Missing Rose (9781101603864) Read Online Free

as well as I do that you’re the only one who likes my stories. Everyone else thinks they’re no good.
    Anyway, I only dreamed of being a writer because of those wonderful stories you used to tell me. It was your stories that added meaning to my life. But now you’re gone. And so are your stories. You can never tell me another story and if I did write a book, you could never read it. You could never say, “Oh, that was amazing, Diana.”
    That’s all my news for now, Mom. I hope, somehow or other, you’ll know that I’m doing okay.

    D IANA’S EYES STAYED fixed on her diary for a while. She’d written because she couldn’t help feeling that her mother was expecting some news from her. But that was ridiculous! The dead couldn’t read letters written to them any more than they could receive the news that their daughters were okay.
    She closed her diary and walked to the silver frame her mother had had made especially for her as a birthday present. A month before she died, she’d handed her this frame, which had a handcrafted black rose motif on each of its four sides. “Happy birthday, my darling,” she’d said. Diana had immediately realized what her mother hadn’t put into words and had refrained from mentioning—that there were still two months to go until her birthday.
    She stroked the four black roses that decorated this most precious remembrance of her mother. Then she read aloud her mother’s poem written inside the frame:
    No, it’s not what you think:
    You have not lost me.
    I speak to you through everything,
    From behind the remembrances . . .
    A tear ran down her cheek. “No, Mom, it’s not what
you
think,” she whispered. “I have lost you. And you don’t speak to me.”

5
    D IANA SAT DOWN next to the package to open it in the hope that perhaps it had been sent by her mother. She was amazed that not even this gift-wrapped parcel had reminded her of her birthday.
    Inside it was a bottle of champagne, a heart-shaped crystal, a birthday card and a love letter with no name on it. Before she had the chance to get up and throw the items into the bin, the doorbell rang again. It seemed there was to be no peace for her today.
    On the viewing screen she could see that the uninvited guests were her “close” friends, Isabel and Andrea. These “close” friends were only interested in how she did her hair, what she wore, how entertaining or how popular she was. But Diana also knew that it was through friends like Isabel and Andrea that she felt admired, through them that she felt special, and through them she’d become
the
“Diana.”
    Given what she owed them, now that they’d come she couldn’t very well refuse to invite them in, tell them to come later or shout through the keyhole, “I don’t want to see anyone!”
    So she opened the door.
    â€œHappy birthday to you; happy birthday to you; happy birthday, dear goddess; happy birthday to youuu!”
    Their display of joy ended abruptly when they took in her disheveled appearance.
    â€œWhat happened to you, Di?” Isabel asked.
    â€œHow many times do I have to tell you not to mix your drinks, Di!” Andrea said. Then, perhaps thinking that the view from the living room wasn’t good enough for her, she caught Isabel’s hand and drew her quickly toward the steps up to the terrace, as she started firing questions: “Aren’t we having a birthday party tonight, Di? Why weren’t you at school? So what’s the plan?”
    As soon as they stepped out onto the terrace, Isabel ran her finger along the edge of the teak furniture. “There, Senhora Oliveira! This dust is sufficient proof that although the whole city lies at your feet, you’ve given up enjoying the view. Isn’t that right, Andrea?”
    â€œIndeed!” Andrea said.
    â€œWell, Di,” Isabel continued, “you