Foxgloves for Funerals
Rose’s phone rang a lot over the next few days. She turned it off.
The collapse of the Triskelion building had sent the whole city into a frenzy. News reports speculated about the government’s role in the helicarrier crash. Politicians gave vague speeches about coming together in a difficult time. People gathered outside the Capitol Building, demanding real answers. Grocery stores ran out of bread.
Rose decided it was best to stay off the streets for a while. Work could wait. Though, she lamented the stack of tupperware lunches she kept in the fridge at her studio, knowing they’d have gone bad by the time she went back to work.
On Friday Rose answered emails. Yes, she would take on a small commission from the Portrait Gallery. No, she couldn’t give a pricing estimate before evaluating the piece herself. Yes, she would be delighted to attend the exhibition opening.
On Saturday Rose watched TV. The news was more grim than usual. Death toll numbers for the Triskelion collapse kept climbing. Rescue teams were still working around the clock to locate over a dozen missing people. Mourners set flowers and tealight candles adrift on the Potomac.
On Sunday Rose turned her phone back on and was greeted with forty seven missed calls. All from the same number. She didn’t call back. But when the phone began to buzz again in her hand, she finally picked up.
“Where have you been?” the woman on the other end seethed. “I’ve been calling for days and I keep getting sent to voicemail. Did you shut off your phone?”
Rose opened her mouth to answer but didn’t get the chance.
“I expect you to pick up when I call, Rosemary.”
Rose sighed. She didn’t have it in her to fight today.
“Yes, mother.”
“Do you have the black dress I bought you?” her mother demanded. “Not the fitted one, the A-line. God knows you shouldn’t be wearing anything that fitted anymore.”
Rose grit her teeth. “I have it somewhere,” she mumbled. ‘Somewhere’ being a box in the back of her closet, stuffed full of useless items her mother had bought her over the years.
“Good. Make sure you get it dry cleaned before Tuesday.”
Rose’s back stiffened. “Why?”
“Your father is dead.”
Words escaped her. Rose’s mind was blank. “Oh.”
The paltry response didn’t faze her mother. She rambled on.
“The funeral is at noon this Tuesday. Wear the dress. Bring flowers—actually no, I’ll have my florist make our arrangements. I don’t need you showing up with foxgloves or something ridiculous.”
“I’m not going.” The words slipped out of her mouth before Rose even realized she’d made the decision.
The phone was silent for a second too long.
“This is not the time for your tantrums,” her mother bit out. Her voice held a sharper edge than before. “Your father is dead. The funeral is on Tuesday. You will be there.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You will be there, Rosemary. This is the last thing you ever have to do for your now dead father. His funeral takes precedence over your little paintings, so the least you could do is show up.”
“Bye mom.” Rose hung up.
The phone rang again a second later. She turned it off. Her voicemail would be full by Tuesday afternoon.
On Monday Rose went back to work. The subways were less crowded than usual. Loaded in her tote bag were several newly-made tupperware lunches. The bag straps dug into her shoulder.
Her keys jangled brightly as she wiggled them in the old lock and walked into her studio. She flipped on the overhead fan and lights, though it wasn’t really necessary with the long windows that lined the top of the brick walls, letting constant streams of light into the space. Everything was just as she’d left it.
Rose moved through her studio, past the large work tables and storage cabinets, into a small back room that served as a makeshift kitchen. She bee-lined for the fridge and laid her bag on the counter beside it. Her shoulder ached from the sudden lack of weight. She rubbed at the sore spot, pulled open the fridge, and paused.
The fridge was empty.
This wasn’t unusual for a Monday, but since Rose had unexpectedly skipped out on work Friday—and hadn’t eaten on Thursday—there should have been two tupperware containers of questionably-edible food waiting to be disposed of.
But aside from a jar of fish gelatin, the shelves were empty.
Rose looked around the kitchen area. She must’ve eaten the food at some point and forgotten about it. That also wasn’t unusual.
Rose pushed past the weight of her doubt and stacked the freshly-made lunches into the fridge, right alongside the fish gelatin. Five tupperware containers. She counted them again; five.
She shut the fridge, hung her empty tote by the door, and turned on some music. Rose clicked through her playlists for a few minutes, not feeling altogether satisfied with the mood of the music, until a long trumpet note rang through the bluetooth speakers. Big band music wasn’t her typical go-to but it somehow fit her mood, so Rose put the playlist on shuffle and went to check on how her latest restoration was doing after a weekend spent under blotting paper and weights.
On Tuesday Rose wore pink. An ankle-length, baby pink, ruffled-hem dress that hugged her hips and cinched at the waist.
She didn't go to work.
Instead, she boarded her usual morning train and got off three stops earlier than she normally would. The National Mall was crawling with tourists getting an early start to their sightseeing for the day. Rose didn't mind so much.
She started her day at the Hirshhorn Museum, meandering through the sculpture garden until the sun grew too hot. Afterwards, Rose walked through the National Gallery of Art and even did a lap around the Postal Museum.
Occasionally, thoughts of black dresses and foxgloves would pop into her head. Occasionally, Rose felt her throat constrict with overwhelming guilt. More than occasionally, she had to close her eyes and dig her nails into her palm. But after her throat opened up for air again and she opened her eyes, Rose was thoroughly relieved to be staring at a display of old stamps instead of a coffin.
When the tourists and her thoughts grew too loud she put on her headphones and stifled the noise with a playlist of big band songs. Her phone sat in her bag, on airplane mode. She wasn't worried about missing any calls or messages. There was only one person who'd be calling her today, and Rose didn't want to answer.
In the early afternoon Rose bought a bubble tea from one of the food trucks that lined the streets. She sipped her drink and watched a procession of black cars drive past the Capital Building.
Later that day Rose found herself in the Air and Space Museum. The Captain America exhibit wasn't as packed as it had been on her last visit. But just like last time, Rose found herself standing vigil in front of James Buchanan Barnes' display.
Rose read over the epitaph a dozen times. The dates were still messed up. She didn't know which ones to believe. She wished there was someone she could ask.
A man walked by behind Rose. He spared a half-second look at the display.
A silly, possibly delusional, part of Rose wished Captain Rogers would appear beside her again. Maybe he'd still have the keychain charm she gave him. Maybe she'd ask him about his friend.
Rose read the epitaph a half-dozen times more. A different fact popped out at her each time. She must've stood there for a long time.
Rose wasn't sure when the words blurred in front of her, or when she began to cry, or who she was crying for.
Clarity came with a touch on her elbow. "Miss, the museum is closing." A security guard gestured toward the exit.
Rose nodded and headed for the doors. Her shoulders ached and the dried tear tracks on her cheeks itched. Her headphones were dead. She walked home alone.