22 Kisses

22 Kisses

Paul O’Cathain

Copyright 2012 Paul O’Cathain

Smashword Edition

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Nixie’s Kiss

A Kiss in the Season of the Flowering of the Tuberoses

Kissing Distance

The Kiss of the Shark

Butterfly Kisses

Shadow Kiss

Kiss at the End of the World

A Box of Kisses

The Window’s Kiss

Milk Thistle Kiss

Last Kiss of Summer

Last Kiss Goodbye

Rain Kiss

A Mountain’s Kiss

Golden Kiss

Hard Rock Kiss

Hummingbird Kiss

Half Dome Kiss

A Kiss Sweet with the Sugar of Early Cherries

To Kiss Those Lips

Kiss of the Fragrance of the Dust of Moonlight

AWhispered Kiss

Nixie’s Kiss

He was making a mistake. The realization was like lead in his stomach. He was already dressed in his tuxedo, he was at the church, beneath the crucifix that held a suffering Jesus, his eyes turned upward toward his salvation. But the statue did not look at Ross: He was alone. He had waited too long, and now he would have to make this decision alone and quickly.

In a matter of minutes, Constance would be here with her father and Nixie. It was not too late to back out, even though it would be embarrassing. It would be something to discuss as a joke with his friends, who were even now seated in the church. He could hear Bill now.

Hey, Ross, at least you didn’t wait until the last minute, like when the preacher said ‘Do you take this woman to be your lawful wife,’ you didn’t say, ‘uh, Connie we need to talk.’

There would be laughter and quickened voices and then maybe a few of them would say the obvious: I never liked Constance anyway, you did the right thing. I would have told her a long time ago, hit the bricks. That was a close one, bro.

And it was true that Constance was not likeable. She was controlling, unyielding, she had little sense of humor. And she did not trust or like Ross’s friends, which made it doubly difficult. She wanted control over Ross, and the irresponsibility of his friends made her force her smile and grit her teeth. It was true, they were irresponsible, they were now in their early 30’s but were still waiting for their big break, still full of dreams of internet riches, book deals, careers on Wall Street. And doing very little to make these dreams a reality, mostly talking about deals that were in the works, deals that would be discussed with great fervor, and then, after a year, would be discussed as: Hey, whatever happened to that deal you were so revved up about?

It was true, Constance had ample reason to mistrust his irresponsible friends. But that was the point: They were his friends, and if he had taken a different path, went to work every day and silently listened to their stories of Wyoming and the Grand Tetons, sudden trips to Aruba, the latest unbelievably hot female companion, a wine tasting trip to Bordeaux, then he still wished them well, wished them joy, silently loved and accepted them. They were his friends, and he cared for them.

Constance did not: She loved Nixie, the only child of her short and strife-filled marriage. She loved Ross, he did not doubt that. But she also loved shopping trips and a lifestyle of excess and she did not hesitate to assert her entitlement to these things. She had a job, it was true, but it was not a job that supported such a pretentious lifestyle, and she had forcefully and repeatedly demanded it from her first husband and he had eventually rebelled and told her to hit the bricks.

Her first husband, what was he, the second? Not yet. All he had to do was tell the preacher: You know what, I’m sorry to say this, but I’ve changed my mind. Do me a favor, tell everyone, but I simply can’t do it. It would be a mistake. You understand. And then he would be gone. He would not be the second husband, he would be the one who got away, and he would discuss his narrow escape for years afterwards, maybe go on a trip to Wyoming with his friends, and he would ask Whatever happened to that internet deal, and they would change the subject and ask him Whatever happened with you and Constance, anyway? I always kind of liked her and thought she would be good for you, and he would change the subject. It didn’t work out, the deal or the marriage, that was all. These things happened. Just didn’t work out. Nobody could disagree with the obvious.

And what about Nixie? Would she agree? She was not his child, but he had promised her that he would adopt her if her father agreed, and there was no reason to think he would not. Daniel wanted nothing more to do with his former family, and if Ross would take over responsibility for support, great. Daniel did not really want to be part of Nixie’s life anyway. The visitation agreement was never fully utilized and there was never any question of Nixie staying over for another night, or going on vacation with Daniel’s new family.

