Who: Adam and Daryl What: Celebrating her grandmother's birthday Where: Bathos 204 When: Sunday afternoon Warnings: Excellent if you're in need of a cathartic cry, with the usual mood whiplash between utterly adorable and mind-breakingly deperessing.
It wasn’t the solid week of scouring Ms. Dailey’s home and personal possessions for any and all clues that exhausted her. It wasn’t the dozens of charts she had compiled that made her muscles ache when she woke that morning. It wasn’t the lack of sleep and proper nutrition that made her feel as if she had just lived a thousand years in one night. It was the calendar, the neat rows of black and white cells with pristine numbers in the corners, that weighed on her shoulders like a two-ton truck. From her bed, she could see it, staring her in the face, beating her until the breath had left her lungs and she was reduced to mush.
March 27, 2011. Jessica Hockney would have been 99 today. If she had stayed in Musings, if Daryl had stayed with her, then she would have looked not a day over 72. She’d have been as astute as always, mentally sharp and capable. On her own birthday, she’d have made breakfast, not because she wanted to, but because she could. She’d have refused to take the back seat, but finally yielding when Daryl took the reins and held them out of her reach. And even though she didn’t have a sweet tooth, she’d eat more cake than anyone else, because it was her birthday.
Though Daryl hated wasting time, she spent most of the morning in bed. Toby eventually began to paw at her, both out of his own necessity and some misplaced anxiety about her lack of activity. She finally took him for a walk, letting him relieve himself, though she walked as if she were a ghost passing through a haunted house with neither rhyme nor reason. Everything she did was like being on mute, feeling as if the world were passing her by and she couldn’t even see it. After coming in, she fed Toby and locked him in his crate - she couldn’t handle noise today, even quiet noise. With his bone, he was content, completely out of sight and out of mind.
It wasn’t until she was sitting in front of a low coffee table in her living room that she realized something was missing. Fingers wrapped around the lighter, she felt her hand shake as she stared at the unlit wick of the long white candle in the center of the table. She pressed her lips together, setting the lighter down. Something was missing. It had to be recovered.
Ten minutes later, she was opening the door, seeing Adam on the other side. Her expression was flat and blank, as if she were watching paint dry. There was no excitement on her face, no relief. She looked exhausted, skin blotted and pale. Her shoulders sloped as she stepped back, welcoming him inside. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice hollow. “It’s...an occasion I thought would be appropriate to share with you.” Staring at her empty expression was like staring into Hell. Adam hadn’t expected to be greeted by a face like that. He had hoped, in a distant part of her mind, that she would be wearing something naughty and a smile. He had suspected she had a chart in the works that she wanted his advice on. He hadn’t suspected, in the least, that she would be looking at him as though there was no world, no hope, and no life.
He didn’t say much when she invited him in. He nodded and said, “You’re welcome,” in a quiet voice. Then he noticed the table in the living room. There was a single candle on it, and its stark whiteness had caught his attention. As they neared it, he pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow. This was uncharacteristic of her, and didn’t fit her greeting. No. No, that wasn’t true. She had said an occasion, and that could mean anything from a birthday to a funeral. Judging by her expression, he thought it must be something closer to the later.
Silent, he settled himself beside her on the couch, keeping himself carefully contained. He didn’t brush against her, didn’t try to take her hand. He simply sat beside her and waited. She sat beside him, a few inches between them, as she stared at the candle. The silence stretched on forever, as if there would be no relief, and yet she did nothing to remedy it at first. She simply sat, her hands on her lap, fingers laced. Before Adam, she had known everything. She knew what she liked, what she disliked, what was good, what was bad. She knew what morality was - nonsense - and she knew how the world functioned. She knew how she worked, and how her personal habits were to be carried out. But now, Adam was here, and he had to be informed. And she didn’t know how.
“It’s March twenty-seventh,” she said quietly, gaze intent on the unlit candle. Her gray eyes were locked onto it, never wavering. Slowly, she leaned forward, picking up the lighter without breaking her gaze. “My grandmother would have been ninety-nine years old today.” Lips pressed together, she gulped, feeling a lump forming in her throat as she clicked the lighter until a flame roared from its tip. “And still in perfect condition.” She brought the flame to the candle, setting the wick alight. It began to glow, the warmth of the flame bringing out the glittering of her eyes as she set the lighter down. The film of tears in her eyes caught the candle’s flame as it danced, playing games on her pale skin. He didn’t move, didn’t react. He said nothing and did nothing. His gaze on the candle, as hers had been, he listened passively, feeling his heart seize in his chest. He wondered what her grandmother might have looked like, tried to imagine Daryl with different features and grayed hair, and could only picture his own mother, worn with age. Closing his eyes, he took a long but silent breath. When he opened his eyes a moment later, the candle flickered, its flame burning brightly.
