Ever Yours, Rosalie

"-dead."

"She's dead."

My eyes close as the words echo in and out of each ear, repeating over and over incessantly, distorting more with each loop. Like the mosquito that stubbornly chases after the glowing light of your phone-screen at 3 AM, the doctor standing in front of me refuses to let me ignore them. But the only reason that mosquito got inside was because I left the door cracked and the only reason I left the door cracked was because the summer heat was getting to me and I still hadn't gotten around to getting a new AC unit after the last one died rather abruptly. I meant to get around to it but just figured I could get along fine and if I really needed one the world would find a way of getting me one. She always said I was waiting for the world to fix my broken pieces, I never thought she would end up being one of them.

"I'm sorry, but are you her next of kin? Who is she to you?"

Foot tapping impatiently in front of me, the doctor yet again tries to capture my attention, jarring me from the trail of thoughts I was trying to lose myself in.

"No. She has no family." The words come out of my mouth haltingly, not sounding right as I sound them out repeatedly in my mind. I try to focus on the doctor, but all I can see is the second hand of the clock that hangs behind them.

Even though I'm on the opposite side of the waiting room and there are half a dozen people between us, my mind helps produce the sound.

Tick. Tick.

Building louder in my mind, the phantom clock joins with the lights overhead.

Tick buzz tick buzz tick buzz.

As it builds, I clench my fists, fingernails digging into the palm of my hand, anything to try and drown out the rising feelings.

Why didn't she tell me sooner?

I like to think she knew I would have had trouble dealing with spaces like this and was trying to spare me the experience. More likely she hadn't yet faced it herself. Always trying to help others, Rosalie rarely gave herself the same consideration.

Remembering her advice from last week, I unclench my right hand long enough to blindly reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my worn black notebook. It may have seen better days but it was my salvation all the same. Given to me by Rosalie years ago as an outlet for expression, it was the turning point for me in our sessions. Only it and Rosalie knew the truth of me, the real me. In this book I was able to finally wrench out the confessions, musings, and memories that made me who I am today.

I frantically flipped to the back, past all the pages full of my hurried handwriting only to stop and stare for a second at Rosalie’s clean but sprawling script. I focus on each pen stroke, retracing it with my finger, reading while I sync my breaths -

IN ONE

TWO

THREE

OUT ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

Already, the ticks and buzzes fade to the back of my mind.

I glance back up and am grateful that the doctor remains standing there. They seem on the verge of walking away though, so I try again.

"No, she doesn't have any family that I'm aware of. I'm just her client.”

Just her client? What am I saying? Rosalie herself would’ve raised an eyebrow at that abrupt description, shortening our years long friendship to those three words. I always wanted more and thought she did too, but I needed her stability and emotional fortitude more, so my therapist she remained. If only…

I cut that train of thought off immediately. All it does is serve as a cutting reminder that what could have been, could no longer be.

“She had just gotten to my apartment for a session when she collapsed."

By the end I'm pushing the words out, hastening them along so that it becomes one word whenshecollapsed that burns slightly as it leaves my tongue.

"Well. This seems highly unusual then, but this is your name here, correct?"

A white plastic clipboard is pushed into my face, a stack of papers clipped into submission and among the sea of words I see my name.

"Yes," hesitantly I nod the affirmative even as I say the word aloud, as if to reassure myself that it is indeed my name, "that's me."

They stare at me before answering, wondering no doubt how they got landed with this on what I imagine is normally a quiet Tuesday night.

"Well, you're listed as her sole emergency contact and-" they pause and apparently decide they'd rather get on with their night than spend anymore energy on questioning the appropriateness of my presence, "-and well, there was nothing we could do. Her advanced stage of cancer-".

I zone out again, mind trying to protect against what I know is coming, and only pick up pieces as they explain that it had spread throughout her body and she shouldn't have been up and about as she had.

In truth, I should've known something was wrong.

The last few months, there was an added delicateness to her face that hadn't been there before. While even on a normal day her movements seemed graceful as a dancer, recently her hands had taken on the motions of a butterfly's wings, touching down for mere seconds before fluttering and moving on. So too, her colorfully knitted, quilt sweaters hung looser than normal on her shoulders as if losing the strength to hug her quite as tight as they yearned to do.

A bright red bag held stiffly in front of me, the doctor finishes with, "There's still some paperwork for you to fill out, but this was on her person.”

