Laurens sat up in a rush, terror still coursing through his veins. However, after a moment of pause, he realizes that he is not lying in a battlefield in South Carolina, but instead a quaint, tidy house.
He appears to be alone, and that puzzles him. Where were the doctors that surely must have been treating him? When he had woken up he had felt no pain, and only a faint scar on his chest had revealed the injury that had caused him to black out. Shrugging, he is about to step out of the bed when a women walks through the door.
"Mother," He breathes in disbelief; she had died when he was only 16 years old, and his last memories of her had been ones of pain and helplessness. John remembered watching her writhe in pain shortly after giving birth to his sister Mary Eleanor, the doctors unable to help her.
"Jacky," Eleanor Ball smiled affectionally, and John grinned; only his family had ever called him by that nickname. However, the joy in seeing his mother swiftly empties when he realizes what must have occurred for him to be able to see her.
The blood drains from his face, and he turns pale as he struggles to wrap his mind around the fact. He left Alexander. He left Martha.
"I'm sorry." His mother whispers, moving closer until she is sitting by his side. After several moments, she states, "But there is a way for you to see them." She knows. She always knew him better than he knew himself.
"I'd like that." He doesn't feel happy, he doubts he ever will be again given his circumstances, but he is hopeful for anything that would help dull his pain. John follows Eleanor out the door, and the rest of the house is similar to the room that he was in, small, tidy, and welcoming.
He clears his throat. "Where are we?" His mother looks back at him.
"This is your home." She replies, continuing to lead him forwards. The field that they walk through reminds him of the South. The air is extremely humid, and he sees clear blue skies throughout. A breeze gently rustles his clothing; he is dressed in his finest: a dark blue coat with a cream trim, a matching waistcoat and breaches, and a simple white frill.
Eventually, they reached their destination, and stood on the edge of a grassy cliff. Looking down, John had a bird's-eye view of downtown Manhattan, and he frowns. "How will this allow me to see Alexander and Martha?".
He loved both of them, he truly did. Martha was the kindest woman he had ever met, and he adored her. Throughout his interactions with Alexander, John had felt a nagging sense of guilt in the back of his mind. But it was a different kind of love between Alexander and himself, one that John felt did not necessarily betray his marriage; however, it was a relationship filled with too many unspoken words. Since both of them were married men, any signs of interest that they had shown in each other were vague and unclear. In their letters to each other, they were constantly dancing around the subject of their true emotions, but John had trusted that in time, they would figure it out.
Time. How ironic: the one thing he had been confident in was now his greatest surprise.
"You can't control it," Eleanor began, startling him from his thoughts. "You will only be able to see them at their most critical moments. The dead are not meant to obsess with the living."
"I understand." John sighed, staring at the bustling crowd beneath him. There was logic to his his mother's words, yet he still yearned nonetheless to watch Alexander and Martha for the rest of their lives, to never move on.
As they quietly stood on the edge of the precipice, the scene below them began to change. John saw the office of his dearest Alexander, writing feverishly as always. Eliza steps through the doorway, and says something indecipherable. As he watches their conversation, John realizes that he is unable to hear anything, and can only watch. Eliza opens the letter that she was holding, and reads it aloud. Horror and devastation are present on the faces of both when Eliza finishes reading. She reaches out to her husband, yet he turns away and picks up his quill, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Eliza gingerly exits the room, and John notices the name of the sender on the envelope: Henry Laurens.
He stumbled backwards. "Ah." He mumbles, "they were—my father must have written to them of my death." His mother nods, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.
"The fact that you were able to see this moment means that Alexander never recovered from your death. I'm sorry Jack." Eleanor's voice broke, but John was already sobbing, berating himself over and over again for allowing himself to die, for becoming a weight that for once rendered his Alex speechless.