Chapter Three
Numb.
That was all Rosetta could feel, all that she was certain of, all that she knew that she was. Her bones seemed cold, almost frozen, and hard to move as she trudged onward, alone, under a dull silver sky. The wind cut through her clothes and even though her skin, chilling her blood, her heart, her breath. Her top teeth dug into the soft flesh of her lower lip, yearning to feel something, some sort of pain that she could explain, some sort of indication that she was still alive.
The whole earth seemed dim, as though sketched faintly by a steady hand with no color and no fine detail. Shapes blurred into a marred mosaic, curtained by the sheen of tears that wouldn't leave her eyes. She was surrounded by fuzzy, undefined fractals of space, a nullified void of what was real and unchanging, what she could not escape no matter how far she flew or how deeply she buried herself into the star-struck astral world.
How fitting, she mused absently, that an aura like this keeps watch over the dead.
Below her feet, encased in wooden boxes, were decaying bones, brittle and bare and frozen in time. Above her head, hanging low and melancholy in the sky, was a gray layer of clouds, betraying the light of the sun and shielding the ground from light—the very lifeblood of the universe. In her hands, which were clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone pale long ago, a bouquet of flowers stood at attention, blossoms turned skyward as if they were searching for something in the heavens. And all around, for as far as the eye could see, were stones that had dates, names, and short memoirs carved into them like tattoos of remembrance—stones that marked the final resting places of lives that once were, but now were no more.
Rosetta had cloaked herself in black. That was the only color that held even the faintest glimmer of appeal in the midst of her shameful brokenness. A thick shawl draped heavily over her shoulders, pulling her down, enhancing the urge to curl up on the ground and hold herself together, as though her stitching was coming undone and she was about to rip apart like a rag doll, until the world went away. Goosebumps raised on her arms as she eyed the countless gravestones that littered the ground, unnaturally stoic reminders of the corpses strewn about life's endless battlefield. But, though her body was clothed in dark fabric that armored her from the harsh light of reality, her face was bare. Today she had not touched any of the half-empty containers of makeup that were always scattered haphazardly across her dresser; she figured that was for the best, since she could feel the tears building behind her eyes, the pain rising up her throat, and the memories ravaging through her mind with neither remorse nor reprieve.
Now the pain had vanished, at least for a moment, and Rosetta felt nothing. Her mind was muddled, as if it had been laced with morphine, and her movements were slow. Her feet moved at an unexciting trudge instead of her usual gait that was full of purpose, intention, and brusque determination. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes were unfocused, and she was slowly approaching the place she hated most in the world.
"Rosie, what are you doing?" Mom's eyes were half-shut and her voice was thick with sleepiness, but the tiniest sliver of a smile was tugging at her lips. "It's too early—surely this can wait 'til later!"
"Christmas can't wait, Mama!" Rosie said, tugging at her thin, pale wrist once more. "Plus, I've got something to give you, so will you ple-e-ease get up?"
"Rosie," she was sitting up now, and trying to tame the mess of bright red hair that appeared to have had an unfortunate encounter with a blender of some kind. "You didn't have to make me anything. You know you are the best gift God's ever given me!" There was a pause, and Mom pressed a hand to her swollen, ever-growing stomach. "Well...you're tied for first place," she amended with a smile.
"I know," Rosie shuffled shyly on her tiny legs and twirled a lock of hair around one of her fingers before it sprung out of her grasp and back into place. "But I wanted to."
Mom's eyes were soft and kind, and she patted a spot beside her on the queen-sized mattress.
Rosie wasted no time in clambering atop the large bed and revealing the card she had made two weeks ago. It may have been a small trifle, but to Rosie, it was the largest gift she could muster. She had folded it herself, and had written all the words (though Daddy had shown her how to first).
"All right, let's see what the little Christmas angel's made up for me," Mom said. Her eager nature was renewed as grogginess abandoned her and holiday excitement returned after remaining dormant for so long. "'Dear Mom,'" she began to read, "'I love you more than anything in the whole wide world. Maybe even the universe. Merry Christmas!' And what lovely pictures! I see you, me, and your dad...it's just perfect!"
Rosie's chest swelled with pride, and she pointed to the rainbow that was sloppily drawn above her family's heads. "It's in Ireland! You always said the rainbows there are the best! And I know you miss it sometimes..." She ducked her head and smiled sheepishly.