And the simple truth was, he loved the girl and wanted her to be part of his life. He was more than a potential step-father to her. His pulse slowed to a steady pace of joy when he sat with her to do her fourth grade homework. Making smores for her made him feel like he had value, like he was part of a great cycle of something that revolved around life itself.

But it was Constance who would be his wife, and the leaden feeling grew heavier as he finally faced the obvious: Constance might have the necessary skills to be a society wife but she did not have the necessary skills to be his wife. She would not be able to sustain a real marriage based on honest communication, shared values and restraint. She saw him as someone with potential, the potential to work hard, give her the things she wanted, take care of her and Nixie, but she did not see him as someone who had dreams, who wanted to go with his friends, go to Aruba, go to Wyoming, go to taste wine in Bordeaux, go go go, to be someone more than he was constrained to be. And he realized that he needed to be with a woman who recognized that part of him, someone who would say It’s okay, we can afford it, let’s go to Bordeaux this July.

But there would be the mortgage and the payments on the new furniture, and the braces and this year would not look good, probably next year. It simply would not work out, and someone had to state the obvious. And because no one else would, she would grit her teeth and say it. Then she would make herself feel better with a trip to Nordstroms.

You can’t wait any longer. It’s not going to work, you know it, and you know you’d be making a mistake going through with this. Tell her, tell the preacher, get out of here. He went outside.

It was a bright, September Minnesota day, and the sudden sunlight made his head spin and his pulse quicken. A light wind was coming from Canada, hinting of the last days of summer but also hinting of the snow to come. Things were mixed, snow and summer, flight and standing one’s ground, but the light buffeting of the wind seemed to make the difference. The world seemed to be spinning quicker and quicker, throwing him in some kind of centrifugal state of preparation for flight, sending him off to Canada or Wyoming or Aruba or anywhere but here.

The car drove up: Her father had rented a limousine for the day. Ross wondered if they would give him the deposit back, or whether he would drive the car around all day to get his money’s worth. He’d probably try to do both, put a couple hundred miles on the car and then return it, try to get his money back with a pathetic story about his daughter being left at the altar by her no-good boyfriend.

Sanford got out, and the back doors swung open and Nixie got out one side and Constance got out the other. Constance looked beautiful, it was true, the gown was a little overstated for a second marriage, but it was completely lovely. You could not say that Constance lacked good taste. She knew exactly where she and her father were going and they quickly stepped toward the vestibule.

Nixie did not know these things, and she looked around everywhere, ignoring her mother’s curt command to come on. She saw Ross standing at the side of the church and her face seemed to become illuminated from an inner light, and she was running toward him, she was going going going to where her heart was, and she ran up to him in her white flower girl dress with the satin roses, carrying a basket of rose petals which spilled petals onto the ground as she ran, and she ran up the six steps to him and reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

Her blue eyes looked at him with pure happiness. Can I call you Dad now?’ she asked.

The spinning of the world slowed, took on a stately pace and then stopped altogether. He caught his breath and said one true thing: Yes, Nixie. You can call me Dad now.

She smiled and went back to be with her mother. And he turned and reentered the church, making the sign of the cross, looking upward at the crucifix on the wall. With a slow realization, he saw that the statue of Jesus had eyes turned upward. They looked toward a place that was greater than his suffering, toward a place that held the only redemption to be, the only redemption to which man could ever aspire, a redemption that came from the simple and single act of loving the abandoned and unloved. Here, in this place, Ross would do the same. He stood at the door, adjusted his tie, and stepped into the church.

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A Kiss in the Season of the Flowering of the Tuberoses

Matty went outside early, before dawn. She walked into the garden, through the rose-trellis gate, past the sundial, to the white garden.

It encompassed a space of four feet, with white flowers and blossoms, gardenias, coreopsis, moon flowers. In the center were the tuberoses, tall green stalks with blossoms not yet emerged, but already pressing against the green sheath.

