When I wrote Walking Away, I honestly hadn't planned a sequel; as a result
the narrative was intended to wrap up nicely, the point of the story
hopefully having been made. But requests for more are hard to ignore (Hans
the bold famous saying #247), so I decided to continue with the story line.
As time goes by, it will more and more diverge from what we see on TV;
this is natural, since the show's producers (who own all the rights to
these characters, by the way) and I appear to have rather different
opinions about what constitutes drama. As before, I have to thank all the
posters on the 7th Heaven boards at Mighty Big TV
(http://www.mightybigtv.com) for their support and inspiration, as well as
their refreshing unwillingness to cut this or any other TV show any more
slack than it deserves. The title of this story is taken from the book by
the late Randy Shilts that documents the failure of the American government
to address the exploding AIDS epidemic in the 1980's. Since I feel that
the writers of 7th Heaven have displayed a similar blindness to the reality
of spousal abuse and child abuse, I hope that those who have suffered
because of the disease that took Mr. Shilts from us too soon will forgive
my indulgence in respectfully putting his title to use here.
There are two things I believe about 7th Heaven that we must keep in mind: first, the Camdens are a prime example of a completely dysfunctional family hiding behind protestations of functionality, and second, that the show could be good drama if the writers were willing to make it such. These two opinions guided me in the following tale.
PART 1
Look now. Look hard and deep into their eyes. They look back at you, their faces a wonder and a miracle of love and trust. And as they look, do you wonder what they see? What are you, to them?
If you can remember, you might know this.
Maybe.
But time obscures things. Age and experience can erase as much wisdom as they bring. And you may have forgotten what it meant to look back, to be the one looking up instead of the one looking down.
And when it happens that their eyes and their face are not there anymore, you will wonder why. When all that looks back at you is a memory of who and what once was, you will ask the questions you must.
Eric Camden stood at the top of the stairs. He looked down the long hall, to the door of the bedroom at the end, and he remembered her. Dancing, skipping, a smile on her face, a hug and a kiss and all that love that was his daughter.
That had been his daughter.
Don't think like that.
Where is she?
Don't think it .
Is she all right?
Don't think it.
Why couldn't she say goodbye?
#
A day, and no word. Another. And the days were like a fragmented haze, held together only by routine; fitful sleep, awakening too early, showering and shaving and dressing and going down to the church and wondering as he did whether when he got home anyone would be there.
Do your job. You have to do your job. If you do your job then maybe, for a moment or two, you won't think about her, won't think about home.
Home.
It had been a refuge once, for Eric Camden. It had been a place he could go after a day ministering to the needs of others, of seeing their grief or their anger or their pain, of trying to help even when sometimes he knew it was hopeless, but trying, because this was what God had called him to do.
Home.
A place where there was Annie, his dear, loving Annie, with her smile and her embrace, and a place where there was always the sound, the noise, of children, his children, their children. Always with a new project or a new story or even a new problem, and they would come to him and they would show him and they would ask him and talk to him and it was meaning, all of it. It was purpose and it sustained him.
Home.
Silent now. Was he alone?
No. They were here, in the home, but there was no noise, no happy prattle. One would pass another in the hall, silently, on their way to this room or that, perhaps to study or to find something to eat or just to go to the bathroom.
Silence. Even at night, even in bed with Annie beside him, silence.
Only the voices of memory.
#
The phone, in his office, ringing. He had been trying to write a sermon that would explain what he had failed to explain last week. We are all the prodigal son. We have all squandered something and needed forgiveness. We have all crossed a line sometime, with our vanity, our fear. I have crossed it, many times. And we are all the father of the prodigal son, and the brother. We must forgive, all of us. We must decide that our love is greater than our faults, and greater than the faults of others. We must come together with the ones we love.
The phone in his office, ringing.
Answering.
Mary, her voice trembling.
She's gone. Lucy's gone. I'm sorry, Dad.
Home then. Quickly home. And Annie already there, and Mary, sitting on the couch, her face pale, like a shock victim.
Annie, watching her, watching him, saying nothing.
Tears in Mary's eyes. Mary looking up at him as he stepped into the room. Mary's voice.
"I couldn't stop her."
He began to speak then. He remembered this clearly. He began to speak and then there was Annie, rising, just walking away. And he, following her, trying to talk and getting no answer.
