"Every Rose Has Its Thorn" - by Zaida Thorngage

Disclaimer: This story is also a crossover with real life information entwined in – all of which can be found on the internet (and Wikipedia.) I do not own anything related to "The Golden Girls," only certain elements of the plot. The events surrounding the causes of death for each of the ladies has been fictionalized, but the cause of death and burial remains the same for each. (Except for Betty White/Rose, who is still with us as at the time of this story.) I'm simply a fan that had this little idea for a story. This is mainly told from Rose's perspective, yet in a third-person point of view. Also, I know that Leslie Nielson (Lucas Hollingsworth) & Herb Edelman (Stan Zbornak) have passed, but for story purposes, they're both alive in the story. This is just about the women… not the secondary characters.

The house was mostly empty these days – empty of laughter, empty of warmth… just empty. A single woman with barely blonde hair just sat on the living room couch – huddled in blankets to keep warm. She didn't leave the house much – just to get a bit of food every now and again. She didn't entertain very many visitors – sure, over the last few years, the relatives had always promised they'd call or pop by every once in a while. While the calls and visits came pretty regularly at first, lately they'd been fewer and fewer. Rose Nylund, at 89, had become the final occupant of the Miami home she'd once shared with her three best friends. Most days, she'd just sit on the couch and reminisce – think about life, and the way things were when she was growing up in St. Olaf, when she and Charlie raised their family, and when the girls made life warm again. This day was like every other day – Rose woke up, walked down the stairs to the living room and sat on the couch; her favorite blanket clutched around her shoulders. She thought about the past – of life after the Golden Palace, and of Sophia, Dorothy, and Blanche:

In the end, the hotel failed. That was okay with Rose, though - she really didn't think three aging women had any business running that kind of establishment, anyway.

Things were better, once they moved back into their old home. Blanche decided to keep it as a rental property, instead of selling it when they moved to the Golden Palace. It was better, but not perfect. Dorothy wasn't there anymore - she was off living the Hollingsworth life. [She deserves it,] Rose had thought at the time, [She's my best friend, and I want to see her happy.] Things were fine for the first few years... but then Sophia started forgetting. It wasn't so bad at first – she'd 'misplace' her glasses on her nightstand and forget them, or forget her handbag in the bathroom. Then one day, Sophia took a walk down to the old boardwalk where she used to spend time with Max. Late in the evening, the police called asking for someone to come and pick up the ailing woman. Thankfully, Rose had put one of her old business cards in Sophia's wallet one night with her and Blanche's contact information, should things ever get as bad as this.

Rose went to pick Sophia up from the police station – the conversation she had with Sophia that night would stay with her for years to come. "Sophia, do you want me to call Dorothy?" "No, Rose, I'm good. I just got a little lost for a moment." "Are you sure, honey?" "What are you, deaf? I'm fine; don't go bothering Dorothy over something like this. Besides, I wouldn't know anyone in Atlanta. I'm home, here – with you and Blanche. I can remember more because I'm here. You two are as close to me as my own daughter is – and I don't want to leave my girls…" Touched, Rose drove the remainder of the drive in silence. Once Sophia had settled down, Rose did alert Dorothy.

It happened again, a few days later – Sophia had taken the bus to go to the grocery store to buy a nectarine. Blanche had gotten her job back at the museum, and was the one who got the call from the bus dispatch. Blanche made her way over to the intersection that the bus was stopped at – Sophia was inside, tottering back and forth, crying because she didn't know where she was. Blanche stepped on to the bus to call out to Sophia – and had to quickly dodge an old bamboo handbag that was thrown at her head. Sophia didn't know who the woman was standing at the exit of the bus. Blanche called in a few favors with the cops who'd arrived to the scene, which allowed her to take Sophia home. As soon as she was in the door, Blanche quickly put in a call to Dorothy. It couldn't be put off any longer; something was wrong.

Dorothy had paid a rare visit to Miami not long after – Rose remembered thinking that Dorothy looked frail and thin. Good, happy – but sickly. Dorothy took Sophia up to Atlanta, under the guise of a visit – but that's what it became, just a visit. The mother and daughter pair turned up on the doorstep of their Miami home they shared less than a month later. Sophia's mental condition worsened in her time in Atlanta. Dorothy confided in Rose and Blanche that first night back over a midnight cheesecake that she had taken Sophia to a doctor – his diagnosis confirmed that it was a version of dementia… and confided that Dorothy, herself, was waging her own battle against cancer.

