My Darkest Rose

Chapter 25

Near Death

When his head was under water he began to fight, kicking for the surface, but Rose's hands pulled him down. The pain in his chest was all-consuming, demanding he get to the surface for air, but even if she hadn't been pulling him under, Jack could not swim. His arms flailed helplessly. His legs kicked, only to be corralled by Rose's insistent and steady embrace.

She pulled him deep, so deep there was no longer any light of any kind, only darkness, and the feel of her hands, vice-like on his struggling legs.

There was a last flash of blinding pain that seemed to fill his entire body like lightning, and then the pain was gone.

He could feel ground beneath his feet. And to his surprise it wasn't muddy, like he expected, but solid. And he no longer felt like he was sinking. He was standing in place, free to move.

He took one step and then another, opening his eyes to realize he was no longer in the lake at all, but downtown Tacoma, walking along Sycamore Street.

It was late in the day. The sky was a cloudless, velvet blue.

He knew exactly where he was but not how it was possible. He must be dead. And yet, there was no fear, no pain, just a growing sense of hope that Rose would be waiting for him right where he knew she would.

Up ahead was the Bernardi house. He walked faster and as he approached he could see someone sitting on the porch.

It was Rose, waiting for him. She was just like she'd been on the first day he met her, young and alive, a can of Diet Coke balanced on her knee.

"You want one?" she asked, holding up the can of soda. "They're in the fridge."

He knew what he would say because it's just what he'd said before. "Those will kill you, you know?"

She laughed, throwing back her head like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. He couldn't help but smile too, despite the fact his mother had just died of cancer, and he'd been serious about what he said.

"Well," she said, holding up the can, "I guess I know what they'll write on my tombstone." Then, in some sort of an accent, "She died doing what she loved."

"They taste disgusting," he said.

"Says the smoker." She took another drink. "So you coming up here or what?"

He watched her. She was unbelievably alive and joyous. He remembered how that day, she had been exactly what he needed. Someone to tease and cajole him out of his melancholy and despair. She'd also not hesitated to ask about his mom, when she found out. Unlike everyone else, she'd let him talk about her. She'd never been afraid of things that hurt to say, instead, she'd made a point to bring them out into the light. And it helped.

But all of this had already happened. He didn't need her comfort anymore, at least, not in this way.

"Rose? What am I doing here?"

"You're dead, Jack. Didn't you know?"

Did he? He looked down at his body. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and a blue tshirt with a black bird stitched over a small pocket. Clothes that had been donated or sold long ago. Impossible, were he alive.

He walked up the stairs to the porch and stood beside her, their faces on the same level. It was hot out and he could see a bead of sweat along her temple. She looked at him with such love, he felt his heart and entire body fill with it.

He felt her forgiveness, her sadness for his death and pain, for the loss of Fauna. He could feel her joy for his art and life in Chicago, even his cat, Theodore. She knew everything about him.