The painting always reminded Molly of a dream, an unattainable goal, a yearning to touch an unreachable Nirvana. A feeling that all was hopelessness, that she was less than perfection.

Yet she was drawn to White Camelia, effectively sucked into its beauty and grace, unable to avoid it just as she was unable to look away from the violent scenes on the evening news.

White Camelia, a study not only in colors and textures but a reflection of the human spirit, the beauty of the human form. Blossoming spreads of dewy, silky petals, the center of the creation as deadly and alluring as the poison perfume of the Venus flytrap.

Daily visits to the Museum of Modern Art during her lunch hour brought solace, but even that was short-lived; the exhibit wouldn’t be there forever. The print hung on her bedroom wall as well, and nightly she knelt before it, said her prayers to it, shared her innermost secrets and desires, her sacred cow in a cheap balsa frame.

Crossing Fifth Avenue, she headed to her small one-bedroom in SoHo, the apartment nestled amid a dozen others on her floor in the five-story walk-up.

Nights that David stayed over made her prayer ritual impossible; she didn’t want him to think her insane. So beneath the sheets, sometimes beneath David, Molly offered silent supplication to the print.

He rolled off and breathed heavily, resting on the pillows. He turned back and smoothed the hair out of her eyes. “That was nice,” he said, reaching across her breasts to the night table to retrieve a pack of smokes and the ashtray.

“Yes, nice.” She smiled wanly and thought, Nice for you maybe.

She could close her eyes and imagine he was somebody else, but even that failed most times. She wouldn’t imagine herself with anyone else, couldn’t imagine that she would be desirable. Such imperfection, Molly was.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, lighting the cigarette.

“What?”

“You’re so deep in thought.”

“Nothing.”

He cupped her breast and lightly stroked it with his thumb, an action he seemed particularly fond of. She wondered if he thought this was somehow comforting.

“Are you staying over?” she asked.

The room was free of light, the blackout shade pulled past the sill. She preferred it that way. Making love in total darkness, so that he couldn’t see her imperfect body. Groping clumsily was part of their sex ritual, and they had invented their own style, their own art form.

When he didn’t answer her question—he often left after they made love—she assumed he’d shook his head, if he’d answered at all.

The ashtray was between them on the mattress, and he stubbed out the cigarette. He slid away from her, and she heard him padding across the floor. Moments later the bathroom light overtook the darkness and she squinted, momentarily blinded. She pulled the covers up to her chin. Touching was permitted but seeing was off-limits.

In the bathroom doorway he stood facing her. Every inch of him was visible, but her eyes trained on the penis dangling between his legs. He scratched his backside and leaned against the doorframe.

“Come take a shower with me.”

“What?”

“Come on, Molly. Come out from under there and let me see you.”

Cheeks burning, she pulled the sheets tighter, now up to her nose.

“What’s your problem?” he blurted. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You should leave.”

He padded across the floor again and turned on the overhead bedroom light.

Chills danced on her skin despite the blankets pulled over her body. Her heart pounded.

“Come out from under there.”

“No.”

“Dammit, Molly, this is weird. I’m not leaving ’til you get out of that bed.”

They’d only met a few weeks ago, so she couldn’t even feel surprised by his actions; she hardly knew the guy. There was no way to win in this situation. If she refused, she’d lose him. If she did as he asked—and he saw what she looked like—she’d lose him. Either way this relationship was doomed. Better she should keep her dignity.

The blankets were now in a deathgrip; her fingers ached from the strength she used to hold the covers in place.

“Please?” He softened.

She shook her head, gasped.

He approached, stood beside her at the bed. “Whatever’s wrong … it’ll be okay. I want this to work, but I have to see what’s wrong. We can’t let something like this come between us.”

“No,” she whined. “I don’t want to do this. Leave me alone.”

He gripped the corner of the bedding and yanked it from her body. The covers flew from her hands and landed in a heap by the door.

Quickly sitting up, she leaned forward into a ball, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her legs. “Get out,” she cried, sobbing into her knees.

On the bed now, he straddled her, pushed her shoulders and forced her back onto the pillow.

She wanted to fight him off but spent her energy trying to cover herself with her hands.

