Garden of Hope

Garden of Hope

Around the time most young girls eight years old were learning to help their mother’s bake or do household duties, I was learning how to tend to my mother and her mysterious bruises that appeared almost every day. Eight years old and mixing ointments and creams that would help ease her pain. She never told me what to do; she just watched me shuffle around and prepare what I could. When I would try taking care of her, she would attempt to smile and hide the pain she was feeling from my clumsy applications, and she would stroke my hair and tell me, “I’m the luckiest mama alive because my little Iris flower takes care of me.” I would ask her what had happened and all she would tell me was that daddy had an accident. She thought I wouldn’t understand, but I did. I led her to believe I didn’t because she seemed so desperate that I would adore my father. But my young heart was already poisoned. I thought daddy had had too many accidents with her. It seemed to get worse each time, and then one day I found my older sister Lily tucked into her bed with the covers pulled over her head. I went to try to get in bed with her like always so she’d read me a story, but this time, she angrily pushed me away and turned her face to the wall and told me to go outside and play. I complied, but was very hurt. And I had seen the bloodied lip she had and the purple mark under her eye when she turned away. It seemed more accidents were happening.

We lived in Staffordshire, a village nestled in the West Midlands of England. It was a place of rugged hills and peat bogs that surrounded the little homes that were decorated with age. For some, it was a way of life to live in such a deserted, densely populated place, but I saw the village I grew up in as a shackle of dreams and opportunity. My father acted as the village physician and would go around treating people who couldn’t really pay him in money so they gave us baked goods and clothing that the women sewed. Everyone in the village loved my father, as if he was their God. With them he was a God; at home he was the Devil. I learned from very young that life was a misery and I was stuck. Following the examples of my mother and Lily, I would smile at the people in Church on Sundays and watch Lily, always vivacious and lovely, as she demanded the attention of the young men with her velvety laughter and downcast eyes. She craved the attention and had no trouble getting it. Most often than not, I would see her sneaking away to the woods behind the church hand in hand with one fellow or another. I would only hope she was happy smile at others, pretending that they didn’t notice the covered up marks on the arms and faces of my mother and sister. I knew they didn’t want to notice, or they would lose their exalted doctor and savior who so graciously offered them comfort and healing in their time of need.

When I was eleven years old, I experienced my first taste of physical pain. Mother was in bed again and Lily was running around, probably avoiding coming home till she absolutely had to, so I was left to fix supper for my father. He sat in his big, weathered wooden chair reading the simple newspaper Pearls Gates produced. I watched from under my lashes as he turned the pages and continued to fill his glass with cheap whiskey. I counted six times. He was flushed and restless I could see. I hurried to get supper finished so I could serve him and closet myself in my room. I felt I had to be away from him. Finally, I set a plate of hot food on the table and called him to attention.

“Little Iris has finished my dinner,” he chuckled, “aren’t you gonna eat too?

“I’m not very hungry papa. I’d like to go to sleep early tonight if it’s ok. Lily is taking me to buy shoes early tomorrow.

“Not very hungry huh.” He took a spoon full of the stew I had made chewed thoughtfully. “This is very good. Better than your mother’s stew. I want you to eat. You’re too thin for good taste.”

“Please papa, I’d prefer not too, my stomach feels unsettled. I’m glad you like it. Goodnight.” I began walking towards the room I shared with Lily and then I heard the chair being pushed back. I was immediately filled with unspeakable cold and I stopped and turned. He stood there looking at me, drunk and amused, and then he walked towards me. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he effortlessly dragged me back to where he had been sitting and sat me down on his lap. He reeked of Gods knows what and I turned my face. He turned it back with a slap. I couldn’t help the tears that formed and spilled over, but I could lift my eyes to his defiantly.

“You’ve always thought you were too good for this family.” He said with deadly calm, and that scared me more than what he could do to me. “You think I don’t work hard to keep you all alive? And what do I get? Two daughters, one a w***e and the other a proud b***h, and a wife that won’t let me in her bed.” I knew why my mother wouldn’t let father touch her. Lily had explained these things to me. When you slept with many people you got infections and mama didn’t want papa to touch her because he slept with many w****s Lily said. I didn’t blame her. I’d be repulsed and frightened too.

“Father you’re drunk and upset please let me go to bed. I’ll fix you a cup of tea to ease your headache from all the alcohol.” I shouldn’t have said anything I know, but I did and his anger ignited. He threw me off his lap and kicked me in the side. The pain swam in my eyes but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing me buckle under his wrath. He pulled me up roughly and dragged me outdoors behind the house. He pulled out his belt, turned me around, bared my bottom and began his beating. I bit my tongue from the pain until it bled, but I never cried. Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I hated him and I couldn’t let me him see that he had any power over me. It was only a few minutes of pain and then he began swaggering from the liquor. He threw his belt aside and gave me a few kicks instead. Then, without a word, he walked away.

