Bloom

We don’t talk about the bouquets much.

Oswald wore them in his hair when we were kids. When we found the bodies, he had a full head of roses and daisies, all expertly arranged by his mother. She fussed over him, really. The shy boy ate to the sounds of that woman hissing and fumbling over his every move.

Embarrassed for him, I stared at my plate when she piled food onto his, looked around their massive old Tudor home when she pulled his ears, fussing about wax, hid my face in prayer when she pulled dried skin off his lips.

Oswald wasn’t meant to be pretty, I think. He wasn’t meant to be neat.

My father dropped me off at their house all the time, especially after my mother died. Our parents talked for hours, enjoying each other, and sometimes he’d put his hand on her knee. I don’t know if she liked it. A few times, we showed up, and she fussed at my father, her face blooming in anger, words too low to understand. He laughed when she was angry, shooing us to go play, and Oswald would take me on a tour. I couldn’t imagine so much luxury. Even walking around the estate made my head throb with wonder.

We visited a lot. Once, Oswald’s mother turned us away angrily, but Oswald sobbed, crying for me, and she let us stay. My father put his hand on her knee again that day, and they shooed us, and we disappeared outside. She had a garden that went on for acres, with hired help to mow lawns that breathed longer and deeper than we ever would. I hid under fountains with Oswald, speaking a language I long since forgot. We knew a lot more then.

The night peeled back over our heads, and when we ventured back to the house, there was no one there. We scoured the entire home. I read books to Oswald, envying the bouquet still tied with twine to his brown locs, until we fell asleep. We were still alone when we woke up.

I wanted flowers in my hair, so Oswald took me to his favorite spot in the garden. The rising sun made his skin glow, crawling over the flowers one by one, settling on his brown skin, and sliding down to meet cracked lips. I stared too long, then his face fell.

When we found the bodies, he wilted.

…

Over the years, he’s put less and less flowers in his hair.

Oswald doesn’t make eye contact anymore, so I compensate for him. When we go places, I speak loudly and fearlessly. There’s a potion in it somewhere. He gets to root into the ground, all his nerves bundled up into a blank expression, and I present. It happens at the bank, at the grocery store, in every place that matters. I never speak to him directly, but I speak often.

People don’t even recognize us as destitute. Waifs. Homeless. They don’t see us as street people. They don’t see his home crawling with vines and mildew or the black mold inside that crept into our lungs until we had to leave. It follows us everywhere, the hollow echo in the halls. Sometimes it rains, and I feel the water hitting my skin, dripping from the roof even if we’re inside. The house was falling apart before she died, he said, but she didn’t want to give up what they had.

The people, they don’t know we stayed in that house until the lights went off. Until the water stopped running. Until there was nothing but a roof and walls and silence. They don’t know how many years we fed off the garden, how we walked alone on the estate until the bodies decomposed, until there was nothing left.

We clean up well, I think. Oswald doesn’t care, but I make sure we have couches to sleep on, sinks to wash in. My father used to say cleanliness was next to … something.

I forget what he used to say sometimes, but it’s been a long time.

When Oswald does speak, it’s like waiting for the sun to crawl over the flowers in his hair, watching it eat the darkness, slow at first, then spreading and widening. It’s like watching the light bloom over his eyes, then his nose, then his cracked lips. It’s like watching his face fall. People listen to Oswald, and when he speaks, I feel forgiven.

When we found the bodies, I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. The thick, hairy leg of a man stretched toward us, then I had the stupid thought to cover my eyes before I reached his private parts. I skipped up and saw his face, then I didn’t care.

…

We have sex sometimes, and all Oswald wants to do is squeeze me. He never moans. I make noise. I move too much, trying to compensate for how still he is. At twenty-two, maybe I have more energy than he does at twenty-four, but I don’t know how these things work.

It’s the only time I allow myself to look at him. He keeps his eyes closed, digging his hands into my hips, drawing blood sometimes. I can’t stand to have him over me, to have him behind me, to have bruises anywhere I might see them. So I’m always on top, and he’s always so still, he could be the floor. He never makes a sound.

When we found the bodies, he let out a single gasp, something so small that only I remember. I didn’t hear it at first. There was a whistle in my ears I still can’t explain, just a strange noise that blocked out everything. The woman’s face was clean, but her mouth was wrenched open in some last-minute expression of horror. The man had his hand on her throat, holding her still, letting her die. They were trapped in that scene.

We saw Oswald’s mother’s exposed breasts, her bruised neck, the windpipe crushed deep into her throat. Then, there was nothing. I saw my father with his arms and legs wrapped around her, lovingly maybe. You wouldn’t know he’d murdered her if it wasn’t for the bruising. If it wasn’t for the expression.

I know he was dead, but I couldn’t look long enough to figure out how. I knew he killed her. There was no question. Both of their eyes were empty, hollowed out like some … like … I don’t know. Like death.

I still can’t describe some things. You just don’t learn when it’s you and trauma and a childhood to finish.

They left us to grow ourselves, and some things just never took.

…

I wore a flower in my hair once, and Oswald’s face transformed. It folded almost, then he was sobbing, then he wouldn’t look near me for weeks. Sometimes I put it back in, ashamed of myself but needing to want something again. I can’t remember anything I wanted other than the flowers.

I imagine myself opening sometimes. Bouquets in my hair, finally getting those flowers Oswald was supposed to give me. Even when I find the words to say to Oswald, when I find the strength to turn to him and speak, I imagine the sun crawling over the flowers in his hair and stop. Maybe he hates me. Maybe he feels stuck with me, trapped in a single moment in his mother’s garden, staring down at our dead parents.

I’m stuck in the sun hitting his bouquet, the moment of calm before the hair on a leg, the bruising on a neck. I’m stuck in that moment of bloom, so maybe he is too.