“What have you got down there, a dick?” He sat on her knees and forced them flat, pushed away her hands.

She covered her eyes with her forearm and cried, finally relenting. If this was his fondest desire, so be it.

“My God,” he muttered. “You’re beautiful.”

He was Esmeralda to her Quasimodo, his love for her apparently blind, his feelings for her contorting reality. She felt his hands between her legs, caressing her thighs, fingers probing her vagina, stroking the cleft of downy hair between her legs. Fingers played with the labia, spread the lips, found their way inside her.

“I don’t understand,” he said, breathing hard. “What are you so afraid of?”

But she had no words. If he was that blind, if he couldn’t see her apparent disfigurement, then how could she possibly explain it to him? How could she make him understand something he would never accept?

“Just go,” she whispered.

“Go?” His fingers rested motionless, still inside her. “I thought we ...”

Oral sex had been out of the question—for her anyway. She’d never refused going down on him, but his tongue had never been permitted near that part of her body. Now he seemed preoccupied by it. Maybe that was the problem, she thought: a nihilistic voyeurism. He came, he saw, he conquered? Maybe he couldn’t help himself, would have to explore her abnormality with a zealous fascination, like watching circus freaks perform. Maybe he didn’t want to destroy it, only study it, but that thought wasn’t that much better.

“Get out!”

Minutes later he was dressed and out the door.

Lying on her side, Molly sobbed, hating the thought she had lost David over this. Even after a few short weeks she had started falling in love with him. But how would she ever be able to trust him now? And conveniently she decided to overlook the little incident with him exploring her body against her will. Not something she wanted to think about.

With great trepidation, her hand slid down to her groin, and she explored her most private area, touched the pubis, prodded her labia.

No. He’d been wrong. There’d been no magical transformation. Either he’d been blind, or he’d lied to her. Such hideousness could never be confused with beauty.

The following morning she used a sick day at work and headed to the MoMA. O’Keeffe’s art adorned the walls in the wing, and Molly spent a few minutes studying various paintings before returning to White Camelia. She didn’t want to look like a freak, spending the day staring at one painting. But invariably, that was where she ended up, sitting on a bench a few feet away, studying the texture and color, marveling at the brushstrokes. Female perfection at its finest, the most exquisite example ever dreamed up, ever created in permanent form.

She wondered if she was the only one who was … different. Other women seemed so confident, happy. With alarm she realized she might be alone in this …that perhaps they were already perfect, beautiful. Perhaps they weren’t deformed. She wondered why they had been so lucky … when they had been graced with the change. And why she hadn’t.

“Lovely, isn’t it? Possibly my favorite O’Keeffe.” The man who stood beside her, shoulder-length hair, tuft of chin-hair struggling to form a goatee, looked like a throwback Beatnik, sans bongo and cuppa java.

The distraction irritated Molly, but she felt that ignoring him might be construed as rude, or worse, odd.

“Mine too,” she said. “It’s incredible.”

He pulled at the goatee as if trying to pluck the hairs, a gesture Molly found incredibly pretentious. “Still,” he said, “it’s not as if there’s a wide variety. It’s a great piece, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Well, yeah. Flowers and steer heads. Flowers blooming out of steer heads. A few churches … O’Keeffe as a rule never did much for me.”

She started to reply, but the first word tumbled out of her mouth as a wheeze, and her bottom lip began to quiver with anger. His remark was taken personally, as if his words were an attack on her character. If she loved O’Keeffe’s work so much, then he must also feel that fans such as Molly were as limited as the art. And his views of the prolific Ms. O’Keeffe were so wrong, she couldn’t possibly begin to address that.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Can I buy you a cappuccino to make it up to you? There’s a café—”

“No,” she snapped, “you may not. We clearly have nothing in common, and you, clearly, are a moron.”

His head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “Hey, that wasn’t nice,” he said, his hesitant smile spreading. “A difference of opinion is healthy, right?”

“How can you not love this painting?” she cried, hands displayed before her as if pleading. “Or O’Keeffe? How can you have such a narrow-minded view, miss the beauty of her work? How can you not see it ...?”

