Thirteen Roses

== THIRTEEN RED ROSES ==
=== By Iain Cambridge ===
Published in StoryStar 2013
The problem was that I was lonely - lonely and old. Life here in the Dementia ward was a little dull to say the least and had not gotten any better from the first day that I was dumped in here on, of all days, my Seventy-seventh birthday. My family, what was left of them, had decided that I was of no more use to them as a parent or a babysitter on account that I was slowly loosing my mind due to the early onset of Altzimeters, that and their two brutish children were more than capable of looking after themselves now since reaching their teens, and aspirations of a criminal record. So after the ‘dumping’ of myself and my belongings into the cheapest rooms they were willing to pay for they went on their merry way never to be seen or heard from again. That was four years ago, but the day that matters - the day that everything changed, happened a year ago – on my eightieth birthday. 
The problem, as I have mentioned was that I was old, bored and alone on the one day you would expect a little fuss to be made of you. As I sat in my room with a sad looking cupcake in front of me and a patronizing candle stuck in the middle of it, I decided there and then that, although there was nothing I could do about the old part of my life, there was plenty of things I could do that would re - kindle my lust for life and relieve the boredom some-what. Well, outside my room of all places there was an answer to my dilemma of how kick start my craving for a more fulfilling life, for pinned to the noticeboard was a flyer advertising a dance at the local church hall. In my younger days I was known to be able to cut a rug with the best of them and so I gathered all of what was left of my confidence and self-esteem and committed myself, (if you excuse the pun) to being picked up by the local O.A.P bus on the Saturday night in question. I spent the next couple of days trying not to talk myself out of going by playing the ‘too old’ card over and over in my mind. I could not think of a legitimate reason not to go but still nearly faltered at the gate, so to speak, shortly after I had spent the three hours prior to the bus arriving getting myself ready. I took so long because I have always been one for matching underwear as the thought of mis-matched bra and undies has always been a bug bear of mine of which I consider lazy and sluttish; and stockings as opposed to those God-awful tights that women seem to favour, again this just seems to me to be lazy as the wearing of stockings takes time and gives a sense of pride in what one looks like. I found myself a nice skirt that still fitted. I still can’t remember the last time I had worn but I found it quite pleasing that I could still get it over my ever-increasing bottom. I finished the whole ensemble with a red silk blouse that, quite frankly I could not remember buying either, but it was in my wardrobe so I guess at some point in my declining rationality I had purchased it from somewhere. As I looked at my reflection I couldn’t help but think that I was mere Mutton dressed as Lamb and it was at this point that I nearly re-dressed myself in my new uniform of track-pants, T-shirt and cardie when the voice at my door called to me. 
‘Your ride is here Mrs D’ 
I smiled at the over permed and over tanned harlot that stood in my doorway. Over the few short years that I had got to know her I had built up a strong sense of loathing and hatred for her high, shrill voice and her carnivorous cleavage that she seemed to want to show to anyone. Who would want to stare at the two misshapen jellies she called breasts still baffles me. Don’t get me wrong; I have an ample bosom myself, as you can see, but never felt the need to advertise my wares to all and sundry. And the short skirts she wore hardly qualified or deserved the name. I thanked her and, having slipped on my shoes and draping a shawl around my shoulders, made my way to the front entrance and to the waiting bus. 
