Excerpt from Root, Petal, Thorn
Deadheading was a necessary but melancholy part of keeping roses, because the belle of the ball only days ago must be abandoned the moment she started to fade. She no longer served a purpose. Get rid of the old, allowing the new buds to utilize the nutrients that would otherwise be captured by the aging. A practical, yet dreary, reality. And where was I in my rose life span?
With new determination, I reached for a branch on the final bush: the Emmeline, the rose that inspired the garden. It was the only rosebush here, overgrown and strewn with thorns when we decided to buy our home on Downington Avenue. Emmeline was an old-fashioned girl, her growth wild and unruly. She’d fill the yard if unattended and stubbornly bloomed only once a season. Why not rid myself of her? Why plant more roses to accompany her? Two reasons. The fragrance: ephemeral and haunting. It changed from day to day, hour to hour – melting butter, jasmine, sun shimmering on wet pavement, or green. The second reason: she had a story.
The listing agent for the quaint red brick bungalow must have seen in my face the starry-eyed notions I had about living in a historic house, my eyes skimming over the cracked foundation, overgrown lawn, and peeling paint and resting instead on tiny perfect details – glass doorknobs, arts and crafts tile on the hearth (chipped but original), a covered porch spanning the width of the home, complete with a white-painted wooden porch swing.
“The neighbor across the street told me this is called the Emmeline rose,” the realtor said as we walked into the romantically overgrown backyard for the first time, his hand lingering on one of the snowy blossoms like it was a precious gift. “Apparently, the bare-root was carried west across the plains in a handcart, and eventually planted right here in 1913, the year the home was built.”
“Was it 1912 or 1913 when the Titanic sunk?” I asked, mostly to myself, lost in a vision of a youthful Leonardo DiCaprio, standing proud on the deck of an ill-fated ship. The fragrance touched me, and I pictured corseted women with long skirts and feather-plumed hats. Could someone from that sepia time have planted this rose?
In that moment long ago, reflecting upon the lives spent in the house, the innumerable stories held within the walls, I longed to be one of those stories. Mine would be a fairy-tale embraced by the little bungalow. Happily-ever-after.
If only.
Now, one hundred years after she took root, my Emmeline rose continued to thrive, but she’d outlived my husband. She’d surely lived decades longer than the actual Emmeline, the woman who must have carried the bare-root across the plains. What might she have been like, Emmeline? Living in my house a century ago? In the years we’d lived in the time-worn bungalow our walls had seen several colors of paint, not to mention patching of wood floors, new kitchen cabinets, and updated lighting. What would the house have been like when the home was new and the beloved antique features, like push-button light switches and built-in bookshelves, were both cutting-edge and modern? How must it have felt to live in walls that harbored no secrets and concealed no pain?
***
Dropping the aged newspaper through the trap door and into the hall below, I shined the flashlight one last time into all the dark corners. What was hiding up here, if not our raccoon? As I prepared to descend, gratefully empty-handed, I spotted in the gap revealed by the missing newspaper, a wavering flash – a glint of something shiny – and considered that perhaps the old mama had her paws on something valuable. Didn’t raccoons like shiny things? I double-checked that my glove covered my vulnerable wrist, in case the girl was waiting in the hole for a sneak-attack, then plunged my hand into the void and grabbed at what felt like a piece of wood debris. Prepared for more resistance, I fell back as a board tumbled to the floor of the attic with a hollow thud. Naomi hollered from below, asking if I was okay, and after reassuring her I was fine, I realized that what I’d uncovered wasn’t wood at all.
Sitting in front of me was a little traveling case the size of an unabridged dictionary made of brown leather so ancient it was peeling and flaking in spots. The corners were squared and held together with rusty brackets. A faded monogram graced the top – an elegant cursive E. Now this was an Easter egg! I took off the safety glasses and stared at the case, contemplating.
I instantly wanted to call Adam at the office to fill him in on this little discovery. I almost yelled for to Naomi to hand me the phone. Then, with a heaviness that sat squarely on my shoulders, I remembered I couldn’t call Adam at the office, ever again.
I shook my head to clear the dark thought and considered the little case. What secret could it contain? Hopefully nothing gory – it was too small to hold a body, which was of some relief. Finally, no longer able to stand the suspense, I took a deep breath and flipped the latch. Folded tightly at the bottom was a piece of muslin yellowed with age. Pulling it out, I straightened the folds on a piece of embroidery.
An image of the Salt Lake City Temple, the original temple built by the first Mormons in my town, had been meticulously completed, and in an arc above the temple were the words, Sealed for Time and all Eternity. Below the temple were two names looped together with embroidered vines and flowers; Emmeline and Nathaniel, and the year – 1916. The names were written roughly in pencil, the stitches covering the script only half complete.
Emmeline! The girl of the rose – it was hers. Caressing the colored floss, I held the muslin close, marveling that anyone could produce such evenly spaced, tiny stitches with needle and thread. This embroidery should have been a wall-hanging, a lovingly made memento celebrating a longed-for wedding day. But it was only half complete. Why would Emmeline hide away an unfinished statement of her love?
“Adam, she’s the girl who planted our rosebush, I know she is.” I searched the ceiling with my eyes, speaking aloud now, looking for him. “I have an idea. Find Emmeline up there, wherever you are. Tell her I’ve found her embroidery and I want to know what happened with this Nathaniel guy.”
Adam didn’t answer me, yet again, but this incomplete handwork told me that Emmeline had a story of her own. Relieved to take a break from the sad twist in my own tale, I was more than eager to consider hers.
