Staring Down the Barrel
Warning: Some intense themes; major character death mentioned.
Disclaimer: CBS, creators, producers, etc., own all recognizable characters. I own Tim's family members that are my own creation.
A/N: This story is essentially a missing chapter for my story, Promises Made. In the time frame of that story, this would fit between chapters 5 & 6. It takes place in the 12 hours before Tim's friends intervene on his behalf.
Read on it's own, this story provides a closer look at the effects of profound grief.
Staring Down the Barrel
Leaning back in the recliner with his feet raised, Tim was ready, finally, for the next necessary step. With his free hand he raised the photograph to eye level and felt the unshed tears collect as he studied its image one last time. Taking in one last deep breath and closing his eyes, he carefully inserted his sidearm into his mouth. The faint sounds of crying could be heard in the background, but he would not be deterred from his task.
It's too late… you've already failed them… you've failed them all, the voice in his head repeated and he felt himself nod as the revolver scraped against his teeth.
With eyes still closed, he concentrated on the cold, metal object filling his mouth, ignoring the cries, even as they grew louder. Just a moment longer, he told himself as he willed his hand to be steady. He was determined to see her face once more, but all he could see in his mind's eye was the blood bubbling out of a gunshot wound in her chest. Once more he tried, clamping his lids down tightly, but there was nothing, only more blood. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and a cold chill ran down his spine as the sound of pulsating blood in his ears drowned out the sobbing. Slowly the gun slid further down his throat, choking him until he could no longer breathe.
Now, now, before it's too late, the faint voice commanded him, barely heard over the muffled cries of "Daddy, Daddy," coming from somewhere in the blackness.
Choking, coughing, sputtering, he couldn't get enough air, as the gun slid farther and farther down his throat until he couldn't breathe at all. He woke with a start fighting for oxygen, his heart racing out of control in his constricted chest. Gasping for air, the sweat dripped from his forehead and nauseousness gripped him. Fearful he was close to blacking out, he instinctively placed his head between his knees.
With head lowered and hands firmly gripping his thighs for support, he tried to calm down by focusing solely on his breathing. In and out, in and out... slowly, slowly, he willed himself. After several long moments, he wiped the sweat from his brow and roughly raked his hands through his hair. Sitting up now, he held his hands outstretched in front of him and was struck by the shaking he couldn't control. His breaths were now coming a bit slower, but the tightness in his chest wouldn't let up and he couldn't yet wrap his brain around the thoughts spinning wildly in his head.
The memory came to him in a terrifying flash. The images in his head quickly began to scramble, but not before he clearly saw the gun in his hand entering his mouth, followed by an even clearer image of Calleigh bleeding from the gunshot to her chest. A powerful feeling of nauseousness overcame him and he leapt out of the chair, running to the bathroom. He made it in time to empty out the contents of his stomach. Fortunately, there wasn't much there to begin, considering he couldn't remember when he ate last, only how much he'd drank. The bourbon, he noted, wasn't as pleasant on the way up as it was on the way down. He continued retching long after his insides were empty, wishing there was a way he could rid himself of more than the bourbon.
Shakily, he stood and moved over to the sink where he steadied himself by holding on to the edge. He gazed at the reflection before him, no longer recognizing the visage that he saw staring back. His face had a grey cast, at least what could be seen through the many days of dark stubble that covered his face. His eyes were red rimmed and dead looking, sunken as they were their hollow sockets. His entire appearance was gaunt and sickly, shocking really, making him question when he last looked in a mirror.
What would Cal think? he asked himself, but he knew that answer without having to think. She would be devastated to see him looking this way. He also knew she'd never let him get to this point because she loved him more than anything. But Calleigh wasn't here. She'd left him after promising she never would. Lost in thought, his mind traveled back to their tenth wedding anniversary, just three months earlier, when he'd slipped the eternity band onto her ring finger, in the very parking lot where he had proposed all those years ago. On that night, he asked her to marry him and on this night, he asked her to stay with him forever. And she promised she would. She promised.
In turn, he promised to stay with her always and to never let her down. But he didn't keep his promise, either. He'd let her down when she needed him most, leaving her to die alone and he couldn't forgive himself for that, would never be able to forgive himself. Just the thought made his knees go rubbery and he had to brace himself once more as the queasiness gripped his insides. Thinking about his wife started a chain reaction in his head and memories of the dream came flooding back. It was just a dream, wasn't it? he asked himself, feeling the panic spread through him as a cold sweat ran down his back.