The church hall was decked out in 1940’s memorabilia along with gaudish lights and music from artists such as Glenn Miller and the like. I am more of a Fifties girl myself but I figured that I was out of the home for a few hours and therefore decided to make the best of it. Somehow I had been lumped in with a few other oldies such as myself and we were all shepherded to a round table in the far corner of the hall, which I found to be too close to the band and too far from the toilets. The conversation was at best, depressing, as I don’t think that there was a single body part among us that had not been discussed or replaced, and at some point aching, leaking, or both. Dead husbands though seemed to be the main topic of the evening all of which, in the opinion of my new friends, had died on purpose rather than spend their time growing old with the small gang of grey Nazis at my table - quite frankly if they had then I would not have blamed them as with each passing minute I had also begun to welcome death – theirs, not mine. A girl visited us every twenty-minutes or so by the name of Dana who took orders for drinks and offers of an escort to those of us too infirm to get to the toilet on their own. The drinks were welcome, and free and the offer of a toilet chaperone declined with polite graciousness by myself, and after five or six Gin and Tonics the room gained an air of acceptance and relaxation. Even the company became less painful with the conversation becoming increasingly muted with every refill of my glass. Then from this atmosphere of smoke, alcohol and dated music stepped Mr Edgar Darville. Edgar was tall, balding and well dressed. He came over to our table and introduced himself as the organizer of the evening’s entertainment and one by one asked our names and if we were enjoying ourselves. When he got to me I introduced myself and offered my hand as if to shake his. He took it, turned it over and kissed the back – such manners I had not seen for a while and assumed long gone along with the themed era of the night. Edgar then asked if I wished to dance and I, due to being quite unprepared and fuelled with a dangerous cocktail of gin and depression, accepted. Edgar was a fine dancer and I, though I say it myself, was a very competent partner. One dance turned into two, and two into three and before too long, having monopolised Edgar’s dance card for the whole evening, the band announced the last waltz. He escorted me back to my table which had now been made vacant, as my peers, such as they were had all called it a night long since. Edgar and I sat and chatted for what seemed to be hours but was in fact only about an hour and a half. We spoke of my illness and at the unfairness of life and how it was capable of giving so much only to take it all away at the end. Of the cruel joke that is Altzimeters – a decease that robs your mind so slowly, leaving you an empty and hollow shell. Of living way past a time that, if you were any other animal would have been ended by the Doctors long ago. Edgar said, and quite profoundly I thought that because it was your misery it was deemed ethical to prolong that suffering – had you have been a misery to them then we would have been dead by now. 
We left the hall shortly after that and took a slow walk down by the river still chatting and laughing. Edgar had shared rooms close to there and I was invited in for coffee, something I would not have normally accepted, but the company was nice and the conversation witty, sad and interesting all at the same time. This is where I will depart some good advice to all the woman, young or old who are reading this – for I can see that some of my audience are writing this down as I speak. My choice of underclothing was a wise one, for later that evening Edgar and I made love. If you meet someone who sparks that certain magic that has been absent from your life for so many years then nothing will steer the passionate actions of a man or make the intention clearer than a woman who has taken her time to make herself feminine. Not to please a man but because she feels that she is still a woman and has no right to use the ravages of time as an excuse to let herself go. 
I left Edgar some time later asleep in his bed, sneaking out of his rooms like some harlot in the night, which again is not something that was part of my character, and made my way back to my dreary little room, arriving at about 3am with the ancient echoes of the first flush of youth still tingling throughout my body. As I undressed I noticed my reflection in the wardrobe mirror and uncharacteristically stopped to look at myself as if seeing through new eyes. For so long I had felt my body fall into decay bit by bit, the odd twinge here and the inability to do something there, to the point where I had stopped looking at myself naked through fear of repulsion of what I may see. But these new eyes – these newly opened eyes saw that things were not as bad as I had feared. Yes I was old, but my breasts were not as saggy as I had imagined a woman who had given birth to three children to be, and my belly was not as rotund as I assumed it had become. The stretch marks borne from those same three children still echoed the damage to a woman’s body that only childbirth could bring, scars that are usually worn with pride and love, hidden away from all and shown only in the most intimate of moments – although in this day and age they seem to be shown as battle scars with the aid of ‘crop tops’ and the like. I turned to see that my bottom, although big was not the hideous thing my mind's eye had pictured. All in all I could quite see, without the risk of being boastful, what had sparked the younger man in Edgar to life. I smiled at the recent memory only to be marred by a tear of sadness appearing at the corner of my eye at the thought of that same memory dissipating slowly as my mind got weaker. I dressed for bed in the vain hope that I would sleep away what was left of the night. Eventually though I did drift into the arms of Morpheas – dreaming of Edgar and reliving the events of my most wonderful evening. 
I woke at seven in the morning to the shrill sounds of singing from the abomination that called to me the previous evening. She was acting as the cleaner for the day, I am guessing that she needed the money and had taken on an extra shift. This morning though she was dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose fitting singlet that, every time she bent over, gave anyone who wanted to see a clear view of her huge pendulous breasts. I sneered at the sight and commented to a passing resident that it was something I did not wish to see before breakfast, or at any other time. The comment that came back to me was one of surprise to me as it was noted that she brightened the place up and it was ‘good to see a nice pair of tits every now and again’. 
