Tulips

A twisted little shorty short (as Chris says) of fiction that I wrote when I started taking his workshop again. Written in May of 2020.

Photo by Kier In Sight on Unsplash

Simone was the one who told me tulips keep growing after you cut them and put them in water. It’s one of my favorite flower facts—like a magic trick from nature. Sometimes I buy tulips just to cut them and watch them grow until they droop and sag from their own weight. Petals falling off, pollen sprinkling the tablecloth, but those stems keep reaching for the ceiling. 

Simone was bright and free and always liked my stories. She liked to read bad romance novels and hike in the desert and the second she had children she regretted it. No one talks about that— she would say to me, single and childless— a safe space. “No one tells you you might want a do-over, the chance to not have them.” She had twins. Bright blonde girls who sparkled in the sun.

You’d never know it looking at her—a kid on each perfectly sculpted hip—this longing she had to be free of them. 

She loved them. Of course, she loved them. But if she could rewind she never would have had them. We don’t talk about the rewinding enough. The things we’d do if we all got a do-over.

She’d come to me weekly. Request white wine, sometimes something stronger. I was her escape, a place for her to hollow out her head and bury the thoughts she couldn’t tell anyone else.

Her girls are beautiful, all straw hair and icy eyes. Slender like ballerinas. Two little ducks waddling after her everywhere she goes.

I only helped her because I thought it was the right thing to do. I knew she had a sister who would take those girls and love them like her own. I knew in so many ways those girls would be better off without Simone. So I helped her escape her suburban nightmare. 

It’s not like I killed her. I didn’t. I just told her it would be OK to leave. Planted some seeds that she watered. I gave her white wine and listened to her talk about the life she could have had and all she used to have and I encouraged her to go. It’s not like I drove the getaway car, I just told her where she could find the keys.

She slipped away in the middle of the night—hair dyed raven black, eyes clear, head light. Am I wrong for thinking it was the right thing? 

So now I buy tulips every week. I give them to her girls, and I tell them about how they’ll keep growing after you cut them and put them in water, just like a magic trick.