T
he Healer likely assumes that I have chosen not to gift Juliet with Tybalt's heart for reasons that are medical in nature. I would wager she thinks that my good sense has triumphed and that I lowered the knife in deference to divine Providence and my own inexperience. But this is not so. Here is why I stayed my hand:
For e'en if my brave procedure did somehow keep my beloved cousin alive, I was not sure that Juliet would be capable of loving Romeo with Tybalt's heart.
And Romeo, I am certain, will live. I rise from the floor, feeling the heaviness of my blood-soaked skirt as I move toward Romeo, bidding the Healer to bring me her satchel.
From within it I choose a small flask in which there is a thick syrup. 'Tis a precious but unpalatable concoction derived from the
ipecacuanha
shrub; the plant is unknown in Italy, and this small quantity is all that remains of some given to the Healer by a stranger who traveled here from a place he called Brazil.
I take hold of Romeo's chin and force his mouth open to pour a stream of the syrup onto his tongue, then I tilt his head farther backward. When I am satisfied that the liquid has reached his stomach, I quickly shift him to his side, careful to aim him away from the place on the floor where Benvolio has landed.
The syrup is effective. In moments, Romeo begins to gag, then heave, then vomit violently, purging his system of the poison he's ingested. I apply pressure to his forehead as he upchucks and try to ignore the unpleasant smells and sounds that emanate from him.
When at last Romeo has finished emptying his guts onto the floor I use a clean rag to wipe his mouth. He breathes normally now, and the blue tint has vanished from his lips.
I turn my attention to Benvolio, who is just now coming awake.
“Rosaline?”
“Aye, Benvolio, I am here.” I extend my hand to him as he rises unsteadily. “Watch thy step,” I caution. “There is blood and vomit everywhere.”
“Ah, such a sweet talker is my lady,” Benvolio says, an attempt at levity which, surprisingly, I much appreciate. Viola draws near to me and takes my hand. She nods her chin in Juliet's direction.
“She is dead?”
“Dying,” I say. “But not dead yet.”
Romeo stirs, letting out a ragged groan.
“He is well?” Benvolio asks anxiously.
I then lean close to Romeo's face. “Romeo? Romeo, dost thou hear me?”
Another groan, and then his eyes open. For a moment, he simply stares, then, with a jolt, he sits upright, flinging his arms around me.
“Rosaline! My darling.”
Benvolio frowns.
“Darling?”
I squirm fervently in Romeo's grasp, but he will not release me.
“Rosaline, o, angelic one, I had the most peculiar dreamâ”
He begins to press urgent kisses onto my neck.
With a grunt, Benvolio takes hold of Romeo's collar and gives a mighty tug.
“Collect thy wits,” Benvolio advises. “Then see if thou canst remember who thou shouldst be calling darling.”
Romeo's face is blank.
“Think hard, Romeo,” Benvolio counsels. “The feast ⦠the girl ⦠the balcony.”
Romeo's eyes widen. “Juliet! O, my Juliet. Then 'twas
not a dream? The wedding? The murders? My exile? The poison?”
Romeo's skin turns pale. “Juliet. My lady wife, my love ⦠I found her here, deadâ”
“Not dead,” I say softly. “She merely appeared thus.”
“Then she is alive!”
“For the moment,” I reply softly.
“'Tis a most complicated tale,” Benvolio offers. “I shall tell thee all, but let us first away from this rank placeâ”
“No!”
I start at the fierceness of Romeo's refusal.
Benvolio looks to me; I nod. Wordlessly, he takes Viola's hand and leads her out of the tomb while the Healer gathers her paraphernalia. She too makes a silent exit.
I return to where Juliet lies upon the bier and kneel again beside her, leaning to rest my head upon the cool stones of the crypt.
Romeo's hand comes to rest in a brotherly way upon my shoulder as he sits upon a nearby coffin to join me in keeping this solemn vigil.
O
dd, but one grows used to the stench. And the near-atrophy of one's own muscles becomes a bitter kind of comfort. I have not moved for hours. I look upon Juliet, and tears sting my weary eyes, dampen my cheeks.
