Maryrose
We imagine. We imagine her sitting. We imagine her sitting at the edge of a bed, carefully stitching needlepoint flowers. Two roses in narrow, pink thread, petals stitched over pencil lines sketched lightly over cream colored cotton background. Stems formed from green and brown thread, carefully interwoven. Three short shafts of gladioli, red white and yellow arranged as a fan behind the roses. She stitches humming, rocking her head from side to side humming quietly and forcing the needle through slowly so as not to puncture her finger. That had happened once. She struck the tip of her index finger and a sharp electric spasm raced through her hand and forearm. Removing the needle a small bulb of blood formed. She wiped it away, rubbing the wound lightly with her thumb. A dull, throbbing pain lingered for a week, during which time the roses stems and gladioli went unattended. Carefully now she stitches slowly humming softly forming flowers in thread.
* * *
Jimmy stops at her door. A faded plastic sign with flowers and the name “Maryrose” hangs above a scratch. The doorknob rattles then squeaks as it turns and releases the catch.
Sunlight passes through lace curtains swinging forward in the breeze. Bed neatly made. Quilted comforter. On the bureau are three pictures in silver frames. A little girl with her mother and father, holding a kitten. Tree in the background. Christmas time. Kitten looks huge, scooped up in both arms and pressed against the girl’s chest. Held in place for the picture its legs hang helpless. Another from graduation. High school. White cap and gown, golden tassel beside the face. Small nose, round bright blue eyes and upraised light brown eyebrows. Lips slightly larger than average stretched into a smile forming dimples in cheeks and chin. Next a picture of himself in blue jeans, standing by his old car, a Nova. One hand resting on the hood. He remembers it. He had signed it. “Maryrose All My Love Jim.” Jim with a large flourish in the tail of the “J”.
“Jimmy. Jimmy. Oh James.”
Withdrawing to the bathroom he flushes then carefully closes the bedroom door.
“Jimmy. We’re going now.”
“I’m on my way.”
His father speaks confidentially to Maryrose’s father by the fireplace.
Jimmy’s mother crosses silently and gently grasps his elbow.
Mrs. Eaton returns from the kitchen stirring a glass of orange juice with her finger. Her eyes sink into his face and then pass through his mother.
Jimmy squeezes his wrist. He feels his face growing warmer, turning red.
His father sips from a mug, carefully balancing a cigarette in the ashtray in his other hand.
Mr. Eaton turns toward his wife. Tufts of skin hang below his eyes and rest upon his cheeks. He watches her eyes widen momentarily. Then she blinks once, slowly, and lifts the glass to her lips.
“Oh God. George,” she said, “please get him out of here.”
* * *
Maryrose smiles at her needlepoint, affectionately tracing each flower with her finger. She crosses the room to the mirror and studies her face and hair in detail. Yes, still pretty. Afterwards her hair had been cut nearly to the scalp but it has grown out and now looks nice. Short, but nice. It hangs straight and even around her head, the overhead lamp giving it a slight sheen. Longer hair had made her face seem fuller, but now it looks long and narrow. Placing her fingers against both cheeks, she taps them softly, feeling the smoothness of her skin. Yes the face is as it was. A little drawn but her hair will fill out and then everything will be back to normal.
Someone taps at her door with a key, a ring, a metal object. “Oh Maryrose,” comes the voice. She turns away from the mirror saying “The door’s open, if you like” and in walks Martha.
Maryrose likes Martha. Martha is a nice woman. Martha comes to talk and sit with her next to her on the bed and admire the flowers she stitches. When Maryrose had pricked her finger with the needle and it had hurt oh so very badly it was Martha who came and gave her a little circular bandage to put over the wound and told her that while it hurt it really wasn’t oh so very bad and she would be back to her needlepoint and regular routine in no time at all. Still she found it odd that all because she pricked her finger they made her stay in the hospital when there really wasn’t as far as she was concerned a thing wrong with her not in the least bit no not anything in the least bit wrong. She would tell Martha how strange this seemed and Martha would ask her questions. Oh no Martha please not that again it is oh so boring. I really don’t know why we have to discuss such a silly thing let’s talk about something else. Look at my flowers Martha. Aren’t they pretty? She knows that Martha is a doctor but nevertheless she likes Martha because Martha is a nice woman who comes to talk to her and admire her flowers not like some other people she knows.
Maryrose skips across the room and shuffles into bed, propping herself up with all four pillows.
“How are you today Martha?”
“I’m just fine, Maryrose,” Martha said, pulling up the room’s only chair. Maryrose likes how Martha wears street clothes a handsome light blue blouse and gray suit today and doesn’t really look like a doctor at all.
“And how are you?”
She lifts the needlepoint.
“Look.”
“It’s coming along very nicely.”
“I think it will be done soon. If I can get it done before I leave maybe I’ll even give it to you.”
