Here, You, a devil wears prada fanfic

A/N this story contains sexual assault. If that it triggering you can skip the third part, without losing the gist of the piece.

Some rain must fall – Michel Faber

It's so terrible to ask for anything ever. We wish we were something that needed nothing, like paint. But even paint needs repainting. – Miranda July

Does coffee have an expiry date?

There is a small hole in her left stocking when Maddie put them on this morning. She tries not to think about the indication that it gives for the day, but all she has are the small things so it is difficult to will it away.

When she gets to the grocery store they are out of Mary's Chutney. It is a strange product to be out of stock off, but apparently there hasn't been a delivery in a while. Long enough for others to buy the last jar. She has two options now, change her dinner plans or buy different chutney. She tries not to feel lonely with the knowledge that it is a jar of chutney that causes her to change her rhythm.

When she gets home she pours herself a glass of lemonade. This way she won't run out of her morning activities too fast. But after ten minutes she has drank it all so it is time to start on the organizing of the groceries. She is putting away the beans for Sunday when she hears her doorbell ringing.

It takes a few seconds to recognize it as her own bell, the one that is attached to her own front door. She hasn't heard that sound in so long. Small sparks of excitement run through her but she immediately starts preparing herself for the disappointment when she walks towards the hallway. Maybe it is the mailman with a package that is addressed to a neighbor down the street. Maybe some door to door salesman but she corrects herself on that thought because who would sell things door to door these days, everything goes via those small devices she sees the younger generation with. Or it is an old fashioned attempt at ding dong ditch from some middle school boys with jumpers that are too small because boys grow like kale in summer.

When she is standing in front of her door she suddenly doubts whether she wants to open it. Graeme used to open the door, no matter who the visitors were. Her best friend Ada always said that the neighbors probably thought she was having an affair with him, as they always saw Graeme greeting Ada, never Maddie. But Ada is no longer with her, a small tumor was big enough to destroy her best friend's body, and Maddie stopped interacting with her neighbors long before that. The area used to consist of large families. All working class like theirs but with hope for a brighter future. Now there are probably families still, but she doesn't recognize them or the languages that they speak when she walks by.

Maddie shakes herself out of her thoughts, she hopes she hasn't been sunken in them too long for the person behind her door to disappear. With shaking hands she undoes the lock and pulls at the dark wooden handle.

A tall woman is standing in front of her. She has an exotic look, and she is so pretty she could be on the telly. She is too pretty to be a citizen of Malton, North Yorkshire. And she wears expensive clothes. Maddie recognizes the thin silk that is at least 60 pounds per metre. The woman looks at her with a friendly gaze, as if she expected to find Maddie behind her front door.

'Amanda Charlton-Lester?'

Maddie nods. That is her name, at least, the one that is written down on her official papers and bank statements. Only her father used to call her Amanda. She's been Maddie her whole life.

'I'm here because of your daughter.' The woman says.

Maddie stares at the woman without saying anything.

'Your daughter Emily?' The woman tries to be clear. She knows, she knows very well. But no one has mentioned her daughter for so long that she simply doesn't know how to broach the topic. Apparently the woman understands it because she smiles gently and says 'Can I come in?'

The woman looks odd, standing in her hallway. Nothing about the small family house - one of those that have thick walls made of ocher bricks- is fancy, and this woman can only be described as elegant. She feels ashamed at being so self-conscious about her house and her own dressing - a simple skirt and a blouse, which she realizes makes her look older and sagged. Still, the shock of meeting someone who knows her daughter spurs her into action and she walks back to the kitchen where there are still some groceries out on the table. She blushes a little, how it looks like she hadn't expected anyone. She hadn't. The woman follows her with a slow swinging trend. She hurries to put all the items on the kitchen counter and then finds her voice.

'Would you like a cup of tea dear?' Perhaps the woman thinks she has gone mad, because she hasn't said a word and now this is her first sentence. She supposes England would be proud of her, offering tea before anything, but she feels silly, like a character of a soap opera. What did Ada used to watch? EastEnders wasn't it?

'Do you have coffee? I'm sorry to ask but it has been quite the journey.'

Right. Does she have coffee? She doesn't drink it herself, but Graeme did, so maybe she has still a little on the top shelve. 'I might have some, but I am afraid it's terribly old. I do not care for it and…' She lets the sentence fade out. She opens the cupboard, stretches out and retreats an old Franklin's Coffee tin. It is half full. Does coffee have an expiry date?

'It doesn't matter. I have drank any quality of coffee, it'll do with a bit of sugar.' The woman answers.

Maddie feels relief. She can do this. She puts on a kettle. What else is needed again? She spurs her memory back to the many mornings with Graeme at this table. He had a cup every day, pouring the water in an iron cup with little holes in it. Right. Where could it be? It is a strange way of going back into old memories, trying to think of places items used to be. Surprisingly, once she remembers them she finds that they are still there, and she wonders how it could be that she hasn't seen them in years even though she lived here all that time.

The fuzzing around her kitchen calms her nerves a little. And when she has boiled the water she pours a cup of coffee, and a cup of hot water for herself. She puts two Yorkshire Teabags in it and a splash of hot milk. The young woman smiles at the movement as if she is prior to something Maddie isn't.

'You drink your tea just like her.'

That does it. A wet sheen on her eyes. With trembling hands she sets the tray with beverages on the kitchen table. This woman knows her Emily well. 'Please tell me your name again love?'

'Serena ma'am.'

'Serena.' She repeats. It's a lovely name, and suits the woman well. 'Tell me about my Emily, please.' She knows she sounds too eager. But it has been such a long time that she can't stop her greediness, the searing thump of her heart hat has clenched so many times out of grief and missing.

The woman takes a sip of her coffee and then looks at her with a soft gaze.

'Emily, as you may know, works at Runway New York. A fashion magazine, the biggest in fact, in the US.'

Maddie nods. A fashion Magazine. She knew Emily had gone oversees but working at a fashion magazine is new. Is the white haired woman she saw on Ada's tape still her boss? She doesn't dare ask.

'She is in the senior assistant in the Art Department. Which is quite the accomplishment, she climbed the ladder fast.'

Maddie doesn't know anything about fashion magazines or careers. She stayed with the kids while Graeme brought in the money. Still, she is proud of her little girl for being so independent. Would Serena work as well at this magazine? Perhaps people in New York are just better dressed than in England.

'And your daughter and I have been together for five years.' She is silent for a little. 'I am aware this is against your beliefs, but I do love her. She is very special.'

Maddie looks at her with wide eyes. She is not naïve, she knows her daughter has had… unusual preferences. It just puts everything in new perspective. This woman, who is all tall and pretty and gentle, her daughter Emily has been with for five years.

'And I would like to… marry, your daughter.'

Maddie doesn't know what to do. So she whispers 'Right…'

'It would mean a great deal to her to know, before the wedding… to receive a…' The woman doesn't say blessing. 'To have some contact. She misses you.' The woman looks at her gently again. As if she hasn't just opened up completely and laid bare the wounds between her and her daughter that have been hurting all these years.

All she knows to say is 'It has been a while.'

Serena doesn't laugh, not exactly. But it is like the woman knows how to read her and her eyes twinkle. 'I know. Stubbornness seems to be a classic English trait.'

III

After the woman has gone Maddie sits for a long time in the same spot where she talked to the woman. Serena, whom apparently has plans to marry her daughter. A woman who, despite her short visit, has told her more about her Emily than years of wondering has given her. The skin on her cheeks are dry due to all the salt of her crying. She couldn't keep it in when Serena showed her all kinds of pictures on her telephone. She had gracefully offered Maddie a handkerchief but it looked so thin and with small embroidery on the side that she had refused and got one upstairs from her bedroom. Sniffling she came back to the kitchen and watched some more photos. Emily had looked so happy and so beautiful. Like she had bloomed.

When Maddie admitted to need to process it all, Serena had only been friendly and nodded in understanding. Near the door the Brazilian –she had learned in about her- had asked her to 'think about it, please. I know I am a stranger, and I know I overwhelm you with this request but I know she would want to hear from you.'