The two women embraced their friend, realizing that things truly had changed… and not for the better. The next morning, Blanche and Rose escorted Dorothy and Sophia back through the doors of Shady Pines retirement home. Rose had to choke back tears when it came time to say goodbye. Dorothy cried, "Y'know, Ma, I never meant for you to come back here. It was always a joke to me; something I always threatened you with if you ever got out of line." Sophia chuckled somberly and replied, "I know, Dorothy, it's okay. I love you, Pussycat."

Dorothy got on a plane to Atlanta that afternoon, to meet with her doctors the next day to begin another round of chemo. Rose and Blanche would visit Sophia from time to time – there were good days, but soon the bad days started outweighing the good ones. Each time Rose called Dorothy to tell her that Sophia didn't recognize her, it seemed to upset Dorothy – Rose finally started lying, making up short conversations with Sophia in made up moments of lucidity to cheer up the voice on the other end of the phone.

It was a hot day in July of 2008 when Rose got a call from the head nurse at Shady Pines. Sophia had passed on during the night. Funeral arrangements were made; Dorothy and Lucas flew in with Kate and Michael. With Blanche, Rose, and Stan, they made up the entire funeral procession for the tiny Sicilian – as all of her friends had passed on before, and Angelo, Angela, and even Gloria had long since passed on. The three surviving girls clung to each other – in their own way, each woman had lost a mother.

The funeral started out one of Miami's Roman Catholic churches and ended in its cemetery – one of Sophia's requests; each of the women placed a single white rose in their departed friend's bamboo handbag, adding one red rose to represent the doll-like woman in the wooden casket.

Rose chuckled to herself as she thought, [We couldn't bear to bury Sophia without her bag… she took that thing everywhere, didn't she?] Rose paused her memories for a few moments to totter into the kitchen. She'd started to feel lightheaded and needed to eat. Rose made a sandwich from the turkey left over from the small bird she'd baked for Christmas, just a few days earlier; flicking on the small television set on the kitchen table, Rose watched a rerun of an old game show from days gone past as she ate in silence – every once in a while uttering an answer to the host's questions.

With lunch finally in her, Rose tottered back off to the couch. As she passed the small piano in the living room, she glanced over a photo of the mother and daughter duo that had left her just years earlier.

[Dorothy,] she thought, [We lost you next, didn't we?] As Rose settled back down on to the couch, wrapping her blanket around her again, she settled back in to her memories, as well:

After the funeral, Rose and Blanche resumed life as normally as possible – Dorothy returned home with Lucas. Dorothy took to calling the girls twice a month, when she had enough strength to carry on even a short conversation. It was Valentine's Day when Rose received a card in the mail from Dorothy – asking her best friend to be her 'final valentine,' and thanking Rose for her friendship. The doctors had done all they could, and nothing could save her now, she wrote. Rose teared up – the seemingly endless Hollingsworth money could get the best doctors that money could buy, but could not buy a miracle to save her friend.

Two months later, Blanche's uncle Lucas appeared at the front door once more, but this time as a broken man. They were traveling back to Miami for one final visit, and as they flew on their way to Miami, Dorothy finally succumbed to the cancer that had eaten away at her for the last few years. Rose was devastated and fell to pieces on the couch; Blanche rushed over to her uncle to help comfort him.

After an hour of crying, Rose collected herself enough to walk into the kitchen. She pulled one of the stools over to the phone, and pulled herself up to sit on it to begin making calls. Rose instinctively punched in the numbers to ring up a familiar voice, "Hi, It's me – Stan." "Stan…? It's Rose." "Rose, this is a surprise," came the man's voice, "but your voice sounds terrible. What's up? Is everything alright?" Rose's voice cracked and filled with the sound of her tears as she choked out, "It's Dorothy. She died. The cancer won." Rose heard nothing on the other end of the phone. Just silence. She hadn't heard the familiar click of a disconnect, so she knew Stan was on still on the line. Finally, after minutes of silence, came his voice, just as cracked and strained with tears as Rose's, "Thank you, Rose. I need to call the kids, now. I'll be over soon."

Rose rejoined Blanche and Lucas in the living room – the two had moved to the couch, Lucas was sobbing as he recounted the countless doctors visits, chemotherapy treatments, and the day that the doctors finally told them that there was nothing more that could be done.