She doesn't talk. Not for days now. Please, Annie, why won't you talk to me? I'm right here, lying beside you. I need to talk. Lucy is my daughter too.
Eric reached out to touch his wife. Nothing.
#
They had called Sergeant Michaels and he had come right away, that first day. He talked to Mary first, in another room, quietly. Then he had come out with her, and he had sat on the couch and had talked to the three of them.
"I don't think Lucy's in any danger," he said. "From what Mary tells me she left of her own volition, alone. She didn't seem irrational."
Silence. Eric remembered looking over at Annie, who was staring at Michaels.
"You have to find her," she whispered.
"I'll file a missing person report and get her into the database," Michaels said. "But since she's an adult and there is no evidence of foul play, I can't do much more right now."
"What do we do?" Eric asked.
Michaels sighed. "You wait and you always have someone here in case she tries to contact you. Lucy's a smart girl. She knows how to reach you if she gets into trouble. She probably just needs some time alone to sort out her feelings. It sounds as though there have been some problems here."
With anyone other than Michaels, Eric would have snapped back. This was his family and it was a good family. He had counseled too many families with real problems, and knew what to look for. But he had also known the policeman a long time and knew the man had a keen eye for seeing trouble.
And lately, too, he had begun to wonder if his own family was so free of troubles after all. Eric sighed, nodded, lowered his head.
And heard Annie speak.
"What do you mean, 'problems'?"
Eric rubbed his brow. He was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day.
"There was some dispute over the apartment you are finishing over the garage," Michaels said. "Mary tells me that Lucy left over this. She says that Lucy felt the punishment she and the others were given was unfair."
"It was perfectly fair," Annie said. "They needed a lesson in respect."
Eric looked up now. Michaels was relaxed, watching Annie. Annie was glaring back at him. A moment passed.
"I see," Michaels said then.
"There are no problems here," Annie said. "Just bring my daughter home, and everything will be fine."
Michaels looked at Eric, then back at Annie. "We will try and find her," he told them. "But Lucy isn't a minor. We can't force her to come home."
Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Michaels looked at her. Her face was suddenly pale, as though she had been slapped. Eric reached out to her, but she pulled away. Then her gaze fell and she spoke softly.
"Please. You have to."
That had been the first day, the first hours.
It was silent now, in his room, in his bed. Annie hadn't moved in some time, the only motion the slight rising and falling from her breathing. Was she asleep? Eric tried to be as still as he could, lest his motion disturb her.
An hour passed, marked by the clock by the bed. The ceiling did not change and he realized that he couldn't stand looking up at it anymore.
Maybe if he got up quietly, he could go downstairs, eat something, rest on the couch. He could get away. He did, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and as he did the thought came unbidden.
Is this what Lucy had thought that morning?
There are two things I believe about 7th Heaven that we must keep in mind: first, the Camdens are a prime example of a completely dysfunctional family hiding behind protestations of functionality, and second, that the show could be good drama if the writers were willing to make it such. These two opinions guided me in the following tale.
PART 1
Look now. Look hard and deep into their eyes. They look back at you, their faces a wonder and a miracle of love and trust. And as they look, do you wonder what they see? What are you, to them?
If you can remember, you might know this.
Maybe.
But time obscures things. Age and experience can erase as much wisdom as they bring. And you may have forgotten what it meant to look back, to be the one looking up instead of the one looking down.
And when it happens that their eyes and their face are not there anymore, you will wonder why. When all that looks back at you is a memory of who and what once was, you will ask the questions you must.
Eric Camden stood at the top of the stairs. He looked down the long hall, to the door of the bedroom at the end, and he remembered her. Dancing, skipping, a smile on her face, a hug and a kiss and all that love that was his daughter.
That had been his daughter.
Don't think like that.
Where is she?
Don't think it .
Is she all right?
Don't think it.
Why couldn't she say goodbye?
#
A day, and no word. Another. And the days were like a fragmented haze, held together only by routine; fitful sleep, awakening too early, showering and shaving and dressing and going down to the church and wondering as he did whether when he got home anyone would be there.
Do your job. You have to do your job. If you do your job then maybe, for a moment or two, you won't think about her, won't think about home.
Home.
It had been a refuge once, for Eric Camden. It had been a place he could go after a day ministering to the needs of others, of seeing their grief or their anger or their pain, of trying to help even when sometimes he knew it was hopeless, but trying, because this was what God had called him to do.