I didn’t care that he had done that to me. What made me cry while I lay there in the darkness was the knowledge that mama and Lily had endured this for years. I knew Lily escaped and sought comfort with boys, or men. She was so beautiful, much more beautiful than I could imagine ever looking, with her pale blonde hair and petite, yet full, figure. I had frizzy, golden hair that was streaked with orange when the sun shone, a splatter of freckels all across my nose and upper cheeks that seemed to darken under the sun and lips that were too plump for my face. I thought I was too tall and had no form and could not help but stare at my sister in envy when she would dress in the morning. I would sit in bed as she combed her long hair and chatted with me about what her day was going to be like, and she would sometimes handle my hair and pin it up with her torquiose combs that mama had given her when she turned twelve. Her personality and her laughter was contagious and you couldn’t help but love her. At seventeen she knew she could get what she wanted easily. It worried me that most often than not, what she wanted was to drink, or money to spend on useless vanities. But it seemed that outside of home, she was happy. And I knew that our father not only abused her physically, but sexually also. I woke up one night and saw father covering her mouth with his hand while the other hand moved around under the blanket. I closed my eyes when I saw him begin to unzip his pants. In no time, he was gone. Lily saw that I was awake and quickly assured me she was ok and that next time he tried that she’d kill him. I made her promise me time after time that she would never let it happen again. So I never questioned her because I’d rather she be out enjoying herself, than at home being subjected to our disgusting father. I never knew how she could wake up each morning as if the sun shone brightly in her life and the world had no rain or fog. Mama, small and pretty, but frail in health always, was a seamstress and occupied most of her days sewing clothes for the orphan children that resided in spare rooms in the church. She would visit them many times with baked treats and read them stories. I went with her sometimes, but truthfully, I hated stepping into the church. I knew that Father Reynolds wasn’t blind and stupid, and he had to guess at what went on in our house. Lily and mama were evidence, no matter how hard they tried covering up. And never once did I see him come over and try talking to Lily about changing her ways. He wanted no trouble, and to me that was cowardly. But I wanted no embarrassment to come to mama or Lily so I kept my mouth shut. I suppose in a way that was cowardly too. Eventually throughout the years, I learned to live as if our home world was all there was, so I learned to view it all as life’s normal routines. But I kept my hatred, no matter how much preaching I heard about how God thought it was a sin to hate someone. I didn’t care. I hated my father and one day I would let him know.

When I was seven years old I started keeping journals. I would sit out in mama’s garden during the evening and write in my journal, pulling all my girlish fantasies out and recording them. The gardens were special to me because it was there I got to spend time with mama while she showed me how to plant and told me the names of flowers. It was with those flowers that I developed my creams and brewed tea for mama or Lily. Some of the flowers were poisonous and sometimes I would stare at them and let my imagination wander. Then I would write to get my mind cleared up. I also loved to write in the nearby woods, sitting by a great oak that had an opening I had made by the ground where I would stash my journals. I could sit there for hours and would often think about what could be if I wasn’t stuck in the village. I hated seeing the poverty, the women and many times young girls who would stand subtely off to the side of the roads and then, in what seemed like the pinprick of a moment, would be wisked away under the shoulder of a man. The woods were filled with my imprisoned hopes, fears, and thoughts, but it was also in those woods that I met Elias Snow. Elias, who was nineteen then, with his shaggy brown hair and bright green eyes, made me laugh and forget the real world. He would plan picnics by a creek we found that was mostly deserted. He knew what to do to make me giddy with joy, like make me a kite so we could take it out to a field and fly it. I had told him I’d never flown a kite and thought it was a lovely thing to watch, so he surprised me with one that had iris flowers painted on it. I was sixteen the summer that we met, and what started as a friendship between us grew into love. He made me feel small and vulnerable, when I was tall and blunt, and he would run his thumbs lighty along my freckels after we shared a kiss and say that the sun found me so irresistible it branded its devotion on my face. The night of my eighteenth birthday, year 1914, was the night we made love for the first time. We were sitting on his porch talking, eating rasberry tarts that his mother had made for me.

‘’Do you want another tart? Or some milk,” he asked me, and I smiled because I could tell he was buying time.

“No, I’m fine thanks. But I would like to go for a walk. It’s not too late yet, and the night is cool. Let’s go by the creek!”