Stan, being his usual self, let himself in the front door – his familiar greeting hung heavy in his voice, as if he'd been crying since the conversation with Rose: "Hi. It's me….." He couldn't finish. He cleared his voice, and tried to speak again, "I called Kate and Michael…. The k-, the kids will be here in a few hours. They'll be booking their flights and coming on in for the funeral." Rose could only sit and watch as Lucas spun around to glare at the man who'd just dared to say that horrible, final word, "What are you doing here?" "I was married to Dorothy once, too," Stan stated, "I always loved and cared about her." Lucas spat, "You sure had a funny way of showing it. Don't think Dorothy skipped out on telling me all about your little schemes!" Stan hung his head in shame, "Yeah, I'm sure – I deserve that. I still wanted to see her happy, though. That's why I didn't say anything on the day of your wedding." Lucas was seething, "You were *there*?" Stan, head still hung like a whipped puppy, replied, "Yeah, who do you think drove her to the church? I wanted to make amends, and it was the best thing I could think of." Lucas's face softened as he said, "Hm. I guess you're not so bad after all, Stan."

Stan joined the group in one of the chairs in the living room – listening painfully to the end of the events, and to the last days with Dorothy… including the surprise trip to Miami, which ended with her passing. Lucas sighed, "Dorothy was a beautiful lady." Stan added, "A lady always knows when to leave." Lucas stood up, offering to go buy a few rounds while the two reminisced about the "greatest woman of their lives."

The two left. Rose's memory fast-forwards to the next, when the two come back – once more at each other's throats. "I think Dorothy should be buried in Miami closer to her family!" "Dorothy was my wife and I want her closer to me!" Blanche stood and quickly intervened, "Well, we can't just saw her body in half!" Lucas and Stan both cut their eyes toward the Southern Belle as Rose spoke up, "I have an idea." Both men turned their glare from Blanche to Rose – waiting for her to continue. Rose spoke in hushed tones, "Dorothy said she always felt like people put her into boxes her entire life – the friend box, the teacher box, the ex-wife-who-slams-the-door-in-my-face box…. She didn't want to be put in another box. Dorothy had said she wanted to be cremated."

Lucas sat down first, but it was Stan who spoke first: "That sounds reasonable. At least that way, part of her could always be with both of her families." Lucas nodded in agreement, too drained from the day's events to comment further.

Friends, colleagues, and family gathered days later to pay their final respects to Dorothy Petrillo Zbornak Hollingsworth. There were a few younger men and women in the crowd, as well – former students who raved how Mrs. Zbornak's firm ways had helped shape the people they'd become. Rose stood by her friend – keeping a watchful eye over the woman who'd been the best friend she'd ever had. They'd dressed her in a cream and emerald pantsuit – a favorite outfit of Lucas's. Rose had found a lapel pin that Dorothy had forgotten at the Miami house during her move to Atlanta – Sophia had given the small pin, a cat with emerald eyes, to Dorothy for her birthday one year. After the move, Sophia took care of it. After Sophia's funeral, Rose had forgotten to pass it back on to Dorothy… and kept it for her. Now, Rose pinned it on the lapel of Dorothy's pantsuit. Just before the viewing began, Blanche placed four roses under Dorothy's hands – two red, and two white.

After the viewing, the cat pin was given back to Rose; Lucas took Dorothy's wedding rings and pocketed them. The directors at the funeral home lifted the casket to carry it into the back. Blanche, Rose, Lucas, Stan, Kate, and Michael all filed into the back behind the funeral directors, watching them load the casket onto the conveyor belt – watching the belt crank the wooden casket, carrying their dearly departed friend and relative into the incinerator.

The onlookers clutched at one another and cried once more at the sight of their beloved friend and family member being wheeled into the awaiting inferno. They were shown back into a waiting room, where each regaled one another with stories of their beloved Dorothy. At some point in their stories, one of the older funeral home directors came out, bearing an urn with the remains of the woman they loved.

Rose remembered how everyone gathered at the pier the next morning – Rose took a handful of the gray ashes from the urn and released them into the ocean. It was a St. Olaf tradition, to allow their loved ones to roam freely through the world, she had explained, and the others were (for once) glad to agree to her request. It was an old Hollingsworth tradition for loved ones to be buried near their favorite spot - Blanche spread a handful of the ashes around the tree they'd once saved together; Lucas would take the rest back to Atlanta to place the remaining ashes in their favorite spot in the garden.

Before they left, Kate and Michael said their goodbyes to Blanche and Rose – promising to call to check in with their mother's and grandmother's best friends.

