June 23rd, 2016

[2:37am]

The poor guy fell asleep again. After all of that palaver, that stunning, authentic performance, he conked out for the second time. He was very intoxicated, in his defence. All it took was me to console him softly as I asked myself, What have you done? What have you caused? And as I looked out at the city lights and the full moon spilling through, and I wonder why I went to such lengths to connect with a stranger. It's because Rose never should have died, my thoughts always tell me. You need to keep her alive.

◆

Parents can get a little desperate, can't they? They can pop out as many kids as they wish but they'll still act like each child is a treasure. They'll never have them again; they'll never feel that same kind of love again. And I'm pretty sure every parent has that one favourite child that they don't ever mention out loud, and that's the one that they'll hold on to the most. Sometimes it's the middle child; the precious middle child, who has the gift of responsibility for those younger than them and the fragility of being a younger sibling all the same. Sometimes it's the eldest child – the first, the best. The influential figure, the precedent for any other of their kids to follow. And sometimes, it's the last born. The baby of the family, the attention-seeking, attention-soaked kid who needs to be protected at all costs. The parents will think to themselves, and feel so guilty for it, that they would save that one child if they had to pick. They would leap into a burning house to pluck them out safely – they would hand over that ransom money if it meant they could hold that kid once more, even if the other kids are still tied up in that creep's basement, and they won't ever see the goddamn light of day again. Secretly, parents have a favourite child and they're normally the poster-kid who wins all the awards, makes all the friends, gets all those A's, makes the family look good at functions and events. Most of the time they end up being athletic or super-artsy, or like, budding heart surgeons or lawyers. Parents will have a few kids, and they'll smile and point at that one child and be like, 'That's the one. That's our job done perfectly.' And they'll kiss their fingers like Italian chefs and pretend they love all of their kids all the same.

I think that's what happened with Rose. They couldn't bear to let her go.

So here she is, resurrected. Here she is, stalking old friends who are, like, millennia old now. She's here in the form of me, in the year of 2016, making her way back to a cheap hotel a couple of miles away from Bret Wade's apartment.

I don't want to brag. I wasn't a perfect child, but obviously I was worth holding on to. Sometimes I wonder if my parents would have gone through all that effort to keep Jacque or Jamie alive, and I tend to frown in doubt. I mean, they're wonderful people, don't get me wrong - but they were no Jennifer-Rose. They were not like me. I even got a hyphen name, for Christ's sake. I was too perfect for just one name. I was a masterpiece. They nodded in relief when they realised their last-born was their job-done-perfectly child.

And they couldn't bear to see me die so young.

I had to keep going, for them. Jacque and Jamie Middleton were not enough. They needed their Three, their Third. Poster-child Jennifer-Rose needed to stick around.

Of course, you can't honestly expect her to be the same the second time around, can you?

As I said before, parents can be pretty desperate. And my parents are the embodiment of desperation; they reek with overbearing love and hope, and their grasp on the things they cherish is strong enough to reel in a ship back to the dock. Despite my accomplishments and my awards, and all the friends that looked up to me, and all the boys that thought they loved me, they needed more of that reassurance that I was perfection, and that perfection cannot die. But oh, dear, we all die. Perfection and imperfection; heroes and villains; angels and monsters. Jennifer-Rose was never going to be immortal.

Then I laugh again, because maybe she was meant to be. Maybe she'll re-spawn when she appears to be losing the game of life, and she'll pop back up like a whack-a-mole into every new generation.

The Uber driver is silent the whole journey, probably tired and too lazy to ask questions like why a teenager needs a ride in the early hours of the morning. I check my phone to find three missed calls from my mother. I don't get her concern; I called her to let her know that I'll be gone for a few days. I told her not to call the cops to play hide and seek looking for me, plastering my face on every lamp post and billboard. I told her I haven't been recruited by an evangelist cult or a satanic ring, nor have I joined the circus or fled to Vegas to marry a rock star. I'm just a couple of hundred miles away, in the city of Presley, meeting up with an old friend. A friend I never knew, but the First me did.

When I get back to my hotel room, I throw off the beige cardigan I found amongst many other treasures in the attic at home. Reading through diaries of my First Life, I clocked that it was something Bret would recognise. In Rose's penultimate diary entry, she mentioned something about wearing it, and I know that was the last time she saw him; the last time I saw him in my First Life.

◆

To everybody else, Jennifer-Rose isn't the old Me. She is my 'sister' – the one who died in that God-awful shooting in '99, and my parents grieved by popping out another one before the menopause could grab my mom by the ankles and drag her into infertility. That's how everyone sees it. That's how my parents wanted it to look. But there was always something sinister about the situation; the timing, the desperation for another child, and above all, the physical similarities. Friends and family can observe the tactically chosen framed photos of Rose in the hallway of our house, where she poses with her toothy grin, cheek dimples and soft grey eyes.