"Oh, m'dear," Mom trilled, "I do, but I'd miss you so much more if I were there again. I'm glad you drew us all together," she pressed a gentle kiss to Rosie's forehead and pulled her close, hugging her so tightly that their cheeks were pressed together. "Maybe we'll go there for vacation one day and make your drawing come true. Thank you, sweetheart. You've made this the best Christmas ever!"
Rosetta pressed a hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth of that moment so long ago sweep over her senses. Her grip on the flowers tightened. They had never vacationed in Ireland. They had never had the chance.
"Mom? Mom?" Rosetta's voice was tight and hushed. Her eyes were swollen from the direness of the previous day, and her diary was stained with the ink she had poured onto the page in the form of anger, uncertain words, the blood of her wounded soul etched between the lines of the paper. When the hollowed cheeks did not move to pull a strained smile, and the feeble chest did not seem to be rising, Rosetta panicked. "Mama!" She rushed over to the bed, and her eyes searched Mom's motionless, eerily calm features desperately for signs of life. An indescribable relief coursed through every part of her when Mom's eyelashes fluttered.
"What's wrong?" she asked hoarsely, reaching up with a feeble hand to curl it weakly around Rosetta's. The fingers were frail and bony, but her grip was strong. "Are you hurt? Is your sister?" Her deep green eyes were clouded with worry, and her forehead was creased, perhaps with the burden of years she would never live. Rosetta felt her heartstrings tighten painfully.
"No," Rosetta murmured, tears threatening to flow down her cheeks without her consent. She blinked them back. "No, everything's okay."
There was a heavy silence as they did nothing save stare at each other. It was Mom who first dared to break it. "Are you okay?" She inquired tenderly. She moved to sit up, but Rosetta placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, imploring her to rest. "I know things are hard."
Rosetta felt like she was full of stones. It was so hard to move, so hard to see past the wall of pain, so hard to hear through the white noise that erupted in all the quiet moments. She was not even in double-digits yet. She was not ready for the horrible truth of where life never fails to lead its victims. "You're going to get better, Mama," she choked out, though it sounded more like a question than a declaration.
The wonderful, weak woman's eyes shone with tears that Rosetta knew Mom would not shed in front of her. "I love it when you call me that," she evaded, a tone of remembrance lacing the words. "Reminds me of when you were just a tiny little thing. It does my heart good," she smiled. Rosetta did not answer. Something heavy and dense was lodged in her throat, and she could not swallow it, nor could she force words past it. "Oh, love," Mom murmured, raising her hand up to brush Rosetta's cheekbone, "I'm sorry. I'm trying to be stronger, I really am. What are the doctors saying out there? Are they frightening you?" A fierce strike of lightning flashed in her eyes, a faint, faded glimmer of the fire that once flowed in Mom's veins—fire that had long-since cooled to ash and settled into lifeless heaps under her skin.
Rosetta gulped down her tears and cleared her throat. "They're
saying that you're doing better than they thought." Except, they were not. They were saying that she had mere hours left. "That you're going to be fine." That she would be gone before dusk. "That you'll be back up and caring for us in no time." That she needed to be cared for and told how much she was loved. "I'm not scared, Mama." She was petrified.
"Good."
It was so nice to see genuine relief flood over her mother’s features that Rosetta's secret agony subsided for a moment.
"My dear, there's nothing to be scared of. Stop looking so worried, child. Sunrise is coming."
Rosetta wanted to scream and cry and cease to exist in that moment. Mom had said those words countless times, whether it was to banish the monsters in the closet or to accompany a goodnight hug or to placate a damaged heart. Yes, sunrise was coming, and Rachel had agreed to wake up early just to see it, but the reason for that was so much uglier than what the pastel sky deserved. They would watch the colors bleed across the sky to commemorate their mother, who would not see it ever again.
"Yeah, Mama. Sunrise is coming." Rosetta closed her eyes and planted a kiss on the dry, pale skin of her mother's forehead. It burned hot and feverish against her lips. "I love you."
The tears would not stop. They fell from Rosetta's eyes like rain. Had it really been more than a decade since she had spoken those words and heard those last few replies from her mother's dolce voice? The memories were so vivid, a broken yesterday lost in a sea of wasted time.
