APRIL IN ROME
Chapter Eight

Rose had stopped living. She had stopped daydreaming, stopped wishing, and even stopped thinking. She existed—barely. In her fractured heart, Rose knew she would never again feel the magic of April in Rome. When she had first been hurt, she had felt outrage at the injustice and cruelty of it all. She couldn’t accept the fact that it had all been a clever lie on Jack’s part. That Jack didn’t want her; he loved another. She had merely been a diversion before he settled down into marital bliss. Of course, Rose ruefully admitted, he had warned her in his own subtle way; that what happened between them should remain confidential. Nevertheless, she had given him her all. Not just that, but had literally thrown herself at him, actually begging him to make love to her. Consequently, Rose’s girlish, romantic dreams had been ruthlessly shattered and usurped by a hellish nightmare of ambiguous reality.

Now she felt used, unclean, and evil. She had lost her youthful innocence, her vitality, her health, and her love. But he had never truly been hers. And furthermore, she no longer cared. Rose was numbed to passivity; frozen; encased in ice; impervious to any further pain or torment. Physically, she was far thinner; her wrists and ankles looked delicate enough to snap. She didn’t take care of herself any longer—her hair was dirty; her glazed empty eyes were encased in dark shadows. There were no more tears left to shed; she was dry and empty. Lethargic and hollow inside, she no longer cared for living, remembering or even hoping.

And consequently for the past two weeks, she had been so nauseous, day in and day out. Constantly having to contend with waves upon waves of dizziness that continued to plague her tumultuous senses. It never let up. She hurt all over her body. Knowing that her aching heart had died in Rome; her body was now reciprocating.

Momentarily allowing herself to remember, she had to agree that Jack Dawson was the incredible talented actor that everyone believed him to be. He should be up for an Academy Award, no less. He had completely and irrevocably fooled her and destroyed her innocence. Jack had used her in his sick little sexual conquest game and when he had finished with her, he didn’t even have the decency to…what a brutally cruel way to break it off. Why had this happened to her and the man she believed to be her one true soulmate? She had promised him her heart and he had viciously taken a dull knife and plunged it deep to the hilt.

But above it all, he was getting married. How was she to bear it? The haunting memory of her practically begging him to take her continually plagued her senses. What man wouldn’t readily accept what was so brashly offered? She had to remember that he had given her the chance to save herself, to re-think what she was asking him to do. But again, her damn impulsiveness had overtaken her rational thinking. His sensual masculinity had rendered her incapable of any thought at all. All she knew was that she wanted him desperately inside her, to sate a need both physically and emotionally. Please God, when would all this horrific pain go away? She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep—couldn’t function. God, make my suffering end!

Even the normally stoic Lovejoy, in his own unscrupulous manner, had been kind and solicitous towards her. And poor Ruth and Trudy had literally begged her to eat, bathe, or talk about what was bothering her. Of course, her father and Fabrizio were still absent, probably on the road touring as usual. Furthermore, she adamantly refused to socialize with Molly and her other friends. She just didn’t want anybody to witness her shame and humiliation.

But, her father had tried to warn her about celebrities and their loose morals and principles. Don had attempted to shield and protect her from the cutthroat entertainment world. But no…she had refused to listen. Jack had been Rose’s private rebellion. And now, she had to pay the price for falling in unrequited love. She had fought the battle and lost the war. Her life was nothing and there would be no future without Jack. In her wounded mind, Rose was dying both physically and spiritually.

Finally, in late June Rose reluctantly attended Sunday mass. The priest’s sermon that morning focused on Romans 6:23. The wages of sin is death. Closing her sorrowful, dull eyes, she pulled the black lace veil closer to her gaunt face as tears blurred her fading vision. Yes, she had committed sin and had irresponsibly forgone confession or atonement since April. And she was going to pay in the worst possible way.

In Rose’s own declining mind, she was virtually attending her own rosary. Therefore, it was too late for her to repent for anything. But then, she began to reflect; if she’d known then, in Rome, how things would tragically end—would she have changed a single thing? Tears furiously streamed down her ashen cheeks. NO, she would not. So why should she confess when she harbored no regrets?