It was already afternoon; the sun was beginning to set. Rose looked over at the clock – it was 6:45. She paused once more in her thoughts to toddle off into the kitchen, once more. This time, she took a pouch of pasta out of the cupboard. She flicked on the television, listening to the news as she put the pot on to boil for her dinner. Faintly, she heard stories of traffic accidents, tourists, and of new politicians already blundering in their official duties as she stirred the simmering pasta and sauce. The beginning notes of "Jeopardy!" rang out as Rose dumped the pasta into a bowl; she carried it over the table. [Hey, Dorothy,] the elderly woman thought, [I wonder how many of these questions you'd guess right on tonight's episode?] She slurped the noodles quietly, watching the younger contestants rack up scores higher than a year's worth of salary – even in her best working year.

In the second round, a girl chose one of the easier questions under "Cooking Terms". Alex Trebek read out the answer on the screen: "The cooking technique described as boiling vegetables in order to soften them." One of the boys buzzed in and answered: "What is 'blanch'?"

Rose flicked off the television; as she put her bowl and the pot into the sink, Rose thought to herself, [Blanche, you were a Jeopardy! Question – imagine that…] Rose went back to her place on the couch; blanket wrapped firmly around her once more. [After Dorothy, I guess you were next, huh, Blanche?]

Life had carried on after Dorothy's funeral – as well as could be expected anyway. Kate called once a month; Michael called every week… That dwindled off after the first six months after their mother's passing. Life moved on for them, as well. Sure, the kids still called – but it became once every other week, once a month, every other month… Even Lucas called once in a while, and Stan popped by for the occasional visit.

Rose finally retired from her job at the television station, where she'd resumed working after moving back to the Miami home. Blanche also took this as a sign of the times and retired from her post at the museum, too. They were growing older, and it was time to slow down and enjoy the time they had left.

Blanche's liaisons with men also slowed, and eventually stopped. She just wasn't as young as she once was. Over their almost-nightly cheesecakes, Rose got to hear well more than she ever wanted to about the random trysts and romantic partners of one Blanche Deveraux. Rose understood more as to why Sophia always made remarks about Blanche being slutty. Her life practically played out like some dime-store romance novel!

In the course of their nightly talks, Blanche admitted one night, "Yknow Rose, I've spent most of my life on my back." Rose stifled a giggle, and Blanche playfully slapped Rose's arm, "I'm being serious here, honey!" Rose finally managed to stop giggling long enough for Blanche to finish, "Honey, I don't want to be buried in a box either – when I die, do my funeral like Dorothy's – cremate me, put me out at the pier, at the tree, then have someone take me back home to Georgia and put me near my mama and Big Daddy." Rose nodded, feeling it was the right thing to do.

The two celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas together that year. For Valentine's Day, the two agreed to be the other's Valentine – and treated each other to dinner and wine, toasting to the loved ones they've lost along the way.

Another month had passed, and spring was creeping in to Miami… just as a chill was creeping into the heart of Rose Nylund. It was a Thursday that started out like any other. Rose had woken up first and already gone into the kitchen to put on the pot of coffee; she was halfway through her first cup when Blanche started to come down the stairs. Rose listened to Blanche's footfalls on the stairs – almost instantly, she knew something was a little… off.

Blanche came staggering in to the kitchen, her gait seemed a bit… sluggish, somehow. Rose watched as the other woman grabbed out a frying pan from the cupboard and two eggs from the fridge. "Honey," Rose called out to her, "do you want me to take care of that for you?" Blanche shook her head, "No, I'm fine… just having a little trouble getting started today. I don't feel so good." Blanche placed the frying pan on the stove and lit the eye; she paused, her hand poised – ready to crack the shell of the first egg. Crack! The shell broke… and Blanche fell to the floor. Rose spun in her seat, looking on in horror at the scene that lay before her. Rose knelt down to the floor beside her ailing friend, frantically asking questions, "Blanche, what's wrong? Honey, what is it?" Blanche didn't respond. Rose saw Blanche's face drooping toward the left. Quickly ruling out heart attack, Rose fired questions at Blanche: "Can you smile for me, Blanche?" The right side turned up, but only slightly. "Raise your arms for me; can you do that, Blanche?" Blanche raised her arms, the right lifting higher than the left. "Blanche, I need you to repeat after me: Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, Sophia." …. "Blan…. Door…. Row…. Ssss-" Rose knew it, Blanche was having a stroke. As quickly as she could, Rose turned off the lit eye and scurried over to the phone and dialed 911.