He moved as quickly as his tired, trembling body allowed and manically began searching his bedroom for...for... What? A gun? he questioned, feeling the nausea turn his stomach inside out. Could I have really gotten out the gun? His eyes darted around the room, landing on the unused bed and then the recliner he had been sleeping in, but there was no sign of a gun. He searched the small table next to the chair finding the three-fourths empty bottle of bourbon and a stack of photographs, but thankfully, no gun.
The gun was locked up, it was always locked up. He hated the thing anyway, he never would've gotten it out. Is it even in the house anymore? He vaguely recalled a recent drunken conversation with Delko, when his friend had point blank asked him about the guns in the house and asked if he would ever use one on himself. He must've answered. Must've. Maybe Delko took all the guns, he couldn't remember, he had trouble remembering anything anymore. Maybe it was all just a dream, he thought. There were no guns or gunshot wounds bleeding out and Cal would never leave him, not really, he had to believe that.
Right now, he had to sit down before he collapsed. Plopping on the bed, he rubbed his head, trying to massage his ever-present headache. He wished he could just sleep for a very long time. It seemed he never slept anymore, or at least not for very long and never very well. It was impossible to sleep without her. He could count on his hands the number of times during their marriage that they ever spent the night apart, until now, that is. He needed her next to him, needed to be able to reach for her in the middle of the night and find her there. His lover, his comfort and his strength, she was always there, either asleep on his chest or curled up next to him. And always, she wanted him, desired him, and needed him as he did her. His chest hurt again just thinking about how truly lost he was without her.
One night was all he'd attempted in their bed without her, and he hadn't climbed back under the covers since. The twins would often come in, wanting to sleep next to him, but he remained atop the bed. Needing an alternative sleeping solution to the unused bed, Delko helped him move his favorite recliner into the bedroom, and good friend that he is, kept his comments to himself. When Tim slept at all, that's where it occurred. Calleigh hated that black leather chair, a remnant from his bachelor days. She found it ugly and cumbersome, which it was, but its comfort couldn't be denied. By a process of elimination, it eventually landed in the study, primarily because she claimed it wouldn't fit anywhere else. The dumpster is probably where she would've preferred it, but he loved the old chair, and she loved him, so it stayed. She would be aghast at its presence now in their bedroom.
A pretty room, with walls papered in a dainty floral print, it was their sanctuary, a soothing, comforting space that was once always filled with fresh flowers. This was where they went to shut out the stresses of their jobs and the difficulties and disappointments life sometimes threw at them. As long as they were together, they could handle most anything. And they did. They probably spent more time in the bedroom than anywhere else in the house, but that was a lifetime ago.
Yet even now, the room remained a sanctuary of sorts. It was the one place where he could occasionally allow himself to get lost in his memories of Calleigh and the life they'd once shared. Away from the twins, it was the only time he could let down his guard, but he couldn't do it often, the risk that he'd lose the control he'd fought so hard for was too great. That was an unacceptable risk; he had to be strong for his girls. Besides, there just wasn't enough alcohol to numb him completely and lord knows he'd tried. His guilt at letting down Calleigh was simply too overwhelming to deal with on top of his profound sadness. When he was able to find some small measure of comfort in this room and in his memories, he greedily took it. On a couple of very infrequent occasions, he'd had the experience of waking up from a deep slumber, and in those first few seconds of regained consciousness, he'd actually forgetten she was gone. For a moment, just a moment, his heart felt whole again. He'd reach over to bring her body closer to his, only to realize he was alone in the recliner and his heart broke again.
All he wanted right now was to forget, his memories, his guilt, his pain and that dream. His body shuddered involuntarily, as the image of the gun in his hand flashed across his eyes, followed by the faint sound of crying. The twins, he thought, feeling his anxiety rise. Had the twins been crying? Did I not hear them? Did they come in here? Did I really have a gun in my hand? Or was it all a dream? he asked himself, feeling his heart rate increase. He rose off the bed in a panic, his eyes darting all about the room, but he saw no gun. It had to have been a dream; it couldn't be anything but, he tried to reassure himself.
Apprehension growing, he knew he had to locate the girls, but he had no idea where they were or what time of day it was. He couldn't even remember when he last saw them. Is it daylight already? He looked towards the window, but the blackout shades were drawn and lived up to their name, blocking out all evidence of daylight. Glancing at his watch for the time, he found it missing and sighed heavily, feeling the ever present colossal weight of guilt crushing his shoulders. It was just one more thing he couldn't locate.