At breakfast I thought of Edgar and of the few hours I had spent in his company and ultimately in his bed. Was I really one to judge the permed whore when my actions in the latter part of last evening were no better than that of a cheap slut? – I smiled at my own inner comments and of how my opinions had changed over the years. The girl I used to be would not have thought twice about my nocturnal actions. It was true that I would have not have shown the world what our cleaner was offering today - but today was today and back then was yesterday. 
Having finished my breakfast I made my way back to my room only to find the cleaner in there. She had just finished making my bed as I walked in. She looked up and smiled. 
‘Did you have a nice time last night Mrs D?’ she asked I swallowed my prejudices and forced a smile back at her. 
‘Yes thank you’ I replied 
‘Well you must have made quite an impression’ she laughed ‘as these came for you not ten minutes ago’ 
On the table next to my bed was a bunch of thirteen red roses. I walked over to them and smiled to myself, as I instinctively knew from whom they had come. 
‘Beautiful aren’t they’ she said I replied with a smile. 
‘Would you like me to put them in water for you Mrs D?’ 
‘Thank you, yes’ I said 
‘There was a card too’ she handed me a small envelope with a card inside to which I waited until she had left to get some water before I read. 
‘We spoke of many things last night. Of the injustice that the gifts of life are so quickly taken away from us towards the end of our time here on Earth. I send you these roses as a reminder that life is still within us – and a small gift of my own that comes with them. E.’ 
As I looked at them I noticed that one of the roses had started to wither. It was of no matter to me and after the cleaner (I must get her name one day for it terribly rude to keep referring to her as ‘The Cleaner’ I am sure she does more than that – a stripper maybe) had arranged them in the vase that she had found I sat and stared at them for most of that morning. Life, as I have commented in the past is a cruel mistress and full of irony for as I sat and gazed at the thirteen roses at my bedside I could not see that the small withered one had fallen into further decay throughout the day. I could not see then, as I can quite clearly see now, that this was a sign – a portent to what was about to happen. At 3pm that afternoon I received another visit from the cleaner, who had now changed into her uniform of cleavage and short skirt. She tentatively knocked at my door and asked if she could have a word. As she sat on the edge of my bed she reached over and took my hand and departed some devastating news. 
I attended Edgar’s funeral later that week. I was not sure then as I am not sure now why I was there. Was it out of duty, love, guilt – I have no idea, but I was there. I received some strange looks from the other mourners, as after each of them had laid a rose on top of his coffin, I stepped up and placed a rose stalk that was devoid of its head next to theirs. There were mutterings in the background from which I gleaned that this was to be excused due to the fact that I was suffering from Dementia, and that my strange ways had to be forgiven - I felt no need to correct them. I had dressed in black as a mark; not only of respect, but to honour the night we spent together, and on my return to my room I sat on the edge of my bed and shed a tear for my dear Edgar. Every morning when I woke up from that day the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes were those beautiful roses on my bedside cabinet. 
‘They have lasted well’ commented the cleaner/stripper some time later, and she was right as in the two weeks since the death of Edgar they still shone with a redness of the day that they were first cut - except one. Another of the heads had started to lose a couple of petals but this was normal as they had all lived way past their normal life expectancy. Now, living in a home one gets used to the occasional death, as you all know. We are old and are all on the downward slope to the grave, so the death of Mrs Johnson in the room across the way to mine was not unexpected. It was sad of course that another one of us had gone but it merely served as a reminder that it was only a matter of time before it was our turn next. As a mark of respect all of us that were able to attend the funeral were asked to do so. It took me a little while to get ready as the last time I had dressed in the outfit that had been laid out on my bed had been to say goodbye to my poor deceased Edgar. 
I looked at the roses, still resplendent bar one and smiled to myself at his gift to me. After my shower I started to dress myself and to my confusion I found that my bra was too tight, and that my knickers too loose as well as my skirt. I was prepared to accept that I was loosing weight, for this is a symptom of my condition, but how would my breasts have become bigger? I pressed my bell for some assistance and having removed the bra I put on my dressing gown to cover my modesty until my call was answered. 