“Allright, I need to get something in my room. And I’ll get some blankets too.” When he returned, we raced to the creek and fell down winded and laughing and, I convulsed in giggles as Elias turned me onto my stomach and tickled me as I was pinned on the damp grass. Afterwards, I spread the blankets out and we lay on them and gazed at the stars. Elias pointed out the constellations to me and we drew shapes with the stars like you do with clouds. Then he sat up and ran his hands through his hair. I sat up and asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just nervous. There’s something I want to ask you.” He turned me towards him and we both knelt facing each other. My heart was pounding, and when I saw him reach into his jeans pocket and pull out a little box, I couldn’t help but squeal. He laughed and took my hand in his.

“Iris, before I met you, I was just an ordinary guy, thinking of girls and what I could get. But you changed my world and because you’re in my life I’m the happiest, luckiest man out there. I want to protect you and love you and show you just how much you mean to me.” My tears were uncontrollable at that point, but I kept smiling. “I’m not wealthy, but ill make you happy. Will you marry me?” I threw my arms around him and said yes. Then he slipped the loveliest handmade band of twisted white, yellow, and rose gold. That night, we loved each other with all that we had. We had both wanted to make love for awhile and now we were cautious and inexperienced, fumbling in perfection with the moonlight gliding over our bodies and sighs escaping into the breeze . It was that much more beautiful with us, lying there under the blankets and exploring what love could be like. I thought my world would explode from the happiness I felt. Lily and I would sit up for hours talking about love and men and I would blush at the things Lily told me she had done and said I should do. There would be a silence in the dark, and then we would burst into giggles. That summer was the most wonderful summer, and time, of my life. I was living in bliss and was unprepared for what winter would bring.

Winters in Staffordshire were always rough and snowy, and the town was always met with its number of ill people. It had to be that winter that Elias became gravely ill. What started as a simple winter cold became an infection in his lungs. It got to the point where he couldn’t eat or drink and would thrash around at night because of the abnormal cold he felt. My father was summoned and his diagnosis was negative. He would shake his head and murmur to Elias’s parents, but he would never look at me. I would sit by Elias’s side and watch my father mix and measure medicines, suspicious of his every move. He was angry with me ever since it became known that I was engaged to Elias. I don’t know why, since he never showed an ounce of concern for me. I think it was just the fact that I had a man to protect me now because after hearing about Elias’s and mine engagement he never raised a hand to me again. I think he knew that I wouldn’t hesitate to set Elias loose on him. My father was old and getting fat and couldn’t do much but drink and pretend to heal his patients. I never cared what he thought though, especially what he thought about Elias’s infection. In my mind, I prayed to God and believed that Elias would pull through. It came as no surprise to me to catch my father with his hands over Elias’s nose and mouth one night. Elias could barely move or speak as it was and was so speak he couldn’t put up much struggle, so I screamed and ran to my father pushing him aside and calling for help. But it was too late. And my father convinced everyone I was delusional with worry and grief and he was just trying to help. The people loved him; they believed him. I had no say and didn’t care because I swore to myself during Elias’s funeral that my father would one day suffer. After the burial, I ran to the woods and to the creek. There my anguish was set loose, and I cried out the pain that I swear I felt would kill me. It hurt so much to know I wasn’t there with him, to hold his hand to tell him I loved him and that he had given me joy like no other. Afterwards, I sat by the oak tree and stared at my ring. I couldn’t bear to look at it any longer, so I took it off and placed it among my journals in the secret tree compartment.

 

          When I got home that night, I refused to talk and I went to bed and slept the whole night and half of the next day. It was until I woke up that I noticed something under my pillow. Sitting up, I took it out and saw it was a letter from Lily. Lily, who had not been home in several says and didn’t know about Elias’s death, was gone. She had eloped with a man and she said they were very much in love and he treated her like the princess she was. She told me not to worry, and wished me love and happiness with Elias, and said she would let me know where she was so I could go to her and leave the village. I could feel my eyes moisten again at the thought of Elias. Lily went away before Elias died and now she wasn’t here to be with me. As much as I tried to be angry with her for leaving, I couldn’t. If she was happy, I didn’t want to ruin that.

          The winter went by and settled into spring. I lived each day since Elias’s death with a stoic attitude and a shrug to life. I went to church with mama and ignored the glances I received from a young man named Adrian. Mama would encourage me to pay him heed, pointing out his strong build and sly smile, but I cared nothing for the matters of love anymore. It didn’t stop me from accepting his invitations for walks in the woods. It didn’t stop me from letting him tilt my face up and seek my lips with his. He was most respectful and never pushed himself onto me. I had no desire, though I wish I did. Sitting in his fathers rickety rowboat out on the lake one day during the early evening when splashes of color stained the sky, Adrian reached out and swept his thumb along the splatter of freckles across my nose.

