They call holidays an option for a reason.
I heard you're coming back to life just for the fourth
I've been catching all your ghosts for every season
I pray to god you won't come back here anymore
Where Have You Been? - Manchester Orchestra
.
She's driving too fast.
It's late, she's injured, and you're sick to your stomach. It's all your fault. Paris. You'd visited your mother in Paris and returned with gifts. You didn't mean for any of this to happen. But it has.
She has a deep gash in her forehead, but she won't let you get close enough to make sure. She's too strong for her own good. Too strong to let you in. Blood leaks down her profile, dripping onto the collar of the shirt you bought her for her birthday last month. The one that twists you up inside and absconds with your words, leaving you with only: 'Uhm, you look...' Amazing.
"Let me see, Jane."
She shakes her head, but stops short, grimacing at the sudden movement. One hand maintains her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel while the other swipes across her forehead. She drops a little resistance on the gas pedal, and you're flying. Pale yellow and red lights slice through the inky black darkness as you speed along far above the limit. She doesn't give a damn, but you're trying your best not to hyperventilate.
"I'm fine."
That low voice you love so much- like tree trunks groaning in a storm- is gone. Barely there. A whisper. The fullness in her voice held captive by those who will never listen. Her voice now clings to the ceiling in her parents' home, high above their reach, but trapped all the same.
"Where are we going?"
"Away." Pained. She is hurt.
You feel your stomach churn because this isn't the first time.
The first time, she'd crawled in through your window, shaken but still whole. Her father lost his job. She sat on the edge of your bed, tying and untying the fringed ends of your blanket until you drew her into your arms and promised everything would be okay.
And the second time, her mother asked Frank one too many questions about his job search. Jane drove her mother to the hospital, certain her arm was broken. It was a clean break. She called you late that night from her bedroom on the verge of tears she'd never shed.
The third time, she found you in the library, absorbed in a memorandum from an investigation held in 1968 regarding the arsenic levels in Boston groundwater. Her family had fragmented at the hand of Frank Rizzoli and his new blond. And while the tests in 1968 came back negative, you'd found a whole new source of poison. You'd wrapped your arms around her and held on despite her protests. She'd never admit she's in pain.
You're sure there were times she didn't even try to find you. Times when she'd thought she was strong enough to handle it all on her own. And now you're in her old, rusted-out pickup truck, wondering why on earth you didn't protect her. Why on earth you'd given her father the ammunition to finally break her. Literally.
"Jane..."
"Don't."
The blond lost interest in her father. It's a story older than anyone wants to admit, but everyone knows the outcome. It only ends in sputtering engines, head injuries, and hurt.
He came back.
Her father. He came back while you were all laughing over dinner and enjoying the presents you'd brought back from your trip. You thought it was a nice gesture to bring them each something. You'd spent at least an hour or two perusing stores for each gift, only settling when you believed you'd captured at least a small part of their essence in an object. Some at the expense of your mother's vast resources.
The only way to go for Frankie and Tommy was food. Those boys could eat like nothing you've ever seen. You'd filled their baskets with candies and truffles, and anything else you could find that didn't look too intimidating. For Angela, your mother helped you select a necklace setting fit with her children's birthstones and a novelty snow globe depicting Eiffel Tower in winter. You didn't even get to Jane's present when dinner was so abruptly interrupted.
...
"Frank? What are you doing here?" Angela's voice is strong, despite her shaking hands.
"I'm back."
"Back? You think you can just come back?"
Jane's hand finds yours under the table, and across from you, Tommy and Frankie sink in their seats. You glance at Jane, but she's not cowering. Defiant flames flick in her eyes as her eyes lock on her father. You realize then that this is her life. All she knows is this high-tension dinner with insults and accusations filling every space.
"You need to leave, Frank." Angela is unwavering.
"Can't we talk?" For a split second, you see Angela lower her guard, and that's all Frank needs. "Just let me explain."
"Fine."
Frank looks hesitant, and you realize he's looking right at you. You wonder if there's a way you can disappear completely.
"I wanna talk to my family."
"We're all right here."
Jane's squeezes your hand, and out of habit, you lean into her, thinking you can keep her grounded. She tenses beneath you but makes no move to extract herself.