She places it beside her and folds her hands in her lap, lifting them first for emphasis and smiling.
“Well,” she said, made cheerful by the gesture. “What did you come to talk about today?”
“I’ve come to give you some news. Next week the doctor is coming to take off your bandages.”
She studies the small, round bandage on her finger. There is lint on the adhesive protruding from its edge.
“I’m glad he seems so interested,” she said, turning and examining her finger. “But really, a doctor to remove one bandage?”
“We’re not talking about that bandage. You can remove that anytime you like. We’re talking about the other bandages. We are going to see if you’re all better.”
Maryrose blinks once slowly and then sliding beneath the sheets raises both arms until the sleeves of her gown tumble down.
Martha sits up and asks Maryrose to sit up too. To cheer up. To tell her what she thinks the bandages are for. Maryrose slaps the sheets quickly with both arms and puffs out her cheeks.
“Do you remember Maryrose?”
Turning toward the window she looks past the needlepoint, past the roof of the east wing, to the trees, the parking deck, the highway, the sky. She pricked her finger and there was blood and a sharp pain made her jump. She ran. There was a loud noise a tingling sting then nothing then Martha brought the bandage for her finger. They wrapped her body too. Wrapped it and rewrapped it but she didn’t know why and they were tight and they wouldn’t stop. She was still very beautiful although it hurt her finger and she couldn’t make flowers for a while. Yes she could see in the mirror she was beautiful. So what if she was beautiful, beautiful look at that face and hair. So what if she was beautiful nobody seemed to care it didn’t seem to matter if Jimmy thought she was beautiful and well suppose I wasn’t beautiful what would happen then what would they think then and well I guess maybe I really don’t remember too well after all.
* * *
The doctor explains the procedure, tapping his palm against the foot of the bed for emphasis. Martha smiles. The doctor wears doctor clothes, a white cotton coat with a name tag and pens in one pocket. He introduces his assistants.
“I don’t see what we need such a big production for,” she said. “I’m sure I can do whatever it is you want by myself.”
The doctor asks her to please sit up and hold out her arms. Then, each holding one of her wrists, his assistants begin unwinding the bandages. There is a scar just below her neck. “My they must have been too tight I thought they were tight I guess it just takes a few minutes for the blood to rush back and fill everything out.” The scar continues down. Its texture varies. Differing swirls and varying degrees of discoloration remind her vaguely of pictures of the Grand Canyon she had seen years before. Grammar school. Fourth grade. Her body is withered, contracted, uneven, old. The doctors seem satisfied. “No sores. No signs of infection.” But she is old. She must tell them that the bandages were too tight but her heart is too loud she can’t hear and they can’t hear her either. “The bandages were too tight they have crushed my body.” They look up at her face but can’t hear her her heart is too loud she screams listen to me listen. They must know what happened. Pulling her arms free she grabs and throws the unraveled bandages from the bed. They are grabbing her now Martha said something to her to them let her go she’ll be all right let her go. Shaking her head from side to side cracking it against their arms trying to get free almost getting free the doctors talking shouting they can’t hear her they shout giving orders let her go let her go said Martha it will pass let her go she must tell them the bandages were too tight that’s all why won’t they listen chest heaving a sob choking let me go they can’t hear her her throat is too dry and her heart is too loud for God’s sake let her go.
* * *
Maryrose watches Martha in the mirror. She notices the needlepoint stretched in a wooden frame on the wall behind her and smiles, remembering how she sketched it and stitched it, concentrating on each petal, leaf, stem. It looks nice on the wall. Maybe she should give it to Martha after all. But she likes it and did so much work on it so why should she? Martha probably wouldn’t accept it anyway. She was like that. Sure, it was very pretty and probably Martha really wanted it and wanted to take it home to show her family she had a husband and children two girls no wait maybe a boy and a girl one of each and probably they would like it and admire it too but Martha would never ask and even if offered would most likely not take it. So why should she. Well yes she liked Martha. Martha listened to her. Martha explained the bandages to her. And now Martha sits under the needlepoint in the room’s only chair talking to Maryrose through the mirror.
“Yesterday we were talking about the bandages. Did you have a chance to think about them?”
Maryrose taps her fingers on the bureau then runs them through the bristles of a hairbrush.
“What did you think of the bandages, Maryrose?”
“I think they were too tight.”
She pushes the brush to one side and leans against the bureau.
“Maybe they just weren’t on long enough. Do you think that could be the problem, Martha?”