They made a big move bringing me back into this world. It was only fair that I found out, and that I lived out my destiny. Three months ago, it felt like a tonne of bricks raining all over me when I discovered everything in the attic. It was something that had to happen – I had to know.

I always knew that all of Rose's things were in the attic. I knew that my parents put out some framed photos around the house to keep her memory alive, but they kept everything else in the attic. They couldn't let go of her clothes or sell them off, and I suppose they just kept them with the notion that I would be willing to embarrass myself in the future and wear such aged attire. I never felt like exploring, myself; I never had the instinct to unlock the attic and take a peak of what was there. At first, I thought it was just because I didn't mind, and I knew that all that would be there would be possessions of Rose, things that held no relevance to me. But I knew deep down that another part of me was just scared; I began to think of that place as Rose's shrine, or tomb. It's crucial to not disturb the dead, and as I was lied to all my life and told she was my late sister, I didn't want to disrupt her peace by rummaging through her things. It became the one part of the house that was left untouched, except maybe by my father very occasionally, possibly to upkeep it and prevent any sort of pest invasion. I just accepted that the attic was not my place, it was Rose's. But one day, my drunk ass decided that curiosity didn't kill the cat at all, and the discovery I made lead me to believe that no, curiosity just reveals the cat's fate.

The moment you discover something that tilts your life over, it's hard to try adjusting to it. Nothing is ever the same again. And no matter how much I love my parents, I don't think after what I found up there, I can ever look them in the eyes without feeling an uncomfortable pain in my chest every time. All I know is that I have to live it out now; I have to live past sixteen, flourish as the poster-child my parents wanted me to be. I'll have to complete my degree and get married, and be the person I was always meant to be.

But before I can do that, I have a few kinks to iron out; a few unfinished stories to complete.

I check how much cash I have left in my bag. I get a guilty twinge in my chest, knowing I swiped my parents' credit card before I left, taking out probably more than I really need for my expedition. I needed gas for the journey, before my car got towed half way through and is sitting lonely in another town's impound - I know I'll have to pay a fortune to get it out again (sorry, Mother). I needed money for the hotel and living costs for as long as I'm not home. I'm going to need travelling money for the journey home, or at least to get to the town where my car was towed. Though I do feel bad for stealing money off of my old parents, I don't feel bad enough. That's the least they deserve, for keeping secrets.

Sitting on my hotel room, I sift through my bag and wean out Rose's diary. I've probably read through it a million times now. It spans around two years, but it's the second year where things get really interesting. This diary is the tool that helps me fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. It's one of the gems I found in the attic, along with the other props. Once I sat through it chronologically around three times, I now just flip to whichever entry my fingers land on. This time, as I slide my thumb across an aged yellow page towards the end of the book, I land on the entry dated 4th of July – just over a week before she died. She's angry with Bret Wade, angry with what he's done. She's angry with his infidelity and hates being any part of it. She just wishes for him to do the right thing. Eight days later, she dies.

He goes on to marry Sofia a few years later, which obviously meant he didn't do what he was supposed to do. Rose would only be turning in her grave at the thought of it.

I know if I'm to play this out properly, I just have to play at his conscience. But I must be as soft as a flower, as soft as an angel. To the New Rose, nothing should matter anymore. It's all about resolve, not retribution. If he wants a second chance at doing right, whether it's an apology or the truth, he has it now.

Just like I have my second chance at life. I lived before and I live again.

But like I said...

Kind of.

◆ ◆ ◆

1982

"I think we should have one more," Roseanna Middleton smiles, leaning on Jeff's shoulder as they lounge on the couch.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Honey. We've only just moved to California. We need time to settle. I want to go further into my acting career. And you're still modelling."

"I don't want to be one of those parents who have their kids at sporadic times, Jeff. I don't want there to be a huge age gap between our children. Jamie's almost four, Jacque's just turned two. We need to get number three over with."

"Does there really have to be a number three?" He sighs, though deep down, the idea interests him more than it bothers him.

"We gotta save the best for last, right? They might end up becoming brain surgeons or singers or something."

"And our other kids won't?" He huffs.

Roseanna positions herself upright. "Look, I know we didn't come to any deals about kids when we got married, but always told you I wanted three. It's the perfect number!"

"I think we should focus on our work. Soon you'll just be a full-time Momma, and I'll be the one working and you'll never make it out of the front door. Cali is a wonderful place, full of amazing opportunities. If I keep working, I know I'll make it to Hollywood. I can see it. Then once we've got that perfect beach-house mansion or whatever, Three can come around." He sips on the can of beer perched on the table beside him.