It took a lifetime for the ambulance to arrive. Rose rode with Blanche to the hospital, refusing to leave her side. In agony, Rose waited through the minutes that seemed like hours, and the hours that seemed to go on for days, until Blanche's doctor finally appeared in the waiting room. She'd had a severe stroke, the doctor informed her. Apparently, Blanche would be suffering from a few side effects – slurred speech, slower movement, etc., for a little while. All Rose could do was nod somberly with this new information. Blanche had already been moved into a room, the doctor informed her, and offered to lead Rose to the room, if she wished. Rose walked down the clean, too-bright corridors, through the twists and turns of the hospital's halls, and through the door of the room where Blanche had been moved to.

Rose sat and waited while Blanche slept – she'd picked up the phone to call Rebecca, Blanche's daughter – the only one she had a number for. Aurora picked up; Rose calmly asked for her mother, and finally Rebecca's voice came over the speaker – "Hello?" Rose broke the news of Blanche's stroke, answering any questions that Rebecca had, regarding her mother's condition. Finally, Rebecca promised to let her siblings know, and to come to the hospital just as soon as she could. The phone call ended with that promise… now, all Rose could do was wait. Blanche stirred slightly in the bed; her eyes cracked open just a bit and she groaned. Rose smiled at her, "You gave me quite the scare, honey. How're you feeling?" Blanche groaned again – Rose decided to tell Blanche what the doctors had said, regarding her condition. As she was finishing up, Rebecca and Aurora walked in for a visit. Rose excused herself to go home and pack a bag, so she could come back and stay with Blanche. Down in the lobby, Rose called a taxi from one of the pay phones. Minutes later, she was in the back of the tiny, dingy car headed back home.

In no time at all, Rose had a bag packed and she was driving her car back to the hospital. Rebecca and Aurora stayed for a few minutes longer after Rose returned. Blanche had gone back to sleep. Various nurses popped in every so often to check in on Blanche, to make sure her condition hadn't gotten worse. One very sweet nurse brought in dinner for the two of them; Blanche slept through dinner, and Rose was too fraught with nerves to do anything more than pick at the lumps of food on the tray.

Later, a nurse came by with a rollaway cot for Rose, seeing how the aging woman refused to leave her friend's bedside. Rose excused herself from the sleeping woman in the bed to get changed for bed. When she emerged from the bathroom, she saw that Blanche's eyes were opened. "Hello," Rose offered tentatively, "How're you feeling, honey?" Blanche groaned a little, attempting a weak smile, but only the right corner of her mouth tipping slightly upward. Rose asked, "Can I get you anything, honey? …Some water? Would you like that?" Blanche barely nodded. After Rose helped her to take a sip from the water bottle next to the bed, Blanche's voice came small and strained, "Sss…. O…laf." Rose wasn't quite sure what she meant, "What, honey?" Blanche repeated the phrase; this time, she understood, "You want me to tell you one of my St. Olaf stories?" Blanche nodded. "Boy," Rose replied, "You must really be feeling lousy if you want me to tell you one of those!" With a chuckle, Rose settled down on to the side of the bed, and began her story – very much the same way she would tell stories to her children at bedtime.

"…and that was the story of Gunilla Ulfstadder," Rose ended her story minutes later; Blanche had fallen asleep close to the end. Happy to have helped, Rose slid off the side of the bed and climbed beneath the blankets of her own bed and drifted off to sleep, herself.

A week later, the doctors finally released Blanche to go home. The stroke had taken its toll on Blanche – Rose noticed the great amount of effort that it took for Blanche to ask for even a simple glass of water. Her movements were sluggish, cumbersome. The doctors had cautioned Rose to take great care in Blanche's rehabilitation, because at Blanche's age, it would be harder for her to recover.

The new routine was established the first night back home. Over coffee, Blanche would ask Rose for another one of her St. Olaf stories; Rose began keeping a list, being sure she never told Blanche the same story twice. After the tale, Rose would escort her friend up the stairs and into the bedroom before retreating to her own for the night. This became the norm for the next three months – physical rehabilitation in the mornings, speech therapy in the afternoons, and St. Olaf stories at bedtime. Over the course of these few months, Blanche had recovered considerably; she'd regained her speech and most of her physical capabilities.

Rose blinked away the tears that began to form; it was always like this when she thought back to that June… [It was my fault, wasn't it, Blanche?] She wondered, [Maybe if I had just gotten to you sooner – maybe there was something more I could have done – maybe- something-]

When they'd returned home from Blanche's initial stroke three months before, Rose had to escort her friend up and down the stairs throughout the house. Through her physical therapy, Blanche had regained enough strength and confidence to try the stairs on her own. At first, going up tired her out halfway up… and coming down, Blanche would stumble over the last few steps. These days, she was able to toddle up and down the stairs on her own, with a modicum of skill.