Walking out of the bedroom, he squinted, finding the sunlight streaming through the rest of the house blinding. He quickened his pace to his daughters' room praying he'd find them alright and wondered how his wife had ever trusted him enough to father her children. "God Cal, I am failing miserably," he said aloud to no one. I am failing them the same way I failed you. God knows I can't give them the one thing they want and need and now I don't even know where they are. Walking into their room, he breathed an instant deep sigh of relief. It was neat and tidy, with the beds made and the stuffed animals all lined up in a row. That could only mean one thing. Sometime while he was out of it and had no clue what was going on with his two precious daughters, Rosemary Speedle had put in an appearance. As he wandered out of his daughters' room, he braced himself for what he fully expected to be another in a series of all too common confrontations. No matter what he did to prepare himself, he was in no shape to face his mother, or any of them, this morning, or afternoon, or whatever it was.
Someone was always hovering and it was beginning to drive him out of his mind, that and the crying that he seemed to hear all the time. Guilt hit him quickly for having that last thought. His shoulders sagged as he slowly made his way to the kitchen and he sighed heavily. All he could see in his mind were their sad green eyes. Their heartbreak was truly more than he could bear. Inconsolable when they thought about their mother, they simply couldn't grasp that she was really gone forever. Hannah didn't understand why, if heaven was a real place, they couldn't visit sometime. And then it didn't help any that they had those freakish duel dreams that Calleigh was in their room and talking to them. He shuddered again. They were also frightened that something would happen to him, leaving them completely alone. So afraid were they, that for the first few weeks after Calleigh's death, they refused to leave his side.
How he finally managed to get them out of the house and back in school was anyone's guess, although it seemed more and more of late, someone else, namely his mother, was doing that for him. They saw a grief counselor regularly and he thought it might be helping, but he knew they'd never really get over this loss. He was trying to do right by them, but it just wasn't enough… Would I ever be enough? Fortunately there were others to pick up the slack, but even that wasn't enough. Nothing could ever compensate for losing their mother at the tender age of six.
Sitting at the table in the pale yellow kitchen, his mother looked every one of her years, despite her attempts to convey otherwise. This had been a difficult time for her, as well, and she had all but given up her life in Syracuse to help them. That was fine, as long as she gave him some space, but her definition of 'space' didn't quite match his. He hadn't been close to his parents for years, not since he quit school and disappeared without a word, but Calleigh, who was the antithesis of his mother, got along beautifully with Rosemary. It was something Tim never quite understood, but chalked it up to to his wife's southern charm and loving nature. By the time the twins came along, his parents were regular fixtures in their life. And he had to admit, his mother had softened around the edges, thanks to Calleigh and the twins, but lately, she was pushing it with her constant presence.
Horatio, Alexx, and Delko, they too, were always hovering. Their continuous appearances made him feel as though the walls were closing in on him completely. Despite their best intentions, their feeble efforts to console him, monitor him and generally take care of him, had instead, left him feeling completely out of control. It was fine for the girls, they needed all of the love and attention that their extended family could provide, and then some, but he didn't. Couldn't they see he was fine? This was simply how his life was now. They all needed to leave him alone. He just needed some sleep, that… and his wife. He needed his wife before everything collapsed on top of him.
"Where are the girls?" he asked, skipping formalities, his voice rough sounding to his ears. Despite knowing his mother was here, the earlier fear that something might have happened to them when he wasn't paying attention, left his stomach in knots and his heart racing.
"Tim," his mother answered, her eyes wide with horror as she took in his unkempt and sickly appearance. "Maybe you should sit. You look ill. Are you alright?" she asked, unable to keep the concern out of her voice.
God, I am so sick of that question. "The girls, where are they?" he asked again with increasing anxiety, ignoring her question. He leaned against the nearest counter, thinking he wouldn't be able to stand much longer.
"Calm down, they're fine. I got them off to school," she answered in a soothing voice, correctly reading his anxious state, but treating him as if he were the six year old in the process.
"They didn't tell me. They can't leave without telling me. They know that. You should know that," he said, raising his voice. "Why did you let them leave? Why didn't they tell me?" His breathing increased along with his heart rate and he felt dizzy. His mother looked more and more alarmed and he knew he had to get this under control before she had a breakdown right along with him. "They can't just leave, do you understand that?" he continued, his voice now filled with anguish as he felt his tenuous hold on his emotions slipping away.
"They knocked and poked their heads in. You must have been sleeping. I told them not to disturb you." The air between them was thick with tension as she paused for effect. "I saw the bottle," she said, the accusation in her voice coming through loud and clear. "It was hard enough getting them off to school. Emma started to cry. I didn't want to make things worse if it was going to be difficult to wake you, and risk not getting her out of the house at all."