That afternoon at Rosedale, in the small private family cemetery, Rose was laying a bouquet of wildflowers on her mother’s grave. She knew it was just a matter of time before she would likely be joining her there. She felt it…and welcomed it. Not wanting to live with the grief, the torture, and the misery of loneliness any longer, the bleakness of her life stared unforgiving at her in mockery. Her body was dying; her soul had already died that April night in Rome.

Kneeling down, she started to reach for her St. Mary’s medallion and stopped short when it wasn’t there. Sheer panic seized her; the first real emotion she had felt in weeks. And then, she remembered inadvertently leaving it behind that last day in Jack’s room. And it was more than she could endure. Collapsing, her fragile body violently shook with wretched wails of pain and despair.

"Mama, he took everything; everything I possessed, everything that was truly mine to give. I have nothing left…nothing!"

It was there that Don Hockley found her. So bereft, crying despondently and her agony twisted his heart in two. Rare tears began to course down his rugged face. His Rose…his little girl…he had failed her miserably.

He hadn’t been here for her, never had been for that matter. Constantly burying his own grief and guilt on the road away from Laurel’s memories. The one true legacy that she had left him and supposedly under his care; he had foolishly cast aside. Although he loved his precious child and provided all the creature comforts and dubious protection of a parent—he had not been a true father. He was so selfish. Just like the DiStefano family had always accused him of being. He now belatedly realized it and accepted it as truth. Never again—it would always be just the two of them from now on. He swore right then, he’d never leave or forsake her again.

But despite Don and Fabrizio’s residence back at Rosedale and despite their continual attentions and ministrations, Rose declined further both physically and emotionally. She refused to talk, refused to cry, refused to smile, and refused to eat.

Don was beside himself with worry and bewilderment. Was Rose still that angry with him and severely punishing him for making her stay in Rome? He couldn’t fathom her current state. Something must have happened in Italy. Her spirit was gone. But his concern increased instantly, when he was gravely informed that she had been like this since she returned.

Ruth had privately confirmed his worst fears. She was getting steadily worse. While he was away, Rose had refused to go to the numerous doctor’s appointments that had been scheduled. At that startling revelation, Don firmly decided he’d bring the doctor to Rosedale at once. She’d just have no choice in the matter!

Rose was upstairs in her room lying down when Dr. Andrews knocked and entered. He was a warm, gentle, and caring man. As he kindly asked her routine questions during the private exam, he instantly observed that Rose seemed lethargic—like a discarded old rag doll.

Then, all of a sudden, she bolted for the bathroom, barely making the toilet in time. Heaving heavily, she broke out in a sweat and hung her limp head on the side. Dr. Andrews wet a warm cloth and solicitously helped her to stand. When his steadying arm came around to support her frail frame, she flinched as it came into the slightest contact with her swollen tender breast.

Looking concerned, he gently questioned, "Are you tender there, Rose?"

In answer, Rose merely nodded and stumbled back to the bed. Talking required too much energy and she didn’t have any to spare anymore.

Probing further, Dr. Andrews softly persisted, "Sweetheart, when was your last monthly period?"

"I don’t remember," she weakly managed to get out.

"Try to recall, Sweetie. It’s very important," he gently implored.

Rose finally answered fighting hard to keep from moving and the persistent urge to throw up again.

"Around the first week in April. It was early in my stay there."

"Rose, I’ve got to ask you a very personal question and I assure you this will remain strictly confidential." At her imperceptible nod, he worriedly continued, "Have you had any sexual relations since that time…any at all?"

If it were possible, Rose blanched paler still. She tightly closed her eyes as her hand reached for her stomach. Tears began rolling out of the corners and she suddenly broke down into racking sobs.

Nodding her head, she shakily admitted, "Yes, Dr. Andrews."

Releasing his breath, he gently patted her fragile hand and added with deep concern and encouragement, "It’ll be all right, Rose. We’ll just perform some simple tests and confirm our suspicions. We’ll know right away." With some hesitancy, he grimly continued, "If the tests are positive, there’s other alternatives. No one will hold it against you and nobody has to know. Just you and me," he confided.

