Missing Rose (9781101603864) (4 page)

8

A
LL THAT WAS LEFT
of the moth which had been flying around the room was a slight haze of smoke around the lamp and a faint smell of burning. Looking at the wisp of smoke, Diana wondered what had driven the moth to throw itself into the light.

It must have followed an instinctive call to fly away from the dark, Diana thought. The urgency with which it flew must have been a rebellion against the gloom that enveloped it. A rebellion against uncertainty. It had chosen to melt away in the fire instead of a lifetime of flying in perpetual darkness.

Wouldn't opening and reading Mary's letters be much the same as the moth throwing itself into the flames? Would it be an escape from the darkness she'd fallen into by ignoring her mother's last wish? And, if so, to escape from such darkness, uncertainty and disloyalty, should she face the risk of being extinguished like the moth?

Diana didn't know what to think anymore. She didn't know why she was in the dark, how she'd ended up there or whose fault it was . . . Was it her own fault for not acting upon her mother's wish? Or her mother's for placing such a heavy burden on her shoulders? Her father's for splitting the family in two? Maybe the blame should be put on Mary since she was the one who'd sent that selfish note to her mother. Or maybe on God, who had taken her mother from her. Perhaps everyone was to blame, perhaps no one . . .

She didn't know the answer, yet she could feel how the reins of her life had long since slipped from her grasp. It was as if events beyond her control were determining her thoughts, feelings and actions; as if decisions about her life were being made somewhere, at some unknown place, and put into effect without her knowledge or consent.

Was it fate?

And if it were, could those strange words of the beggar who'd never spoken to her before also be a part of that fate? If she got up now, opened Mary's letters and read them, would it be of her own free will? Or would she simply be obeying another command of fate which was dragging her toward the unknown? Perhaps the two were the same thing. She didn't know.

However, there was one thing she did know: she respected that moth.

D
IANA SUDDENLY GOT
to her feet. She walked straight to her mother's jewelry box, took out the key to the antique chest and went to the room where it stood. She opened the chest and found Mary's letters wrapped in a piece of cloth. With the bundle in her hands, she returned to the living room.

Sitting on the floor, her back against an armchair, she unwrapped the cloth. Inside it, she found four large and one smaller envelope, all in different colors. In the smaller envelope was Mary's last note to her mother. The larger envelopes had all been numbered in her mother's handwriting in the order she'd received them.

The colors of the envelopes were, in sequence, red, green, white and silver. She noticed that the first three had been posted in São Paulo, while the fourth, as well as the one in the smaller envelope, were postmarked Rio de Janeiro.

So Mary must have come to Rio, thought Diana. She suddenly remembered the old beggar's words. “She comes from far away,” he'd said. “She's not far away.”

If Mary had come to Rio, then why hadn't she come to see her mother? Could she still be here? Did she live in São Paulo?

As Diana battled with such questions, she noticed that the silver envelope—the fourth one—was empty. The question of where the letter it had contained might be only added to her confusion.

In the hope of finding some answers, she read through the letters. Then, she picked up the first one again and began to read it carefully a second time.

L
ETTER
1:
“O
BJECTING
TO
O
THERS”

14 February

My beloved Mother,

Outside, lightning is flashing and thunder rolling. I'm reminded of the nights when I would curl up in my bed shaking with fear, longing for the refuge of a mother's comforting arms.

Just when I'm about to be overwhelmed by your absence again, my father comes into my room to confess that you are alive! Holding out your address to me, he says I can write to you.

The storm outside suddenly becomes my friend. The lightning bolts become camera flashes photographing my joy. “At last,” I say to myself. “At last, I'll be reunited with my mother!”

Yes, Mom, it's unbelievable but true. My quest for you, which began such a long time ago, is about to have a happy ending. In exactly one month's time, I'll be coming to see you!

The thought of meeting you after so many years fills me with such indescribable happiness. Yet I feel my happiness is incomplete because you don't really know me.

I have recently begun writing a novel to help me introduce myself to you. The story is based on the things I experienced in my search for you. Oh, Mom, if you only knew what I've lived through during this endless search. I've objected to Others, crossed an ocean and even spoken with a rose!

I wish I could send you a copy of my novel right away, but it isn't finished yet. However, I'd still like to share my story with you. To give you the feel of it, I've decided to send you a letter once a week, telling you about the different phases of my search.