He stepped closer to White Camelia. “It’s a flower. A big white flower. And beside it, Jack-in-the-Pulpit No. II?—a big black flower. See what I mean? More of the same.”

“Oh my God ...” Molly covered her mouth with her slender fingers. “You really can’t see.…”

He stepped back to view White Camelia from another angle. Shook his head. “No … sorry, I see a flower. What do you see?”

“Perfection,” she whispered into her hand.

“Pardon?”

“The perfect female form. Delicate blossom representing all that is wonderful about … about … Can’t you see it?” She reached toward the painting, caressing the air. “The pattern is so revealing. As if Ms. O’Keeffe knew the secrets and wanted to share them. As if she could see into your soul,” she said wistfully, “and created the image that she saw. Like God, creating the perfect woman.”

Molly turned her attention from the painting to the man beside her. “So rare, a visionary such as O’Keeffe, a woman as perceptive as she was gifted. She saw more than just a flower … she saw the secrets of the universe, understood that women could be as gorgeous as Nature intended. She unlocked the secrets … don’t you see?”

For several seconds he stared at her, his eyes big, as if filled with a new understanding. For a moment she felt hopeful, believed that maybe she’d found a counterpart, a soul mate, someone who fathomed what she was trying to say. Someone not David, hopelessly lost in his own blindness, his own dislike of modern art.

But then he looked away, this nameless Beatnik, and she realized that the understanding dawning on his face was his realization that she was crazy.

“Nice chatting with you,” he said softly, and then disappeared into another room.

She sat again and studied the painting, dismissing him, but the tears fell. Tears of loss, of loneliness, of knowing she was so terribly lost in knowledge that no one else could seem to grasp.

Later that evening David called, and she let the answering machine pick up. She curled up on the sofa, the living room cloaked in darkness.

I’m sorry, he’d said. Can we try again? he’d asked. I think I’m falling in love with you.

Impossible, she thought. He couldn’t love her. He didn’t know the meaning of that word. He was selfish, and cruel, had made her face the reality of her deformity. She could never love anyone that evil.

Surely he’d been with other women, so he must have seen their transformation. What had he been comparing Molly to when he’d called her beautiful? Some mock adolescent girl, an atrocity, an affront to Nature itself, well past the stage where she should have blossomed into her purity. What was wrong with her? Why were all the others so fortunate? Nature could be so cruel, toying with her body that way, holding back its ultimate gift.

Molly had promised to babysit her sister’s daughter the following day, and Katherine arrived around noon with eight-year-old Samantha, a quiet, brooding child who seemed to be in early rehearsal for her teen years.

Katherine left to run errands, and Molly offered to take Samantha ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza.

Samantha shrugged, banged Barbie’s and Ken’s heads together. “Can I have some hot chocolate?”

“I don’t have any in the house. Why don’t we take a walk?”

“Never mind.” The girl collapsed into herself and sighed dramatically. “Can I watch cartoons?”

“Don’t you want to go out?” When Samantha didn’t answer, Molly answered, “Be my guest.”

With the Power Puff Girls blasting in the background, Molly retreated to the bedroom to escape the noise, to take a break from the joys of babysitting. Children weren’t something she was interested in, not someone else’s, certainly not her own. She wondered how Katherine maintained her sanity day after day. Surely the child’s dour mood had to affect her. Samantha was rubbing off on Molly after less than an hour.

Molly lay on the bed with her head by the foot-board and studied every nuance of White Camelia, every shredded nerve relaxing.

“Aunt Molly?”

She glanced at the door. Samantha approached her and looked down. “Taking a nap?”

“I was.”

Samantha climbed onto the bed and lay beside Molly with her arms folded beneath her head.

“What happened to your cartoons?”

“I got bored by myself.”

“I offered to take you skating, to go for a walk, to get hot chocolate. I can’t help it if you’re bored. You’re very lazy.”

“Mom says that too.” She snuggled into the mattress. “Why are you on this end?”

“I’m admiring my favorite painting.”

“Oh. It’s very pretty.”

“You like it?”

“Uh huh. I’ve never seen a flower like that.”