"Maura, could we have a minute?" he asks you, and you start to nod, but Jane's eyes burn into yours. Fierce.
"Stay," she says, almost begging in only a way you can tell. You know her better than anyone else in the room.
Angela circles the table and puts a hand on your shoulder, her good hand. She's still reluctant to do anything with the arm broken and long healed. "Do you know why we still have this house, Frank?"
"Uh... no."
"Of course, you don't. Why would you care? You left us all here so you could go off with that..." she loses her words. You cover her hand with your own, and the smile she gives you lets you know you're home. "Do you know what it's like to have no options? To have no money? I was working three jobs and it still wasn't enough. Janie picked up a couple shifts at Mario's, and even the boys did work for the neighbors whenever they could, but it still wasn't enough. We were going to lose this place."
"I'm so-"
"I'm not finished," she snaps. "You've interrupted me every day for twenty years, and now it's my turn to speak." She is angry. She is livid. "And then one day, this girl right here," she pats your shoulder, "hears about our struggle, and what does she do? She gets her father to loan us the money you took, the money we needed so that we could get back on our feet. And now she's brought us all gifts from Paris. She's eighteen years old, Frank, and look what she's done for us!"
He looks baffled, mouth gaping and closing like a fish out of water.
"So whatever you want to say to us, you can say it front of her too because Maura is a part of this family."
"I just want my family back."
Angela shakes her head, already exhausted by his presence. "How about we start with dinner, okay?"
You don't agree with this. His rage overtook him once, and Angela ended up in the hospital. Who's to say that won't happen again? Your thoughts must be apparent because Jane squeezes your hand again and nods like she understands what's raging inside of you. But you keep quiet because you're still not sure of your place in their world.
...
Jane blinks her eyes rapidly to keep them open. She's been driving for hours, and you have no idea where you are, but you're not going to risk angering her. Five minutes ago, you tried to touch her, and she flinched away just like you knew she would. But it was the tear that leaked from the corner of her eye that made you freeze. She's hurt. She's hurt, and it's all your fault. You love her, and that's all your fault.
It's hot in the cab of the truck, but you fear opening a window will somehow fracture her even more. So you sit there in the heat, willing her to slow down.
...
Dinner is terrible.
The second Frank takes his old seat at the empty head of the table, he asks Frankie how football is going.
"I made the team," the boy says, spearing a layer of lasagna with his fork.
"Quarterback?"
"Yeah."
"My boy! Freshman year, starting quarterback!"
Jane's hand covers your knee under the table, and she shakes her head, knowing what's coming. You know it too. You wish you weren't here. No, you wish he wasn't here.
"I'm not a starter."
"What?" Frank's eyebrows raise in surprise, then crease together.
"I'm... third string."
"You're what?" Frank slams his fist on the table. "Third string? You might as well not even play. Fucking third string, Frankie?" But then his face changes into something you're not sure you understand, "You were never that aggressive anyway."
Frankie sinks further in his chair, "I guess not."
He turns to Tommy, "What about you, kid? Any sports?"
Tommy shakes his head. He's on his middle school's baseball team, but he wouldn't dare go down that road with his father. Instead: "I got a B- on my spelling test."
Frank lets out a laugh, "A B-? Oh, look out! What do ya gotta spell anyway? House? Fence? C'mon, boy!"
You're personally offended by this. For the past three months, you've been tutoring Tommy and trying to help him excel with his dyslexia. He was on top of the world when he showed you that B-, and you were amazed at his quick progress.
"Pop, c'mon, really? Just leave him alone," Jane tries, but to no avail.
"Lighten up, Janie. I'm just messin' around."
You wrap a hand around her arm and give her the best reassuring squeeze you can manage, but it's hollow, and she feels it too. You can see it in her eyes. She doesn't want to sit through any more of this.
You look to Angela, but she's doing her best focusing on the food in front of her, one hand clasped around the necklace you'd bought her. She's spent. Tired of Frank, yet she'd invited him to have dinner. You will never understand people, but you know this is wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
...
"Jane, please. Stop."
"Maur," she grunts but leaves it at that. She uses your name like a warning.
"Let me help you."