Every single one of Rosetta's classmates was scribbling away at colored construction paper without a care in the world. "I don't even like my mom that much," scoffed the prim, perfectly cultured, and altogether bratty girl to Rosetta's right, "so I'd better get something good out of making this for her. Maybe she'll take me out for ice cream or something!"
A gentle hand on her shoulder drew Rosetta's attention. Anger was burning bright in Lily's deep green eyes, but she seemed to be containing it for Rosetta's sake. Any friend of hers would know that the last thing Rosetta aimed to seek out was confrontation. "Are you okay?"
A choked sound of pain swept past her lips before the words she meant to say came out. "I..."
"It's okay to be not okay," Lily offered meekly. The blonde hair that she was so anxious to dye a vast array of different colors landed elegantly behind her shoulders when she brushed it back.
Rosetta did not respond. She just kept dragging the gray marker left and right over the white sheet of paper that she had thrust upon the desk in a barely-contained, grief-stricken rage. When her teacher asked what she was drawing, she opted not to respond. No one else could understand, nor could she herself hope to explain, that gray was all she felt, all she was, all she knew anymore. The dark, graphite-hued shadows hanging beneath Rachel's cheekbones, covering her hollow cheeks, a visible sign of the hunger Rosetta could not stop—gray. The color of the clouds that had blocked the sunrise the morning after life turned to existence—gray. The dull forgotten dreams slipping aimlessly to the back of Rosetta's consciousness, never to return, had faded from such vibrant colors into meaningless gray. Rosetta was trudging through a gray life with gray sunrises and a gray, paper-cutout family. On Mother's Day the world would fade to the hue of Mom's tombstone, because Rosetta knew she would find herself kneeling beside it, crying upon it, for hours—gray tears on a gray slab of rock with its gray, pointless words.
Oh, she hated the gray. But it was so much kinder than seeing the sunrise again.
Rosetta's heart stopped when the fateful stone came into view. It looked so ordinary, barely distinguishable from all the rest. She bowed her head, fighting to hold back the pent-up screams she had never released. Her cheeks were stained with tear tracks, and her eyes were red and swollen. Her pace slowed as she muddled through the wind, which had flourished from a gentle, soothing breeze to a dull roar. Or maybe it was just the screams of the silence here. Rosetta could not be sure. She was a mere ten steps from the tombstone. The thorns of the roses in her bouquet had torn through the flesh of her fingers several minutes ago, and she could feel the sting of pain. She did not care. If something as lovely as a mother was capable of ripping out Rosetta's heart and stabbing it over and over with the dagger of loss, what reason could she have to reflect on a flower's thirst for blood?
She took three steps in quick succession. Then three more. She could feel a storm roiling up inside her like an unbroken stallion, balking at the notion of inching any closer to the place that continued to haunt her nightmares as recently as the previous night.
She took another step.
She took another step.
She collapsed; her knees buckled, and her shins fell flat against the earth. Her arms curled around her torso, as if they could shield her from a monstrous pain that was buried deep within her. The agony she left to gather dust on a shelf for months at a time broke free, shrieking and howling like a blizzard in her veins, lungs, and throat. She found it impossible to breathe as memories impaled her, one after another, straight through the center of her heart each time. One of her hands clutched the sharp edge at the top of the tombstone, and the other clung to the ghostly phantom sensation caressing her cheek, just as Mom had so many years ago. Her head spun, dizzied by the tongues of fire that were licking at her ribs, scorching underneath her skin, tearing ruthlessly over her innards, leaving everything sore and quivering with the fear that they might blaze up once more. The smoke of a burning past slithered up her throat, choking her, stealing her breath and stilling her lungs. She gasped and convulsed as wave after wave of painful remembrance washed over her, leaving her simultaneously desperate to breathe and desperate to drown.
"I miss you...Mama...I wish you'd say something..." Her fingertips traced the smooth surface of the stone, lightly following the letters spelling out her name, her age, the day she died, and that she was dearly loved. "Please, please say something."
A bitter silence followed. There was no response. Rosetta glanced up at the sky.
"I don't think sunrise ever came, Mama."
Slowly, she floated into the gray again. Her gritted teeth and clenched jaw relaxed as she became numb once more. Numb. All she felt was numb.