Matty wore a watch but rarely looked at it. She paid attention to the passage of time by what was happening in the garden. Early summer would begin with the blossoming of the tuberose, late summer by the dahlias, bee balm and canna lilies. She was only in her early thirties, but had begun the habit of older women whose clothes and shoes reflected the season in the garden, and had prepared her sun hats and sleeveless dresses to wear when the season changed to summer.

It would be a few more days, only—it was still late Spring. She distracted herself by thinking of the carol she had sung in choir back in Middle School, 20 years ago: Tempus adest floridu—Spring has unwrapped her flowers. Early summer would come soon enough, when the tuberose unfolded itself, releasing its sweet fragrance into the white garden and the night air. As others might watch for Memorial Day or the opening of the community pool, she watched the tuberose to mark the start of summer.

This year she watched the budding flower with an all-consuming dread. She feared the coming of this summer with every fiber in her being and would have given her life to stop its arrival. Her eyes fixed on the plant, she was unable to look away, she fixated on every green striation and leaf. She tried to calm herself, tried to think of the coolness of the summer nights, the blossoming of the white garden. She would not go back into the house with this dread encompassing her. She would not frighten her daughter that way.

Instead, she would wait for night to fall and then she would bring Maryam out to smell the flowers, as she had every year since her birth, four years ago. She did not care what they had said, the medical authorities, she would still carry her daughter out in the night air, to sit in the fragrance of the white flowers and wait for the tuberose and share their moments and lives together. Even if Maryam was sleeping she would lift the small bundle and carry her into the night to the white garden, where the fragrance owned the night, and she would hold the child against her, or hold her on her lap, and she would allow the little one to awaken and tell her what was in her heart, her hopes and her fears, what boys at preschool she liked, what clothes she wished her mother to buy, what she wished for more than anything. Maryam did not know what had been said about her by the doctors and nurses, and Matty would not tell her, ever. She would bring her into the garden and they would share their plans and dreams. Maryam loved the tuberose, loved the white garden.

She went back into the house. The California sunshine had not burned off the haze, and the traffic for the race track in Arcadia had not yet clogged the roads. The day had not yet begun. Maryam was sleeping, and she went back to the kitchen, not waking her.

It was another hour before the child came into the kitchen, wearing a white nightgown with the pattern of small flowers.

Mommy?

Yes, sweetheart, what is it?

Don’t I have to go to preschool?

No, honey. Not today.

I want to go.

Not today, honey. You have to stay with me today.

I saw the big kids waiting for the bus.

I have to take you to the doctor today.

I don’t want to go.

Why not, honey? Everybody there is nice to you.

They hurt me.

Just a little bit.

A lot.

Sweetie, they have to take a little blood today, that’s all.

She started to cry.

What is it?

I don’t want that other thing.

She answered slowly. We’re not going to do that again, honey. We already tried that.

Okay.

Can I have a hug?

Okay, Mommy. The child climbed on her lap and put her little arms around her. They held each other, breathing into each other. She held her hand over the bruise on the child’s arm where they had taken blood. She hated to see bruises on the child. It made her frantic, made her breathe in panic. She could not look at them.

Okay, take your pills now.

I don’t want to.

You have to.

After.

Okay. You can watch TV for a while. Then take them. Okay?

Okay.

Guess what?

What?

She kept her voice steady. The Mexican Tuberoses are going to bloom. That means that summer’s here.

The child looked at her. When are they going to bloom?

Tonight, maybe.

I have to go now.

She went off to watch TV on her little legs. Matty smiled. Kids forgot things. She made breakfast for herself and Maryam, and called her to the table.

Mom?

Sweetie.

When are you going to let Daddy come home?

Honey. I didn’t ask Daddy to leave. He just—

Yes, you did. I heard you.

Honey, that was just adults talking. He had to go on a trip.

I want my Dad.

I’ll talk to him. Maybe he can take you to the zoo.

You said I’m not allowed to go to the zoo. I’ll get sick.

I think—okay, he can take you out to eat.

Okay, Mommy.