Now dusk has fallen and all she has done is think about Graeme. About his shirts in her closet and his shaver in the bathroom. He would offer her advice, but she also knows what that advice would be and how it would hurt. Then she tries to imagine Ada, who would probably say the complete opposite. Maybe that is what truly being alone means, that no one offers you a word when you get tangled up in your thoughts. She wonders whether she misses Graeme. She thinks about him because everything that Maddie was, was tangled up with him. But now she has waited maybe long enough to make this decision by herself.

Alas, her feet are cold and it is dark outside. Now she has forgotten to prepare dinner. The groceries are still on the kitchen counter and with a stiff back she puts them away. This is what it feels like to have unknown planning. To put away groceries when you don't expect to. Still, preparation for bed is like always. She brushes her teeth, braids her hair down for tomorrow, washes her face and puts on her long nightgown. She tries to read some pages in the novel on her nightstand, but it is too depressive. She clicks off her bed light and stares into the dark.

She thinks of the little girl that ran around in their backyard. A girl who always chattered about all the things she did and found along her way. She thinks again about her husband and how he had stopped talking about his daughter from the moment he had thrown her out of the house. Yelling no daughter of mine is a dyke.

How his beliefs had become hers, without knowing it. And how the price she had to pay for her silence was exactly one daughter. Her only daughter. She never told Graeme it wasn't worth it. Never told him he was wrong, that she wanted it differently. Never told Emily either. Ada told her once she had seen Emily on the telly. That she had taped it immediately on the VCR. If she wanted to see her? She had said yes, with a quiet voice. Ada had brought the tape and Maddie had kept it in the lowest drawer near her socks and pyjamas. Graeme never did any household chores so she knew it was safe here. When he fell asleep next to her that night, snoring, she slipped out of bed and via the stairs into the living room turning the TV on mute. She didn't need to remember what channel it was on before putting the tape into the VCR, Graeme always watched sports. It gives a few seconds of snow but then, as by miracle, her daughters face appears. In the front is some white haired woman being interviewed, but every time the woman turns her head a little, of fake laughs, her daughter appears. Emily looks beautiful. Too skinny, and perhaps a bit stern but she moves and whispers something to a girl next to her with dark hair and doe eyes. She drinks in the image of her daughter and cries. She strokes with her hand along the screen, feeling the static waves that comes off it, and wishes she could call her daughter. That she was standing in America, at the sideline, and could wave at her. For another three weeks she slips out of bed each night to walk down the stairs and watch her daughter on tape.

The stairs feel different now. They feel steep, steeper than she has ever felt them before, especially in the dark but after 43 years living in this home she knows her way around. Her body has become older as has the wood underneath her feet, but she makes it downstairs without a hitch. She lights the kitchen lights. They are bright, too bright, but the small lamp in her husband's study room doesn't feel suitable.

She pours herself a cup of tea. There are pens scattered around her house because she likes to underline passages in the novels she reads, but she hasn't had anyone to write to for so long that takes a while to find paper. It is nothing elegant, not like the special writing paper she used to have when she was a little girl. With curled flowers drawn in the corners. This is just plain white paper with small black lines. But it'll have to do. Just like the kitchen will have to do.

Because this is Maddie, this is a mother reaching out for her daughter and if that happens it has to happen in the room where Maddie has spent most of her living days, here in this awful lit kitchen at this worn kitchen table where the tablecloths can't hide their age. Here she will write to her daughter. Her daughter who she can still recall so fiercely from her memory despite not having seen her aside from that tape Ada brought and the pictures she saw this afternoon. A tape where her daughter is in the background because the event is about her boss, while the pictures are about Emily. Emily with strong green eyeshadow, Emily near the beach with a straw hat. Emily looking terrified while holding a baby. Emily with her arms draped around another woman, kissing her cheek. Happy and beautiful and in love. In love with the woman who is called Serena and who is so pretty they must be the most beautiful and graceful couple of the whole USA.

She sit down in her pink robe. A thick, fluffy one that makes her just the caricature of the old lady she is. Her gray slippers finish the ensemble but she doesn't mind. It is warm and the summers here are often wet. She is who she is, sad and out of touch with the world, but it is the only thing she has to offer. She picks up the pen and starts writing. About a small child that was born the youngest in a small family in Malton, Yorkshire to a silent and submissive mother and a stern father. She writes about how fiercely that mother loved her presence in this world. How she thought that she was a gift from God, so small and fragile. Her only girl, seven years after her two brothers. A girl she could comb the hair of without being pushed away and who would wear small dresses and pigtails. A girl that preferred pancakes over pie, and beamed with excitement about anything that had glitters. A girl with a big mouth and a good brain who wasn't afraid to tell people what she thought.

A girl that learned to hide her emotions during puberty. A girl that stopped eating and got so very thin that her mother secretly called the doctor to ask how she could proceed. A girl who, when they finally found out why, was thrown out of the house by her father.

She writes about silence and anger, about missing and quiet desperation, about how through the years a gap in a heart of a parent never closes. About a blessing and finding someone you want to grow old with; she writes about love.

Apparently there is five kilo of ashes, and that is a lot.

When he drives back from the hospital Nigel feels more apprehension than he had near his mother's bedside. He is tired, he has been running on cheap hospital coffee for over 32 hours and now that his mama has finally let go in peace he has to go to his childhood home.

His mama had been ill for so long that he feels relieved she is no longer suffering anymore. It was a dignified goodbye, without too much pain, and he thinks her face softened when she breathed out for the last time, as if she was finally ready to take off the baggage and sit down.

Now, however, he has to stay at his mama's house, where they used to live together. He hasn't got too many good memories over there, but she stated clearly in her will that she wanted all the brothers together for making the funeral arrangements. It also stated she would trust Nigel, specifically, to be the one who made the final decisions. Luckily they'll start tomorrow and everyone had gone to different places tonight to sleep. It gives him space to face his emotions on his own.

The house looks still the same. Same couches, same hardwood dining table, same flowery curtains, the fabric lightened and faded from most color by the many seasons of sun. After rummaging around a little while on the ground floor, he walks up the wooden stairs. There is the small sheen of dust everywhere. The last few months nobody has been living here, and it shows. When he opens the door of his former bedroom he takes a moment to look around. It is no longer his room, it hasn't been a long while, he knows that. Mother turned it into a sewing room after he left for the bigger cities. She had told him over the phone one of the few times he called her. It wasn't done out of irony, Nigel thinks. This was a way of his mama to keep him close after he left. After all the slamming of doors and the harsh words. If he was going to be busy with clothes, she could try and do the same in her own small way. His bed is still there though, for when everyone gathered around Christmas and old dynamics were taken up for a day. He never brought a partner home, not even Elliot, with whom he was with for over 8 years. It wasn't worth the trouble, and they always managed to take three days off right after the holiday and re-celebrated Christmas together with ordered in food and candlelight. Gay-Christmas they called it jokingly. He smiles at the memory but while he is standing in this room, where he thought so often of Elliot the missing is sudden and heavy.

He tries to shake the feeling away by walking inside and kneeling near the bed. He should get himself distracted for a little before he will have a fitful couple of hours of sleep and then will face his brothers again to start talking about the details of the service. He has the just the right method here. Without really looking he pulls a box from underneath the bed. It is a neat carton box and feels heavy enough to contain what he thinks it contains. But when he takes off the lid, expecting his old copies of Runway, he finds that it is filled with several booklets. His mama kept diaries her whole life, but they are neatly stacked on a plank in her bedroom shelve. She claimed she wrote about nothing special, just what they had for dinner. 'Kept her mind clear and that way she wouldn't cook the same thing three times in a row' she always said. With seven sons and a husband of which only one was interested in feminine things she never bothered to hide them.

These look old, probably from her younger years. And that they are stacked in a box underneath his bed tells Nigel two things. One, that he was supposed to find them as he always rereads his old copies of Runway, and two, that his mama has something to tell him apparently, even though she is not here anymore.

It is late, far past dinnertime. He had a small cup of soup even though he usually is horrified by the amount of calories it contains. But he figures with how little he ate the last few days that he could use it. That and there was nothing else at the house and he had no time to do groceries. He has been reading the diaries all evening, emerging himself in his mother's life before she met his dad. A life that, he knows now, drastically formed her.

Nigel looks at the diary in front of him again. His mother's elegant handwriting that bears so much pain. When he was young he always asked her to write things for him, to produce another curly h or a lean l. Now he thinks about her loneliness, and how stories written so neatly hold such rampage in the mind.

