Fourth Visitation:

The glowing dial of Pastor Denis's bedside clock showed just past two as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Barely pausing to throw on a dressing gown, he hurried to answer the frantic pounding at the door.

He didn't recognize the woman fidgeting on his doorstep, but as soon as the door opened she asked, "Pastor Denis?"

"Yes; what's wrong?"

"It's Madame Christine," she told him quickly; "You must come quickly. It's—It's time. I have a cab waiting."

"I understand," and he left her wringing her hands in his hall as he quickly dressed.

The streets were nearly empty at that time; the cab made good time. However, he guessed from the way the woman, the housekeeper, he gathered, was leaning forward in her seat, unconsciously urging the cabbie to greater speed, that time was short indeed. He left her to climb the stairs at her own pace, and dashed on ahead.

Sophia met him at the door almost before he knocked, murmuring only, "You're in time," as he followed her to the bedroom. Christine weakly extended her hand to him as Sophia came to stand near her head; he took it as gently as he could.

"Ah, Monsieur. . . ."

"I'm here, Christine," he murmured. "Tell me what I can do. Are you . . . Are you in pain?"

He was afraid that she had once again foregone her morphine, to judge by her alertness, but she murmured "No. . . . No pain," with a deep sigh.

Her breathing was slow, but steady, and, indeed, her face seemed younger than he had yet seen it, finally smoothed of all cares. He patted her hand, somewhat awkwardly, and murmured, "There is nothing to fear, Christine. God is with you; God loves you."

"Not afraid," she exhaled softly; "Happy. To see . . . my Angel." She managed to turn her head to her daughter, standing, her face still, with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Don't be sorry," she whispered. "Don't be . . . alone. It hurts too much . . . to grieve . . . alone. I know." To Denis she added, "You'll make sure, for me? Make sure . . . she isn't . . . alone."

"I promise." He squeezed her hand.

"Thirsty. . . ."

Sophia wet her lips with a damp cloth. Christine gave a small murmur of thanks.

They stayed with her as her breathing slowed, each breath seeming to be her last, until, three or four of their own breaths later, she would breath once again. The housekeeper came in to replace an unnoticed guttering candle before once again closing the door, shutting the harsh electric light back into the hallway, into the realm of the living.

For hours they kept vigil, the only sound her slow, shallow breaths and the occasional rustle of a handkerchief, until, at last, Christine stirred.

She opened her eyes wide, seeing something beyond them both, and breathed, "At last . . !" Her breath hitched; she inhaled one last breath, and gave a long slow exhalation. Then she was still.

Denis could only look at her, barely seeing the dimming eyes, the slackened jaw. The frail form before him seemed empty, somehow, and too small to have ever contained something as vibrant as a living woman.

Gradually he became aware of the sound of Sophia's soft sobbing. "You'd better be waiting for her, you bastard," she muttered hoarsely; "You'd better be waiting for her!"

He gathered her into his arms; she buried her face against him for a long moment, before pulling away, abashed, to run a last tender stroke down her mother's face, and close her eyes.

"Goodbye, Mother!" she whispered, and turned away.

He gently lowered the top of the crisp white sheet over her face, and knelt beside the bed, his head resting on his folded hands, his mind taking comfort in prayer.

"It's late," he said as he finally stood. Sophia nodded, still quietly weeping. "You should try to get some rest; you have a long day ahead of you." He paused. "Would you like me to stay?"

She shook head. "No. . . . No, thank you. Marie will stay. Go home; get some rest."

"Very well. I will make arrangements for the—for your mother, if you like." Sophia nodded dumbly. Again he hesitated, but she said nothing more. "Very well. I'll see you in the morning then."

She made no reply; only slowly sat on the edge of the bed and groped blindly for a hand beneath the sheet.

He closed the door softly behind him.


A/N: It's a funny thing, death. That moment between "living person" and "cooling meat" is so small, you really believe you can just somehow take a step backwards and undo it. It's one of the most tragic things about death. It's such a very, very, very small line, only a heartbeat thick, and yet it's such an unbridgeable, unbelievable gulf.

This was probably a pretty hard chapter to take; I know it was wrenching to write, but necessary. In any case, there's only one more chapter to go, so it'll be going up pretty soon. Reviews will make me all happy and eager for more and so may inspire me to get it up sooner. XD Review whore? Me? Naaaaaah... ;-)