Side Note: This story is already a couple of years old, so you might have read it on another site before. I'm only just in the process of bringing my old stories, that weren't previously published here, over to have them all together in one place.
Warning:This story deals with a major character death and is therefore pretty sad. You've been warned.
Your face it dances and it haunts me
Your laughter's still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years
If I lived till I was 102
I just don't think I'll ever get over you
(Colin Hay - I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You)
The Oompa Loompas didn't do the trick. My ability to get lost in movies and to shut out reality for a while is gone, buried six feet under in a dark, cold grave together with a huge part of my hopes and dreams for the future. I don't even remember any of the scenes from the movie, too vivid was the movie reel, complete with 'special feature' flashbacks of the most terrible day of my life that was playing on auto-repeat in my mind.
Now I'm crying again. I know, I shouldn't. I should be done with crying after such a long time, as my mother told me directly to my face yesterday. You know how Emily can be sometimes. But it's not just her. Every day I can feel everybody's compassionate glance on me, inquiring if I'm okay, but too afraid to ask me after my public breakdown in front of the diner last month.
I thought I was doing better, but my reaction to the view of a smashed window of the closed diner disabused me. Seeing that someone had purposely destroyed what you had cherished all those years, made me indescribably sad. And as my tears started to swell, I could suddenly see you standing there inside behind the broken window - pad in one hand and pencil in the other, smiling and writing down an order.
The weight of almost one year of grief fell off of my shoulders and my heart as I willingly excepted that my mourning period had only been a very realistic, but not real nightmare and that I just woke up from it. Can you imagine how it felt when the split second of relief was over? It was as if I had lost you once again, as if it wasn't already months ago when I threw that handful of earth on your casket and was startled by the harsh sound it produced.
You see, I'm not yet over you. And maybe I never will be.
Frankly, I'm not sure I even want to be.
I want to think of you, dream of you, laugh with you, imagine feeling your hands on my body at night. Maybe I'm insane. I mean, what does it say about my mental state that I still do things for you? It is not just that most mornings I can't get out of bed before telling myself that I have to do it for you and for Ben. No, I'm also talking about solid things like buying that vegetarian lasagna you liked so much, fully aware that neither I nor our son will eat it.
I'm such an emotional wreck, now even the memory of you eating lasagna is enough to make me cry harder. The black and white sea of the end credits is dancing over the screen and I feel like I'm drowning in it as I stare at the TV through the mist of my tears.
***
"Why am I the only one crying?" I shifted to look at you, searching for a sign of oncoming tears in your eyes. But you seemed unimpressed, by the happenings on the screen as well as by my tear-stained face next to you.
"It's only a movie."
"It's sad," I insisted.
"I don't cry because of a movie."
"Oh yeah? And who was blubbering like a baby when Spock died while restoring the warp thingy?"
"Warp drive. And I did not cry." I knew you didn't, but it was always fun to watch you frown after one of my mocking comments, although I sometimes didn't know if you were really annoyed or if your eye roll was only show for me.
I was suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent desire to pick on you and to make you as sad as I was.
"But the boys lost their mother and James lost the love of his life before they even got together. She's dead, Luke. Dead!"
"Lorelai... she's not really dead, she's only playing a role. It's not..."
"So you would cry if she would be really dead? What if I would drop dead right now, Luke? Would that be enough to make you cry?"
As soon as the words were out, the defeated expression on your face and a gnawing feeling in my stomach told me that I went too far. For a while neither of us spoke, you being too sweet-tempered to say anything before calming down a little and me being too stubborn to apologize yet.
"This is not funny," you finally said calmly.
I was nibbling at my lower lip, feigning to watch the movie and protracting the moment of giving in. Looking at you again made it easier as love and concern were all I could see in your eyes.
"I know. I'm sorry."
Placing my head on your chest and listening to the steady, soothing beat of your heart, I contemplated whether or not I should tell you what had really caused my outburst. We hadn't been together for that long, in fact we had just reconciled after being apart for a couple of weeks. I was still pretty unsure about how to deal with our relationship to prevent us from making the same stupid mistakes as before. But I also knew that nothing good ever came from not talking about my feelings with you.
"I don't think I could ever deal with that," I hesitantly mumbled against the soft fabric of your shirt. "Losing you."
I nodded toward the screen where Peter and James tried to cope with the demons of their grief. "Like this."