“Cry you for her?” comes Romeo's voice o'er my shoulder. “Or for thyself?”
My reply is a small shrug.
“Tell me something, Rosaline,” he beseeches, tears welling up in his eyes. “Tell me something of her, this Juliet.”
“Your wife,” I remind him softly.
“My wife.” He drags one hand down his face in frustration. “And yet ⦠and yet, I knew her not at all. O, but I loved her so and shall love her forever.”
“Never say it!”
My tone brings him up short and he stares at me.
“Never say it,” I repeat. The sound is thunderous in the quiet crypt. “Damned fool, how darest thou speak of love?”
I spring up from my knees with unexpected strength to glower down at him and sputter,
“You!
You, Romeo, who loves only with your eyes.” I narrow my gaze, letting it slide boldly and meaningfully downward to his midsection. “And with certain other parts of your anatomy.”
To his credit, the boy does flush. Still, I am not appeased.
“Love?” I roar, fists clenched. “Bloody hell, that word should leave a blister on thy tongue. Your recklessness, yours and Juliet's, was an affront to true devotion, your irreverence dishonored love. You met and admired one another and impiously called it love. 'Twas quick and bright and dangerous and magical. But you did not
think.
You settled for desire, but did not allow time for love.”
“And now,” he concedes, “she lies here, dead, as would I, were it not for you.”
My bluster subsides, exhausted as I am. More silence falls between us.
“What would you know of her?” I ask.
He ponders a moment. “Her favorite flower to start.”
“Roses.”
He smiles sadly. “I'd heard her speak of them once. How, by any other name they'd smell as sweet.”
“And the girl could surely sit a horse,” I add. “Tybalt taught her to ride, e'en to jump. Her command of the Gallic language was legendary, but her mastery of Greek was poor.” With a laugh that is part sob, I add, “She liked figs.”
“I like figs,” says Romeo, and there is something both consoled and tortured in his tone.
Again, we wait a wordless while. The quiet stretches into minutes. Dust spirals in the stale air.
“I could not save her.” I do not realize I have spoken the words aloud until I hear them ringing a soft echo in the stony tomb. “I could not revive Tybalt when he fell, I could not unstab Mercutio, and though I nearly tempted Satan by trying, I could not make Juliet whole again with a borrowed heart. For all my wit and wisdom, all my study and sacrifice, I could not and will ne'er be able to undo death.”
“You undid my death,” he reminds me.
“You were not dead.”
“Nor is Juliet.”
“Nay, she is worse than dead. She is dying. Dying every moment she lives.” I drop my head into my hands and weep softly.
“Why do you suppose she hangs on?” he asks.
“I cannot say,” I answer honestly.
He studies her face, his tears falling unabashedly now. “Sweet spouse and stranger,” he says, touching her gaunt face, “I daresay I would have truly loved you, if only we had had time to learn what love could be. But then, who
is to know if you would have loved me in return? Friar Laurence did admonish us, âWisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.'”
Now Romeo slips nimbly from the coffin to his knees and bows his head. I watch as one silken lock of his hair brushes gently across her cheek.
Sweet, so sweet, if only she could feel.
I expect to hear him offer up some prayer that she return to us. Some request to the Almighty Father that they be given a second chance. I expect him to implore our Lord to bring her back, to restore her life.
Instead, I hear him whisper this: “I'm sorry.”
I'm sorry.
No more, but enough. 'Tis but one child's apology to another for a hurt which both are too naive to name.
The words fill the shadowy tomb and settle in my heart.
I'm sorry.
Perhaps I say them aloud, or mayhap I only think them.
I'm sorry, Juliet. Romeo is sorry, and I am sorry. The world and the stars and angels in heaven are sorry.
I kneel down beside Romeo, tearsâhis and mineâflowing afresh.
And here is how I know that Juliet sees fit to forgive us:
She dies.
Â
Romeo and I step from the tomb to find Benvolio asleep beneath the yew tree. Dawn is breaking softly. Viola is curled kittenlike near his feet.