The crying he heard, his dream, the gun… it was all just too much. He wasn't there for his daughters like he wasn't there for his wife. It was all he could do to not dissolve into tears himself, just then, and his body gave an involuntary shudder. Turning to the coffee maker, he poured himself a cup with shaking hands, hoping that the activity would help him gain some control. He took a sip, rapidly discovering that the bitter liquid on top of his queasy stomach wasn't a good combination. At the same time, his mother was still carrying on in the background.
"Tim, are you listening to anything I'm saying? I'm worried about you. You keep saying you're fine, but clearly you're not. The alcohol is not what you need," she said pointedly. "Maybe now you'll finally consider talking to a professional. It's been two months. It's time, surely you can see that. And please, eat something. You look like you're going to keel over any minute."
He continued to sip at the coffee, trying to concentrate on anything but the sound of his mother's disapproving voice.
"I'm worried about Emma." That last statement got his attention and he spun around to face her, carefully avoiding her accusing eyes.
"What? What's wrong?" he asked in a hoarse voice, dreading her answer.
"She's becoming more withdrawn. Hannah talks more, smiles even, but Emma, there's just something deeper…"
"Her mother was just murdered," he exploded. "What do you expect? She's just a little girl, she misses her mother," he said, his voice catching. A lump grew in his throat, as his daughter's grief stricken face flashed before his eyes.
"It's more than that," she answered firmly, not to be deterred, shaking her head at him.
"Fine," he said, slowly letting out a breath. "I'll talk to her counselor. She sees her again tomorrow, I think. I'm trying, I don't know what to do anymore…" his voice trailed off as his eyes filled and this was just unacceptable, he couldn't fall apart, not now, not ever. He just needed some sleep.
"Sweetheart, I know you are trying, we all are, but you have to start taking better care of yourself…" she began in a soothing voice.
"Do I need to pick them up today? Do you know what they're doing this afternoon?" he asked, interrupting her off as he tried to regain some control.
"No, don't worry about it. It's all taken care of. I'm picking them up and taking them for new dance things after school," she told him as he squinted at her, confused. "Remember? They're going to start their dance classes again this week? We talked about this, decided it was time."
No, he didn't remember. He didn't remember anything. Calleigh wanted them to take these dance classes since they'd been dancing around the house almost from the time they could walk and they loved them. But Calleigh wasn't here and he just felt so very tired. The phone rang then, interrupting his thoughts and briefly ending their conversation.
"Aren't you going to get that?" his mother asked. He shook his head. "But it could be the school. It could be about the girls."
He grabbed the phone and looked at the caller ID. "It isn't," he mumbled, putting the phone back. It was, however, a number he recognized, but he didn't want to talk to anyone, his mother had already exhausted him. The phone stopped ringing when the answering machine picked up and the unmistakable voice of Alexx Woods leaving a message filled the air. As his mother picked up the phone, he leaned back on the counter and closed his eyes wishing it would all just end.
"Tim? Are you okay, Honey? Alexx wants to know if you'd like her to bring you some dinner. I told her that I would be taking the girls out tonight, but I can come back here and eat with you if you'd like, or you could join us. The girls would like that and you really need to eat a decent meal."
"I'm fine. I don't need anything," he answered, narrowing hardened eyes at her, before looking off in the distance. There were too many choices. It was best to simply choose the one that left him alone.
She hung up and walked closer to him. Briefly their eyes met and he could sense that she was appraising him. The verdict didn't appear to be a positive one. No shocker there, he thought wryly. "I was thinking, that maybe I should stay here tonight. I can stay for as long as you need me to…"
"No, I don't want you here," he answered much too quickly and with a force that took him by surprise. "I don't want… I don't need you here at night. You can go back to the hotel. The girls and I are fine. You do enough already. I'm handling things." Startled, no doubt by the vehemence in his voice, she stood gaping, rendered momentarily speechless. Inhaling sharply, her composure now regained, she opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off before the words came out. "I just need to get some sleep. I'm going to take a shower or something," he said, bone weary from all the talking and thinking. "Bring the girls back early, okay? Calleigh liked them to stay on their schedule," his voice trailed off and he turned to leave when he felt her hand on his arm.
"I'm, I'm worried about you, Timothy. You're not yourself," she paused, but he didn't turn around. "We're all worried and we just want to help you. You're depressed. You don't look at all well. I don't know how to help you if you won't let me in," she said with frustration deepening the lines that creased her face.
"I can't do this right now. I'm fine," he said softly in a low voice that was barely audible. This fatigue made him feel he like he was swimming backwards through quicksand and making no headway whatsoever.
"Tim, I just need to know, you're not, I mean, you wouldn't," she stammered.