She wipes at the tears escaping her eyes, looking angry for ever having shed them. She is strong. So strong, it makes her weak. She's been strong for her mother and brothers for months, working and working, and taking so much more than a few shifts' weight on her shoulders. She feels guilty for the money your father gave her mother. Maybe even ashamed that it came to that. She has been so strong for everyone, and now there's barely anything left.
You love her.
"I love you, Jane."
A sound slips from the back of her throat, something primal and wounded. She nods, keeping her eyes on the road. "I love you, too."
...
Frank helps her mother with the dishes, and somewhere in the commotion of everyone bolting from the awkwardness of the dinner table, her hand finds yours, and she pulls you outside. You settle beside her on the porch swing, fingers entwined, heart beating faster than it should.
"I'm sorry," she says, using her feet to set the swing in motion.
You blink, stunned. "For what?"
"For my pop."
"Oh, Jane. No, it's not your fault."
"I know that. I just wish... I don't even know what I wish."
"It's okay." You run your hand up her arm furthest from you and follow the curve of her shoulder up her neck, finally resting on her cheek. Gently, you bring her to look at you. The pain in those brown eyes is enough to pierce your ribs and puncture your heart with something small and concentrated like a bicycle spoke. That way your death is slow and gradual.
You pull her to you and kiss her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her eyelids. Just everything you can touch, avoiding her lips. "I love you so much."
She wraps an arm around your shoulders like she's afraid you might just walk away. You would never. To leave her would require a miracle of science. A magnificent machine that could remove the parts of her from every nerve ending she's ignited, every part of you her lips have claimed, every fiber of your being.
There is not a machine that astoundingly complex‒ that criminal‒ in existence.
"You can go if you want. I'll tell them you were tired."
"I'll never leave you," you say as firmly as you can manage, and for once, it doesn't fall through. Her eyes light up, a smile pulling at that beautiful mouth of hers. If that look had a name it would most definitely be: I love you.
She leans in, slow and careful- always so careful not to hurt you- and presses her lips to yours. Before her, you were okay. Things were simple. Life was easy. You could float through it all with the choice of using your brain or your money. And then you met her, and everything grounded itself.
She is real. She is everything.
You are so lost in her, nothing could bring you back. She's warm and safe, and she loves you. There is nothing else you need.
It's the sound of glass breaking that pulls her from you.
...
This is too fast.
Jane is in no condition to be driving at all, let alone like this. Crazy dangerous. Lightning fast. You're sure you're going to die.
"Jane, come back to me. Please, I'm here."
"Maur," it comes out in a sob. She is stronger than anyone you have ever known, and now you're seeing her fall. You will catch her. She believes crying makes her weak, but she's wrong. You've never seen someone carry everything the way she does.
"Jane, please slow down."
"I can't... I-I gotta get away."
Your heart aches and you don't know how that's physically possible, but it hurts. Not like a cut or a scrape, but like a burn. Like a fire has taken hold inside of your heart and she's the extinguisher. But she's falling and falling. And you're just coughing up smoke.
...
"What the hell is this?" Frank's voice booms. The light from inside silhouettes him, but you know. You just know he'll destroy her.
You expect her to jump to her feet ready to defend herself, but then you scold yourself for even thinking that. She loves you, and she's not going to leave you like that. Instead, she glares back at him.
"You're... You... No! NO! Not my daughter! I raised you better than this!"
"Frank, let them be!" Angela tries from behind him.
He spins around, furious, "You knew?"
"Of course, I know! She's my daughter."
"She's our daughter, and I will not have... that in my house!"
You flinch at his tone. His finality. He cannot take her from you. No matter what he tries, you will always find each other.
"Well, then it's a good thing this isn't your house anymore," Angela seethes. "You have no right."
She gets to her feet, and by the look in her eyes you know she wants you to stay where you are. You shrink into yourself as she crosses the porch with the determination you know so well.
"Stop it, Pop."
"Jane, you can't... I forbid you to see her."
"No, I love her." Plain and simple.
The way his eyes flash at 'love' makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. You're going to be sick. You know it.
"Love? You don't even know what love is! And that?" he points at you as if you're an object. "That's not love. That's sin."
"What do you know about love?" she counters, her voice stronger than you've ever heard it. "You left us all, and she saved us! Without her... nothing would be okay. Everything would be fucked all because you left your wife and family for another woman. That's your sin. My sin? No, you don't get to call her that."
