Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely has nothing to do with me. I just have a little too much fun playing with the characters. I especially don't own the little bit of dialogue I took directly from "Down the Block There's a Riot" to serve as a way to ease into the scene. That is all Marc Cherry's and ABC's.
Story Summary: Gaby tries to deal with her grief. Missing and post-episode scenes for "Down the Block There's a Riot."
A/n: I'm writing this because I literally freaked out a little over the show actually acknowledging Lynette's miscarriage for the first time in almost a year. However, it is Gaby-centric. I have every intention of making this multi-chaptered, so hopefully the muse that struck me in the first place will stick with me.
Please let me know what you think! Enjoy!
Just Another Light Gone Out
A story by Ryeloza
It takes Gaby almost a week to pluck up the courage to go talk to Lynette. She doesn't want to retread that horrible tension between them; she doesn't want to remind Lynette of her own loss; she knows it isn't fair. But Gaby has always been selfish, and she can't stifle the terrible need she has to unburden her own soul. Save me, she begs in not-so-many-words. Please save me.
Once Gaby manages to get the words out, Lynette takes her in without question, sitting her down and reaching out to her in a way that makes Gaby inexpressibly grateful. For the first time, it feels like someone understands—and it's so much better than a pitying look or a compassionate hug. There's something so reassuring about looking one of her best friends in the eye and knowing that she went through something similar. It makes Gaby feel like maybe she's not alone.
"I finally went to a therapist," Lynette admits, and Gaby feels honestly surprised. Knowing Lynette, it is the last thing she expected to hear, and for a brief second she thinks maybe—maybe—it wouldn't be a weakness to ask for that kind of help.
"I didn't know that."
"Yeah. In fact, she had me do something you might want to try. Write Grace a letter."
Gaby frowns, unsure. "A letter?"
"You don't send it, you just pour out your feelings. Tell Grace how happy you are to have known her, how much you love her. Trust me, after you've written it, you'll feel so much better."
Gaby breathes deeply, feeling a strange surge of hope that is immediately quelled by doubt. "Really?" The word comes out hopeless, as though she can't quite believe her friend.
"I promise. It helps. It doesn't solve everything, but it helps."
Gaby lets out a shaky sigh. She doesn't know what she expected—for Lynette to have some miracle answer; an absolute solution to this problem. The only thing that's clear is that Lynette still grieves for her lost child like the pain is fresh, and Gaby wonders if in a year, she'll still feel this horrible.
"Sweetie, I can't begin to imagine exactly what you're going through," says Lynette, drawing Gaby back from her thoughts and reminding her yet again how unfairly rare her situation is. "But I think you have to remember that you still have Celia and Juanita. And maybe…maybe you should talk to Carlos about this."
"No. I can't."
Lynette smiles sadly. "I know it feels that way. After I lost the baby, I didn't think I could talk to Tom either. But I did…It helped."
"I don't think Carlos cares one way or another. He never even wanted to find Grace. I don't think I could stand it if I had to hear him say that we'd have been better off if I had never…" Gaby trails off, unable to even complete the thought.
There is a sudden clamor of cheerful footsteps on the stairs, and Gaby startles, wiping the tears from her eyes just as Tom comes into the room. "Hey Gaby," he says, more of an acknowledgement than a greeting. He plants a kiss on the top of Lynette's head and then goes to the kitchen, and Lynette's face lights up in a way that makes Gaby's heart sink. She has a feeling that she knows what Lynette is going to say before she says it, but it's impossible to stop her.
"You know, you should talk to Tom."
And there it is. So predictable, and yet Gaby's heart still flies to her throat, choking her. "No," she mutters, shaking her head. "I can't."
"Gaby, he understands. Even better than I do."
As though that inexplicable comment ends any protestation, Lynette calls out to Tom before Gaby can stop her. Smiling, he comes back into the room and flops down on the chair. "What's with the serious faces?"
Lynette gives Gaby a probing look, and Gaby fights the urge to get up and run. There is no reason to be frightened of talking to Tom about this, but logic ceases to make sense in the face of such fear.
"Gaby just needed to talk," says Lynette in an uncharacteristically tactful way. She's still staring at Gaby, though, prompting her to speak.
"Should I leave?"
"No." Gaby is surprised that the word comes from her mouth. It seems like she is floating outside of her own body now. "I was just…We were talking about what it's like to lose a child. Grace left and I just—I don't know what to do."
Tom looks like someone has sucker punched him—every bit of his joviality has been sucked out of him. "Oh," he says in a quiet little voice she's never associated with him before. She waits for him to continue, but he seems frozen, and when Gaby turns back to Lynette, her friend's face is tightened in concern for her husband. "I'm sorry," she says, practically frantic in her dismay. "I shouldn't've—"
"Gaby, it's okay. You caught me off guard. That's all."
Lynette squeezes her hand, and Gaby feels an odd surge of protective love for these people. They're going to let her into their grief, something so private, something she has no right to intrude upon, and the only way they can help is if she does the same. With a deep breath, she says, "She is the best of me and Carlos, you know? And it just kills me that she isn't really ours."
To her surprise, Tom is the one who nods—as if this makes perfect sense to him. "I haven't talked to Kayla in almost six years."
This pronouncement is as astonishing as if Tom had just told her that he could grow wings and fly. Gaby can honestly say that until this moment, she forgot that Kayla existed. Confused, she turns to Lynette, but her friend only has eyes for her husband. "Tom," she says slowly, "I didn't know."
"We had a fight right after I was electrocuted. I've tried talking to her, but…" He shrugs helplessly. "I missed the first eleven years of her life, and even once I had her, there was always this disconnect. Like she was mine, but—"
"Not really."
"Yeah." Tom's eyes slide from Gaby to Lynette for the briefest second, but then his attention refocuses entirely on her. "I'm always going to be some man who came into her life and shares her DNA. I don't think we're ever going to be…It just isn't like my relationship with my other kids."
"And that doesn't kill you? Because I feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest."
"Yeah, it kills me. I'm still furious with Norah for keeping her from me. I'm pissed that I couldn't make things work. It kills me that we don't have any kind of meaningful relationship."
"So what? You just live with that? Because I can't live with this. I can't."
Tom looks at her, torn between pity and thoughtfulness. "You can't bottle it up."
"We both learned that the hard way," Lynette adds softly. Gaby turns to her friend, surprised to see tears on her cheeks. Vaguely, she realizes that she's crying again too, but this time she does nothing to wipe away the evidence. "You have to find someway to express what you're feeling or you'll go crazy. Talking to Carlos will help. Writing the letter will help."
"Yes," Tom agrees.
"You wrote a letter too?"
"We both did, after we lost the baby. It doesn't fix everything, but you'll feel better."
Gaby nods, not quite believing them, but at the same time sure that they've never been more honest with her. Strangling a sob, she turns and hugs Lynette, clinging to her like a lifeline. "It'll get better," Lynette whispers. "I promise."
More than anything, Gaby longs to believe her.