Chapter 5: Pink Roses
TAMARA
I got home that night and cried my lungs out. It was deep in the night and I didn’t want to alarm Maggie or make her react, so I did it silently. I locked the bathroom door, let the tap run, and cried under the sound of the shower.
I felt like I was twenty-one again, like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet the day Isaiah was said to have died.
It hurt so much knowing that he had been alive all along, living well, but never came back for me, never sought me out. He let me live hollow, let me live empty. I had faked smiles for years, lied to my parents and my friends, pretended to be a good girl so no one would know that I was dying inside. But I was. With every passing day I died a little, following after him.
When I was done with the shower I lay on the bed beside Margaret’s sleeping form. I had my own room, but I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I hugged her tightly, and when her warm palm brushed against mine in her sleep, I felt comfort. Even in her dreams, she was still taking care of me.
——
The weeks after that dinner were the longest weeks of my life. Not a word from Isaiah. Not even a whisper. And though I told myself I didn’t want to hear from him, he still invaded every corner of me. I saw him everywhere—in my thoughts, in my dreams. In sleep I saw us together, married, laughing, holding hands. I saw his lips on mine, felt his arms around me. Sometimes, I even dreamt of children, little girls and boys with his eyes and my smile, running through the house that was supposed to be ours.
And then I would wake up. And with each waking came the hatred, heavy and consuming, reminding me he had ruined me. I wished, with a bitterness that hollowed my chest, that he would hurt the way I hurt.
Work came calling again and I was glad. I worked as a nurse at St. Ilya’s Teaching Hospital in Russia, and I was also studying for another certificate in psychiatric nursing. That had been one of my dreams apart from marrying Isaiah, and at least this one had come true.
I strolled into the hospital, changed into my scrubs, tied my hair into a messy bun, and went to work. I read patients’ charts, handed out medications, talked and laughed with some of them. Not every day at work was exciting, but every smile from my patients made it worth it.
At lunch I stretched my legs, talked with some colleagues, and ate a granola bar with coffee. That was when nurse Tanya, one of my good friends, came to me. I glanced up. Tanya was one of my closest friends at the hospital. Petite, fierce, with her ginger hair and the kind of energy that could rival fifty men.
“Hi Tamara. You have a package at the counter,” she said.
“A package? From who?” I asked, brushing crumbs from my fingers as I stood to throw away the wrapper.
She shrugged. “Didn’t say. Must be Noel.” She smiled knowingly.
Noel. But Noel never sent me flowers.
My stomach flipped as I walked to the counter. I wanted to smile, but I held it back. If Noel had sent me flowers, that would be sweet. If not him, then there was no one else.
I reached the counter and saw some nurses already crowding around what I thought was the bouquet, their voices full of excitement. My heart beat fast. I was one of those girls who liked getting gifts at work, and this was something special.
The nurses moved aside when they saw me, and there they were, pink roses. My favorite. My breath caught.
“Are these yours, Tee?” one nurse asked.
I nodded shyly, unable to take my eyes off them.
“Wow. Never seen flowers this beautiful before. Your man is the sweetest.”
A small, proud smile curved my lips. “He sure is.” I picked them up, surprised at how heavy they were. The nurses kept grinning, but I hurried away with the bouquet. I wanted to thank Noel without an audience.
I took a picture and sent it to Maggie. She replied immediately.
“I see Noel is stepping up his game just weeks before the wedding. Nice.”
I laughed under my breath. Maggie and Noel had never really gotten along. She thought he was boring, uptight, too stiff for me. But she tolerated him, for my sake, and I appreciated that effort.
I couldn’t wait another moment. I dialed Noel, my fingers trembling with excitement. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sunflower. Should you be on your phone right now? You said you’d have a busy day,” he scolded gently.
I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see. “I just had to thank you,” I said, smiling.
“Thank me? For what?” His voice sounded distracted.
“For the flowers. How did you even know my favorite? I never told you,” I said. My heart was bursting, but the silence on the other end confused me.
“The silence that followed dimmed my smile. “Hello? Noel?”
“Flowers?” His voice was sharp now, edged with disbelief. “I didn’t send you any flowers, Tamara.”
My laugh was shaky, forced. “Stop playing around. There’s no one here. You can admit it.”
But he didn’t laugh. His tone was hard. “I don’t have time for games. And you know I’m allergic to flowers. Why would I ever send you any?”
The words landed like a punch. My heart sank. It was true. Noel had always avoided flowers, always brushed off my hints because of his allergy. And suddenly the weight of the bouquet in my arms felt heavier.
“Did someone else send you flowers?” he asked.
But I didn’t answer. I just stared at the bouquet, my thoughts racing.
“Sunflower?” he called again, a little impatient.
“Huh? Oh… yeah. Maybe one of my patients. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” I said quickly.
“Your patient? Should they even be—”
I ended the call.
I ended the call before he could finish. I couldn’t stand his tone. It was bad enough that he always made me feel like I was bothering him when we spoke on the phone. Worse still that he had never once thought to give me something as simple as flowers, even when he knew how much I loved them.
I got that love from my mother, who adored flowers, especially pink roses.
And now, holding them, my chest ached because I knew exactly who had sent them.
Three weeks since the dinner. Not a word from him. No explanation.
And yet he had found me here. He had remembered the detail no one else knew. He had sent me the very thing that made my heart weak.
I hated him. I hated that I couldn’t stop my cheeks from flushing, my skin from prickling with goosebumps, my stomach from twisting with butterflies. I hated that this was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me, and it came from the man who had hurt me most.
Against my better judgment, I leaned down and inhaled the roses, tears stinging my eyes. But I refused to let them fall.
I refused to admit it out loud too, but I knew. These flowers were from Isaiah.
I stayed in the station for a while longer, breathing in and out, trying to calm my racing heart. When I was sure I could hold myself together, I tucked the bouquet into a safe spot for later and went back to work. But my thoughts stayed with him.
The flowers had brought him back into my mind, and now I couldn’t stop wondering why he sent them, why he remembered, and what it all meant.