The child looked forlorn. Matty did not care. Mike wasn’t coming back. Maryam was her child and she’d take care of her. By herself. Mike wasn’t coming back.

They had an uneventful morning, then in early afternoon got in the car for the trip to the UCLA medical center.

Mom, she asked, looking out the window as they went through Pasadena.

Yes, hon?

What’s AML?

Where did you hear that?

Somewhere. What is it?

I’m not sure, Maryam. It sounds like the name of a toy or something.

It’s not a toy.

I don’t know, honey. Where did you hear it?

Just somewhere.

Did one of the nurses say it?

Nobody said it. I don’t want you to get mad.

Mommy isn’t mad.

Yes, you are.

No, I’m not, honey. Let Mommy concentrate on driving now, okay? Cause traffic’s bad.

A car swerved into her lane and Matty swallowed her anger and concentrated on the freeway. She was able to pull into the parking garage in Westwood in less than an hour.

She put Maryam in a seat and went to the reception desk. The nurse was new, not someone she recognized.

I’m Mattina Thorens. My daughter has an appointment with Dr. Herr.

The nurse pulled up the chart on the computer. Okay, have a seat, he’ll be with you shortly.

I have to say something. I want to talk to your supervisor.

Okay. She looked surprised, but called the supervisor over.

Can I help you?

My daughter is receiving treatment for AML, okay? I’m not happy about it but that’s the way it is. I’m trying to protect her for the little bit of time she has left. And one of your nurses has been talking about it in front of her.

What do you mean?

She asked me what AML was a half hour ago. I never mentioned that diagnosis to her and neither did her father. If she heard it anywhere she heard it here.

I understand. I’ll instruct the nurses not to discuss it. But it’s very doubtful that they would talk about it to her—

Listen to me. She heard it somewhere, okay? And she didn’t hear it from me. I’m trying to protect her. Please do me the courtesy of listening to me and respecting my wishes and behaving in a professional manner around a 4-year-old child. Is that too much to ask, or do I have to take it up with—

All right, Ms. Thorens. I’ll tell my staff.

Thank you.

She turned and walked over to Maryam, who was reading a child’s magazine on her seat.

You okay, sweetie?

I’m okay.

They waited. The nurse called her to the desk, and walked her and Maryam back to an examination room. The nurse took blood, and Dr. Herr pushed open the door.

Hi, Maryam.

Hi, Dr. Herr.

Hi, Mattie.

Hi, Nathan.

How’s she doing?

She’s doing fine.

Do you want to step outside for a minute?

Sure. She turned to her daughter. Dr. Herr wants to talk to me about gardening, honey. We’ll just be a minute.

Her daughter looked frightened, and Matty didn’t want to leave her, but she had no choice. Nathan talked about their mutual interest, gardening, as they went out the door.

Things should be in full bloom at your place by now, he said.

The arum and japonica are about done. The tuberoses are ready to blossom.

I love tuberose. Polianthes and jasmine are my favorite fragrance plants.

The polianthes are the best. My white garden is wonderful.

They went down the hallway a bit. The nursing supervisor told me what you said. I apologize. She assures me it won’t happen again.

Thank you, it’s just—

You don’t have to explain. You don’t want her to know. I understand. How’s she doing?

She’s really, really sick.

It won’t be much longer. And that’s a blessing.

I don’t want her to suffer.

You have the pain meds.

Yes.

Okay. She can stay at home for now. But things could deteriorate very quickly.

I know.

They drove back to San Marino in silence. Matty tried to talk to her daughter, but could not summon enough spirit to keep a conversation going, and they drove mostly in silence.

Michael called and talked to her before bedtime. Matty had a glass of wine to help her get to sleep, and then went to bed.

She got up early, around 4. She didn’t keep a clock by the bed. She didn’t know why, but she could look out the window and see the stars over the mountains, and she was attuned to the pulse of the garden, and that was all she needed to know of time.

She went out to the garden. Perhaps the first blooms of the tuberose would have pushed through the green stalk to release their fragrance into the night air. It would mark another day gone, but she had to know. Perhaps despite all it would bring her some peace, and she could bring Maryam out to share it before the day began.