I call these phases: “Objection,” “Path” and “Annihilation.” The last phase, “Rebirth,” will start as soon as we are reunited.

Let me begin my story with the phase of Objection . . .

I was quite young when I asked myself this question: “Why don't I have a mother?”

But no matter how hard I tried, I could never find the answer.

However, if there was a question, there had to be an answer. Of course, I wasn't old enough then to reason like this; but at the time, I could still hear the voice of my heart.

“Don't ask, ‘Why don't I have a mother?'” my heart said. “Ask the right question, ask, ‘Where is my mother?' Ask this of Someone Who Knows.”

Someone Who Knows . . . Someone Who Knows . . . Someone with knowledge . . . My father!

“Dad, where is my mother?” I asked.

After hesitating for a moment, my father said, “Your mother is with God, my child.”

Surely, that had to be the truth. Because God would live in the best place and my mother, too, would be worthy of the best place.

And so, “Where is God?” became my next question. My father looked at me as though I'd asked the oddest question in the world. Then, he answered: “I don't know.”

Hoping that maybe Others would know where you were, I asked them, “Do you know where my mother is?”

“Your mother doesn't exist,” they said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, she died; she's not here anymore.”

How was this possible? This thing, your dying, your being “not here.” How could they suggest your absence when I felt your presence so strongly? Once again my heart spoke to me: “You feel your mother's presence, so she must exist.”

I went up to Others and said, “My mother is alive!”

They gave me a different answer: “Your mother is someplace far away.”

I wasn't convinced by that, either, because I felt that you were very close.

They came up with yet a different answer: “You can only see your mother in the next world.”

No! There had to be another answer.

“I'll go and search for God, then,” I said to myself, and asked Others if they knew where
He
was. If I could find that out, I'd also find out where you were. But soon, I realized that people's views on God were very confused. Some said, “God doesn't exist”; some, “God is some-place far away”; and some, “You can only see God in the next world.”

Again, there had to be another answer! But at least these answers showed I was on the right track. The clear similarity between Others' answers to the questions, “Where is God?” and “Where is my mother?” proved that you really were with God. Actually, I've recently come to realize that the phases of my search for you weren't too different from the ones in my search for God. In fact, they were the same.

So, Mom, as time went by, seeing that my whole being was preoccupied with you, Others tried to distract me from you. They gave me many toys and playthings. These kept me entertained for a while, but soon I grew tired of them. They offered me new ones; more attractive, more expensive, more exciting toys . . .

Maybe, I thought, if my toys are constantly renewed, and if I am always given better toys, then I can keep myself entertained for the rest of my life. But, no, that's not what I really want. What I want is my mother!

What toy could make me happy if you were absent? But if you were with me, what lack of toy could cloud my happiness?

So I was able to escape from the toy trap but, before long, my search for you was interrupted again. Let me explain, Mom . . .

As I grew older, Others began to pay more and more attention to me. Sadly, they admired me a lot. I say “sadly” because soon I realized that their admiration and my desire to maintain this admiration were stopping me from pursuing my greatest dream—finding you.

I felt that if I kept asking Others questions about you, they would soon turn away from me. That's why I eventually gave up my search for you and instead let myself enjoy the continuing sunshine of their smiles.

Others kept showering me with their arrows of praise and adoration—deadly arrows as I later realized. “You're special, there's no one like you in the whole world,” they would say. As they said things like these, the sweet venom of their arrows flowed into my blood.

I still did, at times, doubt the truth of their words. I often asked myself, “Am I really special?” But since it was Others who'd made me believe this, I could not answer this question without them. It was as if the mirror of my soul was broken and I could only see myself as reflected in their words.

I sought to be in their company all the time; so that whenever I asked, “Am I really special?” I could hear their invariable reply, “Yes, indeed you are. There's no one like you in the whole world!”

I never became tired of asking the same question or hearing the same answer over and over again. Just as salty water increases the thirst of the one who drinks it, their praises only increased my need to hear them.

Worse, in order not to lose the approval of Others, I felt bound to live up to their expectations. Soon, I realized that I was living the life Others had chosen for me, not the one I myself had always dreamed of.

Once more, my heart spoke to me: “You are unhappy, Mary.”