That night, over dinner, Blanche looked over at her old friend, "Honey, you don't have to keep worrying about me. I'm doing pretty well, now, aren't I?" Rose nodded, "Well, sure, Blanche, but I don't think you may be out of the woods just yet…" Blanche smiled at Rose's sincerity, "Now, honey, don't you worry about me. I think in the morning, I'll just come down on my own. Who knows? I may even surprise you – I just may even put the coffee on before you get down here." It was a challenge, and Rose smiled. "Alright, Blanche, but don't be surprised if I still beat you down here. After all, you've got to get up pretty early to beat this old Minnesota farm girl!"

Although it'd been many decades since Rose had even set foot on her parents' old farm, Rose was used to being up before dawn. This morning was no exception. Rose awoke at 5:30, and crept to Blanche's door. Inside, she heard her friend scuffling around, crawling out from under the blankets, and into her nightgown. Rose smiled, Blanche was determined to win this challenge, it seemed. Rose crept back to her room to wait; she couldn't help but let out a quiet giggle, knowing her actions would go far in building up Blanche's confidence. She quietly closed the door, hopped back in bed and pulled the blankets over her. She heard footsteps stopping right outside her bedroom door. For dramatic effect, Rose snored rather noisily. Apparently satisfied, Rose heard the footsteps retreating and beginning to thump… thump… then clatter down the stairs.

Rose pushed the blankets off of her, threw back her bedroom door and stood at the landing of the stairs… and screamed, "BLANCHE!" There was no answer, simply an old woman lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Rose made her way down the stairs quicker than she had in years. She scanned Blanche's face – the light quickly fading in the Southern Belle's eyes. Rose scooped Blanche's head into her lap, "Honey, can you hear me?" Blanche's lips fluttered, but no sound came from them. Fearing another stroke, Rose fired off at Blanche, "Smile, Blanche! Raise your arms! Smile, damn it!" Rose made to get up – heading for the nearest phone to call for help, but a hand clutching at her dressing gown made her turn back to her friend.

Blanche maintained her tight grip on the cloth – Rose locked eyes with Blanche and could see the pleading and the sorrow in the woman's eyes as Blanche breathed her last – "Rose-." Her grip failed and her eyes looked distant – no, vacant. "Blanche? ...BLANCHE! Don't you DARE! Don't you dare leave me, too!" Rose was screaming at her. Finally free of Blanche's grip, she made for the phone and dialed 911.

"911 – what's your emergency?" "I need an ambulance – my friend had a stroke and fell down the stairs!" "What's your location, ma'am?" In her panic, Rose said the address too quickly for the dispatch to hear, "I need you to remain clam – now, could you repeat that, ma'am?" Rose took a deep breath and called the address out to the dispatch again. "Alright, help is on the way – where is your friend located in the house?" "In the hallway, at the foot of the stairs." "Is your friend moving?" "No, I don't even think she's breathing…" Rose began to cry out in anguish, fearing that she'd just watched Blanche die right in front of her. "Ma'am, please try to remain calm." The thought had frightened Rose, but the woman's voice on the other end of the phone helped her keep it together, "Ma'am, I'm going to need some information on your friend. Could you answer a few questions for me?" Rose took another breath. "Name?" "Blanche Deveraux." "Age?" "Don't know – she never said; I'm going to guess late 60's. She'd thank me for that." "Any prior history of illness?" "Yes, she's had a stroke before… 3 months ago." There was a knock at the door. The paramedics had arrived… it'd been nearly 10 minutes. Rose was screaming in her mind, [WHY HAVE THEY TAKEN SO LONG?]

The dispatch disconnected the call so Rose could let them in. Two men walked into the house… [Blanche would've loved that…], Rose thought to herself, a lame attempt at cheering herself up. The older paramedic led Rose to the couch. She wound up repeating many of the same answers to the paramedic while the other man worked on her friend to assess the situation. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw the paramedic pass a hand over Blanche's face. He was closing her eyes. Rose's attention turned toward the man, "Blanche? BLANCHE!" Her gaze turned to the paramedic who had worked on her, "What's wrong?" "Ma'am," the younger paramedic asked, "When did you say she'd fell?" "Just a few minutes before I called," she replied. "I'm sorry, ma'am," the young man said, "She died before we ever got here." Rose backed away, shaking her head, trying to will her tears to stay back…

…but they wouldn't stay. Tears began to pour as the older paramedic stepped away to call back to the dispatch on his radio, "Need to get the coroner over here… What time did the call come in from this residence?" The voice on the other end came, garbled. Rose was unable to hear the response, her sobs too great. "Okay," replied the paramedic, "Tell the coroner that – yeah, that's about the time of death."