22 August

Last Friday: Tonight, he had said. Tonight tonight tonight and the whole day I floated around the house. I sprayed some more perfume on the inside of the collar of my blouse, and checked the mirror three more times. Freddy, who knew me and saw me like no other. Who didn't dare to think all would be okay until I told him so. Freddy who belonged to me like I belonged to him even though he carried someone else's ring on his finger. A ring that would no longer be there after tonight. Freddy who had such fragile skin but such an optimistic heart. Who made me laugh and always thought with me rather than for me. I waited. All evening full of glorious hope. I waited while evening turned into night and yet I stayed awake. Until the small light of dawn peeked through the windows and my phone did work because I checked it another time and I was out of excuses that could have let him run late. Then I went to bed.

Today, in the afternoon paper, there is a small article. A man died, hit by a car while crossing the road. Four blocks from here, near the shop he used to buy us wine. The funeral was this morning. I missed it.

I went to the cemetery. He was buried in grave for two. Her name is already etched next to his onto the headstone, without dates.

I can't do this.

I don't know how to survive this.

Nigel reads it over and over. His mother had a lover before his dad and apparently carried that secret with her, her whole life. He knows that his father always spoke at length about how he had to work to win his mother over, and he had sometimes wondered why his mother always turned still when father spoke about it, but he had assumed it had to do with the part of his parents' marriage that was outside of the public eye. The things that were kept hidden even from the children, as that is how it goes in a conservative family. Now he realizes once more how little he knew about his mother. About her happiness or her sorrow. And how little he tried to understand her. He feels guilty but it doesn't matter anymore because that is not what his mama wanted rub in. She was way too gentle-minded for such a thing. No, Nigel understands. Understands the ways of loving someone whom you are not allowed to love by society, and the pain that can accompany it. He understands why she wrote down that he is responsible for the decisions now, because he understands what she wishes.

Without thinking about the late hour he calls the funeral company.

'Mr. Hopper? Yes, this is Nigel Kipling speaking, Dora's youngest son, yes, thank you, she went in peace. I know it is late but I have to make a request.'

III

The service is small but nice. Just like his mama would have wanted it, or at least the mother that he thought he always knew. It is not too warm, even though it is summer. Still, they chose a morning service rather than an afternoon's one. This way they can avoid having to organize dinner options and mother liked mornings best.

The few friends that are still alive are gathered together in the front row of the church, so that they can hear the eulogy better. Allison and her husband John, the neighbors who often drove his mama when she had to go to the hospital, are sitting in the middle rows, and he and his brothers take up the rows behind the old people. They all wear ill-fitted suits, except for him. He wears a three piece by Valentino with a dark blouse. His shoes a matte grey Pierre Cardin's, he knows his mother would have liked. He speaks a few words, about the kind character of his mother, her devotion to the family and how she will be missed. He doesn't need to cry. He has cried enough the last couple of days, the few moments he was alone. Being with his brothers has been exhausting. Despite the explicit requests in the will and a few written down documents Carl and Benny argued about music for over an hour, while Roger wanted a certain bible quote on the card but he couldn't remember from which part of the book it came. He didn't mention the irony of his brother's lack of bible knowledge while he always pretended he was holier than the pope when they talked. It will be a relief to say goodbye to them after tonight. The property will go to Carl and his wife, they'll move in the house with the kids. He didn't really want anything except his magazines and his mother's diaries. None of the brothers showed any interest in them so his part of dividing the inheritance is done. They can bicker about the rest.

Because that is how it goes. They'll bicker about 'big decisions', or 'manly decisions, but all pretty much leave him alone picking out flowers and the clothes his mama would wear. The finer things in life are taken care of by Nigel is the silent assumption. He had not expected any different and it makes it more easy to actually organize it all so he doesn't feel angry about the underlying disgust that always goes together with the acknowledgement of his job and his sexuality. He is too tired for it, and also too realistic to hope it will change.

After the service and the carrying of the coffin to the place on the graveyard a younger woman greets him. She introduces herself as Yentl, the woman who took care of the garden and she smiles friendly at him so he shakes her hand an compliments her on her out of season Miu Miu dress. Yentl says his mama had told her he would recognize the designer and the year of production if they ever met, but she hadn't believed her. It warms his heart. Despite his complicated entanglements with home, he will miss his mother and it relieves him that she talked about him after he had went away.

When everyone has had coffee and sticky cake and most of them have gone home he goes back to the grave. It is a double as well. Dad's name has been on the stone for nine years now. He worries a moment about whether he is making the right decision, but he knows this is the only way to go about it. His brothers would never agree to anything but burying their mother, and would understand even less the reason why those expectations needed to be changed. So he made the only concession he could think of. This way they'll technically bury mama next to dad. It is just that a small part of her ashes will go on a journey with him.

It is a soft morning, a little dewy. When he goes to collect the ashes the woman behind the counter is very polite. 'How much did he want to keep apart?' Apparently there is five kilo of ashes, and that is a lot. He has known death before, arranged funerals before, but never cremations and his mother was a small and frail lady. Still, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. 'Maybe around a teacup?' It is a ridiculous answer but the woman just nods and walks to a different department. When she returns she carries a small velvet bag. The rest will be in an urn in the dual grave with his dad. The small bag feels strange, a bit heavy, but he realizes no one carries bags with ashes around, or sand or substances alike, so maybe it is just an uncommon feeling. He thanks her, and takes it to his car, puts it on the front seat.

It is a short drive. And he wonders whether his mama wanted to stay close to the man who had stolen her heart long before his father came along, or that it had been torturous, to know where the one you loved most was buried only to never be allowed grieving space. He probably can read it all in her diaries, but he is not sure if he wants to. His mother might only wanted to tell him so much, and he wants to respect that.

When he arrives at the graveyard there is a small house at the entrance where you can ask for information about the history of the place and where to find whom, but Nigel decides to bypass it and slowly walk along the graves reading the different names. This way he avoids questions and it gives him a little preparing time.

When he sees it, he notices it is an old grave, but neatly kept. There are two names now, with two dates, and the marble covers almost the entire space. Gently he holds the bag with his mother's ashes in his hand. 'Here he is mom.'

Bringing a hand trowel might have been a bit suspicious even though some graves are like gardens, so he has to work with his hands. He can't recall the last time he has done so. It must have been in his childhood, when his mother showed him how to grow different flowers, shrubs and vegetables. He has never grown the same love for it as his mother but he still knows most of the names and the particulars like blooming time and shadow/sun requirements.

The earth is quite dry and compact. It takes a little while to create two neat holes, one near the head of the grave and one around a third of the stone. His nailbeds are dark and he has a small cut on his ring finger from a pebble. Gently he pours the ashes in, and covers it with some of the soil.

Now his mother is with her Frederick, heads together and hearts together.

He looks at the grave for a while. Rays of sun pour over the marble stone. It is hard to tell where he dug, there is only a slight color change. This is it, he thinks. From now on his mother won't be with him anymore.

'Goodbye, mama' he whispers. 'I hope you are safe.'

When he is in back in the car he doesn't feel like driving to the airport yet. His flight will not leave for another six hours, so he has some time. He parks a little closer to the village, wipes his hands cleaner with a wet towel and starts walking around. His shoes click on the pavement and a soft breeze is waving through the streets. On the corner there is a small liquor store.

He buys a bottle of wine. Red, her favorite.

She feels sick and guilty about having to explain it to dad. He loves this carpet.

On the bottle it says that it cleans any possible surface. Just rub it directly onto the surface of preference with a dry towel for the best results. Wait for one to five minutes and then clean as normal. In case needed; repeat the sequence.

After the first time the little hairs of the carpet still flock and the spot looks significantly darker than the rest, even though she wetted some of the clean carpet as well. Cassidy tries to shake away the memories that come up again when she looks at it, and she feels sick and guilty about having to explain it to dad. He loves this carpet. She decides to try it again. Maybe she just has to wait a little longer in between rubbing and washing. So she puts on a timer.

She'll have another shower, or a bath, yes, a bath. She had a shower yesterday, for over twenty minutes, but this time she'll have a bath with lots of bathing salt and bubbles.