This was the most extensive conversation they’d ever had. The idea that it was about the painting endeared the child to her.

“Doesn’t Mommy take you to museums?”

Samantha shrugged. “I went to the Natural History one once. But that was a long time ago.”

“Would you like to go with me?”

“Sure. Sometime.”

“How about now?”

“I don’t feel like it now.”

“Okay.” Molly looked from the painting to Samantha. Strange how she finally found someone to talk to about this and it turned out to be a child. But an old soul was an old soul, and Molly recognized it. Perhaps the child was more perceptive than anyone had ever given her credit for.

“What do you see when you look at the painting, Samantha?”

The girl glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“Can you see the deeper meaning? Can you see what it represents? What it’s trying to say?”

“Say? Is it going to talk to me?”

As quickly as she found her, Molly was losing her young soul mate. The girl was too young to understand, her perception and understanding of the world too naïve. Molly had to explain it somehow, had to show her. Samantha was on the verge of a great discovery, a deeper knowledge. Perhaps her innocence would be the enabler. What better mind to shape than a young one?

“This is more than just paint on canvas.” Molly turned on her side, leaned on her elbow. “This is knowledge, Samantha. Great truth. Great power. If you can understand the secrets, you will own the world. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“If all you see is the paint … then you’re not understanding it at all.”

Large brown eyes opened wider, as if trying to comprehend, trying to figure out what Molly was trying to say. But the confusion was apparent, the lost look etched in her expression revealing her thoughts.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Molly whispered. “Tell me. Do you look like that painting?”

“Do I look like it?” Samantha’s brow creased, and her eyes rolled up, as if she was searching for the answer beneath her hair.

“Or are you a freak of nature, like me?”

Samantha didn’t answer, only stared at Molly with her mouth slightly open.

“The woman who painted White Camelia understood. She wanted the world to know. And in doing so, she made me realize that there’s something wrong with me.”

“What is? What’s wrong with you?” Samantha voice was almost a squeak.

Molly sat up and leaned over Samantha. “I have to know. Are you normal? Are you beautiful? Or are you a freak?”

Samantha blinked, shrugged.

Molly unzipped Samantha’s jeans and yanked them down her hips before the girl could protest. Samantha struggled to sit up but Molly pushed her back down. “Stop that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sobbing, Samantha shook her head. “What are you doing, Aunt Molly?”

“Shh. Stay still. I just want to see.”

Obediently, the child lay there as Molly pulled down her underpants.

“My God,” Molly said, staring at the hairless pubis. “I’m sorry, Samantha, I didn’t know. I thought I was the only one.”

“Can I get up now?”

“No. Stay there.” She left Samantha on the bed and rushed into the kitchen, then hurried back to the bedroom.

When she returned, Samantha was struggling to hide beneath the bed but hadn’t gotten far; boxes and empty suitcases blocked the way. Molly pulled the girl out and lifted her onto the bed.

“Maybe we can fix this. Maybe it’s not too late.” She pushed the girl back down and knelt between Samantha’s legs, spread the knees apart.

White Camelia loomed over her shoulder like a sentinel, and Molly glanced from the painting to the child. In her hand was the chef’s knife from the kitchen.

“Aunt Molly? What are you doing?” Samantha wept even harder.

“Stay still, Samantha. Do as you’re told. I’m going to make you beautiful.”

Again she looked at the painting, although she knew every brush stroke by heart. Now she looked to it for direction, guidance. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to save Samantha. Somehow she would save her from the torment Molly had been forced to live with.

She bent Samantha’s knees and removed the jeans and underpants from around her ankles, spread the legs further apart.

Samantha sobbed, her fingers clutching and unclutching the bedspread.

Molly pressed the tip of the knife against the girl but wasn’t sure how to start. How deeply would she need to cut? She didn’t think this would take much time or effort. After the first few slits, the body should follow its natural course and spread and bloom like the White Camelia.

The first and only stroke tore open the labia across the center, Samantha’s groin now resembling a cross. The amount of blood seeping into the bedding horrified Molly, who had naïvely been expecting a trickle. Worse yet, the girl’s crotch remained virtually unchanged and didn’t resemble White Camelia in any fashion.