The world got hot and started to spin. Rose stood up from the couch. She took a step forward – then she was falling, things went black.

A few tears blazed their trails down Rose's cheeks before quietly splashing onto her blanket. The old woman lifted her weary gaze, a photo of the old Southern Belle smiled up at her. Rose asked the photo, "Blanche, did I do the right thing that day?" Her voice quivered as she continued to speak, "You were holding on so tight – like you didn't want me to go… but I let you DIE, Blanche! Right in front of me!" Rose sobbed, the year-old wounds as raw as the day Blanche died.

Rose found her voice again, and it came out small, yet loud in the profound silence of the house, "…if I'd left to call the ambulance, you would have died alone…"

The coroner eventually showed up, and Rose was awakened. In the brief conversation with the coroner, Rose directed him to take Blanche to the same funeral home that handled both Sophia and Dorothy. Finally, everyone left, and for the first of many days to come, Rose was alone. She took a few moments to breathe and collect her thoughts. When she felt as composed as she was ever going to get, she picked up the phone in the living room and dialed Rebecca's number. It was hard to tell Rebecca the news, even harder to listen to little Aurora's cries over her beloved grandmother. Rebecca said she'd take care of the newspaper announcement and would call the rest of the family. After she hung up the phone, Rose carefully tottered back up the stairs and toward Blanche's room. Out of courtesy, Rose had always knocked before she entered the room. It seemed wrong, somehow, to stop doing that now. She knocked, peered around the door and into the room. Gingerly, she walked over to the closet and picked out Blanche's favorite dress. It was red chiffon with white flowers sewn into the bodice. Rose collected it and Blanche's favorite white heels and took them with her to her room. She got dressed the collected the items once more and took them to the funeral home for Blanche's final viewing.

Before the viewing began, Rose went out and purchased the seemingly new tradition of four roses: this time, 3 red and 1 white. She arranged them under Blanche's folded hands, and then waited for the viewing to begin.

[Rebecca must have gotten hold of her mother's little black book,] Rose marveled. Most of the attendants at her viewing were old flames, most of whom had made an appearance or two at the home the women had shared together. At least half of the male population in Miami had turned out to say goodbye to their favorite Southern Lady. The rest of the attendees were Blanche's children, her granddaughter, and a few other relatives.

Although they'd spoken a few times since Dorothy's funeral – both Stan and Lucas put in an appearance. Though many marveled at how peaceful Blanche looked, thankfully, most shied away from asking Rose to recount those final moments – as Rose was barely holding herself together.

After the viewing, Blanche's children and Uncle Lucas rode with Rose back to the house. Over coffee, Rose finally recounted, for the first time since it'd happened, the events up to and surrounding Blanche's final moments.

Everyone did their best to try to allay Rose's fears and regrets that still haunted the elderly woman over the next year and a half; not one claim made by Blanche's relatives assuaged her guilty conscience, although she nodded her head, as if to acknowledge their words, but feeling not the first ounce of comfort.

The next day felt like Dorothy's funeral, all over again. Blanche's children and a few relatives stuck around after the funeral service, through Blanche's cremation – swapping favorite stories while they waited. As with Dorothy's ashes, the relatives gathered with Rose as she released a handful at the pier and another handful at the same tree that Dorothy had been placed at. As for the rest, Rose granted Blanche's request – Rebecca and Aurora took a trip to the old Hollingsworth estate, just outside Atlanta, to place the rest of her mother's remains with Big Daddy and Granny Hollingsworth.

Over the next year and a half, Rose simply retreated into herself. Day after day was spent in the same monotony, with the rare visitor or phone call breaking the bitter loneliness that she often felt. On special occasions, Rose would go out – sometimes to enjoy dinner alone or with Stan – toasting and remembering her cherished housemates. This became the new routine, day in and day out.

Night had fallen over Miami. Rose looked out the window leading to the lanai – clouds had rolled in, and no moonlight shone through. The clock read out the time as 11:30pm – she had been there on the couch all day. Rose stood – the cold air in the house attacked her bones and she let out a groan. She'd left the heat down way too low again. Rose figured it was time for bed; slowly, she toddled over to the stairs and climbed them, one by one.