After filling the tub she goes into dad's room because she doesn't want to undress there and Dad's room always smells nice. Like the aftershave he puts on every morning mixed with his pyjamas. Maybe she should just stay here. Get into his bed and try to sleep. But she doesn't want to spill the hot water so she quickly drops her clothes and walks back. The water is hot, too hot, but it feels good and she stays in it until her fingers wrinkle and she thinks that this must be what it is to be an old lady: wrinkled, cold, and alone.

When she is dressed and has combed her hair the timer goes off. With heavy feet and a wet towel she manages to walk back into the room. The liquid has dried a bit, and when she rubs it gets soapy first and then just wet.

But the spot still hasn't gone, there is none of the orangy colour anymore and it smells like air-refresher-lemon but it is dark and gray and so very different from the rest of it. She rubs and rubs but it just won't go away. She tries, with all her strength, but the more she looks at it the more she has to think about yesterday and all the cleaning that the bath just managed to do seeps away and she feels unclean again. Filthy.

Shite. This won't do. Cassidy throws the towel through the room, it hits the small pot with the cactus right in the middle. The pot falls down and breaks. All the dirt on the floor. Cassidy sits and bobs her head on her knees. She is empty.

That is how she stays for ten minutes. Folded and slowly lulling from side to side, arms around her legs and her head on her knees. She should do something, she knows she should not stop trying, mom never stops for anything or anyone, but she feels like she can't move. Like an elephant sat down on her chest and now she can't go anywhere. Mom also says everyone should take as much responsibility as possible for their own actions. Cassidy wants to cry.

Suddenly she feels angry. Angry at Mom, for saying such things and at Dad, for leaving her alone. Angry at Caroline who is not here and so very angry at the carpet for not cleaning and reminding her yesterday. Reminding her over and over and pushing up images she doesn't want to see and thoughts she doesn't want to think and her anger just spills over and suddenly she is on her knees rolling up the carpet and pulling it downstairs. It is heavy but she continues. Pulling it through the hallway and the living room, out into the garden. Dad has a big metal barrel that he uses on late summer nights and she pushes and pulls and slams and squeezes until the carpet is more or less in the barrel. With the key from the kitchen drawer she gets the bottle of fire fluid and squeezes a copious amount on the carpet. A few matches and whoosh. A big flame erupts and soon the carpet is really on fire. It leaves a dark grey ugly smoke trail and the only thing Cassidy can think of is that it looks like the spot on the carpet so she screams. In the background a car stops with screeching tires, as if it arrives almost too late somewhere, but Cassidy doesn't hear it. She screams, for minutes now, and her throat feels like its burning herself. She screams and all goes down in smoke.

III

It is dark on the first floor. The others went home, even Claire, but Jacob stayed. There is an enormous mess downstairs but she'll clean it tomorrow. Nothing that can't be saved with a little hot water and soap. She likes that it is this dark, because her head feels less dizzy this way. Whatever she drank, there was probably a little more alcohol in it than she had planned but she can't be bothered. It tasted so sweet and fruity, a real good drink for a house party and her house party has been great. The best anyone has hosted so far, she just knows it.

And, of course, the best thing is that Jacob stayed. She feels his hands in hers, or rather the other way around as his hand is bigger, but is feels nice and warm.

'Great looking house' He whispers.

She giggles. 'You can't see anything in the dark.'

She giggles more, and Jacob starts to laugh with her. They laugh a lot and it is great. Jacob is great. When they both caught their breath he says 'I can see you though, and you look great.'

She knows it's a cheesy sentence, but he tries and the twinkle in his eyes is perfect so she forgives him for speaking lines like a Hollywood film that no one ever lives.

'Wait till you see my room.' She responds and they giggle again and stumble into her room. Because she is tired but also nervous she drops herself onto the carpet, pulling Jacob with him. He sits down next to her, and they are looking at each other for a long time. Her breath speeds up. This is going to happen, she realizes. And when Jacob leans in she closes her eyes and meats his mouth in the middle.

They're kissing, on the carpet in her bedroom. His tongue is a little wet and it feels a bit awkward at first but Jacob and she are finally kissing. And after a few seconds she adjusts and tries different ways of kissing. Soft, harder, a little more tongue, a little less. She thinks; so this is kissing. She thinks she could get a grip on this with a little more practice and it is still nice enough.

They kiss for a long time, slowly lowering their bodies so that they are lying on the carpet, making out. She enjoys it a lot, until suddenly Jacob brings his hand up to her breast and squeezes it. She squirms because it is too rough and she doesn't really like it, but sure enough he pulls it away again. Relieved she keeps on kissing him.

That is until he wrangles his hand underneath her shirt and roughly shoves away her bra. He squeezes her breast again, too rough and it hurts a lot. She doesn't want this, tries to shove him away but he is much stronger. She tries again but he keeps on squeezing. He uses his weight to keep her down on the carpet and suddenly she feels trapped. Maybe he didn't drink as much as she did, she can't remember, but she tries to pull away her mouth and say stop. She says it several times; stop.

But Jacob doesn't stop. He just responds with: 'but this is so good. It'll be good. It'll be so good.' He uses his other hand to push their mouths together again. Forces his tongue inside and everything feels awful now. Gross and unwanted and Cassidy starts to panic. What is Jacob doing and why doesn't he stop when she asks him. It makes her dizzy and before she can make sense of it she feels liquid coming up her throat. It splatters all over them, on Jacob's shirt, on hers, and on the carpet. She retches another time and another orange looking squirt of liquid lands on the carpet. A little on Jacobs hand. It is awful.

Jacob scrambles to his feet while screaming 'what the hell?' He wipes his hand off on the carpet while looking at her in utter disgust. 'Fuck, you vomited on me? That is fucking disgusting.' She looks at the spot on the carpet, orange and nasty smelling and she retches another time but nothing comes out of her stomach anymore.

'Fuck this is bad, oh my god, you vomited on me. Ew ew ew. I'm going home. This is the worst thing ever.' He says and he walks out of her room, down the stairs with is wet shirt still on. Cassidy feels the tears burning down her cheeks. She wipes her mouth, rolls over to the other side, curls up and cries.

She put all the breakable stuff upstairs. Apart from the TV. It is too heavy anyway and hey might watch a movie. Perhaps that is too childish, watching movies at parties. Perhaps they will dance. But She doesn't think they will, she hasn't invited too many friends. Just a few. Maria is going to bring Jacob, she has promised. Maria already has a boyfriend for over a year now, Martin, he is a bit boring but apparently they like each other a lot. She hopes that Jacob won't turn out to be boring, but she hardly thinks that is possible. Even though they've only talked twice she thinks he is so cool, with his big blue eyes and half shaven hair. He doesn't try to grow beard or mustache like some of the boys in their year. It looks ridiculous on them because they hardly have any hair. But Jacobs jaw is strong and well defined so he looks older than he is anyway. Caroline thinks he is into her as well, but that is just because she would like it for her sis' to be happy. Maybe they can skype tomorrow, if Car doesn't have training all day.

When she has removed all the breakable stuff and locked the study room so no one can enter she starts to compile a playlist. She'll mix the fruit juice later. Claire told her she had a surprise to bring with her. 'Just have fruit salad ready, or maybe punch or fruit juice, that would be better.'

She knows Claire will bring alcohol. She is sixteen and under no circumstances allowed to drink alcohol. Mom would freak out and ground her for the rest of her life if she found out her precious Bobbsey even thought of drinking alcohol. But Mom's not here and dad is way more relaxed about it. He has travelled many times to Europe, where you can drink at 18 and he sees that as a reasonable age. How much is two years anyway? 16 and 18 are really close by. So she has bought various soft drinks that can be mixed, and fruit drinks that they can spike.

Besides, it is not like others at her age haven't drank yet. She'll probably like the taste if she mixes it enough with sweet drinks.

