Chapter 21: Rather Lovely Thing
The first thing that one should know about death...is that there is no pain. The moment that the darkness claims the hold, the last second that you breathe, everything disappears into a place that the living, love to discuss and debate the possibility of. It isn't heaven really, but I certainly know that it isn't hell either. It is perhaps the calmest of all purgatories one can imagine, a blank canvas of hazy light, an open space belonging only to the one who has been taken. It is a place to think, to drift, to accept what will come next.
In this space, I only thought of two things.
The first was my baby, the one which had surely died with me in its premature growth. I thought of all the names that I had come up with, the ones I had been so proud to develop creatively; in the few bored hours I spent in our bungalow.
Alexandria Jade, Isabelle Rose, Cecilia Anne Rainey…
Holden Finn, Edward Hale, Benjamin James Miller…
They were storybook options, all save for the very last, the one I had hoped and prayed and bargained for, a little Ben. I knew that he would be perfect, all ten toes, all ten fingers, the most squeezable cheeks and the softest golden curls. That was him, the way I pictured his existence for almost five full months, the dreams I had of him, the reverie of absolute exactness. This though, would be majorly attributed to the better half of who Little Ben would be, his father, his old man, his dad. These words, these brands of epic style took on entirely new meanings when I had first learned that I was pregnant, for the first time in my life. A woman in this state, especially me, begins to think about the future in a nanosecond, all of things left to prepare for, all of the moments that will come between the baby, you, and the man who helped to create.
No woman though, had ever been as lucky as I was, for this I was damned sure. There were no other Mort's in the world, there couldn't possibly be. The balance of the universe would be forever lost with anyone as unjustifiably ideal as him. God wouldn't do such a thing.
Mort was my second focus as I floated through the invisible clouds of my mind, of the strange waiting room that death had provided me. It went on for hours, days probably, weeks easily. Thoughts of him, scattered figments of what I assumed was my perpetual memory, followed me from one life to the next. Through the white, I saw cinnamon brown; I saw sea green, strawberry pink, and spaghetti sauce red. In the silence, I welcomed the memories of pain, pleasure, laughing, crying, screaming, and hopeful fear. Black lines jutted out in ringlets to form images in my head, a smile I remembered, a hand I knew fit perfectly around mine, a cabin in the woods, a cottage on an island, a tag-less Labrador, a rusting Jeep, a night babysitting in the city, an escape plan in havoc, a jetting excursion, a lucky inheritance, an old Van Halen t-shirt, coffee, wine, Aerosmith, chocolate chip cookies, sharpie marker love notes, death, more death, worse death, a pink plus sign on a white plastic strip, a jailbreak, a flashing Motel sign overhead, unrestrained kisses, chafing linen, curling toes, screaming, good and bad, a warning of evil, a dozen ignored phone calls, a story about polar bears, a yacht, the meanest man in the world, death.
I saw it all, jumbled, confused, but there in its entirety. Over and over and over and over again. It never stopped, because somehow, although I was gone, I never stopped either. My brain, whether realistically or not, was still in the basic mode of functioning, and it wound together every image, every sound, every subject matter conjured up.
"It's fine, I love dogs."
"You can have this one if you want…he's free."
"Nice to meet you, Miss Roxanne Hayden. Not the song."
"Milk and um, two spoonfuls of sugar."
"Perfect…"
It began with a confused dog and strangely enough, ended with a confused, me. Everything started out normal, peaceful, and in a matter of weeks, grew to be nothing short of a Prozac desperate soap opera. I clung to Mort with all the power fighting within me, never wanting to admit that giving up was wise, and always trying to think of some better way that a murderer, and well a murderer, could be…rightfully.
"I think he looks like Prince Charming from my book!"
"Mort…would you do me a favor? Will you kiss me…?"
"Eww…are you two going to have sex?"
"Don't worry, you won't miss thing. I won't let you."
I knew I hadn't. It was all plastered so clear in front of me now, the truth, the bare agents of cause, of effect. Where one bridge stands, another must fall. So why then were all of mine burning, chained to my own neck, with the flames slowly moving in to consume my body as well? Why had nothing I worked to protect, lasted? Why did Ethan get his way? Why did the sense occur to me now, that Mort had probably been lost the same as me? Why did my child have to suffer along with our stupidity?
Why?
"Shit…there was someone in the road, are you alright? Oh god…you're bleeding…"
"What the hell are you doing? Roxanne…look at me, wake up! Come on…breath…"
"I s-saw something…eyes…down there…"
The eyes are the transport to the whole of the person being investigated, wouldn't you say? I saw an indefinite world of chaos, confusion, pain, anger, resentment, and lastly heartache, in Morton Rainey. I took a chance on him, a grave one. There was nothing I could have done to harm him any further, anymore than Amy had, and in some disturbing way, that comforted me.
"Well I do tend to bite sometimes."
"I'll take my chances…"
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to go inside of a stranger's house?"
"Maybe I like danger…"
"I can take care of you, fuck it all, and just stay here with me."
Dangerous, capable, scheming, resourceful, tempting, and determined…all qualities of Mort. Tender, compassionate, fearful, concerning, proud, and again determined…the constant reminders of Ben still deep down inside, under the rough exterior. I won unpredictability in love. I won what most women…what even I…had killed for once.
"Lucas Hayes, his body was found in the North end of the lake…at the back of your property, Roxanne."
"…don't you say a word to these officers, you have every right to your attorney. Do you hear me?"
"Don't leave me…whatever you do, don't leave me Mort…"
"I've got you. I'm right here."
He never left me when I needed him, and only half the time when I didn't. Aside from Sydney and a few close friends, nothing had ever even attempted to bid comparison against Mort. I knew the moment I got the call about Lucas, that things would be different, but never once did I imagine it the way it actually occurred. It was the downward spiral from the untouchable climax…like all great stories.
"You're going to hate me…you hate me!"
"I could never hate you…I could never, God…I love you!"
"I killed someone."
"Mort Rainey killed Amy Rainey…not me…I would never hurt you, I promise."
"We arrested Mort Rainey about an hour ago."
"Let him out, Sheriff…please."
"Give me one good reason…"
"Because I'm pregnant with his child."
And there it was for all to see, the creation, the equal sign at the end of our togetherness. The baby, Mort, I was gone now, drifting in our own separated canvases of intermittent thought, feeling. One of them I had never gotten to know, although I felt I knew him, her, all along. The other, was and would always be the second half of my memory, my name, even though he had never given me his own. Mort would never belong to anyone else. I would never belong to another now. Forever through the eternity I felt covering me now, we would somehow be contained and connected.
In my life, I once read a quoted statement by Mark Twain, and it read simply:
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
Of this, I am and will always be, absolutely confident in. Whether my death was justified or not, whether the sound of love had truly conquered evil in the final minutes of my life, I would always know in myself, that I did everything I could, that I made consciously perfect decisions based on the protection, the preservation of those I loved without restraint.
Dying isn't painful. In fact, it disguises itself well as only a rather lovely dream.