Ruth's demeanor toward Jack warmed again, and they settled back into the distant friendliness that was their relationship. She was still critical, but she trusted him to do what was best for Rose. Their life wasn't one she approved of, but it could have been much worse. Weeks passed, but she made no arrangements to leave.

"So, you're staying?" Jack said one afternoon.

"I thought I should," she answered. "Rose needs both of us now."

"You understand this better than I can," he agreed.

"No man understands this," she said. "But at least you try. I—I admire that."

"Really?" he said, surprised.

"Let's not do this, Jack."

"Do what?" he asked.

"This routine where I say something nice to you, and you pretend you didn't know I thought so," Ruth replied.

"I don't always know," he said. "Every time I think I know you, you do something I didn't expect."

"I'm not a simple person."

"Neither is Rose," Jack said. "You're a lot alike. More alike than I used to think."

"Coming from you that must be a compliment."

"It is," he said.

….

After a few weeks the miracle of sigh began to wear off, and Rose found herself caught between two ways of life. At times she seemed to forget she could see again and felt her way around the room; she counted steps again, silently and didn't look in mirrors. She could do most things without looking now, and even preferred it that way sometimes. Using her eyes too much was painful. An afternoon of reading sent her to bed with a migraine, so after a few tries she gave up. "Will you read to me again?" she asked Jack.

"You don't want to do it yourself?" he said. He was taken aback by the request. "I thought you liked reading alone more than with me."

"That was before," she replied. "It's different not, after reading with you for so long. I miss it." It wasn't a total lie; she did miss those times together. In an effort to be more honest and avoid inviting the mocking voice back in she added, "And it gives me headaches."

"Are your eyes alright? Are you—"

"I can still see just fine," she said. "It may not have anything to do with that. I have to see the doctor tomorrow anyway. I can have him examine my eyes as well."

"You should," Jack said. "Make sure everything's okay. How're you feeling?"

"Fine. Tired. Not so different from—from the other times," she said. "I haven't been as sick lately." She put a hand on her belly. In a loose dress or shirt she could hide it, but it was definitely growing. She couldn't feel anything yet, which worried her, thought she tried not to dwell on it. They had both felt movement the last time, but that hadn't changed anything.

Jack laid his hand over hers. "Everything's gonna be alright," he said. "We'll be fine, however it turns out."

…..

There was little the doctor could say about Rose's eyes, though he did warn against straining them. "It will only increase the chances of losing your sight again," he said. As for the baby, everything was as it should be he assured them. They were both relieved at the news. Rose was instructed to keep spending most of her time in bed, avoiding stress and exertion. Jack and Ruth took turns keeping her company. Jack carried her downstairs and even outside on nice days, though Ruth made her disapproval known.

Rose loved it in the garden. The winter was mild in New Orleans, and it was still beautiful. She could easily imagine what it would be like when spring came. In her mind she saw herself in it, carrying the baby. It was odd to think they had come there on a whim, instead of going back to California. She wondered what would have happened if they had gone back. Would things have turned out better or worse? Perhaps, she told herself, things had worked out the way they were meant to, manipulative girls and tumbles down the stairs and all.

And so time passed peacefully. One morning Rose woke up to find herself undeniably pregnant and needing Jack's help to sit up. He painted less after that, though he drew her several times. He hadn't drawn her any of the other times, and doing it now gave him a good feeling. "I look awful," Rose complained, but she didn't object that strongly to the drawings. He spent most of his time with hr. They didn't have much time left to be alone. Their lives were about to change, and he knew he couldn't quite grasp how much. She wouldn't be only his anymore. He would have to share her with someone else. They would both have to share the other.

"Feel," Rose said, placing his hand on her belly. The baby moved, as if getting comfortable. It was an odd sensation, and yet, pleasant.

Jack smiled. "Got some energy, doesn't he?"

"He wasn't this active last week," she said. "He knows it's getting close."

It began early one morning. It was one of the coldest days the city had seen, and Jack kept the house as warm as if it were summer. Rose didn't want to wake him up, but he sensed it. "What can I do?" he asked anxiously.