The party is a success. She knows it because there are more people than she had invited but not too many, so it will be talked about later while still looking exclusive. Her playlist is good. Upbeat but not too pushy. She mixed famous songs with upcoming artists. Having a dad who is a music freak will do that and already Timothy and Simone have asked her which band was currently coming through the speakers. She is happy and laughing a lot. All because of the party, and perhaps a bit because of the buzz from the alcohol combined with different drinks. She had asked Claire what she had added but Claire just wiggled her eyebrows and said 'the right taste for an amazing evening.' If she is honest she doesn't like Claire that much, but because she has rich and famous parents as well they went to the same elementary and middle school. Claire is a bit superficial and only cares about stuff like make-up and the latest gossip. She doesn't do sports because her nails may break and Cass knows that Claire only sucks up to her because her mother runs a fashion magazine and fashion is the best thing on earth according to Claire. Still, she looks older and has some older friends so she could get alcohol and you don't want Claire's wrath over you, so better keep her close. Her mother uses that tactic as well with people she doesn't like at Runway, and it always works for her so Cass thinks it's the best way to go about it. Still, it sucks, because Claire is clearly interested in Jacob as well.

Fortunately Jacob doesn't seem too interested in Claire, he already has talked to Cass twice tonight. He wears a navy blue vest and black jeans which look so good on him. He smiled at her too, from across the room where he is standing with Gene, one of his friends. Gene is tall but has acne and he looks like he scratches his arms and puts the dead skincells in his mouth.

After she talked with Maria for a while, who has to go home early because her parents are strict and Martin can't stay over yet, she ends up on the couch between Claire and Gene. They giggle about nothing in particular and then there is Jacob with a bottle of something orange looking in his hand.

'A bit more for the pretty girl?' He asks and smiles at her. This is the moment Gene tries to put his hand on her leg, but she shoves it away. She holds up her glass and looks at Jacob. She tries to convey with her gaze that 'Gene doesn't interest me' and 'I think you are the coolest ever' and 'Claire is nice, but not as nice as we could be', but it might be a lot to convey in one glance so she also says

'Yes, a little bit'

He grins, refills her glass and looks at her intensely. 'Those girls are the best, the ones who always want a little more.'

'Morning sweetheart.' Dad walks into the kitchen with his hair all frumpy and bare feet. He doesn't like to dress before breakfast, which is the complete opposite from Mom, who never does breakfast even. Not really, a cup of coffee doesn't count.

He shuffles to get himself a glass of orange juice, the kind without pulp because Dad claims being a grown up includes freedom from healthy things. She rolls her eyes mildly at that, he swims and is a vegetarian so plenty healthy. And it is not like he starts the morning with diet coke. She snorts at that thought.

'What is so funny my Casserole? Is it my shirt?'

Casserole is his "funny" nickname for her, one of the many counteracts to Mom's habits, back from the days that they were together but spend most of the time arguing. She can't remember much of it, but together with Caro they remember parts and all of it isn't that great. She likes it far better now that they are separated. Somehow the nickname stayed though.

'Nothing dad, your shirt is lame.' It is a big t-shirt with a duck on it. Underneath it says ducking-hell. Often Cassidy wonders how her parents actually managed to fall for each other, they are so different. Like, miles and miles apart. Practically the opposite. In this regard she looks like mom though, it is truly an ugly shirt.

Dad dramatically raises his hand to his heart. 'I am hurt. This is the perfect t-shirt for a director consultancy of foreign affairs I'll tell you.' She laughs a bit, just at his silly behavior. His job means that he is away lots of time. She doesn't mind, mom's home is nice and often during the summer they can spend time at dads, but now he has some minor trip he has to take to Canada. He'll stay one night and she begged him to not hire a babysitter anymore. She is sixteen. She can handle a night on her own.

The toaster dings. Whole wheat bread pops out and dad puts a slice on each plate. He'll take his one with vegemite. It tastes awful and is another foreign concept he picked up somewhere which she'll never copy. She'll take hers with peanut butter. It melts with the warmth of the toast and she likes that. Caro and mom would shiver in disgust at both hers and dads breakfast. Caro only eats milk and cereal in the mornings. Plain and boring, but it is nice to be different from her sister. Especially because they still get confused reactions about who is who, even though they dress very differently now. Have different hobbies as well. Caro is at a dance and theater camp for four weeks. She'll go to soccer camp this summer, but it won't start in another week. So now she gets a little alone time with dad and despite his lame shirts and weird nicknames she likes it a lot.

But she likes it too that she has a night of her own. Unsupervised. He gave in soon enough to her pleas. Winked at her and told her to write down the neighbor's number and said his phone would be on all night. In case something happens she can call him. He also gave her money to order in. Something with veggies, he said, onion on a pizza didn't count. And, as with parental guidance goes, she could not invite too many friends over. 'I don't want to find popcorn in every nook and cranny of the couch and chairs' he said. 'I might not clean this apartment, but Bernd doesn't get paid so we can behave like pigs. Clean up the mess if you make one.'

She promises she will.

On top there is a package of healthy, power food multi grain cookies that his mother claims save everyone from everything.

'Dum dum da da dum dum da da dum dum da da… It sounds from somewhere in the room and Doug tries to decipher what song it is. He knows it, it is very famous, but it is just outside of his reach. Oh! Mission Impossible, that's right. It is only then he realizes that it is his own phone that is ringing, this ringtone was specifically set for the hospital. Probably by Lily, who always tries to cheer him up but not always takes the most subtle road.

Now where would his phone be? Slowly Doug rises from the couch, it irritates him that he is slower than the world now. He was not exactly a sports man but his job required some reaction speed. Now he gets tired from just breathing all day. Technically, the doctor would say, he gets tired from not being able to breathe properly all day.

He pulls over some cushions, but it is not there, and when he finally localizes the phone – on the desk, underneath a gas bill he needs to remember to pay on time- the tune has stopped. Too late. Nothing new there.

But then it starts ringing again and with a swipe to the right he picks up.

'Douglas Stilton speaking'

The voice on the other line speaks words he never dared to expect. There is a heart, for him. He lowers the phone and looks at it while he hears the voice on the other side continue to talk about procedures and risks. A heart. He can't believe it. When the voice goes silent he puts the phone back to his ear.

'Douglas?'

'Yes.'

'Will you drive to the hospital, right away?'

'Yes.' He says, with a soft voice. Although he hasn't been allowed to drive since the first attack. Lily is, and although she is currently doing groceries she'll be home soon. With a short press the call is ended. He stares for a few seconds at his display which shows a picture of him, Andy, Lily and Nate when Andy and Nate had still been together and he had been healthy, or at least unaware of his heart.

Now he cannot not ever be unaware. Sleeping is a terrible thing which eludes him most nights, and he has to pee more often than a lady with a urinary infection. Not that he minds going to the toilet, the confined space seems to be the only space that resembles the restriction on his body, which gives him a feeling of being on more equal foot with the world. But it is difficult to find the balance between exercising more than just his trips to the bathroom, and not collapsing on the floor. He'll be fine though, Lily will arrive soon.

'I wanted to go to the bakery on the corner of 9th street, but apparently they have moved so now I don't have your favorite cake with the cinnamon crust, I'm so sorry. Instead I went to that little dessert shop with the yellow window frames and bought a homemade apple pie, a carrot cake and a cherry cheesecake with white chocolate flakes instead of milk chocolate. Delicious huh?' Lily walks in with several bags in each hand and a red blush on her cheeks.

Doug has no particular opinions on cake, he has always been more of a savory taste kinda guy, but Lily just needs a hum from him to keep up the one sided conversation. This is a big day for her and he knows she means well, despite her fuzzing in his life. After she put the boxes on the kitchen counter she looks at him for a few moments. 'You look a little bit better today.' She nods to underline her statement. Doug just looks back. He has to tell her now. He has to tell her immediately, that would be best. She could get the car and by the time he has managed to get his shoes on they'd be ready to go. She could hands-free call Andy and Nate while driving, and after that his parents. Maybe he could even call them himself.

He gives a half smile. 'Thank you.' He says. 'I will sit in my chair.'

When Lily is occupied with making coffee he puts his phone on silent and drops it in the desk drawer in case they call again. It is better to be in control of what little things he still has. When he looks up Lily is putting out so many plates it looks like an Italian family is coming over for dinner while it will just be cake with his friends. Nothing special for a birthday. Lily wanted to make a big party out of it at first, the implied it might be your last was left unspoken but for once he thanked god for his short energy span so he needn't to face all his childhood friends and vague acquaintances. He assumes taking care of a gallery will leave you with the urge to organize big events.

