Lavender and Tulips

I stare at the blank page, willing my pen to write. No story flowed from my head, so no ink flowed from my pen. I frown at the page, frustrated with myself. The only writing on the yellow paper is my name, Beatrice, and the date, and even those words had been hard to write. I haven’t been able to write creatively for weeks, the river of stories that usually streams from my pen running dry. Having sat here for almost two hours, my spine is in agony, so I abandon the pen and notepad, throwing them down onto the desk. I stand up and stretch, my back cracking like a kookaburra’s beak. I heave open the heavy glass doors that connect my office to the garden and decide to take a stroll to try and get my creative juices flowing. 

Thankfully my little flat is on the ground floor, so the garden is mine to command. The barren concrete wasteland it had been before I moved in was far gone, replaced by a paradise of vibrant flowers and pungent herbs. We hadn’t put any work into the small apartment, run-down as it may be, opting to turn the yard into a wonderland. I knew more of my time would be spent here anyway. I stroll through the garden beds, running my hand through the lavender bushes. I pluck a few flowers and hold them to my nose, breathing in the scent. I turn to the tulip bed and the white garden chair amongst them, smiling sorrowfully. I can picture her sitting there, lounging in the sun, the sunlight dappling her fiery hair as she flings her head back over the arm of the chair. She lifts her book high to catch the light on the pages and she laughs at the story she’s reading. Her laugh is like the ringing of church bells, loud and merry. I smile sadly as the vision fades away like dew in the morning sun. I make my way to her chair and slowly sit down, soaking up the warm sunlight. I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of the tulips, settling back into the chair. 

“I need help,” I whisper into the afternoon air, the scent of her flowers caressing my nose. “Can’t you come back to help me?” 

No answer comes, though I don’t really expect it to. A sad smile curls on my lips and a single tear runs down my face. “I miss you,” I croak, my throat closing up. I turn my face away from the light, sobs wracking my chest. I bury my face in my hands and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, attempting to stop the flow of tears. 

After a few moments, I calm down enough to turn back to the sunlight and gaze up at the sky. “I can’t write,” I exclaim softly. “I can’t write anymore.” I wipe my eyes and sit up straighter, shifting in the warm seat. “There are no more words inside me,” I say to the sun, to her. “After you- after you were gone,” I confide, choking on my words, “I could still write. At first, I wrote to let the pain out, to give myself some direction. But writing about you - it hurt, Olly, because you were gone.” I take a shuddering breath. “You were gone, and you would never read what I wrote, because you were never coming back. So I stopped writing about you, and stopped letting the pain out. Instead, I began to use writing to bottle up the pain, to distract myself. I thought the pain was fading away, that time was curing the sadness. But I was just burying it inside me, so deep I forgot it was there.” I put a hand on my heart and try to slow the thunderous beating inside my chest. “But the writing… the words began to flow slower. Writing was harder and it took longer, and I was so frustrated. I could feel the river inside me drying up. I thought it was just writer’s block a-and it would pass, but… a few weeks ago the river dried up altogether. I just couldn’t write anymore. Because,” I say, my voice fracturing, “I have all the pain and all the sorrow of the last two years bottled up inside me. And I can’t let it out, because if I do, I will be swept away in the flood.” 

I bring my knees up to my chest and curl over them, hugging my legs. “So now I cannot write. And now I have no way to distract myself from the pain that still comes. So either I deal with the old pain inside me in one great flood, or I live with the new pain that comes in a steady trickle. Forever.”

I look up to the sun, tears filling my eyes. “Or… or I end it.” I whisper, “And there’ll be no more pain, and I come find you…”

The air grows cold suddenly, as if the sun itself recoils. The warm presence that always dwells in the garden retreats, and I bury my head in my hands, hating myself for uttering those atrocious words. How could I think that? How could I say that? I could never do it - Olivia would never want me to do it. But the pain that consumed me day and night was growing unbearable and I was struggling to remember the good times, the wonderful memories, that had kept me from insanity in the aftermath of Olly’s death.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to empty air. “It’s just hard.” The warmth returns to the air and the sun emerges from behind a cloud, bathing my face in sunshine. I feel a warmth on my cheek, like a hand caressing my face. I smile even as tears drip down my face, thankful that her presence has returned. I lower my legs and settle into the chair, tipping my head back to feel the light on my face. “I love you,” I say to her. Even if it’s not truly her, even if she’s not alive, I know she’s here in my heart, and in the garden she loved so much. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, calming my thundering heartbeat with the image of her face. Her tan summer skin covered in freckles from bathing in the sunshine, her hair like a waterfall of fire, her eyes like glittering emeralds with flecks of burnt gold shining within them. Her smile was wide and merry, and her laugh filled my soul with joy. I drifted off to sleep in her garden, the memory of her beautiful face bringing a smile to my lips even as I dream.

The hospital was white and clean, the smell of chemicals and cleaning products sharp in my nose. My fingers shook as I knocked on the pale blue door numbered 43, my heart pounding in my chest. A soft ‘come in’ sounded from inside and I opened the door to the white hospital room. I rushed over to the bed and the woman within it, falling to my knees beside it. Olivia’s normally golden skin was wan, her forest-green eyes dull. She pulled herself up onto her elbows, struggling with the effort. I gently helped her to sit up, arranging the pillows so she would be comfortable. She reached for my hand and I held it tightly, interlacing our fingers. She smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “I missed you,” she croaked. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I missed you so much,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” she said softly. I opened my mouth, but she squeezed my hand tightly. She turned her head to look at the vase of tulips, orange blossom and lavender I had brought her from our garden. Both of our favourite flowers, plus orange blossom to signify eternal love. That was what we had, and what we would always have, no matter how things turned out. The vase was on the windowsill, and sunshine streamed in, bathing the flowers in light.