‘Is there a problem Mrs D?’ 
‘Indeed there is?’ I replied hotly ‘I have received someone else’s underwear in my laundry pile. This one is too small’ I handed her the undergarment, (something that was probably new to her as she never seemed to wear one). She took it and looked at the label. 
‘I am sorry Mrs D. but we have all our ladies write their names on their undies, you know, just in case this sort of thing happens’ 
‘Yes’ I said testily ‘I am aware of this’ 
‘This one has your name on it’ she replied, and with that she handed the bra back to me tag first which clearly showed my name written in my handwriting. I took the garment and looked up at her overly made up face. ‘It’s too tight’ I said simply 
‘Maybe you have added a few inches? I was only saying to one of the other ladies how well you were looking recently’ I held up my knickers as if presenting a form of evidence for the prosecution. ‘These are too big’ I said ‘how can I lose weight around my bottom and increase my bust size at the same time?’ 
‘Have you been exercising?’ 
‘Don’t be absurd’ I said ‘don’t worry, I will sort it out – I suppose I will have to go shopping for more underwear’ 
‘Well that will be fun’ she smiled. Her reply was met with a cold stare that made her leave the room without remarking further. ‘Exercise indeed’ I said when she had gone. 
I excused myself from the funeral saying that I had a headache and took myself off to the high street in order to buy a new set of underwear only to find that, after being measured I had indeed appeared to have gained a bust size. 
‘May I ask a question’ said the woman who had taken my measurements. She was the same woman I had used for some time and with whom I had come to trust as I find it hard to expose myself to anyone other than my doctor (Edgar being a recent exception of course). ‘Of course’ I replied 
‘Have you had a lift? I looked at her with obvious confusion which seemed to answer her question. ‘You see, your breasts have not got any bigger, they have just got higher and firmer. This usually happens when woman go in for a nip and tuck – but I can’t see any signs’ she said with closer examination. 
‘Are you talking about plastic surgery?’ I asked a little affronted. ‘Well yes’ she confirmed ‘but as I said, I can see no evidence, you know – scarring and the like, and I would know’, and smiling she cupped her own breasts as if to draw attention to the fact that she had herself been under the knife. 
‘Are yours not real then?’ I asked with horrid fascination. Women touching themselves in public had seemed to become fashionable of late, and the expansion of their body parts was now an everyday thing. This is not something that I have ever agreed with, but then it was not something I felt was needed. The thought however that people would look at me and think that I had enhanced myself in the name of false advertising quite frankly annoyed me. In an almost conspiratorial whisper she answered my last inquiry with, ‘Real expensive – yes’ 
‘Do mine look real? I asked. She looked at me in an appraising kind of way, something else that made me feel quite uncomfortable. ‘Yes’ she said ‘they look very natural. You have lost a few inches off your tummy too’ I turned to face the mirror in the small fitting room that both she and I occupied. My stomach was a little flatter, and on closer inspection my breasts were a little higher. I turned on impulse to examine my rear. The last time I had appraised this area of my body was on the night of intimacy with Edgar. This too had changed. It was a little higher and a little less saggy. I bought myself a whole new set of underwear out of necessity more than anything else and wore it straight from the store. I usually like to wash things first before I wear them but some of the items I had on were beginning to pinch whilst others were falling down as I walked. 
As I was out and about I decided to get my hair done at the same time for, as I have said before, I like to keep myself presentable. My hair stylist was of the same ilk as my dresser being that I like, and have had the same person for a number of years. Now, as you can all see my hair is red – more auburn than bright red, and to maintain the illusion of any encroaching grey I have resorted to having it dyed to the exact colour of my youth and after having it styled I usually ask if the stylist can touch up the roots for me. 