Still silent, he reached out with one hand and gently looped his pinky finger around hers. He didn’t know what to say; he hadn’t dealt with much death before, and certainly none so immediate. It brought sharply into focus the fact that his mother and father would one day be just like her grandmother - single candles on a table. Since he had no words to say that could matter in the face of that much grief, he said nothing. Feeling his pinky finger loop around hers, she shifted the slightest bit closer to him, though she didn’t dare look away from the candle. Its flame was small and gentle, bright and inviting, just as her grandmother had been. If she let herself fall into it, let the image take her away, she could pretend for a moment that Jessica Hockney was alive and well. She could delude herself into thinking, for one moment, of her clean and smiling, pleasant and healthy. She could forget the blood and the mess, the screams of her sister and the wailing of sirens. It was all nothing, blanket silence, swept away by the light of the candle.
Before he had come, she had planned on talking to him. She had wanted to explain what had happened to her, what kind of a woman Jessica Hockney had been, what she had done for Daryl. She wanted to tell him stories of when the older woman would brush her hair, always gentle yet never weak, and talk to her about the latest book they had both read. All of those things were piling up on her tongue, wanting to come out, but they got stuck. Lodged against her teeth, they tried and tried but never budged. Instead of words, instead of speech, there were sounds and actions.
Feeling his pinky finger wasn’t enough. She loosed her finger from his grip, shifting her hand until their palms were pressed together. Her fingers were tight around his hand, holding their hands together in a vice grip. The layer of tears that had once shrinkwrapped her eyes began to drip and fall, sliding from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks in a cascade. Though she couldn’t speak, the sobs that pounded her chest and rocked her shoulders communicated in her voicebox’s stead. Adam shifted on the couch until his back was against the arm rest. Not releasing her hand, he pulled her body against his, settling her between his legs before he wrapped his arms around her and just held on. He hated it, that she was crying and that there was nothing he could do. It frustrated and infuriated him. He wanted to remove the hurt from her life, but knew he couldn’t. So he held her, trying to let that gesture be enough to communicate that he was there for her, more than just physically present. He pressed his face to her neck, giving her a few light kisses, and held her, saying “I love you, I love you,” with every gesture even though the words wouldn’t form. Feeling him move her, she neither helped nor hindered. She was dead weight, a ragdoll that he pulled and shifted until she could feel her back rest against his front. The sobs that rolled from her were raw and swollen, cries of agony and loss that made her feel tiny and fragile. It was only Adam’s arms around her that reminded her that she wasn’t going to slip and shatter on the floor. The sensation of his face against her neck, light kisses over her skin, reminded her that he was there and wasn’t going to let her fall. The fingers of her free hand found his arm, wrapping tightly around his bicep with nails that unintentionally prickled his skin. She held on for dear life, pure tenacity, as she sobbed and let her body collapse into his. He moved her again, turning her in his arms so she was facing him. “Sweetheart,” he said gently, wiping the tears from her eyes. “It’s okay.” No, it wasn’t, but he hoped she would understand what he was trying to say. He pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped her face, holding it over her nose until she blew. Then he drew her against his chest, cradling her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “It’s alright, I’m here, sweetheart,” he promised, placing a kiss on her nose and then on the corner of her mouth. “I won’t leave you, I’m here.” Hearing words jarred her temporarily from her tears, eyes opening wide as he shifted her in his arms. She braced her knees against the couch, holding herself up just slightly as he wiped her face and pressed the handkerchief to her nose. Closing her eyes, she blew into it, sniffling a few times as he pulled it away. She was going to thank him, but the words were lost, forgotten as he pulled her close and peppered her face with kisses.
Finally releasing his hand, she wrapped her arms around his neck, letting her forehead come to rest against his. His words were honey, sweet and simple, and they kept her just barely rooted to this planet. With a few more sniffles, she closed her eyes, sliding downwards until she felt her lips brush the point of his chin. She kissed the skin, feeling tears to continue to leak from her closed eyes as she slowly moved upward, capturing his lower lip with her mouth.
The hollow pain in her chest burned into her mind, little holes poked in her frontal lobe. But the gentle pleasure of the kiss temporarily overwhelmed her, swinging her pendulum in the opposite direction. Loss and pain, warmth and pleasure, stood on opposite ends and played tug-of-war between them. Keeping his kisses gentle and light, he brushed his mouth over hers, his hands through her hair. He wanted to distract her, not necessarily seduce her; he wanted to remind her that he was there with her and had no intention of leaving her. Death might take him one day, but that day was far away. They were young; they had so much time.
It was a strange way to kiss someone. Though he had kissed women he didn’t care anything for, this wasn’t the same detachment. Everything he was had a vested interest in every touch of his mouth to hers, and every sense he possessed strained for any change in her, the slightest shift in temperament and demeanor. He was wholly focused on everything she was without being at all invested in what the end-game usually was. And it was better, more fulfilling, to care so deeply that her needs came before his own. Startling and confusing to be sure, but still so desperately beautiful to care for someone before himself.
Adam had never loved himself very much. He had always been painfully aware of his own flaws and shortcomings, things his father never hesitated to point out to him. But her. He could love her. He could love her as himself, instead of himself, and that would be good enough.