'Andy will arrive a little later, something about a thing at The Mirror. I don't know, but she'll get here as soon as possible.' Lily babbles. Doug smiles. Of all his friends Andy handles it best. She is caring, as is her nature, but she isn't overbearing and leaves him alone when he needs it. Doug is not much of a talker, and when Andy visits she is just as happy to sit and work on her laptop instead of analyzing every microfeeling he has had for the past day.

'Nate will bring his new girlfriend,' Lily makes a face with that. She still hasn't let go of the thought of Andy and Nate being together, even after a few years and several flings from Nates side. Doug knows Andy is not at all interested and couldn't care less whether Nate brought home the queen of England or some beggar from the streets. But he is not going to correct Lily, he needs the energy later when he has to decipher whether it is worth explaining his condition to a new person.

Telling new people is always a complicated task. People get itchy around sick people. People get scared because they are confronted with their own possible death, he knows. It leads to highly personal questions –what about sex?- and awkward jokes – so you got your heart broken? And people stare. Even when he still passes as a – somewhat immobile – regular guy people will stare at him until they decide they can see he is ill.

'Oh! There is Nate. I'll be right back.' Lily opens the door and starts to greet them loudly and excitingly. He enjoys the noise. There isn't much of that when he is home throughout the day. There are kisses and greetings at the door. The new girl introduces herself as Joyce and Lily shakes her hand friendly. Doug can hear it all from his position in the living room.

When they enter Lily introduces Doug as if he is some party guest and not the one having the birthday – this is Doug, he is a friend of Nate. Doug thinks it is perhaps as a cover up for the sentence this is Doug, he is dying. Joyce doesn't stare or stutter. It is nice for a change, Doug thinks. She probably works in a hospital or nursing home, he guesses.

Nate puts a hand on his shoulder. 'Hey man.' Doug nods. Although Nate is not very manly, apart from his abundance of hair, he never truly managed to get over the awkward distance that straight men keep between each other. The hand on his shoulder is as much physical contact as Nate can handle. From the new girl, Joyce, he gets their present, wrapped in silver paper with dark blue stripes. Too classy to be done by themselves. It's a book, a detective, by some unknown Scandinavian writer. 'Thank you, I don't know this one.' He says. In the beginning he used to read, a few classics here and there since he thought that it was part of his bucket list. But he found out soon enough that literature isn't his thing. Now he can't even be bothered thinking 'who dunnit' in first place. Still, it is hard to find a gift for a dying person, so he knows they try.

Lily too gives her presents now. CD's, a bit more to his interests. He often listens to the radio while he is at home, but the news can't interest him anymore and it is mainly classical music. These are probably upcoming rock bands. Lily is up to date in the art world and often that goes hand in hand with being up to date in other fields.

She looks at him expectantly. 'Lovely', he says. 'Thank you'. They all smile at him as if he is going to add something more.

He should add some more. That he got a phone call. He will. He is. Any moment now.

The doorbell rings. It is Andy.

III

Andy looks great. Her clothes are more comfortable now, more businesslike dark blue and grey suits and skirts, but he is pleased how her last job has improved her wardrobe so much. She greets Doug with a kiss on each cheek. When she bows near his right one she whispers 'I know you don't like presents, and your real one has yet to arrive I'm sorry, but this is just to play and pretend. You can throw it out right after the party if you don't care for it.' She smiles and says louder 'Happy Birthday Dougie'. From her bag she retreats a soft, flowery patterned paper wrapped gift with a small ribbon around it. While Andy continues to greet the rest he slowly unwraps it. On top there is a package of healthy, power food multi grain cookies that his mother claims save everyone from everything. He and Andy tried it once together, so that he could tell his mother and they taste like rubber bands but he has to smile at the inside joke.

Underneath there is a soft moss green vest. It's a nice cut, soft lining and a zipper makes everything more easy to wear. He knows it is too warm for now, but will fit snugly in winter. He hasn't thought of winter yet. His plans are no longer that far ahead. He thinks her present means to say that she wants him to live and it touches and bothers him at the same time.

'I like the color, thank you. I'll keep the cookies for when mom comes over next week.' He tries to steer away from his thoughts and keeps the ambiance lighthearted. Andy smiles back at him as if she sees through his move but accepts it.

Then it is time for drinks, as is the protocol when one visits a birthday. Andy agrees to coffee, Joyce too. Doug wants some extra oxygen but this is not the right moment to get out his tank, in front of everyone, so he settles for tea. Nate wants wine and Joyce says that it is way too early for that. She looks around the group expecting agreeing noises. And Andy, ever the peace maker, hums that you can't always have what you want. He sees Lily interpreting this as if she still longs for Nate.

He tries to imagine how it would work out if he drops the bomb now. He feels like his eleven year old self again who has to play the trumpet in the orchestra together with Andy. She played the flute and had always enjoyed it, while he would avoid his instrument for as long as possible and always got nauseous before class because he hadn't practiced enough. Again.

His mother would cry over the phone like she had this morning. From happiness and misery, those often went together with her. Nate would insist they all had to come with him to the hospital while Lily would snap at him that that wouldn't be necessary. He would want Andy with him but she would graciously offer to bring Joyce home and then come to the hospital, creating the gentlest solution. He didn't have to live his live to know how it would go. And the best part had already passed.

'What kinds of cake are there, Lilygirl?' Nate is a chef but not a baker. He always looks forward to cake at birthdays.

'Three kinds!' Lily answers. 'Carrot, Cherry cheese and Apple.' Doug doesn't know why she bought so many. As if they are going to manage to eat three cakes with five persons.

'Hmm, yes! I had hope there would be apple.' Nate cheers.

Hope. He had given up long ago. Probably short after he got his diagnosis. Hope is dangerous because it means that there is a chance that it all won't work out the way it is supposed to be, and for him that means the worst case scenario. But here his friends hope so easily. Hope for cake, hope for next week when his parents have tickets booked to see him. Hope for him to be there in his December. So much hope that he suddenly feels something in his chest. Something that needs out, now that they are all busy with drinks and cake. He takes his version of a deep breath and says

'There is a heart.'

'A heart? Where? Here?' Nate tries to joke while he rummages through the wrapping papers on the ground. Lily already has her phone in her hand and is searching for the hospital number. Joyce looks sheepishly around wondering what she has to do while Andy nudges him with concern in her voice. 'When did you get the call?'

'I don't know, maybe half an hour, 45 minutes before you arrived?'

Lily now has her phone pressed to her ear. 'Doctor Hoyt please, or someone else on the team, it is an emergency.' She urges. Nate urges her to put it on speaker but Lily waves her hand. 'Go get everyone's jacket' she whispers at him, and Joyce reacts by fleeing to the hallway. Probably she is glad that she can do something. A voice on the other line starts to speak and Lily focuses back on the device. 'Yes, this is Lily speaking, Doug's friend, he received a phone call…'

The voice murmurs and both Nate and Andy stare at Lily while trying to decipher what the person is saying. He is glad he is not the one on the phone, at any side.

'But… I don't understand. He just got the call… Can't a person panic for one minute?'

The voice on the other line continues. Joyce hands out coats. She doesn't know where his is, so she grabs him his new vest.

'Bullshit!' Lily yells through the line. 'He is been to every single session and every single appointment. He doesn't show any risky behavior, doesn't smoke or do drugs.'

Doug almost wants to smile, he does a lot of drugs, but they are all prescribed and the hospital expects him to take them. This is however not the moment to think of humor.

'He is 32 for god's sake! He should be healthy!'

The voice on the other line is sharp and short. How many people would scream at them per week, Doug wonders. Three? Once every other day? The coronary care unit must always run high on emotions. Covering literally and metaphorically the matters of the heart.

'I simply won't accept this… You know his heart function is only… Can't you just call the other family back and…' Hospitals are even too busy to let Lily finish her sentences. When she hangs up her face says what Doug already knows. What is his own fault.

'They said you will stay somewhere atop of the list.' Lily waves her hand as if she wants to show the sheer incompetence of the whole hospital.

'You are advised to plan another visit with the psychologist. About your desires, and your options.' She looks at Doug. There is sadness in that look. But also anger.

'That is okay. I'll call Dr. Weissman.' He responds. It is not enough for Lily.

'I just don't understand… how you... that you didn't…' she starts but Nate interrupts her.

