I turned my head towards her and eyed her carefully, watching as she drew in a deep breath. She did this every fucking time. Came in and tried to make pathetic small talk. Tried to converse about the backyard like she knew what the hell she was talking about. She arranged flowers for a living. She wasn't a horticulturist. And she didn't need to hand me some sort of pity conversation.
People were dealing without me just fine.
So I could deal without them.
"If you want to have thriving carnations, I suggest you line them by the hot tub instead," the woman said.
I furrowed my brow as my ears perked up.
"They could do with a light misting. Those daffodils will get waterlogged and rot after a while."
Then the front door opened and closed behind her beautiful body as she left.
I wheeled my chair around and watched her figure through the window. The deep sway of her hips and the way her curly hair blew around her shoulders. I wheeled over and pulled the curtain back, shielding my eyes from the harsh sun as she got into her car. Her thick legs carried her tall and confidently, and the toned dip in her waist called to my fingertips.
I watched her get in and drive away before I rolled over to the flowers she delivered.
I reached up and plucked the card from the vase. I smelled the flowers, taking in their delicious scent. I opened the card she kept delivering with the arrangement and took in the cursive handwriting. It was obviously hers. Controlled. Fluid. Feminine.
Like her.
Be honest. Be nice. Be a flower. Not a weed.
-Aaron Neville
I stuck the card in my breast pocket to save for a rainy day. Every arrangement had a different quote about flowers that somehow seemed to reflect our prior engagements. I backed away from the flowers and relegated myself to the fireplace room. I sat with the books stacked along the shelves and closed my eyes, basking in the silence of the room.
I assumed my mother and sister were still bickering.
Pathetic.
My mind drifted back to the woman. Apparently, she had a little more knowledge about flowers than I gave her credit for. The suggestion wasn't a bad one, and it gave me something to think about.
What would those carnations look like lining the outside of the hot tub?
Maybe I'd give her a call when I was better. Upright. Walking. Able to do the things a man of my prominence should be able to do. I felt the card burning a hole in my pocket, waiting to get back into my room. I had a desk there with my laptop and an entire drawer dedicated to the cards she left me.
For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to throw them away.
"Alfred? Alfred!"
"Where did he go, Mom?"
"Alfred! Where are you, sweetheart?"
I cringed at the sound of their voices.
"He's in here, Mom. Alfred, you can't roll off like that. You scared the hell out of us," Cara said.
"Too bad I didn't scare the shit out of you," I said. "Because you're full of it."
"Don't talk to your sister like that," my mother said.
"Then stop arguing all the time," I said.
"We only want what's best for you," Cara said.
"When it doesn't include my opinion, sure," I said.
"If you had things your way, you wouldn't even be doing this follow-up surgery," my mother said.
"Because I don't think it's necessary."
"Well it is. So hush," she said.
"Nice to know my opinion holds weight still," I said flatly.
"Now don't take that attitude with me," my mother said. "We're the ones taking care of you."
"Ah, and now I remember why I moved out so young," I said.
"Shut up," my sister said.
"You first."
I turned myself around and wheeled into the adjacent room. I had just enough energy to reach back and slam the door behind me. It was a small room. Meant for nothing but entertaining and business. There was a small wet bar in the corner and a few leather couches. The smell of cigar smoke was still thick in here after all these years my father had been dead. The heavy wooden doors cut the room off from the library our house had and it was cozy. A place my father took many of his business associates to offer drinks, cigars, and opportune business connections.
A room that hadn't been used since he passed and handed the company to me.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the smoke-scented air. It was a smell I'd come to identify with my father. His suits were tinted with the smell of tobacco and he would constantly chew mint gum so my mother could tolerate kissing him after one of those meetings.
Tobacco and mint.
The essence of my father.
I backed my wheelchair into a corner and stared blankly at the bar. I could see him leaning against it, clinking glasses with my mother as the two of them smiled. Happy and in love. Way before my father's life was senselessly ripped away from us. A damn car accident on the other side of the fucking world. Burst into flames and charred his body beyond reason. We had to fly over there and have the rest of his remains cremated.
There wasn't enough of him to ship back to be buried.
I was lucky, and I knew that. I was lucky to be alive, much less moving in a wheelchair. But it wasn't the life I wanted. And I was angry that I couldn't have the life I wanted. Not without more surgery and twelve other nurses and the bickering of my family and those fucking pity flowers.
My only solace were those beautiful eyes behind the bouquet.
Beautiful eyes that probably sang for another man in bed at night.
A man stronger than me.
A man who wasn't stuck like me.
Fuck.
I hated my life.