A b b y ' s  F l o w e r s

     I couldn’t hold on much longer. The strength was draining from my body like a lake that had just been set free by its stone captor. I won’t let go; I can’t let go. Dangling from my numb appendages, a dancer in my springtime daydreams, she was stoic, motionless, and staring into my eyes.
     “Let go,” her expression pleaded, but not a sound escaped from her mouth. That mouth that I tasted so many times. That mouth that I watched move but didn’t understand. Car lights approached, illuminating, for an instant, her body. I noticed her jeans were torn down her right side; she was bleeding.
     “Maybe they will see us and help,” I thought to myself, but they just passed on by like the three before. I lost my grip with my left hand. She fell about three inches. I was able to grab a hold of her left hand and wrist with both hands now. Maybe if I tried swinging her, I could throw her to safety onto the concrete support. It was wide enough; it was not that far. I had to try it. If I didn’t, I would surely drop her. A little to the left, then right. A little to the left, then right.
     “So, how many people have you slept with?” Abby asked, making me extremely uncomfortable. I hated this question. It seemed so unnecessary to me. I mean, what was the difference anyway? The truth is I can’t really remember how many. It’s not like there were that many. It’s just I never really kept track. We were sitting in the Beehive, a coffee shop, on the Southside of Pittsburgh, which we enjoyed hanging in from time to time. It had this elevated platform with oversized pillows on the floor, and a low rising table in the middle, which we especially liked lounging around. We would lay on the floor, with coffee, and completely relax. We liked to take our shoes off and intertwine our legs, like some sort of Siamese twin. She had on these socks that had bright stripes. Starting with purple at her toes, and ending up bright orange at her calf, they were making me smile.
     “What?” she said. “Was it that many?”
     “No,” I told her. “I was just looking at your socks. I like them. They are cool.”
     “Thanks,” she said. “They’re my favorites. But don’t change the subject, how many?”
     “Ten,” I told her, and she didn’t say anything at first; she just looked at me, trying to read my mind, to see if I was telling the truth.
     “Did you love them all?” she asked me inquisitively.
     “Well, I thought so at the time. But as it turned out, I think I only really loved two of them,” I told her, trying to look as honest as I could.
     “Well,” she said.
     “Well what?” I asked her.
     “Don’t you want to know how many guys I’ve slept with?”
     “No,” I told her honestly.
     “No,” she came back a little upset. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
     “I don’t care, and I don’t want to know,” I told her, and I meant it.
     “Danny,” she said to me, “What’s the matter? Do you think I’m a whore or something?”
     “No, I don’t think you are a whore. Okay, how many?”
     “Twenty-three,” she said with a straight face.
     My stomach sunk a little, and I just looked at her.
     “Do you think that’s a lot?” she asked me.
     “No,” I said, “That’s your business.”
     “Danny, I didn’t sleep with twenty-three guys. Did you really believe that I slept with twenty-three guys?”
     “I don’t know,” I told her. “You’re the one that brought this up.”
     “Then you do think I’m a whore,” she said, seeming a little upset.
     “No, I don’t think you are a whore, a little touched maybe, but not a whore.”
     “Hey, shut up,” she said with a really cute look on her face.
     “Okay, for real, how many?” I again asked her.
     She started acting like she was doing math in her head while counting on her fingers.
     “Three,” she finally said, “and you’ll be the third.” She smiled.
I don’t think I believed her, but I loved her for it anyway.
     Abby and I met about two weeks or so prior to that day. We were both at a bar in Latrobe called The Hollow. It was a quaint establishment nestled between the opposing directions of Route 30. It was hidden in the trees, and had a beautiful stream out back that you could see from the back deck. A local Grateful Dead cover band played that night. So, naturally, it was packed, which made for close dancing, which made it all the better. The band was on break when I first noticed her. She was sitting in the corner with a couple of her friends, drinking and having a good time. I hadn’t figured out how, by then, but I was determined that we would somehow meet before the night was over.