“Sweetheart, shh, I’m here.” He gave her a lingering kiss. “Don’t cry, I love you too much to see you hurting, sweetheart. Don’t cry.” It was a vacation from reality, and as much as she wanted to avoid it, she needed it. Every time she felt the pain, she took a kiss, swallowing them like painkillers. Her fingers twirled his hair, body ghosting over his, as she felt herself overwhelmed by the clash of opposing neurons battling one another inside her brain. Everything good and everything bad was a lump of chaos in her skull, and she wasn’t sure if she should avoid or embrace it.
Hearing him speak, whispers against her lips, she pulled back after the last kiss, the tip of her nose still brushing his. She lingered there a moment, tears still coming, before pulling back and wiping her face with the sleeve of her comfortable sweatshirt. Her skin was blotchy, her eyes swollen, and she was dressed like a gray sack of potatoes. Breaths hitched in her chest, she sniffled and sighed, slowly winding down until she could reply.
“If it doesn’t hurt,” she started, looking at him with watery eyes. “Then she meant nothing to me.” Shaking her head, she wiped her eyes again. “And she meant everything, Adam. Her loss was a tragedy, and not...not just a personal one.” She chanced a glance to the candle, watching wax drip down its sides as the flame slowly burned closer to the table. Feeling its gentle warmth, even if it was simply a phantom sensation, helped her ease a slow breath from her chest. He had no words. Adam Morgenstern, who could talk his way around anything, had no words. He had no basis, no perspective on the situation, having never faced it. The biggest grief in his life came in the form of whether or not he should wear black boxers or white ones. His thumb swept over her cheek, brushing away more tears as he looked at her, floundering in a sea of uncertainty. This was why he didn’t do emotion, because when someone fell under their pull, they were helpless. Even someone as strong as Daryl.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because he had nothing else to say. Even through the tears, she could see the uncertainty in his face. Sometimes, knowing people so intimately was a curse. Though Adam was a greater mystery than most, she wasn’t surprised by the two numb words that passed his lips. It’s what people said when they were on autopilot, when there was nothing else. It’s what they said at the funeral, and what they whispered twice when Rachel’s back was turned. It’s what the principal at her new school said when she walked into his office, her aunt and uncle already there to “explain the circumstances.” It was an old response, a tired response, one she was sick of hearing.
She brought both her hands up, burying her face in the pulled-over sleeves of her sweatshirt. She bit the material while she rubbed her eyes, leaking new tears into the worn garment. He wasn’t sorry, because there was nothing to apologize for. She expected this from everyone on the planet, but Adam Morgenstern? He was supposed to know better. He was supposed to have more answers than this.
Without looking, without thinking, without planning, she began to slump forward, tucking her elbows close as she kept her face hidden in her hands. She eased instinctively against his chest, sniffling into her hands. Settling his arms around her, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to tell someone who was hurting so much. He was at a loss. At work, he dealt with numbers, with information easily parsed and easily explained. There was no emotion in investment banking, only facts. Perhaps if his job dealt more with the emotion of things, he would know what to say, what to do.
All he could offer were the physical comorts. They were all he knew. Even if he dealt with emotion, he was a man who gave affection through touch, through contact. He gave gifts. He had never considered that he was buying someone’s affection - usually, the purchase of a gift was to shut up some obnoxious girlfriend - it was just what he did. It was the only thing he knew. But even he knew enough that this required more than he had. “I wish I could give you more than that, sweetheart,” he said, his throat tight, his eyes still shut. “I just... I’ve never...” He sighed. This was going poorly. Feeling his arms around her was a start, a minor comfort that she could latch onto. She fell still, focusing on the beat of his heart, and let her muscles slowly relax. Pulling her hands from her face, she shifted until her nose was pressed against his neck, eyes closed and expression as serene as it could have been under the circumstances. Taking deep, steady breaths, she slid a hand over his chest, curling her fingers lightly over his shoulder.
Hearing his voice in her ears while feeling the rumbling of his chest against hers was strangely pleasant, bringing a bittersweet half-smile to her face. She shifted, bringing her knees closer to her chest as she curled up in his lap. Though her voice was soft and thin, she made no effort to move towards his ear, letting the sound travel as it would. “If I wanted something more than what you could give, I would have invited someone else here.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, shifting to press a kiss to his neck. “I invited you,” she whispered against his skin. A gentle smile came over his face, and he curled his body around hers, cocooning her in his own warmth. One of his fingers looped around her hair, idly drawing it into ringlets. “This is all I have,” he told her in a quiet voice. “But you have all of me.” That would be enough, he thought. That was all either of them needed. It was a frightening thing to declare, even in a hushed voice in a room holding just the two of them. Toby, thankfully, was elsewhere. Even in their solitude, the words were hard to conceive of, despite how readily they came to his tongue. Speaking them aloud was oddly like flinging oneself out of an airplane in sheer desperation, certain you would die either way, and then finding a parachute strapped to your back. Being enveloped by him was a comfort, a warm blanket that protected her from the bitter chill outside. Though his voice was soft, she listened intently, hanging on every word. Despite the hollow pain in her chest the calendar left behind, she felt something stir behind the anguish. Something stronger, something resilient. “It’s the most I could ask for,” she murmured, reaching up to stroke her fingers very slowly over his hair. “And the best I could have.”