Excerpt from “Beautiful Service”
By Charlotte Sloan
I saw the flowers on the windowsill and that’s how I knew two things — one, he hit her again and two, he said he was sorry. It must’ve happened earlier in the day because the mess had already been cleaned up, and he had the time to go and buy her flowers. They were stargazers. My dad knew she liked them because she liked the smell. She once told him that they were like air freshener. One day, he promised, he’d build a garden for the property. He’d plant stargazers, her favorite, and daffodils, my favorite. He’d plant chili peppers, herbs for cooking, and tea for drinking. They had to buy a mower first, of course, but they had to wait a little while for that.
The blinds were drawn open so that the sun filtered into the kitchen, casting a stargazer-shaped shadow on the butcher-block table. It smelled fragrant when I approached them. I loved the smell, too, but I grew up to hate it. The flowers were in a glass vase with a white ribbon tied around it. The sunlight filtered through the glass. It could have almost been beautiful. Up close, though, I could see the stems hadn’t been cut properly, and leaves floated in the water. Perhaps it was my job to cut the stems, but they would’ve died anyway, and their sweet smell would turn sour. There was bright orange pollen collecting on the windowsill. I ran a finger through it and rubbed my index finger and my thumb together. My fingers were stained yellow. I’m not sure how I felt about it. It felt numbing, sickening. I just knew it didn’t feel good.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” my mom asked. I looked over my shoulder at her. She was walking slowly towards me, a soft smile on her lips, a faint bruise on her cheek, and her arms loosely wrapped around herself. “Your dad got them for me,” she said.
“I know,” I said. I turned back to look at them. A small moment of silence passed between us as she stood beside me.
“You know, Charlie,” she began. My gaze shifted upwards to look at my reflection in the kitchen window. “Your dad means well.”
There was something heavy in my throat. “He hits you, Mom.”
“He doesn’t mean to.” She placed a hand on my shoulder, massaging gently through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“We should leave.”
“You didn’t know him before.” My dad had his good moments, sometimes weeks. He’d spoil me with sushi runs or shopping trips, and he would protect me against boys who’d try to hurt me. He never did say he was proud, and maybe that was okay because maybe he just forgot, but he also hit my mom. I was old enough to know that wasn’t right. I wanted to leave, though I felt guilty for being this upset when I wasn’t the one he hit. She gave me a tired smile to reassure me. I began to wonder if this time she would listen. “I love him,” she said.
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