The Rose

I placed the last black magic rose into the crystal container in preparation for tomorrow's wedding.

"You done, honey?" Alice bellows from the adjoining room of the design studio.

"Almost," I say, "I cannot wait until we never have to hear from that Bridezilla ever again!"

"I know," she responds, "but it's not every day this little shop of ours gets to cater to someone of her importance. It's good for business!"

The Bridezilla in question was Rosalie Hale, a Manhattan born socialite who was engaged to be married to one of the cities most eligible bachelor's, Emmett Cullen. The couple had been engaged only 6 weeks and here we were, just one day before her wedding. Alice and I, as well as the "New York Housewife" community of Manhattan, speculated there was something more to this shot gun wedding. An unexpected bun in the oven perhaps? Needless to say, this had everyone's tongues wagging.

Because of the short time frame of the engagement, it was nearly impossible for the bride and her flaming wedding planner to find a florist in Manhattan that was available on such short notice. So one morning, Rose and her planner Laurent, sauntered into our little mom and pop floral shop in the heart of Brooklyn to place the largest order we had ever taken. Alice, the owner of "Wonderland Floral Design" was beyond thrilled. Not only would it bring a ton of extra cash into the business, but the exposure in itself would surely bring much needed customers. But all the benefits of this wedding were soon overshadowed by Rose's overbearing personality. Not only had she and Laurent been in the shop on four separate occasions this week to check on our "progress," they demanded thousands upon thousands of red roses that were shipped in from countries throughout the world. Alice and I had been up for nearly two days meticulously creating each bouquet, centerpiece and arrangement to her liking.

Now that we were finally finished with the arrangements and getting ready for tomorrow's delivery, my thoughts turn to night and my empty apartment. The nights were always the worst; Alone, no distractions, nowhere to hide.

"You alright, Bella?" Alice pulls me from my thoughts.

"I'm okay," I lie, "just thinking about tomorrow. It's gonna be so much work. I can't wait til it's all over."

"I know; that's why we need to get some rest tonight. Jasper will be here at 8 am sharp with a few other guys so we can start loading the trucks. You can meet us at the venue if you want, get a few extra hours of sleep?"

"No way, Alice!" I respond, "I'll be here at 8. Have a good night, hon!"

"You too, Bella! Get home safe."

I walk down the neighborhood I have called home for the last 8 months. Home. So far from where I once was. I have settled in a newer Brooklyn building paying rent on a one bedroom apartment. It is nice, and more importantly, clean. No mice or roaches or any of the stereotypical things that scream "New York" apartment. I had money, that wasn't an issue now. Even if the money Alice paid me barely covered half of what I paid in rent, I felt somewhat okay there. Calling myself happy would be a stretch. But it beat being passed out on the couch for days at a time not knowing if it was night or day, let alone not caring.

I open the door to my apartment and noticed my answering machine light blinking. I know, right? Who in their right mind still had an answering machine? Or a land line for that matter. But since I made the decision to no longer have a cell phone, I felt the need to have some sort of way to reach out in case of an emergency. The 5 messages on the machine were surely from my mother, Renee. I pressed the button and began deleting the messages even before I heard her voice. I could not deal with her today, maybe even ever.

My little apartment was sparsely decorated. A brown, leather couch that reminded me of the one we had at home. A coffee table and a plasma TV were the only other things besides the bookcase that adorned the room. I purchased a small 4 person dining table from the Scandinavian Design store a few weeks ago. Renee always said that the table for four I had at home was not enough seating for the entire family during gatherings, but it was just enough for us.

I ate a bowl of cereal on the couch and watched a little TV. I logged on to Facebook and saw what my friends and family from home were up to. There were no longer the "I miss you, Bella" or "Bella, come home" or "We love you" posts. So the guilt and pain had minutely decreased. My friends, Jessica and Angela, were gearing up for a girls night out. My cousin, Emily, posted pictures of her son's birthday party. Those were the ones that always hurt. I logged off and readied myself for my nightly routine.

A couple of Lexapros later, I was passed out on my queen sized sleigh bed. There, the dreams always start. I welcome them, no matter how heart wrenching they are. In my dreams, they are alive. Tonight it was the two of them in our old family room. I was sitting on the couch while she had her little two year old hands on his hips. He had his back to her and was wiggling his hips to and fro.

"Look, Mom! We're doing the choo choo dance!" Seth yells. And she giggles. I hear that giggle in my sleep and feel it my heart.

Tonight, the dream would be unkind. It fades quickly and turns into a memory. One that I thought would be the hardest and saddest thing I would ever endure. A cold and rainy February morning where everyone is dressed in black. Her Uncles hold her coffin and prepare to place her where she would remain for the rest of eternity. I am seated on one of the green chairs reserved for immediate family. He turns to me with his giant blue eyes and says, "Mom, why couldn't we save her?"

I wake up in a cold sweat with tears streaming from my face. It is nearly 4 in the morning. I got almost 5 hours of sleep. Not bad actually, most nights it's much less.