“I’ve been accepted into an apprenticeship with a doctor in London. My father has given his consent that I go and has provided me with monies to reside there. Iris, I want you to come with me. As my wife.” My I felt my blood chill and I looked up into his bright, moss green eyes peeking out under wisps of dark hair. In his eyes was love and a set future, something I neither felt nor cared for.

“Adrian, I’ve enjoyed my time with you, but I can’t accept you. I have no wishes for marriage and I feel pleasant affection for you. But that’s all and you need more than that. I’m sorry.” With hurt and incromprehension in his eyes he nodded and rowed me back to shore. He left the following week, never saying another word to me. My heart was cold and closed.

Father rarely came home anymore and mama couldn’t have been happier. She worked in her gardens and I helped her sometimes, always thinking of ways I could use the flowers. I noticed as the weeks went by that mama seemed to get weaker and thinner. She would wave a hand at me when I expressed my concern and she laughed it off. But I wasn’t surprised when she called me to her bed one night and told me she was dying. I took her hand in mine and brought it to my lips and let the tears fall. It was the first time I cried since Elias’s death. I asked her how, and what she said enraged me.

“I’ve known many years now darling. I’m infected with syphillis, brought on by your father. You know how it happens, so I don’t have to get into details. He’s been leaving me alone because I’ve threatened to have him exposed. His practice would die and we’d have nowhere to go and no money to live off. That’s the only reason I haven’t said anything.”

“Mama, how could you not tell me? I would have taken better care of you, I would have been here for you more often!”

“Iris, I couldn’t impose that burden on you, especially when I heard of you and Elias. But now I’m close to the end. I can feel it, so it’s only fair that you know. Promise me that when I’m gone, you’ll leave this place. Promise me!”

“Where would I go mama? I don’t even have money and Lily has still not written to me. We need to get you to a hospital in the city, maybe they can help you!”

“Don’t lie to yourself Iris. You know there is no way out of this, and I’m too far gone anyways. But I have a favor to ask of you.”

What she asked me to do was help her die quickly and avoid the painful end of her sickness. The first thing that I thought of was that I couldn’t do that and would never do that. But before I objected I looked at her looking at me, with a desperate plea in her eyes. And I knew that the best thing I could do and the best way I could help was to give in to her request. And she knew that I knew how to do it. A simple brew of tea made with the grounded petals of iris flowers. The poison was a quick, yet painless way to die. That same night, before I gave my mother the brew, father came home, demanding his dinner. I told him I’d be there in a few minutes, and I sat with my mama, holding her hand while she drank the tea with peaceful serenity. I held the tears in when she finally closed her eyes and slipped away. After placing one last kiss on her temple, I left the room, closing the door behind me and went to prepare my father’s dinner. But that’s not all I prepared.

“It’s a cold night papa. I made some tea to go with your dinner.” I told him when I placed the full plate of food in front of him. I poured him some tea when he didn’t respond and went back to clean up the counters. Slowly turning, I saw him lift the mug and drink. I smiled to myself. I was taking my revenge because of everything he had done to mama, Lily and to me. But my revenge wasn’t as simple as mama’s tea. It was a different brew, one that would cause you to feel like your insides were coming out. I heard a clatter, and turned to see him keel over holding his sides while he groaned.

“Papa, what’s wrong? When he looked up at me I smiled in his face and said, “Know that you never got the best of me. And be assured that you will rot in hell. I hate you papa.” Then I grabbed a shawl and left the house, while he moaned and convulsed on the floor. I walked calmly to the creek, carrying a steaming mug in my hands, and now here I am writing all this down. I’ve lost everything that was dear and precious to me. Mama is gone, and Lily hasn’t gotten in contact with me in any way. It’s been months, so I assume she’s found her own path. Elias is gone too. He was taken away from me, when he was all I ever wanted. Without him I’m nothing. In a few days, my father will be found, and mama too, and I will be looked for. It’s a lovely, quiet night, and I stare at the mug in my hands, filled with tea. Its amazing something so delicate and silky can be a devasting, harsh end when it flows down your throat. I breath in the steam and take a sip of the hot liquid. I closed my eyes and smiled at the memory of Elias.

He adored the sweet chamomile tea im drinking now, touched with hints of mint. He loved my chamomile tea with the swirl of mint I like to add. Drinking it now makes me feel safe, as if maybe Elias is watching over me. Of course, I know that's just not possible.