It was true. I was so disappointed in myself that I could no longer take any pleasure in the admiration of Others. However, it was my unhappiness that finally gave me back the strength I needed in order to carry on my search for you.

“Where is my mother?” I asked Others loudly.

They replied with the same old answers: “Your mother doesn't exist.” “She is someplace far away.” “You can only see her in the next world.”

“No!” I said. “It's not what you think.”

“This is what we heard from Others.”

“What if Others are wrong?”

“Look around you; you can't see your mother or God. If you were meant to meet them in this world, surely you'd see them.”

“If I'd use only my eyes to see, I'd be lost in your dim world.”

“Come on, be sensible, you are a big girl now.”

“No, I'm little,” I said. “And I will always be!”

However, this objection alone was not enough to take me to you, Mother. I had to find a path. The second phase of my search began when, in a dream, you showed me the path leading to you. You told me where I could find that Someone Who Knows. Much later, in real life, this person would take me by the hand and walk me on the path you'd shown, until you and I would be reunited in
this
world.

I hope to tell you all about this dream in my next letter.

With all my love,

Mary

9

D
RESSED IN
the green linen suit her mother had always liked to see her wearing, Diana strode across the grass toward her mother's grave. As she came closer, she saw a figure with long chestnut hair standing at the side of her mother's headstone. It was the only headstone under the huge plane tree, so she couldn't have mistaken the grave. It wasn't an anniversary of any kind, so who could this visitor be so early in the day?

Could it be Mary?

She hesitated to go any further and stood watching the unexpected visitor for some time.

“Who are you afraid of?” she scolded herself, and started walking again toward the grave. She could feel her heart pounding. A few steps were enough to leave her breathless. But she didn't stop. Even though she'd almost reached the grave, the visitor would not turn to look.

As she got closer, Diana caught sight of the visitor's face; she was relieved to see that it was only Senhora Alves, her mother's traveling companion. The last time Diana had seen her had been at the funeral. Though Senhora Alves had been one of her mother's closest friends, since she lived in São Paulo, they hadn't had the chance to see each other more often.

Diana gently touched her on the shoulder. “I'm happy to see you, Senhora Alves.”

“Oh, Diana, how are you?” Senhora Alves asked as she embraced her. “Are you all right, my dear? I phoned you so many times, but could never get hold of you. I left a message with the manager at the hotel. She said you were well, but—”

“I'm so sorry I couldn't get back to you, Senhora Alves. I'm feeling better now.”

She nodded toward the yellow roses Senhora Alves had brought for her mother. “They're beautiful.”

Senhora Alves's eyes showed her agreement.

“Diana, I have an appointment at lunchtime, and I'll be going home this afternoon. But if you'd like to come, I'd be very happy to take you back with me.”

“Thank you, Senhora Alves, I appreciate it, but there are things I have to do here.”

“As you wish, my dear, but don't forget, we're always happy to see you.”

After a moment of silence, Senhora Alves took Diana's hand. “Now be honest with me, Diana. Are you okay?”

The expression on Diana's face answered her silently as if to say, “How can I be?”

“Diana, I know you don't need to hear this from me, but still, let me say it anyway . . . Your mother was always so proud of you.”

“I really wasn't prepared for it, Senhora Alves. Everything happened so fast. Five months ago, everything was fine. Even when she was ill, Mom never acted as though she had only a few months left to live. She never let herself go or lost that twinkle in her eye. She never once asked, ‘Why me?'”

Diana's eyes filled with tears.

“But I can't be like her, I can't. Every morning when I wake up, I ask the same question, ‘Why her? Why did it have to be my mother?' She wasn't just a mother, she was . . . she was a light shining on everyone around her.”

“She was,” Senhora Alves agreed.

“But I never drew near to her light; I never tried to be illumined by her. And just when things might have changed, she went away.”

“Changed?”

Diana nodded.

“For some time, I'd been feeling that I needed to see life through my mother's eyes. I needed to discover her, be like her. I needed to solve the mystery beyond her gaze, her words, her way of life . . . She had a hidden treasure inside her, and I could never reach it.”

A sudden memory brought a faint smile to Diana's lips. “Sometimes . . . Sometimes I'd tease her. ‘Come on, Mom,' I'd say, ‘if you think I have a treasure, too, then give me the key to it.' She would show me her empty hands and say, ‘I don't have it. Nobody has it but you.'”

