Chapter Six: Seattle

It was raining again, and it was cold. By morning, there would be a glaze on the streets and sidewalks, making driving hazardous and walking impossible. He expected nothing different from Seattle this time of year. It had been this way since he moved his family here ten years ago. Then, it had been nothing more than an inconvenience. Bothersome, but really nothing to worry about.

Now, though, his family was gone. Everything that he had lived and worked for was gone. He could have accepted it if his wife had taken the child and left him. He could have accepted an accident that claimed them both. But this? It was so senseless.

He had replayed those last months a thousand times. He had seen the way his dear Rosalie had weakened. He had talked to her doctors, consulted specialists. No one could give him an answer. No one had a clue.

Yes, he should have seen what was going on. Should have, but did not. He took comfort in the belief - no, the knowledge - that no one in those circumstances would have seen it. It was too unthinkable.

He made his way slowly up the small incline. The ground was wet and muddy beneath his feet. It crossed his mind that he should turn back, but he had been coming here regularly for a very long time. He was expected. He had promised that he would be here on this day, and he was not going to break his promise.

She would know. It was his certainty that she could see him and hear his words that kept him going. There was nothing tangible holding him here. There was nothing, really, holding him to this life. How many times had he contemplated suicide? How many times had he picked up the gun and actually held it to his head? Fifty? One hundred? More? But he always stopped himself. She was in heaven, and people who commit suicide don't go to heaven. At least, that's what his church had told him from the time he was a small child.

Instead, he was just letting himself go. If a man can will himself to die, he would do it. He was relying heavily on a cane, now. The pain was great, but he would not see a doctor. They had been able to do nothing for Rosalie, and he wanted them to do nothing for him.

He settled onto the bench near her grave marker. In those first few years, he had never used the bench. He sat in the grass near her, touched the ground that covered her. Often, he had laid down atop her grave and wept, letting his tears fall to the earth.

He could not do that now. His aging body would not allow it, and his tears had been dry for a long time. His love, though had never faded. He still loved them both, in face, despite everything. He might even love them more because of it.

He screwed the top off his cane and pulled out the long, thin flask that it concealed. Medicinal, he told himself. Without it, he could not get through the day. He opened the flask and took a long draught of the amber fluid. The whiskey burned his throat and for just a moment, made him feel alive. With enough of it, he might not even mind the cold and rain.

Although, everyone minds the cold and rain, don't they, he thought. It's bad enough, even in the best of times, but here and now, it's downright depressing.

"Good morning, Rosie. I'm here, just like I said I would be. Guess I let you down a lot when you were here with me, but you can't say I've been anything but reliable since you... since you died." The words were still bitter in his mouth.

He leaned against the back of the bench and closed his eyes. The rain was falling lightly on his face and the chill penetrated him to the bone.

"No word yet from Alex. I wish you were here. You would know just what to do. You always did."

Exaggeration, but under the circumstances, what harm could it do? In truth, no one had ever known what to do with that child. Alex was one of those cases in which it is impossible to determine what went wrong. No single event, no series of events, revealed what had happened.

"If you are up there, looking down, Rosie, then you know, don't you? Can't you give me some kind of sign? Tell me where to look. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

He had had in mind a map falling from the sky with the location circled in red. It would float down from the heavens and land squarely in his hands. Maybe there would be a phone number or an address in Rosie's distinctive, swirling hand.

The only thing that fell from the sky, though, was rain. It came harder now, the cold drops stinging the exposed flesh of his face and hands. His overcoat had offered some protection, but now, it was not enough. It was soaked through, as were his clothes. The wind was picking up, too.

He brushed a lock of wet hair from where it was plastered across his eyes. Trickles of rain water ran down his face. He took a handkerchief from his pocket. It too was soaked through, but he wiped his face with it anyway.

"You know, Rosie, some of the things that have gone on, I'm not too proud of. It wasn't easy without you. And the child had... special needs, I guess you'd say, and I just didn't know how to handle it." His voice was booming in the silent cemetery as he choked back the grief. "I let you down, Rosie. You were counting on me, and I let you down."

He had told Rosie all that had happened. Begged her forgiveness. If she could hear him, and he was certain that she could, she would certainly grant it. It still burdened him, though. And until he joined her in death and could hear her words, he could not really believe that he was forgiven.

Even the forgiveness of the priest had not been enough. But, then, there are some things that you just cannot tell a priest, or anyone for that matter. Some things, no one could understand.

Once more, he drank deeply from the flask. It was nearly empty now, and he felt his spirit drop lower still. He could not remember the last time the alcohol had made him feel better. In fact, it seemed only to make his depression worse. It was like a microscope, taking each small piece of the puzzle that was his life and magnifying it hundreds of times, until each loomed like a giant storm cloud in his mind. He drained the flask.

"It's raining pretty hard, Rosie. I've been sick, so I guess I shouldn't stay here much longer. Hate to leave you, though. I love you, Rosie."

Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stood and looked down at Rosalie's headstone. The information there was simple. Beneath her name was printed Beloved Wife and Mother and the dates of her birth and her death. She had been only thirty-eight when she died, and that broke his heart every time he thought about it.

She had been so young. There was so much ahead of her. Now, there was nothing ahead for her or for any of them. All of the plans, the places they wanted to go and the things they wanted to do, were ghosts of the distant past. Hadn't they been planning a trip - somewhere? There was something in his mind that said they were, because of Alex. He couldn't quite remember why, though. Not that it was important anymore.

"I'll be back soon, Rosie. Promise." And he meant it, but something deep inside told him he was lying, that he would never again stand here talking to her.

He began to walk away, then turned back. "I love you," he said again.



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Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten