The Yellow Rose
Renae Oakes
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Copyright 2014 by Renae Oakes
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“…hauntingly beautiful.”
-Ellie Oberth, author of Who Murdered the Ghost?
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Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and events are the product of the Author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.
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Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your family and friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this story, please check out other works by this Author.
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Dedication
For Rhiannon
This story would not have been possible without you.
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Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jennifer Oberth for her edit. Not only did you improve the quality of my work; you’ve made me a better writer.
Special thanks to Debbie, Jacki, Gary, Jennifer, and Ellie. Thank you for the wonderful help with the cover art!
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The Yellow Rose
Maurice walked slowly through the cemetery. The setting sun cast an orange hue on the tombstones. Dry autumn leaves crackled under his heavy footsteps. He’d tromped through the winding rows of graves numerous times in the past year; even if he closed his eyes, he would still reach his destination.
The cool air ruffled Maurice’s thick white hair and sent a shiver down his spine. He felt weighed down and not just from old age. There was an unbearable tightness in his chest, and there was a heavy lump in his throat and in his pocket.
A crow let out a harsh cry from a distant tree.
Maurice turned and saw the hideous bird perched on a naked branch. The sight made his blood run cold.
“Just a stupid bird,” he whispered in his gravelly voice. He stopped in front of a large gray granite stone. Unlike its fellow corroded comrades, the words were still etched beautifully into its surface.
Rosalie M. Cahwen
Beloved Wife and Mother
The lump grew heavy in his throat, as well as the burdensome bulge in his coat pocket. Maurice reached into the wool-lined compartment and pulled out a smooth steel object. His fingers trembled as they wrapped around the grip of the nine millimeter. Slowly, he raised his hand to his head.
“Rosalie.” Her name was a hoarse half-sob, half-sigh caught in his throat. Soon he would be with her again and this misery would be over.
The cool metal grazed his temple. Maurice closed his eyes and pictured Rosalie on their wedding day. He smiled slightly and the muscle pulsed in his trigger finger.
“Don’t be silly, Maurie.”
That voice! Only one person called him 'Maurie,' but it couldn’t be…
Maurice slowly lowered the gun. “W-who’s there? This is sacred property that you’re trespassing on, and I’m armed. So don’t think about doing anything funny. If you want money, I don’t have much,” he croaked.
Maurice knew it was useless to put on a tough act. At his age, all people would have to do is knock him down and he’d crumple like a new born colt.
A laugh was his reply. It made his heart want to fly to his throat and sink into his stomach all at the same time.
“You know who I am.”
His breath caught. No, there was no way it could be. “Show yourself," he demanded.
“Turn around, Maurie.”
Every cell in his brain screamed at him not to obey, that he couldn’t handle what was behind him. Maurice stiffened, but his feet moved of their own accord. The splintering sound of the decayed leaves synced with the blood that pounded in his ears.
“Look at me,” the voice demanded, and Maurice complied.
She was beautiful with a smooth angular face framed by long brown hair. Wide green eyes stared imploringly at him. The woman was frocked in a simple calico dress, and clutched a single yellow rose; the very same flower that comprised her wedding bouquet.
“Rosalie?”
This wasn't possible. He could not fathom that his wife of forty-five years was standing in front of him. Granted, she was much younger now then when he last saw her. Maurice's mind flashed with the image of his wife lying in bed, frail and weak. She had sparse cotton-white hair, and was emaciated from the cancer eating away at her body. But the Rosalie standing in front of him was not much older than the day he married her. She looked so healthy and vibrant. It almost hurt to look at her.
“This is a hallucination.” Maurice shook his head, as if that would clear it somehow.
“I’m afraid it’s real,” Rosalie replied.
“But you’re…”
“Dead? Yes.” She walked toward him. Her bare feet padded silently on the ground. She had always loved to be bare-foot. This had always caused friction at social functions, especially Church.
“What are you doing here?”
Rosalie rolled her eyes and her eyebrows wriggled with the gesture. “For you. Do you honestly think I’d let you be so foolish?” She laughed, and the sound made his knees weak. “Do you mind putting that thing down. It’s really not necessary.” Rosalie pointed to the headstone and Maurice set the gun on top of the granite.
“You came to stop me?” That familiar unbearable pressure in his chest threatened to cut off his air supply. The despair and solitude he’d faced this past year without her, the unyielding loneliness… This was his out- his chance to be free. His chance to finally be with her. “Don’t you want me with you?”
“Of course I do, but not like this.” Rosalie walked through him. It was an icy cold sensation, like frosty butterflies fluttering throughout his body.
This had to be real. There was no way his imagination could make up this kind of detail. He wasn't that creative.
Maurice caught the faintest hint of floral perfume. He'd always teased her that the fragrance made her smell like an old woman. When she was gone, he cradled her pillow at night and inhaled the sweet aroma.
Rosalie perched on top of the tombstone. She looked down at the gun. “You know, I never cared for this thing, and what you were going to do…”
“You don’t understand.” Maurice cleared the thickness from his throat.
“I do, Maurie,” Rosalie said soothingly. “I’ve heard you every time you came to see me.”
“And you waited until now to show yourself?” He knew it was irrational to be yelling at the specter of his dead wife.
“It wasn’t time. You were always so solid, Maurie. Nothing could ever break you down. Not even when your parents died and your brother. You never even shed a tear, instead you were my anchor. But what about you? Who do you need?”
Maurice wanted to say 'you,' but all that popped out was, “they’re not coming too, are they?” He looked frantically around, as if his brother Charlie would appear at any moment and clasp him on the back. The thought was terrifying, and he didn’t think his heart could take another shock.
“No.” She giggled and twirled the rose in her hand. “How’s Jen?”
“Uh, she’s fine.” Maurice’s mind was still in a fog.
“It’s been hard for her. I don’t think she’s been here since the funeral.” Rosalie gestured around the cemetery.
“That husband of hers took a job in Arizona.”
“You never did like that son-in-law of ours.” Rosalie grin faded into a frown. “So, you’ve been alone.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. Jen’s got her husband now. She doesn’t need an old fart like me hanging around.”
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“Girls always need their fathers.” Rosalie crossed her arms over her chest. “Did Jen have the baby?”
Maurice winced at the question.
Rosalie had slipped into unconsciousness the day Jen stood by the bedside and told her mother the news. After so many years of trying, she finally conceived. Rosalie died hours after their daughter had whispered the announcement in her ear. Jen never knew if her mom actually heard her.
“Yes, a girl.”
Rosalie clapped her hands. “Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed. “What did they name her?”
“They named her Rosalie.” Maurice put his head down. He couldn’t hide the pain. It had hurt him when Jen had said they named their daughter after Rosalie. He couldn’t rationalize the feeling- it was just the fact that his wife was gone, and the replacement was still a stranger. He had visited Jen and Paul last month, as his last farewell, even though they didn’t know that was the real reason he came.
Jen had cried when Maurice held his little grand-daughter for the first time. He had been Jen’s support when she struggled with infertility, the same way he and Rosalie had so many years ago. It was well into their marriage before Jen was born. Not to mention there was a miscarriage that almost took Rosalie away from him the first time.
“Tell me what she looks like.” Rosalie glided around him. Her dark tendrils swirled in the breeze.
“Dunno.” Maurice felt guilty nausea gurgle in his stomach when he thought about the baby.
But it wasn’t just the baby that caused the tension- it was Jen’s plea to him the night before he left. She begged him to stay with them, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. He felt like a burden to his daughter and her young family. It was better that he go and be with his wife. Maurice had left Jen’s early the next day without saying good bye. Somehow, facing little Rosalie would weaken his resolve.
“Well?” Rosalie drew him back to reality. If that is what he could call this meeting. Maybe the bullet had penetrated his brain, and this was some twisted purgatory designed to torment him for eternity.
Maurice cleared his throat. "Well, she’s tiny.”
“Paint a picture for me,” Rosalie urged.
Maurice continued. “She’s got dark fuzz on the top of her head, kind of like Jen’s when she was a baby. She was born pre-mature, so she’s awfully small, but she’s got a good set of lungs on her.”
The thought of his grand-daughter made his heart feel swollen and bruised. What would Jen tell her about him when he was gone… Would they forgive him or even understand?
“You were always such a big softy.” Rosalie giggled. “You’re such a strong man, but you turn to mush at the sight of a baby. I can see in your face how much you love that little girl.”
Maurice realized then that he was grinning. Rosalie stepped closer to him until they were inches apart. He felt her breath on his face. It was so palpable.
“You were a great father.” Rosalie sighed. “You took such good care of Jen and me. You taught her everything from riding a bike to fishing. I remember when you taught her to shoot a gun, even though I disapproved. You two were inseparable.”
Maurice didn’t respond.
Rosalie stepped closer. Her green eyes shimmered with tears in the growing moonlight. “They still need you, Maurie. Now more than ever. Especially the little one.”
She was standing so close to him. Maurice reached out a hand and hesitated before caressing Rosalie's cheek. Would it just go through her the way it did before? Instead, her skin was smooth and solid under his calloused fingers.
Rosalie wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. The way she'd always done. It felt good to hold her in his arms again.
They began to sway. Maurice couldn’t be sure if it was his imagination, but the way the breeze blew through the trees sounded like the wind section of an orchestra playing a long forgotten melody.
Heck, this whole thing may be a dream, for all he knew.
“I know it’s been hard.” Rosalie picked up her head to look at him. “Promise me you won’t give up.” Her gripped tightened around his waist.
Maurice rested his forehead against hers. The cold penetrated his skin and seemed to seep into his skull. The contact had a numbing effect that seemed to dull his senses.
“I mean it, Maurie. You pull this stunt again, and next time it will be Charlie who shows up, not me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said softly.
“Say it.” She nudged his chest.
“I promise,” Maurice said. He thought of Jen and little Rosalie, and he knew he meant it.
“Good, you stubborn ol’ coot.” Rosalie reached up and took both sides of his face in her hands. She brushed her lips across his in a feather-light kiss.
When Maurice opened his eyes, he was swaying in the cemetery alone.
The spirit of his wife had vanished like vapor into the night.
The sky was now pitch black with a sporadic splatter of stars.
“I’ve lost my mind.” Maurice buried his face in his hands. A blush crept up his ruddy cheeks, and he was grateful for the dark solitude. At least no one had seen him make a fool of himself. Rosalie had felt so genuine and palpable.
Maurice could still feel the tingling on his lips were she'd kissed him. He touched his mouth. The stubble of his unshaven chin prickled against his palm. “Rosalie,” he whispered.
Something felt different. His chest felt… lighter.
Maurice took a couple of steps and hugged his coat tightly about him. It didn’t feel so heavy. He stuffed his hands into the pockets for warmth. They were empty.
The gun!
He had left it on the tombstone. Maurice turned back to grab it but stopped.
It wasn’t there…In its place, glistening in the pale glow of the moonlight, was a single yellow rose.
THE END