For some reason I had expected you would laugh or be angry or do something else utterly dramatic. But you only kissed my forehead and managed with a few words, determined and unquestionable, to calm me down. Somehow it seemed to be always this easy between us when it really mattered.
"You won't." I knew you were not psychic and therefore couldn't guarantee anything for the future, but at that moment I preferred to believe you when you told me exactly what I needed to hear.
"You won't," you repeated, playing with a strand of my hair and holding me even tighter.
***
Liar.
I don't want to be angry with you anymore, I know you had no part in making the decision that it was time for you to leave us. It's not like someone asked you 'Hey Luke, what about giving up your life with your crazy wife and your son for a free spot in our angel choir?' and you voluntarily agreed. You were never one for white clothes, it is - was - just not your style.
But still I sometimes can't help being mad at you - for leaving me, for breaking your promise to grow old with me, for making Ben fatherless at seven. There are also times when I hate everyone who never had to suffer the same like I have. Not knowing what to do with all my anger bothers me. I tried to talk with Rory and Sookie and even my mother about this, but apparently nobody likes mad mourners.
They expected me to be sad and helpless in the beginning, but by now they seem to want me going on with my life as if the close bond you and I had shared never existed. And of course I try hard to give them the Lorelai they expect - strong and independent, laughing away any sign of tears or grief that breaks through her brave facade.
It is only 9.30 PM, but I'm exhausted. Keeping up the semblance of composure every day, many sleepless nights and not drinking coffee have that effect on me. Are you happy that you finally found a way to end my caffeine addiction? Seeing your face in every cup I intended to drink was too much to bear for me.
I turn the TV off and go upstairs for another long and lonely night of sleeplessness. Before retreating to bed, I silently sneak into Ben's room to look after him. Standing at the foot of his bed, I am able for a moment to zone out what I have lost and to only take in what I have left. I tend to forget that he misses you too.
I'm not sure that I am a good mother to him. When we still took care of Ben together, I never wondered this. Without you I have the feeling I range constantly between loving him too much and not enough, between being afraid to lose him as well and wishing he wouldn't bar me from drowning in self-pity. Sure, I have done this single parent thing before, but I never expected to find myself in this kind of situation again.
Sleeping on his back with his sheets clutched tightly, he looks like a little angel and pretty much like a younger version of you. But I know that probably soon another nightmare will interrupt his peaceful sleep and make him scream for me in this panicked voice that no mother ever wishes to hear from her own child. At least he is able to sleep for a while, I am cursed with insomnia most of the time.
Everything I avoid thinking about while managing things at the Inn or helping Ben with his homework, crawls back into my mind at night and doesn't let me sleep. And I'm almost thankful for the times when I can take care of Ben and spend half an hour calming him down enough that he is able to continue sleeping. When he is finally lying in his bed again, his face reddened and his little hands in fists, I feel guilty that the torments of our little son are a welcome distraction in my sleepless and gloomy condition.
***
"I want a dog. I want a dog. A dog I can play with, this is my one wish, and that's why I want a dog. I want a dog..."
Our son had suddenly developed the habit of singing this song all day long - a not very subtle, yet quite inventive way to emphasize how much he wished for a puppy. I didn't mind him singing, but he was also running around in the kitchen, opening drawers and playing with kitchen tools while I was making eggs and pancakes for breakfast like you had taught me years ago. Do you remember how unnerving it could be when he was restless like that? Now I sometimes miss the time when he was still so lively.
"Ben, why don't you go upstairs and play something until the food is done? How about this new car that Rory got you when she was here last week? "
It seemed like he had only waited for a suggestion what to do with his time instead of devastating the kitchen.
"Don't forget to put the eggs in the pancakes," he told me before leaving the room, showing a grin that he undoubtedly had copied from his father.
"Hey, that only happened one time," I said, feigning offence.
"And I didn't tell Dad."
"I know you didn't, that's our little secret." I winked at him and we spent a while looking at each other and smiling conspiratorially. I'm glad that this little peaceful moment of happiness is still as clearly present in my mind and heart as the following events of that day.
A couple of minutes later, when I was just cutting some strawberries for the pancakes, Ben came back.
"Is the new car boring already?" I asked without turning around, but I didn't get an answer.
"Ben?" His guilty and confused look made me forget the strawberries.
He avoided to look me in the eye when he confessed that he went into the bedroom to wake you up, although I had told him to let you sleep a little longer.
Our son looked so sheepish that it was impossible to be mad at him. "Did your Dad curse when you woke him up?" I inquired laughingly.
