The Iridescent Rose

by Bill Pottle

  I took a seat and stared at the magazines on the table next to me. It was unsettling to think what I would miss. Even things that I thought would make me happy now made me feel empty. A day ago, if you would have told me I’d never have to see another Cosmo, I’d have been overjoyed. I looked back on the times that I wished would just finish— studying for finals, healing my broken femur in eighth grade, or the countless times I glanced up at the impossibly slow clock over my cubicle. I had wanted time to speed up then, never looking ahead to the time when I would wish with all my might to slow it down. I could not speed it up then any more than I could slow it now. The last few hours of my life were slowly ticking away.

  I was spending them in a lawyer’s waiting room.

  I couldn’t demand that the receptionist let me in and I didn’t dare leave. I was the guy who never sent food back in a restaurant. I wasn’t a coward, there was no question of that. I was just courteous to a fault. There was no way that the receptionist or my lawyer was going to believe some story about a doomed rose. They didn’t feel their blood running cold.

  I don’t know how long I could have waited, sitting there and doing nothing. I jammed my hand in my pocket and brought out the phone. I hit the autodial for Jamie and then hung up before it sent. I couldn’t tell her. Not now. I would tell her later. No matter what, I had to tell her.

  There was someone else I had to call.

  I hadn’t spoken to him for nearly ten years. I had the number, though. I Googled him every few months just to check up on him. I even sent his wife money, once. He never would have accepted it if he knew it was from me. It was such a simple thing, dialing his number. How could something I had done thousands of times before seem so foreign? I closed my eyes and hit SEND.

  An annoyed voice answered from the other line. He was probably late for something. “Hello?”

  “Jim, it’s me.”

  “Is this…?” He sounded guarded and hopeful at the same time.

  “Would anyone else call you KegUp?” It was an affectionate nickname he had earned in college. He was the only one in our frat who could perform an act so difficult and random that we had to give it a name. He would do a handstand on the keg and stick the spout in his mouth, clamping down on the handle with his lips. Then, he would proceed to do pushups, going from handstand to headstand repeatedly. It was amazing what a bunch of cocky drunk guys could think of. He never fell off.

  “Only a few. But why are you calling me? I always had a better memory than you.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I just want to apologize. No blame, no fighting. Just sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t care about your happiness. I’m sorry that I didn’t forgive you then.”

  I could tell my blanket apology caught him off guard. I continued. “I’m sorry that we wasted our lives.”

  “Not our lives,” he gave a deep rumbling chuckle. “Just fifteen years!”

  Silence hung over the line. Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry too. Back then… Now, I know what losing Lucia would be like.”

  I felt the tension evaporate as our common bond was felt. Jim wasn’t a man who expressed his emotions well. Hearing him on the line now made him seem like a whole new person.

  “I’m late for a meeting now. Maybe if you’re in town sometime you could come over for dinner? I’m sure she’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like that. Goodbye, Jim.”

  After the phone beeped END I realized that I had just said my final farewell to the man who was my best friend for over half of my life.

  “Please take good care of her, Jim,” I whispered into the mouthpiece.

  Lucia Melendez was the first girl I ever fell in love with. A raven-haired, olive-skinned beauty whose parents owned a Sunflower farm outside Toledo, Spain, I met her during freshmen orientation. I was just one of the things swallowed up by her tiny hazel eyes. Three years we were together…

  “Mr. Wooster will see you now.” I got up from my chair and walked through the door to his office. I took a seat across from him at his desk. He did not look up.

  “I’d like to review my will.”

  “Certainly, my secretary just brought in a copy of the paperwork.” He quickly glanced at the page and then gave me a smile. “You have one of the simpler wills here. When you die, all of your property will pass on to your wife.”

  I didn’t like how he said “when” instead of “if.”

  “When you both die, your estate will be divided into two pieces, and held in trust funds for your children until they are of legal age. I am currently set to be the executor of this will.”