'That is so not what he needs now, Lills.' Angrily his friends stare at each other. Joyce fidgets with her jacket. Andy gently puts her hand in his.

There is a long moment of silence, and then he says 'How about that cherry cheesecake Lily?'

He doesn't say it because he wants to be the good friend. Not even because everyone has lost words and are uncomfortably looking anywhere but at him. He doesn't even say it because he needs something to distract him from the thoughts on survival rates and chances of transplant rejection. He thinks how good he has become at not wanting anything anymore. How good he is at not thinking about eating fries with his friends in a bar till late at night, or dancing in a nightclub with flashing lights and laser beams. How he is so trained at giving up the desire to visit art galleries any time a day because he feels like it or walking to work because the sun is shining. But maybe it is time to try again. Even if it is without knowing whether he can try tomorrow too. Once he had been quite good at living, maybe he can be again.

And those white chocolate flakes do sound tasteful.

Andy smiles, and nods as if she understands. 'Cherry cheesecake sounds lovely. Can I have a piece as well?' She takes the vest in his hands and flings it casually over the armrest of the couch. Together, he thinks, they'll celebrate his birthday.

And this is the crux of it. What comes after?

There is a small envelope lying on the hallway floor. Her name is written on it, and Miranda picks it up when she enters the house. It is late, but it is still light outside, they are deep into the summer. She is tired and her feet are aching so she steps out of her heels, hangs her coat and drops her bag before walking to the kitchen.

It has been an awful day. A board meeting where it was the same old argument of Runway being too expensive even though its sales carries several other magazines at Elias-Clarke. And the Chanel spread looked miserable, despite its strong collection for September.

She could use a glass of wine. Pours herself a red one while retrieving her salad from the refrigerator. The girls are away for a few weeks. Caroline at summer camp, Cassidy at her fathers. Miranda makes long hours but even for her there are times that she is home. The house is empty, almost void of sound, and she wonders whether she will get used to it once the girls leave for college.

Patricia slowly walks into the kitchen. She is getting old, and usually naps most of the day upstairs. She hired someone to walk her now that she is working so much, but it means no greeting at the door. Still, the St. Bernard is happy enough to seek her out on her own speed. Mirada greets her with a pat on the head. She takes her food and wine and sits down at the breakfast bar. She has had five dinners in public this week and revels in what little privacy and informality she has now.

As she pricks the lettuce on her fork she picks up the envelope. It says nothing on the back, just a plain white envelope with her first name. She hasn't used her knife yet, so she takes it and rips the paper open. Upstairs on her desk there is a fine silver letter opener with her initials engraved in the handle, but she can't be bothered to make the trip. This reminds her of her father, opening the mail every breakfast with his knife. He couldn't care whether he already used it, leaving little stains of grease on the envelopes and fingerprints on bank statements.

It is a picture. It seems like an abstraction of a landscape. Something artificial without being posh. It is not in black and white but hardly seems to contain any color. Dark browns and sepia give it a warm yet desolate look. Miranda nods, a gesture of approval. On the back of the card it says 'sometimes, I see things I wish I could share with you. I miss you.'

There is no name or initial and Miranda wonders who would send her this and why. She looks at the front again but nothing in the picture gives it away. She frowns but isn't worried. Whomever the admirer is, she'll know it soon enough. People always desire credit for their work so this won't be any different.

When she decides to recline upstairs, long after dinner and going over the book, she sees the picture again. It is still lying on the breakfast bar. She doesn't keep pictures on the base floor as it is often used to host parties and she is not willing to share private moments from her life with her guests. She neither uses non-descript images to make it look more homey. Appearing personal is not an excuse for bad taste. Besides, the art on the walls and a sculpture here and there compensates for the lack of photographs. The takes the picture upstairs. Plans on putting it in a drawer. Instead she leaves it on her desk in her study.

On Saturday Miranda likes to work with the radio on. A piece by Schubert is playing, one of the lesser famous ones so she doesn't know which, when she hears the mail slot click. She purses her lips, not sure why she would walk downstairs to see if it is another envelope. With a small huff at her own behavior she gets out of her chair and descent the stairs to grab another envelope from her doormat.

It is another picture. Mountains this time. It is taken from high up, because she can see the jagged line where the shadow from a cloud darkens the valley and where it abruptly turns into bright light. And on the back 'because for you it is never enough.'

She doesn't know how to interpret this. Is it a jab at her demeanor? Perhaps just an observation on her life. Of all the things she has been called, all the angry words spat in fights with husbands and lovers it has always come down to this; it isn't enough. She mostly wasn't enough. Not enough of a mother or a partner or a friend. Not honest enough or not soothing enough. Despite the harsh words, it is a very truthful picture. And that, strangely, touches her more than a compliment would have. She puts it next to the other one on her desk. She'll throw them away soon.

On Sunday and Monday there are no pictures and Mirada feels ridiculous for being aware that she doesn't hear anything clattering down around the hour that the second picture got delivered. She continues her days in her regular pattern; with work. A spread needs to be redone, the belts showcased on page 82 are abhorrent, the sales of Runway Italy have dropped, she has an international skype meeting at 6 am. It is by far enough to occupy her.

It is therefore that she rises her eyebrows Tuesday evening, when finding another envelope. The picture displays the small curve of a back. A children's back, leaning against a stone wall in the relaxed way that only children can be. Still unaware of other people's gaze and entirely focused on their own comfort. She remembers how her Bobbsey's used to be like this. The note is not related to the image. It says 'I waited till it went away. It never did.'

She feels restless, as if she needs to do something, while she knows perfectly well that there isn't anything to do. Yes, she could get the authorities involved. Twice in her life she has had stalkers. Both were young men who would let her know it was them at every possible moment. Miranda's intuition let's her feel that this is different. Professionally she has always trusted on her instinct. She doesn't know whether she should do the same personally. Still, she keeps the pictures together. Undecided whether they are evidence or art.

The fourth picture is an open hand. It is in between grasping and holding out, and the picture is elegant but also conveying a need. She doesn't know whether she likes it. If this has been shown in a photoshoot she'd immediately accept it into her magazine. She knows when an image has the ability to move. But now, in her home where she still doesn't know who is sending her these, and where she mostly tried to choose the way of the least intensity she finds the picture overwhelming. There is only one word written on the back, 'exquisite' and she closes her eyes to recapture herself. This is getting out of hand. The pictures are unique but there is a certain violence to it that the person sending them stays anonymous.

So when she comes back from a short walk with Patricia on Friday evening and she finds another envelope she makes the decision to call her lawyer. She will, right after she opens the envelope, and she refuses to acknowledge her blush for longing to know what it inside of it. This has to be done with. She tears the paper apart.

III

It has been a long time since Miranda has gasped. But she cannot stop it when she sees what is inside the envelope. It is a picture of her and Andrea. Taken at some benefit or gala. Miranda is bowed with her head towards her assistant, eyes closed probably to let her whisper a name or detail in her ear. She looks completely trusting, a look not many are privy to see from the 'dragon lady'. Andrea is leaning towards her, and looks at her with a soft gaze. Her mouth not yet quite forming the words. All of it together, Miranda's stance, Andrea's gaze, looks intimate. Private.

On het other side of the photo it says 'here, you,' and then an address. Andrea's address.

The single word, you, resonates through Miranda. As if it was the end of a thought, or a beginning. As if Andrea tried to capture her whole. Miranda closes her eyes and let it fibrate through her. For a fleeting second she can imagine the sound of the younger woman's voice.

She has missed Andrea, she won't deny it. There is no use in not being honest with herself. She explicitly refused to follow the career of the younger woman. Out of sight things are more bearable than getting fleeting threads of something which has no chance to develop.

But now she has five pictures and an address. A bold invitation to visit Andrea, as there is no telephone number. She walks into her study and looks at all the pictures together. Now, after five years, this collection of personal messages, so scarce in words but rich in image, cannot be explained as anything other than an invitation. And a sadness runs through her.

Because she thinks it might be too late. Too late to return or start anew. She has two daughters who are rapidly becoming independent and the last time her body has been touched by someone who isn't next of kin or dressing her she can't recall. She is neither the Miranda she was then, but is not a new version either. Just perhaps lonelier.

It is not a fair game.