But Ben's face stayed serious and he only shook his head. That was the moment when I first felt that something was terribly wrong.
"What happened?" Silence. "Benny?" I was pleading meanwhile, gripped by fear.
In a very low voice I finally got my answer. "He didn't wake up."
"What?" My own voice sounded shrill and loud in my ears.
"I was jumping on the bed, but he didn't wake up." I could see tears swell in his eyes, startled by what he had seen and my incipient panic, but I didn't have time for that now.
"Ben, wait here. Please. Just wait down here till I come back."
I ran up the stairs, but stopped abruptly in front of the ajar door. I wasn't ready to face whatever awaited me in there. You had been asleep when I woke up and hadn't even stirred slightly when I left you alone in bed. No protest, no morning kiss. I had blamed it on your working way too much at the diner all week long and would have never suspected that anything could be wrong with you.
But then I scolded myself for even thinking that something was not okay. When you were sleeping almost nothing could wake you up before you had gotten enough sleep. Simple as that. I took a deep breath and hesitantly pushed the door open with one hand.
The room was penumbral, only a little of the dimmish morning light found its way through the drawn curtains to illuminate your body on the bed. You were lying on your right side facing the window, your favorite sleeping position. Everything seemed normal. Everything felt normal again when I saw you lying there. I pictured how I would sneak up to you and wake you up by tickling you or kissing you. And you would grumble, but then join in my laughter and ask me if I burnt the toast again.
But something deep inside me kept me from doing all this.
"Luke?" I whispered, still standing at the door. You showed no reaction, but I thought that I had probably not spoken loud enough for you to hear me.
I took a few steps closer and said your name again. The room stayed silent apart from the sound of a lawnmower somewhere far away.
When I finally stood directly next to the bed, I was practically screaming your name without any success in waking you up. I was hit hard by the realization that you were not only sleeping, closely followed by denial that this could really be as bad as it seemed.
Determined I began to jog you. I rolled you on your back, pressed my ear against your chest and felt faint when I couldn't find the familiar beat of your heart. Frantically I tried to remember the basics of CPR. We had just had a seminar at the Inn a couple of weeks earlier, only my mind was totally blank at this moment. But I had to do something.
During my lousy attempt of a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation I cupped your face in one hand. First I was too occupied to notice the unnatural coolness of your skin, but then I felt my stomach revolt and my strawberry-scented hand cover my mouth as I comprehended what that meant.
I had just picked up the phone when the creaking of the door interrupted me and I saw Ben standing there, our little boy with your eyes and my inveterate nosiness.
"Benny, please go to your room," I told him more harshly than I had intended.
His face was petrified and he stubbornly shook his head.
I got up and kneeled down in front of him. My hands were sliding up and down his thin arms and I was not able to tell if he was trembling or if it was me.
"Look baby, mommy will take care of this. But I need you to go to your room now."
He looked past me to the bed and then at me again. In his eyes I could see him losing the confidence that I had superhuman powers to make everything right and I felt my heart break because he had to learn this harsh reality at only seven years old.
"Ok," he said in a low voice and with tears in his eyes.
"Ok." I wanted to say more than that, wanted to reassure him that everything would be fine, but I simply didn't have the strength for white lies. I kissed his cheek and watched him slowly walking to his room, not looking back once before he disappeared.
My memory of the following events was in some parts pretty fragmentary, but after a while more and more little unimportant details found their way back into my mind to haunt me now.
I remember that I called 911 and my mother. I know that I was sitting at your side all the time while I was waiting for the ambulance to arrive, staring into your motionless face. I would love to say that I still had faith in a happy ending, but then I would lie. My mind told me that nobody could save you anymore and that I had lost you forever. But it took longer until my heart registered this truth as well.
I went down to let the paramedics in, watched them unpack their equipment, heard them talking with each other without really listening to what they said. I turned to daydreams to shut out the cruel reality while they checked you. The sound of scissors as they cut up your shirt caused me to snap out of my daze and look at you again.
"I hate this stupid shirt, it's way too tight around your neck. Let's just cut it."
"I thought you like this shirt."
"Not when it's standing between me and my need to kiss your naked chest, mister."
I heard someone laughing hysterically before noticing that this strange voice was my own. One of the paramedics urged me out of the room and told me to stay there. I was leaning against the wall, waiting that they would finally be done with you. It didn't take long until they came out to tell me that they couldn't do anything for you, that you probably felt no pain and that I had to wait for the coroner's office to come by to take you in. 'I'm sorry's and 'Thank you's were exchanged and then they left.