I can tell they're trying to distance themselves from the situation and while I appreciate that this must be something they deal with regularly, all I want to do is grab them with both hands and shake them, screaming for them to see the loss that's roaring through the back of my head and threatening to pull me under. Instead I carefully set my notebook on the chair beside me and numbly reach out to grab the purse, cradling it to my chest. I’m not sure how I’ll get through this but I know I need to take the first step.

"Focus on one step at a time, just one, and before you know it those little steps will get you across the bridge and standing in a sunflower field."

I see her lips twitch as she says this, knowing I'm about to argue the efficacy of sunflower fields. Which I do.

Somehow Rosalie's advice always came back to an image of a sunflower field. Personally, I thought she could do much better than a sunflower field, full of dirt and buzzing insects. I never hesitated to point out that a better ending would be a cozy reading nook, surrounded by plants, bookshelves, and Rosalie herself. This always caused a blush to appear, and today was no different, the pink slowly spreading across her freckled cheeks like a sunrise.

With a jolt, I’m again brought back to the present and the red bag tucked into my chest, arms wrapped desperately tight for this small piece of her I get to keep.

I face the doctor and nod slightly before forcing myself to stand up. After gathering my things, I take a short breath in, nowhere near what I need to gain control but all that I can handle now, and indicate I’m ready. Ready to move onto the next patient, anything to get away from the obviously cracking porcelain in front of them, the doctor strides away toward the reception desk, so I follow.

Hours later, I sit in the driver’s seat of my car and stare sightlessly through the windshield with my hands in my lap. Cramped and maybe a little worn, the space nonetheless is mine and so I attempt to take a full breath into my starved lungs. Like the rattling of a snake, it starts shaky and attempts to warn me away at risk of injury, but I persevere. My cheeks and chest balloon out with the force of my inhale, but instead of a gradual release of breath the air deflates abruptly and stutteringly. Wisps of air dance away from my reach even as I try to grasp them close.

A faint sound startles me out of the oppressive silence in the car.

“Rrring Rrring,” a voice literally trills out the words, forcing a laugh to jump out of my throat despite my best intentions.

Rosalie thought her ringtone was just the funniest thing, forever startling those around her into a state of involuntary laughter as a near identical copy of her voice signaled every incoming call. She swore it wasn’t actually her voice but was in fact a prerecorded option available in her phone settings, but I always thought this was something she would have done regardless of if it already existed.

“Rrring Rrring.”

As the imitation of her voice continued calling out from her purse, I paused to bask in the gentle cloud of warmth her memory surrounded me with. Rosalie always had that effect on me, and apparently her stubborn spirit refused to let it go even in her death, still forcing me to acknowledge the sunshine in life.

With a faint smile on my face, I unzip her purse and reach in but am forced to dig around as I am unable to immediately find her phone. My hand finds purchase on a rectangular object that I tug out onto my lap. Instead of her phone, I find a package wrapped in unassuming brown paper. My name is scrawled along the folded edge, letters falling across the paper enticing me to open it and see what she left me in goodbye. For there was no doubt in my mind that she knew this was an eventuality and for once in her life chose to do something selfish by postponing ever having to say goodbye in person.

The layers of paper fall off and I’m left with the smell of leather and Rosalie. In my lap sits a brand new black leather notebook, identical to the one she gifted me so many years ago. My hand trembles as I reach to open it and a thick envelope falls out. Thumb pressing under the edge, it gives easily, as if she knew I would retreat from any perceived barrier at this point.

At this point I’m sure I must be hallucinating as the envelope is positively stuffed with crisp $100 bills, more than I’d ever seen in my unfortunate childhood and doubly so now in my rather normal adulthood. Still in a state of shock, I see $20,000 clearly typed in small print along the inside of the envelope and feel even more stunned.

Where would she even get this much money? How could I be the one she wanted to leave it to?

I’m sure my eyes must be wide with disbelief, but I instinctively look around at the surrounding cars before returning to my lap when it is apparent I’m completely alone. I gingerly place the envelope to the side as I just now notice the first page of the notebook is filled with her handwriting. Hoping for some explanation, instead my eyes start to tear up with the first words and as I continue to read, my heart is in a constant cycle of being torn apart just to be stitched back up. In the minutes of silence as I read, I’m once again surrounded by her love and warmth, sunflower field in sight.

To sunflower fields and all the notebooks you may ever need.

Ever yours,

Rosalie