     After about ten minutes of trying to communicate with her telepathically, the band came back on stage, and started ripping a killer version of “Scarlet Begonia’s.” She jumped up from her seat and began dancing wildly, rhythmically, tribally; it was hypnotic and mesmerizing. I started dancing as well when the band took us all into space with an amazing lead, which, to the excited delight of all on the floor, went perfectly into “Franklin’s Tower.”
     Dancing now, like the congregation at a voodoo conjuring service, Abby and I bumped into each other, and her smile was louder than the band. I reciprocated, and we continued to dance. After the song was over, I walked over to get my drink, and I noticed she was looking and smiling at me.
     “What the hell,” I thought to myself.
     There is this old saying about he who procrastinates, which I couldn’t quite remember, but I remembered the gist of it. So I walked over and said, “Hi.” We hadn’t looked back since.
     “So what is your favorite sexual position?” she asked me playfully. At this point, I started thinking about spoiled bologna in a dirty ashtray with lemons - a mental cold shower.
     “Hey, I don’t want to tell you that,” I told her, while starting to playfully wrestle. “That will be a surprise.”
     “Okay,” she said, frowning. “Okay, next question. Have you ever cheated on one of your girlfriends?”
     “Do you mean Bill Clinton cheating or Newt Gingrich cheating?” I asked her, while starting to laugh.
     “Just cheating, Danny. You know what I mean. Have you?”
     “No,” I told her honestly. “I did however have a couple of girlfriends cheat on me.”
     “I hate that,” she said.
“Tell me about it.”
     “Well, who cheated on you?” she asked me.
     “Ah, just an old girlfriend,” I told her, while obviously trying to get out of the question.
     “Well, tell me about it.”
     “You really want to hear about it?”
     “Well, yeah,” she said, giving me the “duh” face.
     “Okay, I’m dating this girl.”
     “What was her name?” Abby interrupted.
     “Amy, now let me tell the story.”
     “Okay, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
     “Well, I’m trying,” I told her.
     “I’m sorry. I won’t interrupt anymore. Tell me the rest of the story.”
     “Okay, well, we wake up one day, and I am watching her get dressed.”
     “Was she hot, Danny?” Abby again interrupted.
     “That’s it. I’m not telling you anymore. Nope, I don’t know why you would want to hear about it anyway. Do you want some more coffee?” I asked her.
     “No, I’m good,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve been cheated on before, Danny, and it really sucks.”
     “Yeah, I hear you,” I agreed. “Want to go get something to eat?” I asked her.
     “Yeah, but in a little while. I’m not that hungry, yet. So, you were watching her get dressed.”
     “Yeah, you know how it goes. First, the underwear, then her pants, finally, her shirt. I go to work and she goes to her family’s. I’m not sure, but I think she had a job interview. And then, she was going to see a couple of friends. So we don’t see each other until late that night. I’d say around ten or so. After hanging out for a while, we are getting ready for bed, and she takes off her clothes and puts on a t-shirt. Only this time, I notice something a little different about her underwear. I couldn’t figure it out at first, but then she turned around, and there it was. The friggin’ tag was on the outside. The outside, can you believe it? Her friggin’ underwear was on inside out.”
     “Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean she cheated on you,” Abby interjected.
     “Well, it did mean that she took her pants and underwear completely off and then was too stupid to put them back on the right way,” I told her, while nodding my head like a prosecutor before the jury.
     “Yeah, I see your point,” she said. “What did you do?”
     “You know something, I didn’t say anything that night. But by the end of the week, we weren’t dating anymore. So tell me your story,” I told her with the look of “now it’s your turn.”
     “Nope,” she said. “What do you mean ‘no’? I told you mine,” I said in protest.
     “Danny, I don’t want to talk about it.”
     I could tell that it was a painful subject. So I let it go. “So, you ready to get something to eat?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she said.
     We put on our shoes and headed for the door.
     “So, her underwear were on inside out?” she asked me.
     “No shit,” I told her.
     Abby and I dated for a few months before I started noticing any cracks in her armor. It came out of nowhere as cracks usually do, but it was the first time and, as time would tell, not the last.