"What?" he shot back at her, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Hurt yourself, Tim. Would you hurt yourself? Because you have two daughters, who just lost their mother quite tragically, to think about. Are you having suicidal thoughts? I need you to answer me. I'm becoming more and more worried about you. You're in a very dark place right now. You have to think about them, put them first."
He could feel the walls closing in and he could hear his daughters whimpering in the background, even though he knew they weren't home. "I'm fine, just tired. You're overreacting. Don't be late to pick up the girls. Tell them I love them," he paused and sighed heavily. "And that I'm sorry I didn't see them before they left for school," he said with sorrow and walked away before he no longer could.
Slowly he ambled down the hallway towards his bedroom hoping his mother had the good sense not to follow him. She was hovering much too closely and he needed her to keep her distance. The phone was ringing again in the background, but he didn't move towards it. His mother was still here, she could handle whatever it was. Wandering into the bedroom, he made it as far as the bed before needing to sit down. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for as long as he could with no interruptions, no dreams, no one asking if he was alright, and no crying. But he needed Calleigh for that and she wasn't coming back to him anytime soon.
And that one thought was all it took to bring his tears to the surface again. Why, he wondered, did his tenuous hold seem to be slipping away? The grip that once felt tight had loosened, and there was no telling what was going to happen to him when it let go completely.
His eyes darted around the room seeking out the familiar. All the things that brought Calleigh to mind: the framed photographs, varied keepsakes, her grandmother's handmade quilt, as well as her vast wardrobe, which took up much of the available closet space. Everything was exactly as she left it on the day that she had gone in for a planned half day of work, before running errands and picking the girls up from school. Cats, he remembered, she was going to take the girls to look at some stupid cats. He tried never to think about that day, that morning, the one he didn't know would be their last one together. He couldn't go back there, couldn't remember making love to her or holding her in his arms, because going back there also meant remembering that she didn't come home to them, that he didn't protect her, that he left her to die alone, and he couldn't forgive himself for that. It should've been him who took that bullet, not her. That's how it should've been. He didn't want to remember those things, because then he'd have to remember that she left him after she promised she never would, and that he never got to say goodbye.
The tears fell and he roughly brushed them away with the back of his hand. He had to keep it together for the twins, it wouldn't help them any if he came unglued. Getting them through this ordeal was the only thing that mattered. Shower and shave, he could do that, he could manage that, then he would take care of the girls and they would all be fine. He was fine; he just had to keep it together until he could get some sleep.
The smallest of tasks seemed to take forever to accomplish and he briefly questioned how he ever managed to do his job once upon a time. Glancing in the mirror, he thought there was a slight improvement in his appearance, despite the half-assed job of shaving he did. The shower helped, at least while submerged under the stream of water, the need to crawl out of his skin had disappeared.
Aimlessly, he wandered around the house killing time, waiting for his daughters to come home. Unable to concentrate on any one thing, he was both restless and irritable. There was nothing he wanted to do. A growling in his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in some time. Since his earlier bout of nausea had passed, he decided he'd give eating a try. Peanut butter would work, it was both simple and filling. Sandwich made, he opened the fridge for something to drink and stopped short when his eyes lit on the drawing hanging proudly front and center on the door.
His daughter's artwork would be easily identified even if 'Hannah' wasn't printed in large block letters in the bottom corner. He took in a sharp breath as he gently lifted it off to study it closer. There they were, the twins and he, standing on a flat surface of grass, with who he assumed were their many extended family members. His figure loomed large over everyone else and the twins, with their flowing yellow hair, stood on either side of him. Up in the corner, centered on what he could only imagine to be a large, fluffy, white cloud was Calleigh, surrounded by an assortment of large, colorful flowers. And she was smiling. In fact, they all were.
Leave it to Hannah, even in her grief, to still put smiles on all their faces and to imagine her mother in such a happy place of flowers and fluffy clouds, looking down on all of them. His heart crept into his throat. She was her mother's daughter through and through. He had no idea when she made this, but he assumed it was recent. There were no such happy family portraits from Emma hanging proudly. He sighed heavily once more as he put the picture back and closed the fridge, forgetting whatever it was he wanted in the first place. Peanut butter sandwich now forgotten, he sat at the table and put his head in his hands.
His mother had been more observant than he and correct in her assessment of Emma. His daughter was withdrawing and he hadn't even noticed. What Rosemary hadn't said was all too apparent; Emma was more like her father than was good for her. His tears fell anew as he contemplated his daughter dealing with a loss she was too young and unprepared for, and how he was failing her. He had no idea how to reach her, but Calleigh would. She understood Emma as she understood him. She always knew exactly how to get through the walls their daughter sometimes constructed. But Calleigh wasn't here and she wasn't coming back.