I felt absolutely nothing in that moment. No pain when I went to Ben's room, no grief when I saw him sitting there at his desk, his back facing the door and looking suddenly much younger and more fragile than he was.
He was drawing and continued all the time while I was talking to him and tried to tell him somehow that you had left us forever. I covered his right hand, which was holding a blue crayon, with my own and forced him to stop.
"What are you drawing, hun?"
I stared at the picture he showed me — a drawing of you and him, sitting in a boat fishing.
"Dad promised to go fishing with me this weekend," he sobbed and wrapped his arms around me. As I embraced his small trembling body tightly, my numbness was finally replaced by sadness and warm tears began silently to roll down my cheeks.
We were still crying and holding each other when my mother came by, lamenting from entering the house till finding us in Ben's room, about the irresponsibility of leaving the front door open and about her missed appointment because of my call. She didn't know yet the reason why I had called her and so she must have been pretty shocked by the condition Ben and I were in. She didn't even have to ask what had happened, because Ben told her right away that you hadn't woken up that morning.
I asked her to take Ben with her while I waited for the coroner's office to send someone. She protested leaving me alone, but I got my way and promised to come to Hartford as soon as possible. We shared an awkward hug, I kissed Ben goodbye and then it was only you and me, separated by the closed bedroom door and by death.
To break the silence I called Rory and heard her drop the plate she was holding when I informed her about you. Listening to her crying and trying to answer her questions overstrained me, I couldn't find anything I could have said to comfort her when I myself felt the same pain. And so I was thankful when I heard the doorbell and could hang up on her.
In sheer disbelief of the whole situation I wandered aimlessly through the house after they had taken you away. In the kitchen I stared blankly at the dishes and the food I had prepared on the table for breakfast. All that seemed so far away and surreal, that I wasn't even sure if it had really been only less than two hours earlier when my biggest concern had been if I should make pancakes with strawberries or blueberries. Nothing was making sense. The bowl with cereal I had set at your place for you seemed to taunt me, and after staring at it for a while I broke down. I coiled up on the kitchen floor and cried until I felt nothing anymore.
When I opened my eyes again, the sun was shining brightly into the room and I escaped to our now empty bedroom because the dimness there fit my mood better. I picked your destroyed shirt up from the floor and lied down on my side of the bed, looking over to the spot where you had slept beside me all those years. The imprint of your head was still visible on your pillow and I reached over to trace the shape with my fingers, closing my eyes, ignoring the ringing phone and dreading the drive to Hartford to deal with my mother's commiseration and unasked advice as well as with Ben's grief.
***
Our son stirs slightly when I cautiously kiss his forehead and Barney opens briefly one eye when I pass his dog basket before leaving the room. As I reach the bedroom I follow the same ritual, just like every night since you have been gone.
First I feel my way through the darkness to the nightstand and turn on the little bedside lamp, then I walk over to the window to close the curtains. Before going to bed I open the closet to hang out the clothes I intend to wear the next day and often I end up looking through your clothes, remembering occasions you wore them.
There is the shirt that I got you for the last birthday you celebrated, the green jacket you wore all the time despite the new one that we had bought together, flannel shirts in every color possible. Buried somewhere deep inside a drawer is also the shirt you wore when you died. The first few nights after Ben and I had moved back home from Hartford, I used to take it to bed with me, clutching it tightly and inhaling your scent that was still present on it.
A couple of months ago, when I was lying awake like most nights, I packed all your stuff in boxes to give it away. Over many weeks I stored them in nearly every room of the house, dreading actually getting rid of them. Finally I gave up and put everything back in its place. I was not yet ready to lose anything that reminded me of you and still now the thought of really letting you go scares me.
I once told you that I wanted a middle with you, and I should be grateful for every moment we experienced together, but I was hoping for more than that. There are so many loose ends that will never come together now.
I finally go to bed and turn off the light. I still sleep at my side of the bed, as if you might come back one day to claim your side back. In the darkness I try to imagine that you are sleeping and dreaming right next to me. I miss you so much, every minute of the day and in so many ways.
I need you to calm me down when I'm upset, to tell me that I am able to achieve anything when I'm losing faith, to be a father for Ben when I don't succeed in trying to replace you. It is only one little aspect of everything you meant to me, but I also miss the incredibly wonderful feeling you were able to create in me when you kissed me or when we made love or by simply touching me.