     We were going down to the Three Rivers Arts Festival to check out the art, walk around a bit, and then to The Point, where Bob Dylan was putting on a free concert. We had really been excited for this. So I was quite shocked when I arrived at her apartment. While getting out of the car, walking up to the door, and ringing her buzzer, there was no answer. So I went around back to see if her lights were on. She was standing on her balcony, which was on the third floor.
     “Hey, sunshine, what are ya doing?” I yelled up. “You ready for some Dylan?”
     She just looked at me.
     “Abby, are you okay?” I asked her.
     “Danny, do you love me?”
     “Yes, Abby, I love you, but let’s go. There are going to be a lot of people there, and we want to find a good parking spot.”
     “Danny, if I jumped, would you catch me?”
     “What?” I answered, not sure if I heard her right.
     “If I jump, will you catch me?” she repeated.
     “If you jump, will I catch you? C’mon Abby. Let’s go.”
     “Danny, I’m not kidding. Do you love me?”
     “Yes, Abby, I love you.”
     “Then will you catch me?”
     “Look, Abby, I love you, but you are up there pretty high. I’ll try to catch you, but we will probably get hurt. I mean, that’s what they make steps for,” I told her as nicely and calmly as I could.
     She then climbed over the railing and jumped. I couldn’t believe what was happening, but I actually moved under her and held out my arms. She hit me like a sleeping bag full of rocks, and we hit the ground. Temporarily dazed, I came to with her crying and lying on top of me.
     “Danny,” she managed to get out, “I love you,” she said, squeezing me for what seemed like her life itself.
     “I love you too,” I told her. We never went to the festival that night. I had an awful headache and felt like I had been run over. I didn’t mind calling it off. Instead, we went up to her apartment, took a hot bath, lit candles, and listened to The Cranberries while holding each other until the sun came up. I found out later that Abby had some issues with depression. She had been hospitalized for it, and it only showed up occasionally.
     It was now early December. The snow was blowing, and the small towns that dotted the river were all lit up with Christmas lights. Abby and I decided to do some mall hopping. Having finished with the first mall, we had about one hour until we reached the next one. So we were talking and laughing and generally having an all around good day. We were listening to this radio station that played nothing but Christmas music when we came to a stoplight. To our right was a tobacco outlet, and to our left was a florist. It was called Sunflowers and was decorated beautifully for Christmas. Frank Sinatra came onto the radio and sang “Silent Night.” Abby’s mood dropped like the apple at Times Square on New Years. She started crying.
     “Abby, what’s up? What’s the matter?” I asked her.
     “Oh, it’s the sunflowers, Danny. I love sunflowers.”
     “I like them too” I barely got out before she jumped out of the car and crossed the road to the parking lot of the florist. I was watching in quiet disbelief when she disappeared into the shop. I was able to make a left into the parking lot and quickly went inside to find her. After having a quick look around, I found a room that was dedicated entirely to sunflowers. Abby was sitting in the corner, knees up to her chest, clutching an oversized, cloth stuffed sunflower and crying. I went over and sat down beside her.
     “Abby, what is it?’ I asked her softly.
     She didn’t answer.
     “Abby?” I asked her again.
     “Is everything alright?” The storeowner asked us.
     “Yes, ma’am,” I told her. “We just need to talk a little. You know, Christmas and all?” I calmly pleaded.
     “Well, she doesn’t look okay,” the storeowner said, acting like a detective. “Honey, are you okay?” she asked Abby.
     “Yes, I’m fine,” Abby answered with tears in her eyes.
     “Ma’am, can you please just give us a few minutes?” I asked.
     “I suppose,” she said. “Honey, if you need anything, you just give a holler,” while walking away looking at me very suspiciously.
     “Abby, do you want to talk about it?” I then asked her.
     “Danny, it’s just Christmas. I get very depressed this time of year,” she said as she started crying again. “When I was little, my dad died, and my mom married a second time. We both really liked him at first, but then things really started to change. He started drinking. Danny, he would get really drunk and then he would hit my mother and break things all over the house. My mom would take it because he had a good job, and, before him, we were really struggling. It was horrible, Danny, horrible,” she managed to get out before another fit of crying.