Please Cal… please help me. I can't do this without you. I'm just so tired. You shouldn't have left me. It should have been me… I can't do this, I can't.
Late day sunshine gave way to dusk as the afternoon moved into early evening and he never got up from the table, feeling much too exhausted to contemplate even the simplest task. The phone rang endlessly, but he let the machine pick up each time, paying no attention to the voices on the other end. All he needed was for his girls to come home.
The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped him to attention and brought him back from wherever it was he had been, for whatever indeterminate amount of time. Shaking off the cobwebs, he got out of the chair as if in a trance, but with a single purpose, to switch on some lights, lest his mother think he was truly losing it. Frowning, he tried to figure out exactly what had been going on in his head, but no answers came forth. His head was as empty as the rest of him.
First in the door, Hannah bounded into his arms as if they'd been separated for weeks, not hours. Crouching down to her level, he grabbed her in his outstretched arms and held her close. Kissing her cheek, he patted the soft curls before peering behind her to look for her sister. Standing off to the side, Emma regarded him warily. There was a haunted look in the green eyes that stared back into his, enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck, but in a flash it was gone and she made her way to his arms, holding on as if her very life depended on it.
Holding them tight in his embrace, warmth spread through him. For just a moment, he felt almost whole, not the empty shell he'd become since Calleigh's passing. But, like the fleeting haunted look he had seen in Emma's eyes, the feeling passed just as quickly, leaving him once more desolate.
The voice of Rosemary Speedle interrupted his reverie, reminding him that he still had to contend with his mother and her probable insistence on spending the night. Slowly he rose, with the twins still clinging and affectionately he patted their heads.
"Hey, why don't you put your stuff away while I talk to Grandma for a minute. Then we can read or do something before your bath, okay?" Nodding, the twins grabbed bags and backpacks and slowly ambled out of the kitchen. Relieved they were now home under his watchful eyes, he watched them go before turning to his mother. She was going to have to be persuaded that he did not need to be under her watchful eyes tonight. and that was going to take some convincing.
"You look… better," Rosemary offered, although it didn't sound convincing to his ears. "Did you eat anything?" she asked.
"Yeah," he lied, briefly remembering that peanut butter sandwich and hoping that while his mother seemed so intent on him, she'd neglect to look at the kitchen counter where it still sat uneaten. "How were they? How did they seem?" he asked, effectively taking the focus off himself.
"Okay, for the most part," she hesitated.
"What?" he asked, picking up on what wasn't being said.
"I think they both had a good day at school. The distraction helps. But ever since I picked them up, Emma has just been," she paused before continuing. "Forlorn, I think best describes it. She was better when we got to the dance store, her eyes brightened a bit. The two of them were excited to try all the fancy leotards on, talking and giggling, normal stuff. After we got the shoes though, they both talked about how Mommy would need to sew their elastics on, and well, then they got very sad remembering Mommy wasn't here." He nodded, swallowing hard over the ever-present lump in his throat. "I tried to reassure them that the shoes would get sewn. After that, Hannah was teary for awhile and Emma… Emma just withdrew and seemed anxious to get home. Oh, and she ate very little at dinner." There was an accusation in her tone with that last remark. "But when we finally got back here, she was hesitant to come inside. It was as if she was scared of something. I tried to talk to her, to get her to tell me what was wrong, but I got nowhere. I couldn't get anything out of her. Hannah finally took her hand and she followed her sister inside," she said, shaking her head.
"You can't force anything out of her. She's not going to tell you what's wrong just because you ask. You have to wait till she's ready. Till she knows herself what's wrong." He sighed heavily, feeling the strain of the past two months crush his shoulders. Calleigh knew this, Calleigh would know what to do, he thought as his mind drifted.
"Tim? Are you listening? I asked you what you did all day," she prodded, sounding annoyed.
"Huh? What?" he asked, turning his focus back to his mother and feeling exasperated.
"Shall I stay here tonight? I think that's for the best, don't you?" she persisted, eyeing him intently.
"No. No I don't. I need to spend some time with them. We're fine. I don't need you to stay," he said in an even, yet firm tone.
"Tim…" she began.
"Look. I'll tell you if I need you, okay? Just let me handle things. It's getting late," he said, moving towards her. "Thanks for picking them up and for taking them out. I'll see you later. Okay?" he asked before he turned to leave.