‘No need today Mrs D’ came the cheerful reply to my request ‘In fact’ she added with confusion in her voice ‘none of what you have here is dye’ I shot her reflected image a puzzled look, at which she shrugged and replied ‘Just as I said, this is your natural colour’ 
‘It can’t be’ I added with a nervous laugh, in order to try to hide the fact that I found her last comment ludicrous. ‘You dyed it yourself not four weeks ago’ 
‘True Mrs D. but there is nothing left of the dye – its all you my love’ 
When I left the hairdresser I suffered another assault on my bank balance by way of buying some new clothes as the ones I had on seemed to hang rather more loosely that I would have liked. Three new tops, one blouse and two skirts were added to my day, all of which I had laid out on my bed on my return to the home. I removed the bra and knickers I was wearing and, along with the rest of the underwear I had purchased, wrote my name on the tags. It seemed to me at this point that whilst shopping I had decided to lean a little to the risqué part of my persona. An element of my being that I had been blissfully unaware still existed, for one of the sets of underwear I have bought was red. I put them both on and examined myself in the mirror and was strangely surprised and pleased at the way I looked. There was also a red suspender belt and stockings to go with this ensemble, so I put those on also. I turned this way and that at what appeared to be a slightly younger looking woman looking back at me. Younger that it, than the old woman who sat in this room some time ago blowing out a candle and wishing for the miracle of a new life. I put on one of the new tops and slipped on a skirt to see if they fitted as well as I had hoped as I am not one to use the fitting rooms in a department store. I find the curtain that separates me from the rest of the world too flimsy a barrier when I am partially naked. The skirt was a comfortable fit and shaped itself well to the curve of my bottom stopping just above the knee, and the top clung to the contours of my breasts and stomach showing off a figure that had long since been forgotten about – especially by me, but in all this admiration of my new look I had not noticed something - something that took me by surprise a few days later. 
Having dressed myself for breakfast as normal, I made my way to the dining room and encountered the cleaner woman again who was dressed in her usual loose fitting and extremely exposing singlet. I smiled a tight-lipped smile at her cheery good morning and happened to pass the same gentleman who had offered his rather sexist comment to me some time ago. ‘I see you have taken the stance of ‘if you can't beat them – join them’ good girl. If you’ve got it, flaunt it I say’ He winked at me and went on his merry way. I turned and watched him go and had no idea what he was talking about until I turned back and caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. My new outfit and seemingly ‘new breasts’ had conspired against me to form, and to display a cleavage that would put the ‘trollop of a cleaners’ to shame. I stopped and stared in horrid fascination at what I had become. Everything I sneered at and peered down my nose from my moral high ground was now being reflected back at me. It made me so sick that I skipped breakfast and went back to my room. As I sat on my bed looking at myself in my wardrobe mirror I caught sight of the roses that still stood resplendent in their vase. As the sunlight came through he window each of them seemed to glow with life and health - except one. Another one had started to drop a few petals and had begun to wilt. 
The bell that rang out in the middle of the night meant only one thing, and the hushed voices and subsequent blue flashing lights from outside the main entrance served only to confirm that another one of us has passed during the small hours. It was Mrs Jones this time. Mrs Jones was only seventy-one, a great deal younger than I and had only been with us for a few days for respite care as her relatives had gone on holiday. Apart from old age there was really nothing wrong with her and her demise alarmed me to the point where I felt I had to request a visit from my GP to learn how far my dementia had spread and to see how long I had left before my brain folded in on itself for good, for my recent experiences had suggested to me that this had already started. This wasn’t as simple as I had hoped as the visit had to be followed up by another trip to the hospital in order to have some sort of scan. This would then show how far my brain had shrunk, (or whatever it does) the results of which would then be relayed to me via the said GP. As I sat in his office about a week after the scan I felt a nervousness creep over me as he looked at his notes. He picked up another set and compared them to what he already had in his hand. Then he put the whole lot down and brought his computer to life that eventually showed him a whole new set of results. He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. 
‘When were you born Ms. D?’ 
‘1938’ I replied. ‘And how old are you now?’ 
‘I turned eighty a couple of months ago’ I replied’ He looked at his notes again and then back to me
‘What date?’ he said 
‘25th January, what’s this all about?’ the worry in my voice had caused it to tremble slightly ‘you know my birth date, it’s right in front of you’ He put the notes to one side and turned his computer screen to me. 
‘You are right Mrs D. But I was not trying to confirm your birthday, I was seeing if you knew when it was’ I shot him a reproachful look. ‘Why would I not know when my birthday is – I’m not stupid’ He leaned back in his chair with broad grin on his face. He was a large man with an expansive beard which, coupled with a deep tan gained from several years of work in Africa, gave him the look of a country and western singer when he smiled. 
