There is silence…dead silence. Once upon a time, there was a point where the silence meant that it was all right, that it was fine for him to come out from wherever it was that he'd been. But he had been a child, then, and needed something to tell him it was safe. Now, he is an adult, but somehow, still needs the same. And yet, like all those years ago, the silence is the only sign he has. He sits, staring into nothingness, though the room still contains his mother's things. Come morning, everything will have to be cleared out. The room will be given to someone else, and it will be as if she was never there.
The tears come, hot, and bitter, after one of the nurses comes along to inform him that visiting hours, are over, as if he didn't already know. He makes no move to wipe them away. All of this time, he has been waiting, for something, some kind of miracle. But like always, nothing has come. And one of the few people who's ever really given a damn about him at one point or another is gone. Bobby takes a shuddering breath as he sits there, debating as to whether or not he wants to stay and annoy the nurses. He has the feeling that none of them will dare come in again. Not that he'd really care if they did. He wants to be alone, but at the same time, he does not.
And yet he is. And it's something that he is used to, which he finds almost sad now, because he had always thought that she was invincible, and now, he faces the hard truth that she wasn't. He wonders if he should have given up that notion a long time ago, and wonders if this would hurt more if he had. Or if it would hurt less. He doesn't want to think about it, but there is nothing to distract him, and he wishes more than anything that there was. He needs distraction, something to keep his racing mind off of all of this. But there is nothing.
Not even his partner. He has called her, yes, to let her know that he won't be in come morning. But he could not ask her to come, could not ask her to sit with him, and he doesn't for the life of him know why the hell that is. Right now, she is the one constant he has, and yet, somehow he knows that he is fighting to keep from having to lean on her. The same way he's fought to keep from leaning on pretty much anyone, because life's lessons are sometimes hard to learn, but he has learned them anyway. And one of those lessons is that there are very few people whom he can really trust.
At this point, Bobby wipes at his eyes, but continues to stare off at nothing. He feels hollow, but isn't particularly sure why that is. Guilty, because he knows that in the back of his mind, he'd been almost wishing for this to happen. Relieved, because it has, and because the one person whom he's been caring for all these years, is no longer in pain, and can rest, in a place a lot better than the one she's been in all this time. He wonders why this is. How he can feel all of this, and yet feel so numb. It doesn't make sense. But at the same time, not much of anything makes sense right now, and it's bothering the hell out of him, because usually, everything does. But this time…this time, everything has changed, and now…now, the time has finally come for him to change along with it.
But he doesn't think he can. And that's the other problem, because he still has a job he has to go back to sooner or later, and a partner, who he knows is worried out of her mind, but he can't bring himself to care all that much about it right now. And he feels selfish because of it, because he knows he should care about it, but he doesn't. He probably will in the morning, when it dawns on him as he lies flat on his back in bed that he isn't at work, that he's late, and then when it dawns on him that he doesn't have to be in tomorrow, because of all of this. Hell of an excuse, he thinks, sarcastically, and hates himself for it.
This isn't how it was supposed to have gone, he thinks, once the first thought goes away. It was supposed to be different. She was supposed to have made it. She wasn't supposed to have given up. But Bobby wonders as he thinks this whether this is because he wanted her to make it, because he wanted her to keep going, or not. And he feels selfish again, because it was her decision to make, not his. All he could do was support her in it, so he did, and all that good-for-nothing brother of his did was come around wondering if all the 'affairs' were in order…Bobby bit back a laugh at that one. 'Affairs'…the word had more than one meaning now. He wondered if he would ever find the truth of this particular case, the truth of what had really happened, and he doubted it, because now, one of those who could tell him was gone, and the other would be soon.
It seems almost ironic. Here he is, sitting, thinking about losing his mother, when really, he has been losing her all along. Since he was a kid, old enough to remember, but now, he is old enough to forget. The issue with this is that some things, he can forget, while others stand out vividly, because those are the things he chooses to remember, moments in a childhood filled with times he'd prefer not to think about, but did when things got like this. A vice, maybe, or just a bad habit. It isn't something he should dwell on, but every now and then, he does, and this is one of those times, and just like before, now it threatens to drive him up the wall.