  I nodded slowly. I couldn’t think about Jamie dying right now. She could handle those details later.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with? You have a $10,000 life insurance policy with us to cover the funeral expenses. Would you be interested in purchasing more?”

  I had a half million-dollar policy through work. The thought crossed my mind about buying more, but something seemed wrong about it. It wasn’t so much that I’d be cheating the insurance company, but more that if I bought it I’d have to put into writing the fact that I knew I was dying. I wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  I thanked the attorney and quickly left the office. The church was only five minutes away, and I knew if I hurried I could catch 10:00 a.m. mass.

  I never liked weekday mass. I found solitude when the pews contained only a spattering of old women and those in need of a particular favor. But mass was supposed to be a celebration— a feast! I could get all the solitude I wanted visiting the church after mass was over.

  This mass didn’t have a cantor. The service lasted only half an hour. The crowd began to disperse soon afterwards, and I barely caught the priest before he had exited the sacristy. He was just packing up his belongings to head out.

  “Excuse me, Father. Could I trouble you to hear the confession of a poor sinner?”

  “Certainly, my son. There is always time to reconcile with God.” His eyes softened and he beckoned to the open confessional booth.

  I walked in slowly, hands in my pockets. I had never liked going to confession. Something about it just seemed so unnecessary, speaking about my deepest failings to a stranger. Speaking them brought forth abstract thoughts though, gave them existence in the world beyond my soul. I knew that if it weren’t for confession, the thoughts would stay buried forever.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been… many years since my last confession.”

  As I knelt before him in the small, windowless room pouring everything out, I felt a cleansing river flood over my grey soul, washing inequity away. I didn’t have any mortal sins to confess, but once I started talking, small anecdotes kept flowing out like tears. For the first time ever I came to grips with my life. I saw the good mixed with the bad, and in a rush of empathy felt the pain that I had caused others. I don’t know how it happened, but when he raised his hand in absolution, I saw myself with astounding lucidity. Even covered in sin, the divine spark did not fade.

  After the final Amen, he lingered.

  “Father, if I may ask a favor…”

  He nodded his acquiescence.

  “I wish to receive last rites.”

  The deepening lines in his face betrayed his concern. “Are you ill?” was all he said.

  “I know I don’t look like I am dying…”

  “My son, the sacrament of Anointing of the Sick is no longer only for those close to being called home. I will anoint you.”

  He went to the sacristy and returned with some oil. He said the blessing and made the sign of the cross on my forehead. How appropriate, I thought. How had Jesus felt once He knew He was going to die? He had seen His cross, and carried it willingly, even as His mother watched. Despite the sword piercing her heart, He had continued on. I wonder if He ever looked back. I wonder if He ever really considered coming down from that cross.
In His position, I know I would have. But I did not have the power to alter my fate.

  “Something seems to be troubling you.” The priest’s statement was not a question. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I smiled for the first time since coming upon the rose in the forest. “Thank you Father, you have already done all that you can.”

  I left the church and drove off. There were three things that I needed.

  I found the first two in the grocery store— Mountain Dew and Red Bull. The gnome had said that I would live until I fell asleep, and I was planning on delaying the moment of rest as long as possible. I had eternity to sleep.

  I had to drive around a bit before I found the next thing. I thought about stopping for lunch as it was now past noon, but I wasn’t hungry. I could eat that night with my family. If I only had a day left to live, wasting an hour eating lunch was like throwing away 4% of my life. And the minutes kept ticking.

  I walked out of the mall carrying my brand new digital camcorder. It was top-of-the-line, rich with many features I would never use. Luke would be able to figure them out, though. He was already better than me at that kind of thing.

  I got to the park and realized that there was nowhere to plug in the recorder and I hadn’t charged the battery. Surprisingly, I wasn’t that angry, because I still hadn’t thought of what to say. I plugged the battery into the car charger and left the car on accessory power while I took a short walk around the park to collect my thoughts.

  It seemed odd to