She would lose. And no matter how much she feels right now, she could not risk it.

She won't do it. Before she stops herself on the matter, she briskly shoves the photos into the waste paper bin. 'Enough' she says.

She goes over the book twice as long. E-mails some tasks to the printing department so that it will be done before Monday morning, has dinner, tries to read a chapter of a new novel, but closes it when she is at page 40 but can't recall what it is about. She feels out of sorts and longs for a cigarette. It is past midnight, but she won't be sleeping for another few hours, she knows herself well enough.

Suddenly she thinks of Alice. How the twins hadn't been born yet and she wasn't even and Editor in Chief but still climbing rang. She had ran on caffeine and pure willpower then, ready to leave for work when two police officers had stood at her door. Whether they could come in? She had nodded. And they had sat down at her kitchen table, a different one that she has now, telling her that her best friend from her youth had been hit by a car and immediately had died of her injuries. Miranda had been listed as her emergency contact. She hadn't suffered they said. And Miranda had known that wasn't true. Alice had suffered for a long time, many years in the run up to this moment. She had been in the hospital twice because her friend had tried to stop the suffering. And while everyone had spoken of an accident at the funeral and all the times after, she had thought that she'd understood. She just whished that she had gotten a sign, a last goodbye, that she could have heard her voice once more. Seen her once more, just a little more. Miranda had decided, afterwards, that she would live to the fullest, would live for two. She always thought that she had redeemed that promise through her devotion to her career. She realizes now she hasn't lived in a little while.

Saturday. Miranda wakes up early, as always, takes a short shower, dresses and searches the bin to find the pictures she threw away yesterday. She had put them in the middle of the stack on purpose so it takes her a few minutes to retreat them.

With her purse containing the photographs, keys and sunglasses she walks to her Porsche. She has to start it twice and before she slowly glides through streets of New York. She ends up in traffic for 45 minutes, and lets her eyes trace along the buildings that are covered in soft shades of lights that indicate the arrival of a warm day. She reaches her destination by three blocks, parks her car aside the road, clicks her seatbelt off, leans her forehead on the steer and exhales deeply.

For 20 minutes she just sits in her chair. Hands on her thighs. She closes her eyes and waits.

Then she turns the car around and drives back.

In the kitchen she heats the stir fry Cara left for the day. It taste like her mothers and she refuses to fall apart above it.

There are no more pictures after that. She understands it, it was her turn and she had tried but it didn't work out. While she pets Patricia she whispers 'Some things just go the way they go'.

It is Sunday, a week has passed, and she is trying to distract herself with a novel sitting in her study. She hasn't gone back to Andrea. Still, the four pictures are on her mantelpiece, and the one of them together in her desk drawer. Every time she looks up her eyes glide over them. It is hot outside, even in these early hours, and the coolness of her home offers protection from the burning rays of the NY sun. She always had a delicate skin, easily burnt, and she is glad that she doesn't have to be outside at a shoot.

Her doorbell rings.

Miranda purses her lips. She has no appointments, her assistants have the key – and no reason to bring dry cleaning at eleven in the morning. She is not interested in having visitors, and prepares for verbally lashing out to the person behind her front door. She walks onto the corridor where a security display is hanging that shows whether her guest is worth walking downstairs for.

It is Andrea.

She looks at her security display again, but she easily recognizes the woman on her porch. Andrea who gave her address, who left the ball in her court but still showed up when she was too cowardice to reach out herself. And she holds a small bouquet of larkspur, her favorite flowers. She is nervous, Miranda can see it by the way Andrea fidgets with her hands and bites her lower lip. Despite her skirmish behavior the brunette rings the bell again and smiles full of hope.

She must know Miranda is at home, or at least remember her schedule enough to know that her best chance to encounter Miranda is indeed at Sunday.

Miranda keeps on staring at the display. The woman is gorgeous and so very young and unblemished that she can't tear her eyes away. She wants to inhale all about Andrea. Just a few moments more before this all will stop again. Because she knows she can't have this. That it won't last. With her hand she touches the display and whispers 'oh Andrea.'

As if Andrea knows how she is looking at her, how she is doubting, the woman rings again. With shoulders pulled backwards and a heaving chest the woman presses the bell for the third time. And suddenly Miranda has to laugh, it bubbles up from her chest and erupts from her throat like a long forgotten skill. Her brave Andrea. Always going a little further, holding on a little longer.

Miranda thinks of Alice again. Wasn't this a sign? An extra gesture after she had not expected it? Wasn't this what was meant with living? She smiles again and decides what she has to do. She sprays on a little more perfume, runs a comb through her hair, just to make it appear a little softer, hurries downstairs, tells Patricia to stay and opens the door.

Her porch is empty. But she can still see Andrea walking through her street, flowers now dangling in her hands, almost touching the ground, and her shoulders a bit slumped. This is the end of the woman's trying. Beyond this it would be considered too intrusive and Andrea is full of hope but no longer naïve. No longer the still-wet-behind-her-ears deer that got caught in the headlights of Miranda's persona. Miranda watches her walk away, takes a few more steps out of her house to call her, but her throat isn't working.

And Miranda thinks, if only you just looked around once more. But she knows she is greedy for thinking it. She already has left so much to Andrea that she can't ask for even more. She has to do this, if she really wants it. And for once she gathers all her courage and utters, softly: 'Andrea.'

They are in the kitchen. Together. There is soup burning on the stove, because she had offered lunch, but they had been staring at each other so much, trying to decipher how to go about this. And their conversation immediately had gone wrong, bringing up Paris and she had felt the hurt coming from both of them so intensely that she had forgotten about the food on her stove and now it has caked to the pan and spattered all around her furnace.

'Shit' she says while she turns off the gas. Everything in her body is tensed. Unsure now that the woman is in her house whom she wants so much but whom she is already showing that she isn't enough again. That she fails already both at communicating and at the simple task of being hostess. She wants to swear another time, but instead breathes in and out heavily.

Andrea walks towards her, closer and closer until she reaches out a hand and places it on her neck. Her thumb and the tops of her fingers gently run through the hairs at the nape. Miranda doesn't say anything. She is standing with her eyes closed and Andrea's hand on the back of her neck.

'I'm sorry.' Andrea whispers. And it feels honest and awful because she is sorry too but she can't seem to find a way to utter the words. Instead she grasps Andrea's hand, pulls it from her neck to her shoulder. Clamps it to convey what she can't in words. Andrea seems to understand it.

And then the woman surprises her by whispering 'May I kiss you, Miranda?'

Miranda wants to nod. Wants to turn her head to this ridiculous young woman who offers to kiss her, who offers to know her and to understand her, and she doesn't comprehend why she doesn't do any of it. Why she has to clam up and freeze after all this effort that they went through to get to this point. Why she can't let go. She is in her middle ages for god sake, and her life might be far from over but somehow she can't think of this as something new or as a start. She carries too many traces from her past with her, and no matter how she could wish for it they won't go away with a kiss.

'But what comes after?' she utters. And this is the crux of it. What will happen after this. After she gives in and this is just but a first storm to pass? What if there is weather ahead that might be worse, and they were already so ill equipped for this one.

'We continue.' Andrea whispers. 'Just like everyone always does. We continue.'

Miranda understands.

Somewhere, a woman receives a letter from her mother, somewhere, a man drinks a glass of red wine to honor his mother who missed out on love, somewhere, a teenager's cry is heard by her arriving father, somewhere, a man is driven to the hospital after a new call.

Here, a woman is kissed by another woman, for the very first time.

A/N

This work is based on Griet op de Beecks novel Gij Nu. It hasn't been translated (as of yet, I am sure it will be as it is already in third print even though it has been published in 2016), but, she is truly one of the best writers I know. These stories each resemble (some more, most of them less) chapters of her book, but there are ten other chapters so if you ever manage to get a copy; please do read it.

She said about being an author:

"[it is] in spite of the most quoted and most miserable fucking sentence in the world by Nietzsche: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That is just something that we delude ourselves with afterwards, to make it all more bearable, while there are just I don't know how many things that actually shouldn't be able to happen to people, it is that simple. But if you are still able to do something with that fight which leads to something like books which might be truly important to a person here and there, then something beautiful has happened. Because it means that your greatest needs are at the same time your greatest strengths." – Griet op de Beeck