Samantha screamed, her hands falling to her damaged flesh, crying hysterically at the sight of her own blood.

Molly raced to the bathroom and retrieved a stack of towels, piling them beneath her and pressing a thick bath towel between the girl’s legs.

“I’m sorry!” Molly cried, applying more pressure to the wound. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The flesh was supposed to cooperate, to follow its natural course. So much blood. When she removed the soaked towels shortly after, Samantha’s vagina looked the same as it had before.

*

“Can you tell me what happened?” In the ER, the social worker questioned Molly while the police officer, named Rayburn by the badge on his chest, stood by.

She looked at their faces, but they revealed nothing. The social worker was young, with red-rimmed eyes, as if he’d been on duty an eternity. Rayburn the cop looked like he’d be good at poker.

“She … Samantha.… It was an accident.”

“What happened?” Mr. Mellick, as his hospital ID revealed, folded his arms and cocked his head, the first indication that he suspected something, that his questions weren’t casual. Not that Molly had expected they would be, but still.

“Please answer the questions,” Rayburn said.

“She was playing in the bedroom.” Molly tried to swallow but her mouth was arid.

“Where were you?” Rayburn asked. Much older than Mellick, his short hair peppered with gray, he looked too old to be a uniformed cop.

“I was in the bathroom and heard her playing.”

“Playing how?” Now the officer had a notebook and pen in his hands. Mellick seemed to blend into the background as Rayburn took over the questioning.

“With her dolls.” Molly watched him scribble. “Am I under arrest?”

He looked up. “For what?” After a moment of studying her eyes, he said, “Then what happened?”

“I heard her scream. When I came out of the bathroom, she was holding the knife, and she was covered in blood. I discovered that she’d cut herself with the knife.”

“You’re saying she sliced herself open like that.”

“Yes.”

Rayburn nodded. “Why?”

The air in the hall seemed to have thinned out, and Molly was having a hard time dealing with the lack of oxygen. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I don’t know. She was just playing. Kids do all kinds of strange things.”

“According to the ER doc, that knife wound wasn’t self-inflicted,” Mellick said.

“Was anyone else there at the time?” Rayburn asked.

“Just me.” Molly’s voice was barely audible. “Has Samantha said anything?”

“She’s been sedated,” Mellick said. “It required forty-six stitches to close the wound. When they brought her in, she kept saying she was sorry, that it was all a game.”

Molly’s eyes lit up, a new spark of hope. She’d coached Samantha before the ambulance arrived but had had no faith that the child would say what Molly wanted her to. How Samantha had done this to herself. How Aunt Molly had nothing to do with it.

“She told me she wanted to be a flower.” A faint smile touched her lips, and she shrugged.

“A what?” Rayburn asked.

“I have a painting on my bedroom wall. O’Keeffe’s White Camelia. Samantha said she wanted to look just like it, that she wanted to be just like the beautiful flower. The perfect …”

“Perfect what?” Rayburn asked.

“Perfect woman, I suppose. She believes the flower represents perfect womanhood and …” But she felt that she was saying too much and didn’t finish the thought.

“Your eight-year-old niece said that?” Rayburn closed his notebook, but Molly could tell by his expression what he was thinking. He blamed her for everything. He didn’t believe a word of what she’d said. She knew it, could feel it.

“She’s … advanced for her age. A very smart little girl.” The way they stared at her, the puzzled looks on their faces—she knew men could never understand. Now they probably thought she was insane, and possibly that Samantha was as well, if they even believed the child had damaged herself.

“That’s all for now,” Rayburn said. “This investigation is still open, and I’m sure I’ll want to speak with you again.”

Molly nodded, and held her hands together in front of her stomach to keep them from trembling.

Katherine showed up a few minutes later—Molly had reached her on her cell phone—and demanded to know what had happened.

Molly told her sister the same story she’d told Rayburn and Mellick, but Katherine wasn’t buying it.

“What did you do to my baby? What did you do to Samantha?” Katherine was ushered in to see her daughter before she could act out on her anger.