     “Well, spring rolled around, and my mother got a job working nights. It was then that he would get really drunk, come into my room, and touch me. I didn’t know what to do, Danny. I was terrified. He would tell me that if I ever told my mom that he would hurt us both. This went on until summer, and I couldn’t take it anymore. Our neighbors had a sunflower farm. So at night, I would go out into the middle of the sunflowers and sleep. He couldn’t hurt me there, Danny. He couldn’t find me. The sunflowers protected me. That’s why I love them so much.”
     All I could do was hold her. Me holding her, holding her giant stuffed sunflower, holding her together, she sobbed uncontrollably. We sat like that, for how long I can’t tell, but, eventually, we made our way back out to the car. We decided to go home, but, first, I had to stop and get some gas.
 We found a gas station in a small town. It was one of those towns where the main street was littered with empty buildings. I was surprised to find a gas station there that was not only open but full of life. I made the left and pulled in. Up ahead a little ways was a bridge.
     It seemed spiritual like in the snow. It was bright white and had a pedestrian walkway on the right side. It looked like a passage way to heaven or at least out of this dismal town. I let the thought go and got out to pump my gas and then went in to pay.
     There was a line inside. It took a little longer to pay than usual. Coming out of the store and walking to my car, I noticed Abby was no longer sitting inside. I quickly moved to see if she was lying down or something. She wasn’t, which made me start to search frantically. Then, I noticed her walking on the bridge.
     “Oh, Christ, no, Abby!” I screamed and started running towards the bridge.
     She got about a third of the way across the bridge and then climbed over the railing.
     “No!” I again screamed, while closing the gap. I finally made it to the spot and grabbed onto her arms. She let go, but I had her, at least I thought. She wasn’t screaming or struggling. She was just stoic, looking at me, expressionless.
     “I will not let you go,” I told her, but I was losing my grip.
     I was swinging her back and forth in a desperate attempt to throw her safely onto the support pier. I called upon all of my remaining strength and let her go in the right direction. She landed hard on top of the concrete pier with one arm dangling off. She wasn’t moving.
     “Oh, thank you, God!” I said to myself, while climbing down the iron to get to the pier. After reaching her, I pulled her to the middle. Police and emergency personnel were beginning to close the bridge.
     It was Christmas Eve, and I was finally allowed to visit Abby at the hospital. She was on the seventh floor. It was locked and guarded. You could come in, but you would definitely have a hard time leaving without permission. She was lying in her bed in her pajamas, hair pulled back, looking girlishly beautiful, when I walked into the room.
     “Hey, you. Merry Christmas,” I told her.
     “Hi, Danny,” she said, jumping up to give me a hug.
     “How are you feeling?” I asked her.
     “I’m okay,” she said. “They feed you pretty good around here.” She let out a little laugh, which was refreshing. “Hey,” she said. “I made you a present.”
     “Ah, you didn’t have to do that,” I told her.
     She went into her closet and pulled out a bag.
     “Here you go,” she said, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”
     I opened up the bag and pulled out a dream catcher.
     “It’s beautiful,” I told her and then went back into the bag and pulled out a pair of homemade moccasins.
     “Try them on,” she said.
     “Hey, these are the nicest moccasins I have ever seen, and they fit perfectly,” I told her proudly.
     “Shut up,” she said.
     “Hey, I got you something too,” I said, while handing her a musical globe, filled with snow, that displayed a Norman Rockwell winter scene.
     “I love it, Danny.”
     We then climbed in her bed; she wound it up, shook it, and set it on the nightstand. It played “Blue Christmas.” We laid there for quite some time, listening and holding each other. The staff allowed me to spend the night, and I slept better than I had in years.
     It’s been a long time since that Christmas, and things have changed considerably. I no longer dread the holidays. I understand them. They are spiritual events, no longer commercial. I now even believe in miracles.