Maryrose. A fire. Work with Maryrose. Make her accept the cause so she can come to terms with herself, break out of hiding, get on with her life. The note written out in neat, perfectly formed letters listing the reasons. Jimmy loved her because she was beautiful but look what beauty had accomplished. She had seen burn victims, pictures from crashed airplanes. Very ugly and only people who didn’t care how ugly they were could love them. Maryrose after the accident forgetting the letter. Slow progress. Searching. Asking about Jimmy. Jimmy he did it he’s reckless convincing her Jimmy might come to see her see how she was how she was doing. Everyone cares, Maryrose. Getting better. Doing needlepoint, again. Keep it simple, again. Making progress mentioning fire by name burning pain unconscious nature of treatment maybe too realistically drawing a blank face. Suddenly white. Then flush. A tear. Afraid for the shock. What happens when she realizes what she did sees really sees understands the consequences what was lost wasted lost. Maybe gets worse reverts. The better the worse. Maybe better if she never knows. Still, may find out someday anyway that could be worse. The better she gets realizing she lit the fire the worse she gets must blame the scars the wounds the bandages the ugliness on herself hard to take no recovery or Jimmy yes this too Jimmy lit the fire lit the fire well if not for Jimmy for Jimmy never would have lit the fire. Raised her hands up to heaven, prayed to God. Watched it burn. Walked in slowly. Felt the heat growing. The heat. Oh God Maryrose the blanket throw down the blanket poor Mrs. Eaton poor Mr. Eaton oh God Maryrose. The heat.
“We were talking about a fire.”
Maryrose turns to the mirror and brushes her hair.
“What’s the point? Lots of things and people catch fire. Every year in California lots of fires start and even if people don’t burn up animals do.”
She stops brushing.
“Can you imagine how horrible that must be. To be an animal in a fire. With all that fur. I’ll bet that fur just lights up like there’s no tomorrow and they burn like fireballs. The animals. They must be very ugly. Bald woodchucks, chipmunks. They must look like little pinecones. Little living running pinecones”
Smiling at the thought she studies the needlepoint.
“Martha?”
“Yes, Maryrose.”
She fingers the bristles of the brush.
A diesel horn on the highway.
“Martha?
“Do you like the needlepoint?”
“Yes, Maryrose.”
“My mother had it framed. Do you like the way it’s framed?”
“It is very nice work,” she said. “But why shouldn’t it be? You worked very hard on it and it came out beautifully.”
She returns to the bureau, brushing her hair. Martha follows the brush with her eyes.
“Martha?
“Yes, Maryrose.”
She lowers the brush, setting it down. In the mirror she looks first at Martha, then focuses on the frame. Wood. Why wood? So dull.
“Yes,” she said. “I like it too.”
* * *
Mrs. Eaton carries furniture polish and a rag folded neatly into squares. She shivers and watches the curtain flap inward. A branch slaps against the house. She brushes aside the curtain and notices the broken pane. She hears the front door close, followed by footsteps and the click of the metal studs on his briefcase against the kitchen table, and lets the curtain drop.
“George, is that you?” She moves back toward the bureau and shakes the can, preparing to spray.
“George?”
“I came home early to see the doctor.”
She hears him moving. The sound of paper tearing. Opening the mail.
She fires three shots at the bureau and rubs in a circular motion.
“I’ll be right down.”
She notices the cat. Maryrose’s smile. She presses her palms against the edges of the frame and lifts the picture. Tilting her head from side to side and shifting the plane of the picture she examines every detail, as if by these movements she could see behind the cat, behind the tree, behind the little girl. The inscription stands out. “Maryrose. All my love. Jim.” Jim with a large flourish in the tail of the “J.” Oh Jim. Oh Jimmy. Oh that boy James. She must remove that picture. It had held the note, his head poking up over the edge of the paper. Returning it to its place she fixes the doily, checks the arrangement, removes any fingerprints.
She turns and evens the comforter and fits it snug against the pillows. She gathers her polish and rag and surveys the room. This doorknob is loose. Have George tighten it. The curtain arcs inward. The window the window too have George fix that window too. Still a very nice room though. A nice room. Maryrose’s room. A nice room for Maryrose.
* * *
Maryrose studies the picture and turns to the mirror for confirmation. Yes still pretty enough. She traces the line of her chin up across her lips nose eyes and forehead. Needlepoint finished time to start another maybe a forest with a brook but must watch the needle. Bulb of blood bandage back to the hospital maybe. Be careful, much more careful. I’ll come visit often once a week and you can call me always call me here’s my number you’re parents have my number too. So how come you’re letting me go? Well Maryrose it’s hard to explain but you’re more careful now I think you’re more careful now won’t hurt yourself anymore will you you’re more careful. The needlepoint don’t offer the needlepoint she’ll have to come to see the needlepoint she likes the needlepoint she’ll come to see me and the needlepoint now. Maybe perhaps she’ll bring her husband and children because she has a husband and children maybe she’ll bring her husband and children to see me and the needlepoint too. Yes she likes me and the needlepoint too. Pretty enough but wood why wood framed in wood wood is so dull.
Nicer frame silver shiny yes here’s one it may fit.
She compares frame sizes.
“Maryrose. All my love.”
Crossing her arms, she feels for the scars.
Hugging herself and shivering, she closes her eyes.