*

Home again in the dark, slowly rocking on the edge of the sofa, seeing the child’s blood on her hands even without a source of light. Illuminated, like iridescent paint, spotlighting the damage she’d caused, accusing her of harming the child.

Tearless sobs, wails of anguish, feeling sorry for herself, for not being able to show the world what she knew as universal truth. She’d never meant to hurt Samantha; the excess of blood had shocked her, made her quickly realize that she couldn’t do this, that she didn’t know how. O’Keeffe was the only one who knew, and she was dead. No one left in the world to take Molly’s hand and guide her along, to show her the way it was supposed to be done.

The phone rang and she listened to the machine intercept the call.

“You bitch! You sick bitch! What did you do to my baby?” Despite Katherine’s yells and sobs, Molly understood the words clearly. “Pick up the phone. God damn you, Molly!”

The line went dead. Molly dragged her fingers through her hair and clutched her head. “Sorry, Katherine …” she muttered. Molly knew her sister’s hysterics, knew that although this was bad, terribly, terribly hideous, Katherine would eventually get over it. Molly was blood; her sister wouldn’t stay angry forever.

And when she saw the end result … maybe Samantha would be more beautiful now. Maybe Molly had done enough to help her. Then Katherine would thank her, and not be angry with her. Katherine must have wondered why Samantha was still abnormal … must have wondered how long it would take for the girl to blossom.

The answering machine intercepted another call. “Please pick up,” David said. “I want to see you. Please, Molly, don’t let it end this way.”

“I’m here.”

She could hear the relief in his voice. “I’m so glad you answered. Can I come over? I really need to see you. I want to work this out.”

She cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. “Come over then,” she said quietly. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He’d be there soon. David’s apartment was a ten-minute walk from her place.

She also wondered when the cops would arrive. Wondered if Samantha had implicated her in the crime. But crime wasn’t the right word. Any harm inflicted had been unintentional, had been caused by an eagerness to help. Surely they would see that.

The bedroom was just as she’d left it; the bedding was painted with Samantha’s blood, and it had dried to a sticky, shiny hardness. It had soaked down to the mattress. The towels lay in a pile like giant blood clots.

Molly combed her hair with her fingers and slipped out of her clothing. She pushed the ruined bedding aside and pulled a clean comforter over herself. To wait for David, White Camelia above her head standing vigil, protecting her, guiding her. Almost shining down on her. Molly smiled, knowing that no matter what else happened, she would always have White Camelia.

Beneath the comforter, her hands roamed her body, gently caressing her stomach and breasts, bringing her to a state of relaxation. Closing her eyes, she wished to dream of White Camelia, wished that it could have been so easy. Wished for the pain that would be so soothing.

She heard David inside the apartment fifteen minutes later, heard him before he even spoke. Recognized the pattern of his walk, the sounds of stealthy movement through the hallway and living room. All else was silent in her apartment; no TV, no radio, just the soft rhythm of her own breathing.

“Molly?”

“In here,” she said, but she doubted he’d heard her.

“Sweetie, what are you doing in bed? It’s not even five—” He stopped in the doorway. “Oh my God—Molly?”

Her arms were covered in blood, and the knife dangling from her fingers thumped on the carpet. A heady smell hung on the air.

She smiled at him. “You can see me now, David. It worked. I’m not afraid any more.” Her voice was weak, drained, as if her life was leaking out of her body.

The comforter was saturated with her blood, and he yanked it off her body, dragged it toward her feet.

Hands over his mouth, he staggered back until he hit the wall, unable to find another step.

“Hardly even hurts …” But that was a lie. When she tried to glance down, the pain tore through her body. She could see everything in the mirror she’d placed at the end of the bed. In spite of the crimson splashed over every inch of her from the belly down, she could see the beauty she’d created, the beauty beneath the blood.

Legs spread, revealing the labia she’d cut away and pulled back, flaps of mangled fatty tissue. Her vagina, carved out and spread until it rested on the mattress.

And later, she thought, they would clean her up, and after all traces of blood were removed, her body would heal, become the beauty it was supposed to be. It would retain the shape it was meant to be, the pinks and whites, and downy peaches, an explosion of colors and softness, unfolded in a flowery splendor.

So much better now. So much more natural.