Diana heaved a deep sigh. “I needed that key, Senhora Alves. I needed it. I wanted to be like my mother. I wanted to be worthy of her, at least. Do you know what I feel sometimes? I wish she hadn't let me go my own way or allowed me to make my own mistakes. I wish she hadn't accepted me for what I am. I wish she'd tried to make me more like her, as other mothers do. I wanted to be my mother's daughter, Senhora Alves, I really did.”

Senhora Alves hugged Diana as she broke down in tears.

“Oh, Diana, you
are
your mother's daughter. You're so like her. I've never known another girl who resembled her mother as much. Never doubt that. Maybe I haven't had the chance to spend much time with you. And it may seem as though I'm just trying to comfort you, but believe me, I know you very well, Diana. I've learned so much about you from your mother, who knew you better than you know yourself.”

Diana's sobbing ceased. “What did my mother say about me?” she asked softly.

“Last year, on our journey to Alexandria together, she talked so much about you. She told me how unfulfilled you felt, that you were no longer satisfied with what you had, and that every day you were becoming more and more unhappy.”

“Yes,” murmured Diana, bowing her head. “That's true; about a year ago I did start feeling that way. But I thought I'd succeeded in keeping my feelings to myself. I didn't want my mother to be sad, especially since there was no real reason for me to be unhappy. But I guess, as always, she was able to see what was going on inside me. I wonder why she didn't say anything to me. How sad she must have felt . . .”

“Sad? I don't think that was the case at all,” Senhora Alves said. “Her eyes were sparkling when she told me.”

“Sparkling?”

“Yes, she seemed to be really happy about it. She even said, ‘I can see that my daughter is becoming more and more thirsty for the October Rains.' In fact, she was thinking of inviting you to join us on our next journey.”

“October Rains? You mean the journeys you used to take every October? Those mysterious journeys?”

Senhora Alves nodded.

“I was always so intrigued by them,” Diana said. “Each time I wanted to go with you, but Mom would never let me. And when you came back, whenever I asked her anything about them, all she would say was, ‘We listened and we were renewed.'”

Diana's eyes looked at Senhora Alves pleadingly. “At one time, it wasn't more than mere curiosity for me, but a few years ago, I started feeling that there was more to those journeys, as if those journeys were the source of my mother's light. I feel I would know my mother better if I knew more about them. And you're the only person I know who can help me with this, Senhora Alves. Please, can't you tell me what you did in Alexandria? Or in Athens, Jerusalem, Fez, Surabaya . . .”

Senhora Alves wouldn't meet Diana's eyes. She seemed sorry to have raised the subject.

“I always admired how wonderfully your mother expressed herself, Diana. She put it in the most beautiful way: we listened and we were renewed.”

Diana knew it was useless to persist. “I see. Can I ask you another question, then?”

“I hope it's not as difficult as the last one,” Senhora Alves said, smiling.

“Where is my mother, Senhora Alves? Where is she? I want to know what happened to her. And I'm sure you have a better answer to this question than I
do.”

After a moment of silence, “Do you remember, Diana,” Senhora Alves said, “at the time when I first met your mother, you kept asking her the same question over and over again? You wanted to know where your father was. And your dear mother always gave you the same reply, ‘Your father is with God, my child.'”

As soon as Diana heard this reply, she realized that the question she had just asked Senhora Alves was the exact same question Mary had been asking all those years. She wondered why Senhora Alves had answered her question in this way. Since Diana wasn't sure whether or not Senhora Alves knew the truth about her father, she refrained from mentioning Mary to her.

“People may comfort a child who has lost her mother by saying, ‘She's with God.' But I'm not a child, Senhora Alves, you can tell me the truth. Please. My mother doesn't exist anymore, does she?”

“What's said to comfort a child isn't always wrong, Diana. Wherever your mother was before she died, that's where she is now. With God.”

Diana lowered her gaze.

Senhora Alves touched Diana gently on the shoulder. “Let me leave you to have some time alone with your mother, my dear. But remember, we always have a place for you at home.”

Diana hugged her. “Thank you, Senhora Alves. I'll come to visit you as soon as I can. Have a safe trip home.”