***
The hand that covered mine was smooth and soft with perfectly manicured fingernails. It was the total opposite of yours and sure as hell it failed to produce the same comforting feeling as your rough hands. I pulled away to reach for my glass of wine, but actually only because I couldn't stand that he had touched me.
It was Sookie's fault that I was there in this insanely expensive restaurant with him in the first place. At her urging I had agreed to go on a date again, nine months after losing you and with the father of one of Ben's classmates. Ironically he was the owner of a funeral parlor and enjoyed talking about his work.
I spent the largest part of the evening playing with the food on my plate and pretending to appreciate his boring anecdotes about casket sizes and obituaries. The bouquet of cream-colored roses on the table reminded me of our wedding. We had flowers of the same color, only they had been probably thrice as expensive since my parents had paid for them. My attention drifted away from my unloved company and I lost myself in the memory of this beautiful, sunny day in May so many years ago.
You had been standing there on the lawn in your new suit with the minister beside you, as I had walked through the back door of the Inn with my Dad. People had expected me to look around that they could take my picture, but I had not been able to take my eyes off of you.
My Dad gave me a kiss on the cheek when he had passed my hands to you and I almost started crying when I remembered how you had told me in your vows that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. You had been so nervous that you had rubbed my knuckles the entire time throughout the ceremony. I was just thinking about our first dance as a married couple and smiled as I pictured you impatiently undoing the many buttons on the back of my dress in our wedding night, when I heard my date say my name.
I refused to react and to get pulled out of my dream, but when I felt his hand on mine I preferred to look up.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concern apparent in his voice.
I decided that I should be fair enough to tell him that I was apparently not yet ready to date again.
He showed me a plastic smile, the same he most likely reserved for his clients as well. "I know how hard this must be for you, losing your husband so unexpectedly and now raising your son on your own."
I felt myself getting angry after his professionally sympathetic comment. He could never estimate what I was going through. Probably he had never felt absolutely incomplete after losing someone who had meant everything to him. Getting glimpses at people dealing with the death of a loved one, safely shielded behind his desk, didn't make him an expert for my feelings.
I was just contemplating if I should show my anger or if he deserved that I stayed polite, as he had the nerve to ask me for a dance. I scanned the room and saw two couples rather scampering around the dance floor than actually dancing to the sounds of mellow New Age music.
In my mind I heard you ranting to Liz that this kind of music is fine to be played in elevators and hotel lobbies, but not at our wedding. As I remembered your expression when TJ had been praising the advantages of listening to New Age music during their wedding night, I couldn't help but laugh.
Ignoring the confused look on my date's face, I grabbed my purse and left, reveling in the delight that you still had the power to make me laugh and feeling assured that you were all I ever needed.
***
In the beginning I am always painfully aware, that it is my own hand on my body. But soon, when I see your face in my mind's eye and remember you whispering my name in a husky voice, my hand becomes yours in my imagination.
I know I will feel even colder and more lost when it's over and will be disgusted by myself. I also understand that it would be healthier for me to think of someone else instead of you — someone who didn't make me feel safe in his arms or who's name I didn't moan in ecstasy when he made love to me. But the thought of another man touching me like you did still makes my stomach turn, and so I let myself feel you again by retracing memories.
My hands move hormically and effectively, copying well your way of giving me pleasure. Soon I can almost feel your breath in my neck and your body pressed hard against my back. Your scent surrounds me and your hairy arm scratches against the naked skin of my hip as you embrace me from behind to stimulate me in amazingly slow and firm circles.
I suspire and my hips jerk as you increase the pressure of your finger. As I begin to tremble, I remember how incredible your lips and touch felt on my body and how wonderful it was when you moved inside of me. For a moment I am able to shut out my worries about Ben's problems at school, about the mortgage for the house and all the million other things I have to deal with alone every single day.
But all the time I can't forget completely that you are not with me anymore and I bite my tongue, attempting to silence my cries of pleasure and desperation as I reach a short and bittersweet climax.
Afterwards, as the sweat on my body begins to dry and I wrap the cover tightly around me to warm me up, my grief feels stronger than ever and I wonder how I managed to go on like this for such a long time. You would tell me now that I am much stronger than I think and that I should have faith in me. Maybe it is time to start believing you. I listen to my breath slowing down and refuse to cry as I begin preparing to face year two without you.
Happy Anniversary, Luke.