"Call me?" she asked, sounding anything but convinced that this was a good idea. "I'll be back in the morning, first thing. Tell the girls goodnight for me. Maybe leave your bedroom door open, in case they need you. And Tim... the drinking won't help. You do know that, don't you?" she asked to his back, making him stop in his tracks, but he didn't answer, he just kept walking.
Feeling beleaguered, he made his way to their bedroom, unsure how the night would go. All he wanted was one night without tears. It never failed, one would cry and the other would soon have a quivering lip. It wasn't long before both were crying, solidarity in tears. Broke his heart each and every time when he honestly didn't think he had any heart left to break. Tonight, he just wasn't up to it.
Sitting at their small table working diligently, he saw they had amassed enough coloring books and crayons to keep them busy all night. They motioned for him to join them. This he could handle and looked through the pile for a book to start on. Baby animals seemed a better choice for him than ballerinas and with that settled, he set about coloring, grateful now for something to focus on. In seemingly good spirits, they filled him in on the minutia of first grade.
All went well till they got up to show him their new ballet slippers, complete with elastics still needing to be attached. "Do you know how to sew, Daddy?" Hannah asked with teary eyes. He sighed deeply, before answering.
"I think I can handle it. Grandma can always help me if I have trouble," he told her and his answer seemed to satisfy. "How about you have your baths now?" he suggested, hoping to steer them away from dangerous missing mommy territory.
Bath time went well, but the tears fell fast and furious soon after, during his futile attempt to gently comb two heads of snarled, wet curls. This is what I get for not replacing that damn detangling stuff, he thought as he tried to keep his rising frustration in check.
"It doesn't hurt when Mommy does it," Hannah whimpered.
"It doesn't usually hurt when I do it." He drew in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry it hurts. I'll get more of the detangling stuff tomorrow. I promise. Please don't cry. I'm trying to be as gentle as I can," he said in a low, gentle voice.
"But I want Mommy to do it," she whined, undeterred by his efforts to soothe her.
"I know Baby, I know you do. I'm doing my best. We're almost done, then we can read something before bed. Any story you guys want." Bedtime was not shaping up to be a happy time and his patience was quickly running out.
Hair finally combed and tears dried, they left the bathroom in better spirits after asking if they could show him the rest of their new dance gear before bed, a request he hesitated on before finally agreeing. Bathroom cleaned up, he no sooner stepped into the bedroom before the tears were falling again. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he contemplated the scene before him.
"Han, why are you crying now? And what is it you're looking for?" he asked, frustration climbing, as he watched her tear apart her bureau drawers.
"My other dance skirt, the pink one. Mommy has it, she was fixing it," she answered as large tears ran down her cheeks.
"You don't need it right now, it's bedtime. We'll find it tomorrow," he reassured as he walked towards her.
"But only Mommy knows where it is and you don't know how to fix it anyway. I only want Mommy to do it," she said as sobs wracked her small body. "I want my Mommy to come home."
His attempt to embrace her failed, as she preferred her sister's comforting arms to his. He watched as Emma's quivering lip led to her own tears, tears of solidarity as they shared the same pain. "I miss my Mommy," Emma cried.
At that moment, the crying he seemed to hear in his head all the time, and the sobs that filled the room now, became more than he could bear. His head ached, his chest hurt and he felt more exhausted than he had ever felt in his life. "Mommy's not here. She's just not here," he murmured, his voice catching. Provoking more tears with that response, he felt his slim grasp of control slipping away. "Please, just stop crying and go to bed. Now," he said in a voice much sharper and louder than he ever intended. The looks on their faces broke whatever was left inside of him. Snapping off the light, he turned and walked out without looking back.
His head was spinning as he strode the few feet to his bedroom. Digging deep, he tried to muster whatever restraint he had left to avoid opening the front door and just walking out into the night. His chest tightened more with every step he took. At any minute, he felt certain he might just jump out of his skin. Roughly, he raked his hands through his hair as he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him with a force that vibrated through the house. God, what have I done? I can't believe I just yelled at them. Because they cried, for Christ's sake, just because they cried. What kind of a father am I? His own tears fell unnoticed. He spun towards the side table grabbing the bottle of bourbon and sending the stack of cherished photographs to the floor in a heap.
Gulping down the liquid, he continued drinking till he began to choke. Not bothering to wipe the spillage, he looked down at the bottle in his hand and then finished off the last few dregs. He was debating whether to go for more when the weight of his actions and his overwhelming fatigue forced him to sit. Tossing the empty bottle across the floor, he put his head in his hands. No sooner had he sat, than he was up again, pacing the room that had once been such a sanctuary.
This pain that he'd tried so very hard to suppress since that first night spent without her, when he'd first felt its full fury, now barreled at him with a speed and force he couldn't defend against.