But there would be no tuberoses this year. The stems had been slashed in half two feet from the ground, the blossoms had been torn from the plant and trodden underfoot. She could not believe that this had happened. What joy could someone take from this? She sat down, heavily, on the garden bench. What kind of person would steal into her yard and destroy her flowers? What pleasure could they take in that? She would not tell Maryam, who so much loved sharing the fragrant night air with her, loved the tuberoses. She would not tell her, ever. She would make some excuse, any excuse, and go into the flower district in L.A. and buy as many cut flowers as she could carry in her two arms and take them home and put them in vases and tell her daughter that she had decided that cut flowers were best this year.

Her heart was beating frantically, and her breath was ragged in her throat. She felt ringed by terror, as if the city itself had threatened her and her child, as if strangers and darkness had slapped her and Maryam, had maliciously decided to destroy something that was precious to them. The fact that Maryam was sick only added to her bitterness. But she would not show any fear or anger to her daughter. She would go back inside as if everything were fine, and make an excuse not to take her daughter to the well-loved garden. She brought her breathing under control, and quietly went back into the house.

She saw the knife in the sink, still encrusted with drying vegetation, bits of green and white where the spikes of blossom had been slashed. She gripped the sink. There were only two persons in the house, she and her daughter, and Maryam had no reason to attack the plants. Maryam loved the evenings together in the white garden. Matty must have done it herself. She knew she was losing it, she couldn’t take it, she was only so strong. And they had told her that stress would make her forget what she had done, something about cortisol and the brain. But she had to get it together. She had to get a grip. She would not destroy anything else. She would focus.

They had breakfast and Maryam went to watch television. Matty brought her juice and her medicines.

Mommy?

Yes, sweetie.

What’s polian-things?

Polianthes? Is that what you mean?

I don’t know.

It’s just the Latin word for tuberose. Where did you hear it, honey?

Her heart was beating so hard it hurt her.

I don’t know. Somewhere.

Excuse me, sweetie. I have to call someone.

She went into her bedroom and called the medical center. Ten minutes later Dr. Herr called her back. She tried to speak calmly, but began to cry softly into the phone.

Dr. Herr. I think that maybe I was wrong about Maryam hearing something from the nurses. I think that she heard you and me talking in the hallway.

Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t think she could hear us.

It’s just that—last year—we were talking in the hallway. I was pretty upset. And you were trying to be kind. You took the time to ask me about my garden. And I finally asked you how long she had. And you said the summer. And I said when in the summer, when the dahlias and bergamot bloom at the end of summer, or when the tuberoses bloomed, and you said that when the tuberoses bloomed, that would probably be all the time she had. And I think she heard us. And they were ready to bloom last night. And she went outside and she cut them down.

Dr. Herr said something in response, but she was crying so hard she could not hear him. She hung up the phone, trying to be quiet, not to alarm Maryam.

But the child must have been listening, must have heard her, must have understood. She came into the room and crawled onto the bed and into her arms, and kissed her, and Maryam said It’s all right, Mommy, you don’t have to cry. So that was it. Matty had not protected Maryam, the child had tried to protect her, had understood her dread of what the flowering meant, and had destroyed the flowers to protect her, not from her own fear, but to give her mother a few more days of waiting and denial and a kind of peace, before the reality became clear. Matty had not sheltered her, she had carelessly told her of her fate, and had spent her time in concentrating on the passage of time, in the way she had always understood it.

Honey, said Matty. Were you trying to help Mommy when you cut down the flowers?

The child did not answer the question. Her reply came from a deep space of loss, abandonment and fear: I want my Mommy!

Matty felt that her soul had been cloven in half. She had concentrated on protecting her daughter, but had excluded her from her own life at school, with her father, and most of all from Matty herself, so that Matty could selfishly deal with her loss the only way she could, with rage and denial and despair, lashing out in anger and going out at dawn alone to watch the passage of time in sick dread, instead of spending each moment with her child, watching her face, understanding her, sharing her fear, being aware