‘Indeed you are not Mrs D.’ he replied. He motioned towards the images on his computer screen. On one side was what looked like the top view of a brain – mine presumably, with rather a lot of pink on the outside edges and on the other was the same image with considerably less pink. 
‘I am assuming that this is the before and after shots’ I said 
‘And you would assume right Mrs D.’ he said still wearing his country and western smile ‘However the one with the excessive pink area would normally be the ‘after’ image – but in your case, I am happy, if a little confused to say, is that this is the ‘before’ image’ I sat there looking from one image to another before I had to admit to the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Well’ he said ‘to all intense and purpose Mrs D. you show no signs of dementia, save from the usual wear and tear of age. You have the brain of a normal sixty year old woman – which leads me to another problem’ 
‘I am not a sixty year old woman’ I said flatly. 
‘Exactly’ he said. ‘I would like to do one more test if I may’ he asked, and with that he produced a clear plastic tube that contained what seemed to be a long cotton bud, the type of which you would normally clean your ears out with, only bigger. 
‘What are you going to do with that’ I asked 
‘I would like to take a sample from inside your mouth if I may’ ‘Why?’ 
‘I want to find out how old you really are’ he smiled. 
I looked at him again and said ‘I am really eighty’ The GP reached behind him and took a small mirror off of the wall and turned it towards me. ‘I think not’ he said. 
A few days later I found myself sitting alone in my room once more with an unopened envelope in front of me. Inside were the results of the tests performed by my GP who earlier on in the week had insisted that I was chronologically younger that my actual time on Earth. He had presented the evidence to his argument by way of my reflection and had put me at sixty. I had proclaimed his diagnosis as ‘quackery’ and although I looked good for my age (and I had to admit that of late I did look good), I had not aged backwards. 
‘Of course not Mrs D.’ he had said ‘what I am saying is that maybe your birth date is wrong. It does happen with dementia patients – quite a lot as it happens, but your regression is something quite new. I am thinking that a part of this anomaly has left its mark in the shape of misinformation and confusion on your part as to when you think your were born verses your actual birthday’. After that I calmed down a little and began to see his point of view. I agreed to the tests, the results of which were now in front of me. I was afraid of what would be in there and for some reason my thoughts returned to Edgar as, for a moment, I desperately needed to talk to him about what was happening. He would explain it all in words I would understand and go on to make me feel a lot better and at ease with the world. I looked over at the roses. They continued to bloom as if they had been freshly picked that morning and as I stared at them, loosing myself in their beauty I became aware of the background sounds from outside my room and in particular the voice of one of the carers. 
‘Mrs Harrison, your afternoon tea is ready. Where would you like it? Mrs Harrison – wake up dear’ and there it was - that awful familiar pause. ‘Oh dear, ASSISTANCE PLEASE’ As help was called for the sound of the bell rang out once again as if to herald the passing of another soul, and as I continued to look at my lovely roses I saw one of them wilt and drop its petals as the voice outside my room said. ‘Call the ambulance. Mrs Harrison has gone’. 
My eyes widened as I continued to stare at the stricken flower as a cold, impossible realization hit me. I turned to look at myself in the mirror once more and then down to the unopened envelope sitting on my lap, I tore it open and read the contents that proclaimed my GP to be hopelessly wrong ‘Chronological age’; it read ‘Fifty Seven’. 
With each passing month an assortment of residents passed with them. Every death was heralded by the demise of another rose and the rejuvenation of my body and mind. Eight times in all, with eight more resets to my chronological clock resulting in the young woman sitting in front of you all now on this, my eighty-first birthday. This time there are no cup cakes and no patronizing candle. For a while I believed that the gift from Edgar was a chance to look at my life in a different way, whilst serving as a reminder that we still have a life to live. But it was so much more than that, for somehow he had given me the chance to put that new sight into practical use and to live my life anew. And so ladies I will finish my story here with you in the hope that I will continue it some other time, with some other people. I bid you adieu and leave the one last rose in the care of whichever one of you would care to pick it up.
Category:Cambridge
Category:StoryStar
Category:Romance