"I think we should get it all over with, right now." Roseanna responds, slightly sterner, more demanding. Jeff is a strong man; the Cherokee blood that runs through his veins from his mother's side made him a fighter at heart – strong-willed and passionate. He used to get into brawls with bikers and redneck junkies down back home plenty of times, but he still always weakens at the sound of Roseanna's voice, when she asks for something. His main goal in life is to make her happy, and he'd do anything to achieve that. That's why his skin prickles when her words become sharper, because he knows he'll obey her. She knows this too. "I don't mind being the housewife that stays at home all the time. I'm twenty-four now; I've lived through the epitome of my modelling career. I'm married with two kids – what will one more do to us?" She continues.

"Roseanna. You're only twenty-four. What compels you to settle down so fast?" Jeff sighs.

"I was scouted outside of the Cheesecake Factory when I was fifteen. At the time, I thought it would be an awesome idea. I'm grateful for all the places it took me, and all the fortunes I've made. I'm grateful to have been on the cover of Vogue and walking Paris and Milan. I'll never take for granted the trips to Dubai and Cuba and all the red carpets I've walked on. But as a child, I had that corny old dream of getting married, having three kids, owning a nice café or restaurant somewhere. I wanna do that."

Jeff shrugs, finishing off his beer with a few large gulps.

"They might be a blessing, Jeff. They might be the final piece to fit – to complete our family. They might be the one. Our job-done-perfectly."

August 5th, 1983

"Ain't she a sweetheart?" Shelly coos all over the baby.

"Sure is," Roseanna beams proudly. "She hasn't been much hassle since she came, only crying when she needs to."

"Aren't you a lucky one? Were your other ones this peaceful?"

"Jamie was a nightmare, to tell you the truth. Jacque was a little better. But this one... she's a blessing."

"Third time lucky, huh?" Shelly laughs.

"Something like that."

Roseanna props herself up on the hospital bed, fanning herself with a leaflet on the bedside table. The August heat is smothering, sweltering, sizzling. It was one thing giving birth, but another trying to fight the heat and keep hydrated too.

Shelly, Roseanna's cousin and long-term childhood companion, flew all the way from Arkansas to Los Angeles, not only to see her new goddaughter, but also to catch up with Roseanna's life so far. They last saw each other over a year ago, keeping in touch via letters and phone calls. Life had been a whirlwind since Roseanna Middleton's modelling fame, but since things died down in the last few years, they've been able to keep in contact a bit more.

"Seven pounds," Roseanna mutters softly. "That's how much she weighs. No more, no less. Exactly seven. Isn't that perfect?"

Jeff went out for a quick smoke, having exhausted himself from driving up to L.A. in the middle of the night and staying up until the baby arrived. It's now almost twelve hours later, and things are only just beginning to settle. And the doctors say that they're free to be discharged on the same day, so he'll have to prepare himself for another drive back to Bluebeach. He wants to sleep so badly, but the heat is making it impossible to do anything. And he's still buzzing from everything; he feels like a little kid on Christmas, finding it hard to settle once they've received their present. He feels like jumping around, yelling to the world how happy he's feeling. At the same time, he also feels like he might collapse. Maybe a strong burst of coffee would keep him going for a while, so he slides back into the hospital, making his way to the canteen.

Shelly can't let go of the child. She's too precious to give back. "There's something about her," she tells Roseanna. "What's her name again? My memory's failing me."

"Jennifer... Rose. Jennifer-Rose."

"Ahh, I see - adding a little touch of your name there. What are you gonna call the next one? Anna?" She laughs.

"Oh, there'll definitely be no next one." She responds, rising from her bed to stretch. Her body is still aching, but overall, she feels good. Better than ever. She probably has the 'new-mom' glow, because it certainly feels like she does.

"Not gonna be a big old family like how we lived back home?"

"God, no." Roseanna shakes her head. She thinks back to all the other cousins, aunts, and uncles that lived crammed in alongside her own siblings and parents back when she was a child. It was definitely a nostalgic environment, and she never spent a second alone - but it's a place she's glad she's still not hanging around. Shelly moved out a while back, but there are probably still a few family members her age, lurking around the homestead. "We settled on three. Now I promised Jeff we'd focus on more work-related stuff. He has a few acting gigs, and TV is calling for me to present a few things. I could be hosting a modelling contest soon. I'm gonna keep my husband's promise and focus on work now, as well as my kids. It's only fair."

Roseanna scoops her daughter back from Shelly's arms, staring into her wide open eyes. Her skin is soft and cheeks a blush-tinted pink, and her eyes are a cool grey, like her own. This girl's gonna be a storm, she thinks to herself. It's in her eyes. She's gonna be a raging storm.