approach the door behind the bush. Though not as frightening as the old abandoned house where I had originally thought Rose was hiding, I am still wary and cautious. Frightened of what’s behind the door, or frightened of being shut in behind it, I don’t know the answer.
Just frightened. That’s all.
I knock, at first lightly and with no conviction. Then, harder and with a take-no-prisoner thump.
I don’t know whether to be surprised or relived or a little of both when the door swings open to admit Rose’s beautiful face. Her hair is combed and draped over one shoulder, she looks bathed and clean, and her face is smooth and free of any emotion at all. She does not smile, she does not speak. She looks, with all intents and purposes, like she does not know me at all.
“Hello, Rose, it’s me. Sonnet. Do you remember we spoke the other day? You invited me for tea?” I will my voice to not shake, to not quiver with the emotion that is behind my words, to be strong and unfussy.
Rose wrinkles her forehead. “Did I? Was it today? Oh dear. I am dreadfully sorry to have forgotten. Come in, come in.” Her face wreathed in the most stunning smile I have ever seen on a person, she opens the door wider and beckons me in.
“Please excuse the mess. I’ve been busy, you see. I do like to keep busy. I find it relaxes the mind, don’t you?” She gestures to the area inside, probably the parlor if I’m not mistaken. It is strewn about with paper. Paper everywhere, paper with drawings and paper with words and paper with nothing at all but blank whiteness. They are piled willy-nilly here and there and everywhere.
“I don’t like the words, you see.” Rose sighs very loudly. “The words and the photos. He keeps them from me because he knows they upset me, but sometimes I find them. The doctors used to write things down and I hated that, I hated them. Words, words, words! Stupid letters, stupid pictures. I hate them all. They all have to burn.” She glares at the offending piles and kicks one. The pages flutter to the floor like autumn leaves. Then she turns to me and it’s as though the last moment hasn’t happened. Her face is cherubic again and she claps her hands together.
“But we must have our tea, sister! I will fix it. Is it four o’clock already? I don’t know where today has gone…really I don’t. But the civilized ladies take their tea at four o’clock every day. You stay here and I will be ever so quick.” She bounds out of the room like a little rabbit.
Emotionally exhausted already, I sink down into a nearby chair. Will I have the mental stamina, I wonder, to be able to deal with this on a daily basis? The mood swings and the memory lapses are intense and disturbing. I do not know the best way to go about this. Do I agree with everything she says? Do I gently correct her when she’s wrong? It’s nowhere near four o’clock but that seems to be the least of our worries.
Rose enters the room again with a tray.
“I put lots and lots of sugar in your tea, sister. But no milk. Just the way I’m sure you like it. I’m never wrong about how people take their tea.” Rose hands me a chipped teacup very gingerly. “It’s very hot now, take care. We wouldn’t want you burned, would we? Here; I’ll blow on it for you.” She leans down and puffs a cool breath on my tea and for a moment our hands our wrapped around the cup together before she lets go.
I raise the cup to my lips as she does with hers, but it is as I feared when my hands first grasped it: the cup is empty and the tea does not exist.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I hold my imaginary tea gingerly, as though the fragile cup holds a steaming brew that could tip. I even find myself bringing it to my lips as Rose daintily sips hers across from me. I don’t know what to say her, this girl that is my sister. Fragile and wounded, yet fierce and alarming, she bewilders me to no end. It turns out, I don’t have much opportunity to speak at all, because once she is finished with her pretend tea, she hugs her knees to her chest like a little girl and