Realizing what he was suggesting, she adamantly starting shaking her head.

"No, there are no alternatives, Dr. Andrews. Some choices are never easy but this one is. This child is mine. No one can ever take it from me. Mine and only mine…not to share, not to doubt, not to give up and discard like an afterthought. But to love for the rest of our lives. Mine and only mine!"

For the first time since April in Rome, Rose felt alive. She had a purpose now for going on—to live. She’d be the best mother a child could ever have. Laurel had been a perfect role model to base her hopes and dreams upon. But first, she had to make herself eat and build her waning strength back up. Secondly, she needed to re-think her life. To make each day count—every day for her baby.

"Thank you, mia," she softly crooned as she cradled her flat belly. "You saved my life in every possible way."

After the tests were confirmed, Rose had Dr. Andrews summon her father to her room. The doctor left revealing nothing to Don except that Rose would be fine and that he’d see her again in his office in a month. He hastily wrote out a prescription for multiple vitamins and calcium supplements and handed them to Don.

Don Hockley was totally confused. Vitamins? What kind of quack still operated these days with that type of diagnosis? Damn, his daughter was wasting away. She needed sophisticated tests performed. Hell, her usually bright, vivid eyes were dull and lifeless. Her skin was ashen and clammy; she had lost a lot of weight! Damn it all to hell…what was going on?

He was overwhelmingly exasperated and disgusted the longer he thought of it as he swiftly made his way to Rose’s room. He concluded he’d take her to the University of Texas Health Science Center in Houston. The best physicians in the world practiced there. He’d get to the bottom of this! He wasn’t going to just stand back and watch some country bumpkin doctor’s incompetence take Rose from him. Not again! He had lost Laurel but not Rose!

Upon knocking and entering Rose’s bedroom, Don froze. The object of his thoughts was primly sitting on the edge of the bed briskly brushing her hair getting prepared for her bath. Surprisingly, she was actually glowing and smiling inwardly. She was his old Rose again, yet suddenly growing very uncomfortable when he looked inquiringly at her. Biting her bottom lip, she exhaled a deep breath.

"Come in, Daddy, we need to talk."

Don Hockley thought he was going to be literally sick. He felt like someone had just clenched his heart and twisted it in a knot. His composure was crumbling fast and his temper was in dire need of a vent. When he finally found his voice, he disbelievingly snapped, "Pregnant? But you’re just a baby yourself, Rose!" Springing to his feet, he began to agitatedly pace rubbing his tense strained neck while he raged, "Who's the father? How long did you know him? Did this happen here or in Italy? Does he know? What are his intentions? I’ll have the filthy gutter rat gelded!"

Don was so furious he never let Rose answer. He kept firing questions at her like a thousand fireworks shooting off.

"Daddy, if you must blame anyone, blame me. I seduced him; it was me; all me! It’s my fault this happened…I love him!" she weakly admitted.

"Does he love you, Rose? Is he aware of this yet?" Don was trying to come to terms with the precarious predicament his precious daughter now found herself in. And he out and out rejected the fact that she was in any way at fault. She was an innocent and the bastard who did this to her knew EXACTLY what he was doing. To make matters worse, he was beginning to shoulder the brunt of the guilt. He realized it was he that had made her stay in Rome and he had the uncanny inclination that Italy is where this "rape" had occurred.

"No, Daddy and no. And he’ll never know." Rose sighed a low sound in her throat and averted her teary gaze. "He’s not in Texas; this happened in Rome. I’ll never see him again. It’s over," she dejectedly murmured.

"Why, sweetpea, is he married or something? Did he seduce you with promises that he now refuses to keep? I just can’t let it go without more answers." Don Hockley was practically begging with his watery eyes. His face had just seemingly aged in years.

Rose, however, knew she couldn’t recount it all again, especially to her father. It was too painful and personal. Some things are just for a woman’s heart to know, an ocean full of secrets that were just hers and never to share with anyone.

Gazing intently into her father’s pleading soft green eyes, Rose took his roughened hand and placed it upon her flat stomach.