He rises to his feet, finally, knowing that he really should go, because the nurses really shouldn't be making any sort of exception, even though they have, because they've known him for quite some time now, and they know he isn't going to disturb anyone. He looks at his mother's things as they are, and wonders whether or not his brother's actually going to show up again, though it doesn't seem likely. Truth be told, he's always loved his family dearly, but there are some things that just…never settled. And his brother never being there was one of them. It bothers him on more than one level. All this time, his mother's been wanting his brother there, and yet, he hasn't been, and he is left, alone, to deal with the fallout.
And there is always fallout. There has always been fallout. He leaves, and takes some of his mother's things with him, because he has to, anyway, he can't just leave it all there until the morning, and come all the way back, because not only would it be a pain, it'd be a waste of time. So he will take what he can now, and come back, until he can take no more. And as he does, he thinks, even though he probably shouldn't; ignores the sympathetic looks on the faces of those there who know him as he passes, because he doesn't think he can take anyone's pity right now; this is hard enough to deal with as it is.
Strangely enough, the silence isn't as bad now as it was before, when he was little. As he walks, he can hear the sounds, things hitting the wall, people shouting, doors slamming…everyday life, he thinks, and has to suppress another laugh, because while it always seemed normal to him, he'd known it wasn't, really, and the fact that these memories are coming back to him here and now mean that it will be a long night, and that he won't be falling asleep anytime soon, because he won't be able to. This sort of thing is why he's glad he doesn't have to go to work in the morning, glad that Ross has finally managed to pull his head out of wherever it's been and figure out that it isn't exactly the most normal of squads that he's running.
Normal. Damn that word. He knows he doesn't fit the definition, knows he hasn't fit the definition for a while, and doesn't really care, because it gets the job done, he gets the job done, and even when he's distracted, he knows what he's doing, even if no one else does. He remembers as he walks being told once upon a time, not by his mother, because until she got sick, she never said anything of the sort, that he'd never amount to anything, that his brother would do everything, and he'd just be…there. Like he existed, but he didn't, and now, things have turned around, it's not the way that so-called father of his said it would be, and he wishes…wishes he could have given his mother the life he thought she deserved, the life he thinks she deserved, because heaven only knows things could have been better.
He can remember quiet moments, because those are the ones that have stuck with him through all those years, when his dad was gone, and his mom was there, and his brother was wherever, just like now, and it was the two of them, and no one else. Those were the good days, when neither of them had anything to worry about, because nothing was wrong, for most of the day, and then the end of the day would come, and it would all go wrong again. Four years of everything going wrong, after the clock hit five, because it was time to be off work, and his father would usually come home drunk, or whatever, and it would all hit the fan from there, just like it always did. And then it all fell to pieces, and he was seven, and one minute, his mother was normal, and the next, she wasn't, and then he was eleven, and his father was walking away for the last time.
He goes back inside. He knows he needs to quit thinking at this point, because all it's going to do is bother him to no end, and he doesn't want to go to the bottle, doesn't want to drown it all away, because all it will do is come back, and more forcefully so, when he's sober again, and he knows it. But Bobby also knows that he isn't too good at abruptly stopping whatever line of thought his mind has chosen to take, and he knows that this time, especially this time, it will be a long hard battle to make the shadows go away, and right now, he definitely wants them all to go away, because they need to. It is the only way anything will come out of this…anything good, that is, because if the shadows stay, then there is no telling what he'll do.
The thought scares him. He doesn't like feeling so out of control, but there isn't anything he can do about it, and he comes outside again. The pattern continues until most of everything is with him. And then he leaves, without a word to anyone, because he knows his voice will break if he speaks, knows the tears will come again, no matter how much he thinks he's already cried them all. And he drives, with no specific destination in mind, though he knows at some point, he's going to have to return to the city. But he doesn't want to go to his apartment. It's late at night, and he doesn't want to bother his partner, though he has the feeling she wouldn't object to his showing up at this time of night, just this once, given all they have just gone through. Even so, he decides that he's going to stay away.
Before he knows it, he's further upstate than he already was. The town is quiet, but familiar. He has been here before. During one of those quiet moments he can remember, because the city was always the place where everything went wrong, and a moment upstate was something to be thankful for, because upstate was where they could get away from everything, where they could get away from the worries, and not have to deal with anything, until reality set in once more, and they had to go back, because they couldn't just up and leave, and they all knew it. He goes to a quiet place, a familiar place, near the lake, and thinks of how ironic it is, because one of those places that Brady had pointed them to was near a lake, but this is a different one, and he isn't going to go there right now.