"I don't think you can do anything now," she answered. "Just stay with me."

Soon the pains began coming faster; they grew stronger. Rose held in her cried and squeezed his hands. The doctor was called. Jack wouldn't budge from Rose's side, but Ruth stayed in the hallway. When it first began she shook her head and told Jack, "I can't."

"What if she needs you?" he asked.

"I don't remember—I can't help her," she insisted. "She doesn't need a crowd. She won't want me, just you."

Rose did want her mother, but she knew better than to ask for her. At least Ruth was nearby; her steely presence was comforting, even from a distance. It was an easy, quick birth, though they didn't think so. Jack hated watching her pain. He didn't feel it when she bruised his hands or when her nails dug into his wrists, drawing blood. There was nothing he could do; he felt useless and wished for it to end. "Don't leave me," Rose begged.

"I won't," he said. "I'm right here, Rose. I'll always be here."

"I can't do this, Jack."

"Yes, you can," he said reassuringly. "You've already done it. You're almost there, Rose."

And then, it was over. The baby was crying. Rose lay, pale and exhausted, sobbing. Jack kissed her, holding in his own tears. "You did it," he said. "What'd I tell you?"

It was a boy. He was the smallest thing Jack had ever seen. When the doctor handed the bundle to him, Jack was terrified. Surely, he would break him. Or drop him. He looked up at Jack with eyes like Rose's. There was already a patch of red hair on his head. Jack touched his tiny hand and let himself cry.

"Let me see," Rose said. Carefully, he gave her the baby. "Oh," she gasped. "He's real. I never let myself think—Jack, he's real," she said again, still not quite believing. "He's ours."

…..

They named him James Edward. Ruth pronounced him a fine baby. "He's perfect," Rose said, taking him back. Had it been anyone else. Ruth would have made a comment about spoiling children. But she refrained. Rose deserved her happiness. A few weeks after the birth, she went home, promising to visit again soon.

James slept with them at first, taking up a tiny space between them. They held each other, their arms forming a protective wall around him. He was good-tempered and slept through the night early. When he was six months old they moved him into his own room. They always left the doors open. Rose recovered quickly, and soon she was up and about. Her eyes kept giving her trouble, though, and it seemed the list of tasks she couldn't do was endless. Finally, they gave in and hired someone to help take care of the house. Rose devoted most of her time to James after that. Jack started painting again, a few hours each morning. He spent the rest of his time with them. He drew them constantly, trying to preserve the moment. Already, he felt time was passing too quickly.

…..

Rose knocked lightly on the open door. "Hey," Jack said, grinning. "By yourself?"

"The baby's asleep," she said. "I tried to nap with him, but I couldn't sleep." She looked around at the paintings, some still in progress. There was a crate for shipping them off to his art dealer. After the baby, being able to see his work was what she treasured most. "Are you sending them all?"

"No," he said. "I'm keeping a few. My favorites."

She came over to stand next to him. "I like this one," she said, pointing to a self-portrait. It was a rather abstract view of himself.

"It doesn't have a good feeling," he said.

"It wouldn't be true if it did," she pointed out. "You weren't happy then."

He put his arms around her. "Not like now."

Smiling, she leaned against him. Rose lifted his hand and kissed his palm. A small shiver moved down his back. She kissed his fingertips, slowly, one by one.

"Rose," he murmured.

"We're alone," she whispered.

They kissed their way into bed. They paused for a moment, waiting for the baby to cry, but he didn't. They muffled themselves with kisses, falling into each other easily. When it was over, they held one another, whispering about nothing important, just for the sake of talking. Rose fell asleep against him. Jack closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. They dreamed of the same thing anyway. They saw children playing, all with golden-red curls, and they saw themselves, and somehow, they knew it was the future being shown to them, the child that was and those to come, born of the spark, the indomitable bond they shared.

Eventually, Rose's eyes would fail again. Even the merest use would be too much, but she wouldn't sink again. Jack and the children would keep her above the water. In the dream, she still felt him holding her, and she knew everything was finally going to be alright.

The End.

AN: Thank you to everyone who's read this story. I hope you enjoyed it! It was difficult to end it.