Frank pales and for a moment, you think she's won. You think he'll leave. For a moment...
The shove comes out of nowhere. She is strong, but the way she topples the ground makes her seem so fragile. Her forehead catches on the edge of the railing, and she tries to catch herself before her skull meets the concrete, but she's just a second too late. The sound that escapes your lips is something to foreign to your ears. You want to help, but you'll make it worse. You know it. Tears sting your eyes, and you let them fall.
He kneels beside her, "Oh god. Janie, I'm so sorry! I don't know wh‒"
She looks up at him, eyes enough to silence an entire room, but they're focused solely on him. Her voice is a murmur, but her words still bite. "Get. The. Fuck. Away."
Sensing he's not getting anywhere with Jane, he turns to you.
"YOU! You did this to her! You made her like this!" You will yourself not to cower in front of him, even though on the inside, you've already collapsed.
He comes at you, hands outstretched and you close your eyes, waiting for impact. But it never comes. You hear sneakers slapping concrete, and your heart picks up.
"Don't you touch her!"
When you open your eyes, he's on the ground right in front of you, and she's standing above him, breathing hard, blood trickling from her brow. She reaches out to you with one hand, still keeping an eye on her father. You stand on shaky legs and hurry to her side.
"Janie," her mother starts, "I‒"
"No," her voice quiet, "you let him come back. You knew he would find out."
"No! I didn't! Jane, please!"
But it's too late for apologies. Jane's leading you away, and you know you're not coming back.
...
"He was going to hurt you," she chokes out, rounding a bend at break-neck speed. The world is a blur, but in here, everything is so painfully clear.
"But he didn't."
"If he even tou-touched you, I would have killed him."
"I know," you say, wiping your cheeks.
She grimaces again, fighting the pain in her head. "It's not fair. He doesn't get to just come back like that!"
"I know, I know," you soothe. She needs to pull over and let you help her. "Please slow down."
You know she won't, but you had to try. It's hopeless. She'll drive and drive until the truck's empty. She's hurt. And this time, it was too much for her.
"You don't always have to fight it. Let me help you. Let me l-"
Bright light fills the cab, and you know it's over.
Gravity becomes suddenly relevant as metal crushes and caves, and glass shoots in at you. You're rolling. You feel her reaching for you, but she's not strong enough. You lurch at the mercy of inertia. Blood. Your head smashes into the dashboard.
There is nothing.
...
Fireworks boom and crackle in the sky above you- red, white, and blue. Each new one illuminates the smoke of the last. Kids run by you with sparklers and glow sticks, and the air smells like hamburgers and summer.
You're alone. You weren't supposed to be, but your parents decided to attend a party instead of watching the fireworks with you. So here you are, in your white dress and American flag-themed flip-flops in awe of the pyrotechnics.
"Want one?" a voice asks from beside you. You rip your eyes from the sky and try to figure out what they'd asked you.
"What?"
A little boy offers you a sparkler of your own, "Want one?"
You happily accept it, and he scurries off, leaving you with an unlit firework. You're a bit puzzled as to how you're supposed to enjoy it like this, so you just hold it and look back up to the sky exploding above you.
Heat sizzles by your hand, and you look down, gasping as someone holds their sparkler to yours. You turn and freeze, captivated at once by the shy girl that looks back at you. Her dark hair is the wildest thing you've ever seen in your life, but you think it suits her lanky frame. Dressed in torn jeans and a cheesy American flag t-shirt, she's beautiful.
She chuckles and picks up the sparkler fizzling on the ground. You've dropped it. She hands it to you, fingers lingering on yours for just a moment before her hand returns to her side.
"Happy Fourth."
You can only nod.
"I'm Jane."
You scour your mind for your name, and when it comes out, it makes your cheeks flush, "Um... I'm... Maura."
"So, uh. Where's your family?"
A shrug is the most neutral gesture you can manage, and you hate it because you weren't raised that way. "They're busy."
"Oh, my Pop's busy too," she looks over her shoulder at what could only be her family- her mother and two younger boys. Happy. Wonderful. Whole. "but you can hang out with us if you want."
"I'd like that."
...
...
...