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“I was killed, Mother,” I told her. The questions in her eyes burned brighter and I could tell she was wondering if she had died already.
“Killed?”
“William saved me... in his way,” I answered, “But I’malive;or I suppose you could say in some manner I am.” The gears whirred in her mind.
“The baby?” Mother finally probed.
“She didn’t make it,” I sniffled, “but it's all right, Mother. All is fine, you just rest. Where is Father?”
“He died a year after we found out you were gone. A sort of... depression... took him over.” Her sentence dragged out as she drifted. My breath stuttered as I cupped my hand over my mouth, fighting to keep my screams in. Tears flowed freely out of their ducts, twin rivers replenishing the dried paths down my cheeks.
I’d done it. I killed Father. The heartache and regret crashed into me, a tidal wave of acidic agony imprinting itself into my heart, my mind. I was too weak with anguish to stay upright anymore, I only wanted to lay down and let my body decay into nothing. Let it rot me on the outside like it had on the inside.
“I am terribly sorry, Mother,” I choked out, crawling into the bed beside her to lay my head on her chest. She patted me gently, breathing slowly. Her heart beat hesitantly against my ear.
“You had to leave, dear, I understand. I just wish... I would have gotten to say goodbye.” I looked up at those paper thin eyelids, and watched as they fought to stay open.
“Mother, you need rest, please sleep,” I whispered, kissing her cheek lightly.
“Dear, I'm old. I'm going to die. Sleep will do nothing,”
“Please,” I muttered. “I won't leave.”
My mother smiled, closing her eyes before drifting. I stayed beside her the entire night, only hiding away when the attendant came to check on her. She slept for ages, waking in the darkness of early morning. I sat beside her, fiddling with the now dry and messy dress. She coughed, sucking in an unsteady breath.
“Good morning, Mother,” I said quietly. She looked elated to find me still in the room with her, taking my hand once more.
“Tell me everything that has happened... I feel as though–as though I was misled. And, if you are truly not a spirit haunting me… you will tell me everything.” She requested, fighting every word to leave her mouth. I laughed, playing with her witch’s fingers.
Starting with Noel, told Mother of how she had killed me, watching emotions play in her eyes. I knew I could not tell her of Adam for fear the shock may indeed be the end of her. Adam was not a necessary piece of information for her to learn, she was better off thinking he was long gone, six feet under in Pennsylvania.
I told her of how William had turned me into something of an immortal, that I couldn't age. I told her of how I had run away from William in search of coping with my new life, that I felt betrayed by his decision. Then it was of all my travels, how I had written letters but never sent them, how I fought on a daily basis the urge to return, how I had moved to England. I finally shared with her my journey to America—only leaving out James.
She listened diligently, large eyes knowing. I waited patiently as she formulated her response, grateful to have told someone even a sliver of truth about myself.
“You're acting selfishly, Rose,” she finally proclaimed. I blinked, that was not what I was expecting.
“Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief, it was almost as if she’d slapped me again.
“William loves you and knowing he was–was in London, it seems he still does. Here you are running... running away from him... he needs you–you need him.”
“Mother! You are not listening to me, heacted selfishly. I should be under a headstone right now, with Father and the baby.” I protested, coming to my feet. I was angry with her, angry with myself for even trusting her with it.
“That may be so, but–but he had other plans for you two. He loves you too much to lose you.”
“No, he was impulsive!”
“Maybe you think so. I think he acted rightly. Were it your–your father and I... I would have done the very same.” Her voice gravel.
“Please, you are exhausting yourself,” I snapped, triggered by her assumption into hot, sharp rage. I sat her up against the pillows and watched as her body slumped over, her heart beat weakening.
“I'm dying, Rosemary. It doesn't matter whether I am... relaxed or not.”
“Don't say that,” I whispered, her struggle a bucket of water to my anger, dousing.
“I will die soon, your father is beckoning. Rosemary, you–you need to find William.”
“Just calm down and work on recovering. We will speak about this when you are better,” I insisted, kissing her forehead. This wasn’t what I wanted to talk about, even if she was right. Even if maybe William hadn’t been so wrong in his choice. She closed her eyes again and slept the whole day, well into the night.
