be possible?”

Looking back to the stranger, I seek divine comfort. “If he could stay, then maybe things could be different. But when it comes right down to it, he could stay just like I could leave. Maybe we both have things to accomplish that require us to be apart.”

My scream at Donovan's image is filled with so much treble that my throat vibrates. “Unfair! Un—fucking—fair! See! It's not so hard to admit something and face up to it, and it doesn’t even need to take years to do!”

Frenzy masters me as I burst out the front door into the cold, dark night. I'm scarcely able to see. Now if only I could stop feeling.

“What, luv?” I've blindsided Christopher. His eyes droop as his stare becomes vacant at my sight. He'd been playing guitar under the stars when I stormed up from out of nowhere, still overpowered by delirium. I must look hideous. My face is a mess of dried and fresh tears, and my arms are red and burning from scratching them.

“Graham Nash and Peter Noone!”

“The singers?”

“No, the bloody bicyclists! Graham Nash and Peter Noone! Damn it! Even Davy Jones!” My foot stomps with a force in childish frustration.

“Okay, luv. The singers. I get it.” He dares to draw near me, guarded, as if approaching a mental patient, before speaking as gently as he possibly can, “Now stop throwing a wobbly and tell what’s going on.”

“Why can’t you be like them? They did it.”

“Do what, luv? What like them?”

“They were from Manchester. They moved to America and stayed. Why can’t you?”

“Oh, luv.” He tries to hold me, but I abruptly stop him, nearly shoving the poor guy away.

“No! I get to speak! If you get to leave then I get to speak!”

With a grasp at air I struggle to seize the last possible straw, though I know that even if it were in reach it would be a huge mistake to snatch. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. Graham Nash and Peter Noone are both from Manchester and moved to the States. Maybe you're just in the wrong place. Maybe we should try living somewhere else. There are great music and pastry schools in big cities all over the country. Let’s just try some other place. If it doesn't work, then you go back home.”

He dares to take a soft step closer, still speaking to me as if I'm about to completely break. “What's so wrong with Manchester that you'll go someplace else and not there?”

“The nearest school that is even close to offering what I need is in London. Do you know how far away London is from Manchester? I'd commute over five hours a day just to be with you, and believe me I have really considered it. But there's no way I can do that. Even if I physically could without falling over dead from exhaustion, I could never afford it. I'd have to live in London, and could only see you on weekends, if we are lucky.”

“Oh, luv. Come here.” Sitting me down he caresses away my tears. He wraps his coat around me followed by his embrace before continuing with a voice echoed with sniffles. “I'd no idea you were trying so hard. I'd hoped, but I barely dared.”

“I know you can’t stay, but I need to have it out with you and tell you all the things that are killing me inside.” Finally I exhale. “Graham Nash… Graham Nash left the Hollies, his friends, and his family to come to California. Within a few days they formed Crosby, Stills, & Nash. Soon they were playing Woodstock. Why can’t you be like him?”

“Lilyanna, I can't do that. I already left and even though I was dragged away, I'm the one who can put everything back together. So much is riding on this. I've no choice but to go.” Misery fills his downcast eyes as he continues, “Allan Clarke, Tony Hicks, and Bobby Elliot.”

I peer at him quizzically.

With a lenient huff and a drop of his shoulders he repeats himself. “Allan Clarke, Tony Hicks, and Bobby Elliot!”

“The other guys from the Hollies?”

Christopher seems to be on the verge of his own little wobbly. “Yes, the
other
guys from the Hollies. It was more than Graham that gave them their burst you know. The harmonies originated with Graham and Allan, and then they added in Tony to round out the bottom, which is one of the things that gave them their signature sound. Look a little closer to Tony’s playing and it is quite unique. Add in Bobby’s fantastic drumming and rotate a bass player, and you have a smash resonance that folks revere for yonks.”

“I don’t get where you're going with this.”

Christopher regains composure and starts over. “Allan Clarke, Tony Hicks, and Bobby Elliot all
stayed
in England —
keeping the band together
— and giving them some of their most successful hits. Do you understand now?”

The tears resume their flow as I lay my head on his shoulder. “I wish you could be more like Graham.”

“Just as I wish you could.”

“I know you're doing the right thing.”

“So are you, my luv. So are you.”

Christopher breaks the awkward silence with stagnation that reflects the complete opposite of his usual, animated self. “You know, luv. This not talking about what's on our minds isn’t helping. You haven’t even told me if you’ve settled on a school, and it’s daft I’m afraid to ask. I’m sure you have it all figured out, but if you’ve skived off I may need to give you a good verbal lashing.”

As I drop the cold fry in disgust, the act ignites a fire under me. “You know what really sucks? I know exactly what I need, and that’s perfect, right? Thing is, I could have what is technically a better opportunity that I may be squandering. But I don’t want it. How wrong is that?”

“What’s the opportunity, and why don’t you want it?” Christopher asks, dipping a fry in ketchup. I wait for him to eat it in anticipation of his impending reaction. “Bloody hell, that’s revolting! How do you Yanks eat like this?” Pushing the fries aside he regains his focus on me. “Sorry. Carry on.”

“When I decided to go to pastry school I planned to do the standard 1300 hour program, work while taking a few college courses, then save enough money to open my own shop. I don’t need to be a famous pastry chef, and, frankly, I don’t even know that I'd want it. I want to be exactly like Josette; have my own shop, make the things I want to make, and also have a life away from it. I don’t want to be some celebrity with a reality show. It'd be nice to be known and respected, but on a reasonable scale. You know?”

“I know exactly. But why the little wobbly?” he asks looking pathetically cute, trying to appear chipper with his hands uncharacteristically in his lap.

My hands jettison into the air before I plop them down on the table in a mini-rant. “I qualify for a fantastic program at the top pastry school in the country. I could earn a bachelor’s degree, and then get a job doing pretty much anything in the industry. It sounds great, but I don’t want to spend years of my life in school. I
hate
going to school! Pastry school is different. It's primarily hands on doing something that I love, but to mix it with that type of studying I honestly think would ruin it for me. I
want
to get to work. Am I crazy? Does this make sense, or should I have someone lock me up before I hurt myself?”

“It’s not crazy. If you really know what you want, and have valid reason as to why, that's what you should do.”

Sitting back, I examine Christopher with a quizzical eye.

“What, luv?” he asks, sipping his soda and fidgeting.

“What are you not telling me?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re holding back something. Spill it.”

Christopher searches the room for a distraction.

“Spill it!” I insist.

Suddenly Christopher throws up his hands and plops them onto the table. He grazes a wad of ketchup, creating a tiny splatter that goes unnoticed to him in his tizzy. “You know I want to move, right? Like, I really want to go home.”