“I’m going to die soon,” she whispered. I sucked in a breath.

“No,” I said hurriedly. “No, no, no you’re not. Don’t say that. You’re fine, you’re going to be fine-”

“Beatrice.” 

I blinked back tears and swallowed, stopping my tirade. 

“I want to see the garden before I go,” she said, not looking away from our flowers.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said.

“Bea-”

“No.” I said firmly. She looked back at me, smiling sadly. 

“I want to see the garden again,” she said, putting a shaking hand on my cheek. I put my own hand against hers and held it there, savouring her warmth.

“Of course. But it won’t be the last time. I won’t let it be.”

She nodded, still smiling at me, though tears swam in her eyes. I pulled her hand from my face and kissed it gently, gazing into her emerald-and-gold eyes. 

The wonder on her face was enough to bring tears to my eyes. She stared at the flowers as I wheeled her around, beaming happily even as tears streamed from her eyes. “I was scared I wouldn’t get to see it again,” she said. “But it’s all still here. I’m really here, and I’m seeing it. And smelling it,” she said as she plucked an aster from the flowerbed. “Would you take me over to the tulips?” she asked. 

“Of course,” I said, kissing her cheek. I wheeled her over to her garden chair, careful not to let her be jolted by the dips and hollows in the earth. She held on tightly to the arms of the wheelchair, as her sickness had caused her to become as weak and frail as a ghost. I brought her to her chair in the tulip beds and helped her into it, half-carrying her over the metre between the chairs. I sat in her wheelchair while she leaned back, savouring the sights and smells of our garden we had built together. 

She picked a pink tulip from beside her, then reached over to the lavender bush behind her. Grasping a few flowers, she brought them all to her nose and inhaled deeply before clutching them to her chest. “Would you get me some of those, Bea?” she asked, pointing to the patch of yellow and orange flowers in the far corner. I nodded and kissed her cheek before walking to the far flowerbed. The flowers were chrysanthemums, and I picked a few big, bright ones for her. I walked backed over and saw her asleep in the chair. I chuckled, thinking of how in-character that was. She loved to nap all the time before she got sick. I went over and gently opened her hands, placing the chrysanthemums with the other flowers. Something suddenly didn’t seem right. I assessed her for a moment, confused as to why there’s a growing feeling of dread within my heart, and then-

Her chest wasn’t moving. 

I pressed my hands to her chest, willing a beat to be there. Nothing. I held my fingers against her lips but no air rushed past them. “No, no, no!” I said. “No!”

I began screaming then, screaming at her to come back, wake up. Her eyes were closed, but when I lifted her eyelids her eyes were blank and unseeing. “No! Please, no!” I wailed, but to no avail. She was gone. 

I collapsed to my knees, sobbing. I rested my face on her knees, folding my arms around my head, trying to block out the sights and sounds of her favourite place. I wept into her gown, desperately hoping this was all just a bad dream.

The garden is in full bloom. I feel as if I am awake, yet I know I’m not, because Olly is here. It’s not a memory, either, like just before, because I don't remember this happening. It’s simply a dream.

“Why won’t you write?” Olly says. She’s healthy and glowing, just like she had been before the sickness began to waste away her body.

“I can’t,” I say. “There are no more words inside me.”

She smiles and shakes her head at me. “You could if you wanted to,” she said. “You know you could.”

“But I can’t!” I exclaim. “That river of stories has dried up. And even if I tried, I would have to deal with the pain. I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can. You are strong, stronger than anyone I know.”

I shake my head. “I can’t,” I whisper.

She walks towards me and takes my hand, holding it tight. “The river has not run dry. It is just dammed up, stuck inside here.” She puts a hand over my heart. “You can let it out. You have not stopped writing forever. This is just a… hiatus.”

I hang my head, ashamed of myself. Even in death, this brilliant, vibrant woman is still so full of life and joy, while I, who still has the privilege of life, live like a ghost. “I can’t deal with the pain,” I say again.

“Yes, you really can. Just write, Bea. Write down everything, the good, the bad. It will help you get through this.” I begin to object, but she squeezes my hand. “And you need to get through this. If you don’t, the pain and grief will consume you.” I know what she’s saying is true. I’ve known it for a while, yet I’ve refused to acknowledge, trying to forget. “And you are not alone. Do not think for one second that you are alone.”

I smile tentatively and think about what she’s saying. I nod.

“I love you,” she whispers to me, stepping close. She pulls me into a hug, and it feels real. I hug her back, as tightly as I can. 

“Can- can you come visit or something?” I dare to whisper. 

“I am always in our garden, remember?” she says. “And I am always in your heart.”

I gingerly open my eyes, shielding them from the blazing sun with my hand. I take a deep breath, the smell of our garden soothing me. I used to get that memory all the time - the memory of Olly’s death. Never, though, have I dreamt of that conversation with Olly, so that must have been real, I think. I will not dismiss it as merely something my mind made up, not when I needed that reassurance from her, not when it felt so real. I stand up, walking through our garden to our little flat. I grab my notebook and pen from my desk and walk back up to her seat. Settling down in the chair, I balance the notebook on my knees and begin to scratch the pen along the paper.

A woman sat in a colourful garden, laughing merrily in the summer sun. She had fiery red hair and emerald eyes, and this is her story.