"Daddy, you will have to be my baby’s father. Would you, please?" she softly pleaded.

Don Hockley’s heart turned over and he broke down. Putting his arms around his angelic daughter, he gently kissed the top of her head and sobbed. He had been given another chance. Yesterdays were gone. They both had today and tomorrow was suddenly so full of promise. What a gift! A grandchild to love, to cherish, and to spoil just like he had done with his Rose. Except, this time around, he would be there to watch it grow…every minute of every day…every cry and every laugh. He would be there for his family.

Finally, he answered Rose.

"Of course, Rose. I love you and I’ll love this baby with every ounce of my being. But if this child’s biological father ever shows up…"

Rose never allowed him to finish.

"He won’t. Trust me." She rushed to assure his reservations and finished, "He doesn’t want us, of that I’m sure. I love you, too, Daddy. Grazie, Grazie."

In the following weeks, Rose blossomed and was radiant in her pregnancy. Her beauty and spirit returned tenfold. Although still trim at the end of her first trimester, she began riding her black stallion, Diablo, again. She realized she had missed him terribly and apologized relentlessly for her absence and neglect. The steed seemed to understand somehow. Rose bitterly mused, animal instincts are surely more accurate than humans are.

Don watched Rose like a hawk. He had talked with his agent and had canceled all future tours. He was retiring from that kind of life. It had cost him too much over the years and he’d never risk it again. Observing Rose riding Diablo, Don intensely stared into her smiling visage. He agreed her mouth might be smiling, but it didn’t quite reach her saddened eyes. There was intense sorrow there. Of course, he knew that feeling firsthand; he recognized it and understood it. For years, every day since Laurel…

God, he wanted to kill the young bastardo that had done this to her. Not just for getting her pregnant, but for the horrific heartache she endured. For some warped reason, he inwardly admitted, he was glad about the baby. Her pregnancy had actually revitalized and saved Rose’s life! He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that. But using her like she was some cheap whore…he was thankful the filthy bastard didn’t live in America. If their paths ever crossed, he shuddered thinking of the consequences.

Several weeks later, Don received a phone call from his long time agent and friend, Calvert, informing him of a lifetime achievement award honoring him at next week’s Grammy Awards in Los Angeles. Calvert insisted that he had to attend and accept in person. Initially, he balked but gradually became pensive in thought.

Rose had always wanted to go to California. She would be well enough to travel with her being only three months along. Furthermore, Calvert had been dogging him for years to let Rose perform. She was fantastic; he hated to brag but it was just a downright fact. She was born to sing with a voice to revel that of an angel. He grimly recalled the time when she had competed, albeit against his wishes and behind his back, with hundreds of other teens to get into Houston’s High School for the Performing Arts and had readily been accepted.

Nevertheless, he had refused to let her go. She had hotly accused him then of locking her away in a safe, like jewels…letting her out only momentarily to ogle and then locking her back in. Don just didn’t want her involved in that way of life. It could be cold, brutal and cruel sometimes. And it was never that he doubted her abilities because he knew Rose could fly to the stars if she wished. He wanted the best for his precious offspring and for her to have her own life. To live it for herself—not others. Not to be constantly analyzed under a microscope being dissected piece by piece by the vicious press, but to live life…to love it and hold on to it with no regrets.

Of course, he could make the offer and let Rose make her own choice for a change. It was past time, she was a young woman now. She was being forced to make plenty of difficult choices in her life now, whether she was old enough or not.

And every time he thought of her vulnerable age, he wanted to kill that rotten child molester. He wanted to see him preferably strung up or at least jailed for the grievous crime he had committed against a young, innocent child. My God, she was still a minor…not even old enough to vote. She’d barely be eighteen before the baby was born.

It was only yesterday that she was wearing pigtails and petticoats. Closing his tortured eyes, he imagined her skipping as fast as she could when he came back home after a long road trip and jumping into his widespread arms squealing in joy. Damn, that filthy gutter slime had stolen his child’s heart and youth. And if he ever got the chance…so help him and me both, dear God!

Chapter Nine
Stories