"Damn it Calleigh," he cried in a voice full of anguish he hardly recognized as his own. "What the hell were you thinking going to a scene alone?What were you thinking?This is all your fault. You shouldn't have gone," he said, choking on the words as they spewed forth. "It should've been me, damn it. It should've been me. Why the hell didn't you just call me? I would've taken that bullet, Cal, you know I would've." He continued to pace the room, irritably raking his hands through his hair. "I can't be what they need, can't you see that? I can't fix God damned dance skirts. I can't do anything anymore. I can't help them. You weren't supposed to leave us."
Depleted, he sat hard on the bed and wiped the still falling tears with the back of his hands. The magnitude of his anger both surprised and frightened him, leading to an almost overwhelming need to get that control back. Up again and pacing the room, he concentrated solely on breathing. To hell with his mother, he thought, alcohol would help. Anything that would numb him would help and right now bourbon was tops on his list.
As he walked past the twin's door, the guilt and shame of his earlier actions hit him hard. Once again, he had forgotten to put them first. Quietly, he crept into their room and made his way to the bed they were sharing, each having refused to sleep alone since their mother's death. He sat down on the edge, feeling an overwhelming love for the two of them. So desired they were after suffering the losses of two earlier pregnancies. He loved his wife more than he had ever thought possible, and the twins joyous arrival had made the family complete. But complete, they would never be again, not in the same way and no pain could possibly hurt more.
He squeezed his eyes tight in an attempt to freeze the memory of this sight in his mind. Hannah squirmed, then sensing his presence, opened her drowsy eyes. Reaching out, he stroked her soft cheek. "I'm so sorry, Baby. I never meant to yell at you. I love you, both of you, so very much." She gave a sleepy nod and closed her eyes again. He kissed both girls before leaving the room and seeking his solace.
Bourbon in hand, he went back to his bedroom and climbed into the recliner. The alcohol worked quickly on his empty stomach. It wasn't long before he was drifting in and out of a fitful sleep state.
The object felt heavy in his hand. He wasn't sure he had the strength necessary to lift it to its destination. He saw their faces, all of them. They were at the beach, all smiles, like in one of Hannah's drawings. The pain in his chest was back and he was desperate to put a stop to it. Too much pain, they were all in too much pain. He tried to lift the object again, but was stopped by a weight on his arm. A bright light flashed on him causing his eyes to open in a squint. It was a full minute before he could make out what he was seeing.
"Daddy, Daddy are you awake?" a small, pain filled voice asked.
"Huh?' he answered confused, wondering if this was part of the dream. The flashlight in her hand shone on him once more and in the dim light he could see the tears as they streamed down her cheeks. "Em? What's wrong Baby?" he asked in a hoarse voice, a bit more lucid. He felt as if time stopped while he waited for her to speak, but there was no rushing Emma, there never was.
"I'm scared Daddy," she said, in a small voice he could barely hear.
"Of what, Sweetheart? What are you afraid of?" he asked, blinking rapidly.
"I'm afraid you'll leave me," she hesitated, her voice barely a whisper, as the tears continued. "Like Mommy did."
Her pain filled words of fear collided with the remnants of the dream still hanging on in his head, and both hit him head on with the force of a locomotive. His tears fell freely, there was nothing holding them back anymore. He reached for her and she climbed into his lap, clinging to him as he wrapped his arms around her. The sound of the phone startled him briefly, but he ignored it as he had been doing all night.
"I won't leave you, Em. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Calleigh promised, too… his brain reminded.
"But Mommy did. And I miss her so much," she sobbed, her small shoulders shaking in his embrace.
"I know, Baby, I know you do. Mommy didn't want to leave us. She would never leave us, not if she could help it. She loved us, more than anything. She died. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault. She would never leave us." His voice was halted as he tried to get the words out. "I will be here for you as long as I possibly can. I never want to leave you, Baby. I promise." It wasn't her fault. Cal wouldn't leave me. She would never leave me. I know she would never leave… His own sobs now wracked his body, as the pain he carried so close to the surface it threatened to spill out with every breath he took, finally freed itself.
His awareness was limited to only what he could sense around him. The taste of salt from his tears, the sound of his daughter's cries blended with his own, the ache in his chest and the feel of the small, warm body clinging to him. From somewhere in the distance, he heard louder, deeper voices, confusing him. Delko's voice, it was Delko's voice he was hearing. And he knew then, the girls would be safe.
A strong hand was on his shoulder providing a reassuring squeeze. He would be okay. Somehow, they would all be okay.
The end