As I watch these two who are both so precious to me, a cool breeze comes up and trembles upon my face. As I take a moment to savor it, an idea seems to form itself, take shape from somewhere within the nothingness of the zephyr itself
I explain my plan to Romeo and give him a small part in its execution, which is to awaken Benvolio and bid him collect Viola's brother and grandfather, and bring them with Viola to my mother's house. Romeo agrees to relay the request to Benvolio. I thank him with a hug. “Where wilt thou go after?” I ask.
“To Mantua,” he answers easily. “I am dead here in Verona, and it seems that has done this city good. I shall find a life for myself away from here.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. “Remember me fondly,” he whispers.
“I shall,” I say, and mean it.
With that, I hurry away across the churchyard and into the quiet streets toward home.
Â
My uncle Capulet is quite surprised to see me in his hall so early. Viola stands beside me, utterly trusting, though she has no idea why I have brought her to this rich man's home at sunrise. Sebastian is present, hanging back near the door, holding his grandfather's hand. Benvolio too is present.
Tugging his richly embroidered satin dressing gown round his portly middle, my uncle lumbers down the stairs and into the great hall.
“Rosaline! What madness is this that makes youâ” He just now spies Benvolio behind me. “God's blood, be that a Montague in this house?”
“The feud is over, uncle,” I remind him tartly. “Or hast thou already forgotten the golden statues?”
He sputters a moment. “Aye,” he says at last. “You are welcome here, sir.” He nods to Benvolio. I can see it costs him much and feel a flutter of pride for him.
My uncle looks at me with a pompous lift of his chin, to indicate that he has, indeed, proven himself greatly changed. Then he spots the children. I watch his eyes fall to Viola. And I see precisely what I expectedâleastways hopedâI would.
For a moment, he cannot summon words, and I know this is because Viola, with her shimmering tangle of dark tresses and shining eyes, looks so verily like Juliet did as a small girl.
“Who be these ragged waifs?” asks my uncle, in a booming tone that cannot conceal the catch in his voice.
Before I can answer, the door behind Benvolio swings open, and Romeo's widowed lord enters, led by Benvolio's own father.
“Montague?” cries my uncle in disbelief. “Feud or no feud, I can conceive of no reason that would bring you to my home at such an hour!”
Old Montague replies by turning up his palms. “Nor can I, but I have been dragged hence by my cousin here.”
He motions to Benvolio's father. “He wouldst not tell me whereforeâ”
Montague cuts his thought short, his gaze alighting upon Sebastian. Unable to stop himself, he reaches out to roughly ruffle Sebastian's silky hair. The boy favors him with a wide grin, which causes Montague's lower lip to quake. “Such a fine young man,” he murmurs.
Now Lady Capulet hastens into the great space. She first takes in the unwarranted spectacle of three Montagues 'neath her roof Upon seeing Viola and Sebastian, her slender hand does fly to her mouth, but not in time to stifle the cry that comes up in her throat. The noise resonates with the sound of deepest lossâjoy and grief, fused in one audible note. Her face flickers a thousand different emotions before she sinks to her knees upon the mirrorlike marble of the floor and opens her arms to the small strangers. Without hesitation, the twins run to her and all but dive into the circle of her motherly embrace.
For just a piece of a second, I allow myself to think of Juliet, so pale and still upon the bier, and then of Romeo, making his solitary way to Mantua.
“These children are orphans,” I explain. “They are destitute.”
I see Montague pass a glance o'er the twins; his eyes are soft with compassion.
“Henceforth, they and their grandfather shall reside
in the home of Benvolio's father. Benvolio is to become their guardian.”
My uncle nods his approval. “A sound plan.”
“But what has it to do with us?” my aunt inquires. She holds the children close to her as though she might n'er let them go.
I allow my eyes to meet hers, then my uncle's, then Montague's.
“You three,” I pronounce, “shall be their benefactors. You will provide for them. Food, clothing, educationâwhatever Benvolio deems necessary to their proper upbringing.”
The room goes silent.
“Do you understand,” I ask of Lord and Lady Capulet and Montague, “what I am giving you?”
My uncle mops his eyes with the back of his hand and nods. His lady smiles up at me o'er the heads of Viola and Sebastian.
'Tis Montague who speaks an answer for them all.
“A second chance,” he whispers.