The water is still, and quiet. But the silence no longer means something looming in the distance, rather, it means that for once, everything is all right, and for once, everything will stay that way. He watches, though he can barely see, because there aren't any lights, and sits, right there on the dock, shoes and socks off, letting his feet dip into the water, because there isn't anyone around to stop him. The cold is almost shocking, but he knows that it takes a while for heat to disperse through water, and while it's been warm lately, it hasn't been warm enough, and the water will still be rather cold for a little bit longer. And as he sits there, he can hear the sounds of those quiet moments, the laughter, and the conversation…the sound of footsteps, his and his brother's, because they were the only two who ever went running around the place on those days.
These are the times he wishes to remember, the times he does remember, because he doesn't think of the other times unless he has to. He can remember the thunderstorms that he used to watch, from the windows of wherever they were staying, just because he could, and because at that age, they were more interesting than anything else, while now, they seem like nothing but a pain. He can remember those simple childhood pleasures that seemed so few and far between, because most of the time was spent on other things, and there was never any time to sit around and do nothing, because something always had to be done. He can remember doing those things, and waiting, but what he had been waiting for, he didn't know. And he still doesn't know now.
Bobby mulls this over for a moment, and wonders if he should feel liberated, and does, somewhat, but at the same time, he feels as if there is another burden: he had done all he could to keep her happy, to take care of her, and yet again, as always, in the end, it was never enough. He can remember enlisting, leaving, walking away from it all for those years he spent in the military, can remember the places he went, and the things he learned, the people he saw and the things he did. He can remember a mentor, someone he'd thought would always be there, but in the end, turned out to be just like a lot of other people he'd known. He can remember a comment made, at the beginning of this year that's turned everything upside down: he could've gone either way.
And he could have, and that's the point of the whole damn train of thought he's been going on, and he knows it, because it's true, and because he didn't. Didn't go the other way, because he fought hard enough that he wouldn't, and he hasn't, and he isn't going to, either. Not even something like this can push him completely over the edge, though it's coming pretty damn close. He has spent so much of his life taking care of his mother, and now she's gone, and Sundays aren't going to be the same anymore, because she won't be there to visit, and there won't be the phone calls in the middle of the week, because she won't be there to talk to. There is a hole in his heart, one that he knows won't be easily mended, if it can be mended at all.
He blinks, then, and isn't surprised to find that tears are there again. He finds it almost amusing that no matter how many times he thinks all the tears are gone, they always come back. He wonders if that so called heart will be mended, and knows that it'll be another one of those long, hard battles for it to happen, because it feels like everything in his life has been like that. Getting to where he was hadn't been easy, but he'd done it, and everything's still changing, and he knows he can't always expect it to stay the same, because it won't. He moves his feet, and the water moves with them, causing ripples in the calm. Just like life, he thinks, and is amused by this thought, too, because it is. Everything's perfectly fine one minute, and then something comes along to turn everything upside down, because nothing can ever stay all right forever, and nothing ever stays the same.
The wind comes, slowly, a relief, because he's suddenly hot, and can't figure out why this is. It provides the one sound that he's heard, in this time and place, for all this time, because everything else has been in his mind, the memories of a mind that seems to store everything and everyone it sees. He listens closely, and can hear the leaves on the nearby trees rustling, can hear the boards of the dock creaking, because it's really a rickety old thing, and liable to break any moment, especially because he's sitting there on it, stationary weight that'll probably cause one of the boards to snap, if it hasn't already, and he'll laugh if he ends up in the lake, even though there isn't really anything to laugh about, because he needs something other than this silence.
But the silence remains, and the boards creak again, and the wind continues to come, and with it, suddenly, he feels a hand on his face, an invisible hand, but a warm one. And it is this that makes him wish the wind would never go away, because the night will seem so much shorter if it remains. It'll seem so much less cold if it stays, because the invisible hand he feels is one that he remembers, more than anything else. One that he would recognize if he could see it, no matter how old, or worn, or fragile it got, because they were the hands that he had always known…his mother's hands.
And somewhere in his memories, he can hear her voice, and she's telling him that she loves him, like she used to before everything got shot to hell. And as he sits there, he can't help but think that even now, it means more to him than he could ever really know.