A quick hot shower later, she was ready for bed. She slipped under the blankets of her bed and reached over to her bedside table, grabbing the picture frame that rested on it. It held a photo of Sophia, Blanche, Dorothy, and Rose – taken a Christmas party back before Dorothy's wedding to Lucas. The women in the photo were smiling, displaying more happiness and joy in a brief moment than Rose had experienced all year long. Rose offered a small smile, "It's on nights like these that I sure do miss you girls… Especially you, Dorothy. I could've really used a friend tonight." Blinking back tears, Rose placed the plastic frame back on the bedside table and snuggled down under the barely warm bedding and turned off the lights. For the first time all year, sleep came quickly to Rose Nylund… and so did dreams.

Rose was standing in a white room – the only thing that broke the monotony in the room was her, and her light rose-pink pajamas. She called out tentatively, "Hello?" Rose looked around, but saw nothing but the stark white floor and walls – she called out again, "Hello!" A voice came from behind her, it's familiar smoky, gravelly tone comforting, "Hello, honey." Rose spun around – it was Dorothy! Every bit as healthy and happy as she'd remembered her to be, looking wonderful in her white pantsuit. Happy, Rose called out the other woman's name and went to embrace her, "What are you doing here?" "Well, Rose," Dorothy explained, "You said you needed a friend – and here I am. Call it a late Christmas present." Dorothy listened as Rose explained what had prompted her request – another Christmas alone, the loneliness, and the sadness brought on because of her memories. "I guess sadness didn't hit me until I started thinking about Blanche," Rose explained, "I still carry that guilt. I never knew if I did the right thing or night or if I could've saved her I'd just gotten to a phone sooner." "No, honey, you did the right thing," a voice with a Scarlett O'Hara southern drawl called out. Blanche stepped into view, wearing a gauzy dress, typical of the style that she preferred in her life. "Blanche! You're here, too?" "Well, of course, Rose," Blanche smiled at her friend, "How could I just leave you hanging?" After another embrace, Rose repeated her question. Blanche chuckled and smiled, shaking her head, "Oh, honey, you did what I wanted you to do. It just felt like it was my time, and I didn't want to go all alone. Why the hell do you think I held on to you so tight?" In the distance, the booming of thunder sounded. Blanche suddenly looked repentant, "Oops! Sorry, Lord!"

Rose was excited – not one but two of her best friends were standing right in front of her, talking with her. Rose couldn't help but utter, "This reminds me of Ingmar Straussen, St. Olaf's-" A third voice cut her off, "You mean we're gonna have to listen to this crap for all eternity?" Peering behind Dorothy and Blanche, Rose saw the distinctive form of Sophia Petrillo in a thick brocade two-piece dress… and the old familiar bamboo handbag perched on her left arm. "Sophia!" The tiny woman smiled up at her, "Hello, Rose. It's been a while."

The women chatted a while, sitting around a dining table that looked oddly like the one from their Miami kitchen. At some point in the conversation, Rose's smile faded, and her face dropped to look at her hands. Dorothy placed a hand on top of Rose's and asked, "Honey? What's the matter?" "At some point," Rose said, somberly, "I'll have to wake up, and I'll be alone again." Dorothy, Blanche, and Sophia exchanged looks. Blanche decided to speak first, "Well, honey, it's kind of why we're here…" Dorothy added, "We're here to help make it easier, Rose." Rose asked, confused, "To make what easier, Dorothy?" "Having a baby at your age, Rose," Sophia's snappy quip caused Rose to turn toward Sophia. Sophia set her handbag on the table, Rose took a moment to truly take in the sight – protruding out of the top of the bag were four red roses. Dorothy explained, "We're here to take you with us. You're not going to be alone anymore." Rose smiled, but just as quickly – it faded. Rose asked, her voice came weakly, and filled with childlike fear, "….Does it hurt?" Sophia smiled as she shook her head. Blanche replied, "Those last moments, I saw bright lights, and felt warm." Dorothy answered, too, "I felt at peace. I felt like I was going to sleep." Contented with the answers, Rose stood. "Let's go, then. Together." Sophia stood and collected the old bamboo handbag, passing the roses it carried to Rose. Blanche and Dorothy stood and the four women smiled at one another. Gathering around their friend, the room disappeared, and they walked toward the light, together once more.

If you're still with me after this monster of a story – THANK YOU! I simply hope that I've done this, the women, and you, the fans, justice with this story. Feedback is appreciated. This was a two month long writing journey – typically, once I start a story, it doesn't take this long to write it! I just hope that the time was worth it to give you a quality story – after all, that is my goal: quality, not necessarily quantity. Now, to go back and finish the other 4 or 5 stories I've already half-way written… perhaps there will be more before the end of 2011. All my love- Z.