January Ninth

By Dana Keylits

A/N: As a motherless daughter myself, my mom having been suddenly culled from this planet by a weak heart in the wee hours of a beautiful mid-May morning when I was barely twenty years old, I write this for all of us who have lost a loved one too soon.

Today is January ninth. Another January ninth. A date that is scorched into the soft parts of her brain because it is the day that her life inexplicably, terrifyingly, dramatically changed course, a watershed moment, as they say.

It is the day that her mother died. The day she was killed, left to die, alone, in a pile of garbage, by men who did not deserve to share the same air as she, men who had sold their soul to the devil in order to make a buck.

And one of them still walks free.

So, as she does on every January ninth, Kate rises early, seeking out the comforting solitude of the early morning hours, that time when dusk changes to dawn, the sky transforms from black to purple, pink, then blue, the city wakes up and the low hum of night changes to a vibrant whirring of day.

She cradles the steaming mug of instant coffee, she didn't want to wake Castle by using her coffee grinder, and tucks herself into the corner of the couch. A warm handmade throw draped over her legs.

And, she remembers. She remembers that day, every second of that day, every word, every detail, even what she was wearing, what everyone was wearing, what she ate, and then didn't eat when well meaning friends and relatives tried to force food on her, because food is supposed to heal you, she supposed. She remembers the cologne that Detective Ragland had excessively splashed on in his attempt to hide the faint smell of alcohol that probably always lingered on his breath. She still has an aversion to that scent and is grateful Castle doesn't wear cologne.

Most of all she remembers how it felt. The terrified horror that turned to pain then disbelief then numbness then back to horror, cycling through on an endless loop for weeks, months, even years.

And as each January ninth comes and goes, she remembers all of the events in her life that she couldn't share with her mother. Fourteen years worth now. Fourteen missed birthdays, Christmases, summer vacations, her graduation from college, from the Academy, making Detective, falling in love. It was all cataloged in a dark corner of Kate's brain, filed under, "mom."

And, as each year passes, as each event happens, Kate feels the pull of it. The grief and loss still very much a part of her life. And, although she can always feel her presence, with each passing day, she is leaving her mother further and further behind. That's hard. That's probably the hardest part.

Her focus on these January ninth mornings is usually the murder. The case. The investigation. But, this year, this year she thinks more about her mothers life. About the nineteen years she had with Johanna Beckett, the lessons her mother tried to teach her, the fun, the joy, the silliness, even the fights, they had a few knock down drag out fights. It's how Kate learned to hold her own in any argument. Probably what made her a good cop, too.

And, as she hears Castle stirring in the other room, probably wondering where she'd gone, she ponders why this is. She's grateful for it, feels lighter because of it. And, it could it be because they'd solved the case. Even though Bracken is still a free man, she knows now, she'd said her peace with him. She'd gotten her revenge, and it was revenge, she'll admit it. Sweet revenge that he now wears in the form of a nasty scar on his ferret-like face.

But, she is inclined to think that it has more to do with the wall coming down. With the work she did in therapy to stop allowing her mothers murder to define her life. And with the work she did to actually start living her life.

It probably has something to do with him, too, she thinks as Castle rounds the corner, his hair adorably tousled, wearing only a t-shirt and boxers, the palm of one hand rubbing the gravel out of his eyes. He looks towards the kitchen, then towards her, a smile spreading across his face as his baby blue's make contact with her.

"Hi," he greets, sauntering over to where she sits. He plops down beside her, places his hand on her knee. "It's January ninth."

Her breath catches. He remembers. Of course he remembers, he has known what January ninth is for almost five years. But, she hadn't reminded him, hadn't talked about its approach in the days leading up to today. In her experience, no one around her, except of course her father, ever remembered what January ninth was until she either mentioned it, or, until much of the day had already passed and they had a fleeting tickle at the back of their brain that, oh yeah, Kate's mom died on this day.

"Yeah. January ninth." She replies, covering his hand with hers, leaning her head on his shoulder. She takes a deep breath.

He presses his lips against the top of her head. "Kate, tell me something I don't know about your mom."

She lifts her head, looks up at him. People don't usually ask her about her mom. They're either too afraid it will make her upset, or remind her, as if it isn't always in the back of her mind anyway, or, they're tired of her grief. As though she should somehow just get over it. As though she could.

She smiles, an inexplicably banal memory dancing to the forefront of her brain. "When I was about eleven or twelve," she begins, lifting her legs up and crossing them on the couch so she can face him, "...my mom found this box of heart shaped stickers that had her name on them, Johanna, which was rare cuz it was hard to find those kind of items with her name, you know? Like mugs or key chains or whatever. Johanna wasn't usually one they had. So, she was so excited she bought two of them."

A broad smile brightens her features as she looks up at the ceiling, remembering. "God, Castle she stuck them on everything. Everywhere. Not an inch of our apartment didn't have a happy red "Johanna" sticker stuck to something." She grabs her earlobe, her eyes misty as she recalls this. "My dad was so mad! I don't know why, except maybe because she'd put them on his briefcase and work files, so he was probably in court one day and pulled out a file with a sticker on it. I imagine it embarrassed him."

Castle's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "She sounds like my kind of person."

She nods, grinning up at him. "Yeah. You'd have liked her."

They sit for awhile. In silence. The air around them reverent, calm, peaceful, healing. Kate leans into him, kisses him gently on the lips. "Thank you."

He cocks his head, an eyebrow raised. "For what?"

"For remembering."

His eyes dance with it, with her. "Always."

They kiss again.

"What do you want to do with the day, Kate? Do you want me to stay with you? Do you want to be alone? I'll do whatever you like."

She laces her fingers through his, unfolds herself and stands, tugging at him. "Let's go back to bed, Castle." They walk hand-in-hand towards the bedroom. "And afterwards, you can make me pancakes."

He nods, smiling. "Deal."

The End.

A/N: My moms name was Terry, and for years after her death we found those damn stickers stuck in the most inexplicable of places. :-)