Home.
A place where there was Annie, his dear, loving Annie, with her smile and her embrace, and a place where there was always the sound, the noise, of children, his children, their children. Always with a new project or a new story or even a new problem, and they would come to him and they would show him and they would ask him and talk to him and it was meaning, all of it. It was purpose and it sustained him.
Home.
Silent now. Was he alone?
No. They were here, in the home, but there was no noise, no happy prattle. One would pass another in the hall, silently, on their way to this room or that, perhaps to study or to find something to eat or just to go to the bathroom.
Silence. Even at night, even in bed with Annie beside him, silence.
Only the voices of memory.
#
The phone, in his office, ringing. He had been trying to write a sermon that would explain what he had failed to explain last week. We are all the prodigal son. We have all squandered something and needed forgiveness. We have all crossed a line sometime, with our vanity, our fear. I have crossed it, many times. And we are all the father of the prodigal son, and the brother. We must forgive, all of us. We must decide that our love is greater than our faults, and greater than the faults of others. We must come together with the ones we love.
The phone in his office, ringing.
Answering.
Mary, her voice trembling.
She's gone. Lucy's gone. I'm sorry, Dad.
Home then. Quickly home. And Annie already there, and Mary, sitting on the couch, her face pale, like a shock victim.
Annie, watching her, watching him, saying nothing.
Tears in Mary's eyes. Mary looking up at him as he stepped into the room. Mary's voice.
"I couldn't stop her."
He began to speak then. He remembered this clearly. He began to speak and then there was Annie, rising, just walking away. And he, following her, trying to talk and getting no answer.
She doesn't talk. Not for days now. Please, Annie, why won't you talk to me? I'm right here, lying beside you. I need to talk. Lucy is my daughter too.
Eric reached out to touch his wife. Nothing.
#
They had called Sergeant Michaels and he had come right away, that first day. He talked to Mary first, in another room, quietly. Then he had come out with her, and he had sat on the couch and had talked to the three of them.
"I don't think Lucy's in any danger," he said. "From what Mary tells me she left of her own volition, alone. She didn't seem irrational."
Silence. Eric remembered looking over at Annie, who was staring at Michaels.
"You have to find her," she whispered.
"I'll file a missing person report and get her into the database," Michaels said. "But since she's an adult and there is no evidence of foul play, I can't do much more right now."
"What do we do?" Eric asked.
Michaels sighed. "You wait and you always have someone here in case she tries to contact you. Lucy's a smart girl. She knows how to reach you if she gets into trouble. She probably just needs some time alone to sort out her feelings. It sounds as though there have been some problems here."
With anyone other than Michaels, Eric would have snapped back. This was his family and it was a good family. He had counseled too many families with real problems, and knew what to look for. But he had also known the policeman a long time and knew the man had a keen eye for seeing trouble.
And lately, too, he had begun to wonder if his own family was so free of troubles after all. Eric sighed, nodded, lowered his head.
And heard Annie speak.
"What do you mean, 'problems'?"
Eric rubbed his brow. He was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day.
"There was some dispute over the apartment you are finishing over the garage," Michaels said. "Mary tells me that Lucy left over this. She says that Lucy felt the punishment she and the others were given was unfair."
"It was perfectly fair," Annie said. "They needed a lesson in respect."
Eric looked up now. Michaels was relaxed, watching Annie. Annie was glaring back at him. A moment passed.
"I see," Michaels said then.
"There are no problems here," Annie said. "Just bring my daughter home, and everything will be fine."
Michaels looked at Eric, then back at Annie. "We will try and find her," he told them. "But Lucy isn't a minor. We can't force her to come home."
Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Michaels looked at her. Her face was suddenly pale, as though she had been slapped. Eric reached out to her, but she pulled away. Then her gaze fell and she spoke softly.
"Please. You have to."
That had been the first day, the first hours.
It was silent now, in his room, in his bed. Annie hadn't moved in some time, the only motion the slight rising and falling from her breathing. Was she asleep? Eric tried to be as still as he could, lest his motion disturb her.
An hour passed, marked by the clock by the bed. The ceiling did not change and he realized that he couldn't stand looking up at it anymore.
Maybe if he got up quietly, he could go downstairs, eat something, rest on the couch. He could get away. He did, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and as he did the thought came unbidden.
Is this what Lucy had thought that morning?