Lucy Gold bounded up the stairs to her parents' room. She had dressed herself that morning, remarkably well for a six-year-old, she thought, in a jumper with a yellow shirt underneath, and matching yellow socks. Packed her own lunch, too-a rather sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chocolate-chip cookies instead of the apple her mother would have packed for her. Her little purple knapsack was already hitched up on her back, all ready to go.
The rest of the house was sunny, curtains pulled open to let the light in. But not her parents' bedroom, at the top of the stairs. The curtains were tied tightly shut against the sun, and it was a few degrees colder in there, too.
Lucy knew right away that this was one of her mother's bad days. She'd suspected it before, when her mother hadn't been up already, making pancakes on a hot griddle and packing Lucy's lunch. But now she knew, and goosebumps pricked up on her arms and legs as she ventured slowly into the room. It felt like a cemetery, or a funeral, someplace shadowy where Lucy had to be quiet and respectful to someone who'd lost a loved one.
Her mother was curled up underneath the sheets, her back towards Lucy. Blocking out the world, and her daughter with it.
"Mommy?" Lucy tried.
No answer, but she could her the rattle of her mother's breath, quick and uneven.
"Mommy?" She carefully tapped her mother's shoulder, or at least where she assumed it was, lumped into a ball on the bed.
"Yes, dear?" The fading voice of a ghost, as it always was on days like this, but Lucy knew better than to cry. That just made everything worse.
"Can you walk me to the bus stop? I know I'm not supposed to go alone-"
An exhalation and shifting of limbs from the mound in the bed. "I'm sorry, baby, I can't. I'm so sorry." And Lucy could hear it, too, the regret in her mother's voice, and knew that she wasn't lying, at least. There was consolation in that.
She chewed on her bottom lip. "Okay." No use in whining, putting up a fight. As she left the room, she left the door open just a crack. Maybe her mother would feel better later with even that little bit of light in the room, she hoped.
Lucy lingered outside the bedroom, wondering if she waited long enough, her mother would change her mind. But when she heard the creak of the front door, and a familiar clacking on the hardwood floor, she flew downstairs, chestnut hair streaming out behind her.
"Daddy!" she squealed, leaping at him in a fierce hug, though always careful to mind his bad leg. "What are you doing home from the shop?"
Mr. Gold smiled down at his daughter. Her eyes-the same shade of brown as his, it always stunned him-were shining with affection. He reached out his hand and began to smooth back the tangles in her hair. "I thought I might walk you to the bus stop today instead of Mommy. Would you like that?"
"Yes!" She nodded eagerly, and grabbed his hand. "Let's go!"
"Hold on, Lucy. Let me check on your mother, first, all right?"
She followed her father back up the stairs, slower this time, trailing behind him. Even with the help of his cane, every step left him with a grimace of pain contorting his features, and Lucy pretended not to notice. He didn't like it when she worried about him.
Her mother was sick, but her father was immortal, he had to be.
She hung back, outside of the dreary room, while her father braved its depths. She watched him pull back the sheets, kiss her mother's forehead.
"Belle," he said.
But she shifted away from him. "The nightmares again." Despite her soft utterance of the words, Lucy could just make them out.
"I'll come back after Lucy gets on the bus, alright?" He brushed his knuckles along her jawline.
"I should be taking her." There was a sob stuck in the back of her mother's throat.
"I've got it today. Don't fret. Get some rest. I'll come back in a few minutes." He leaned down again, gave her another kiss on her forehead. This time she didn't shy away, so Lucy thought that might be a good sign.
As her father was leaving the room, Lucy advised him, "You should leave the door open a crack. Don't let it get so dark in there. No wonder Mommy's afraid."
The corners of his lips upturned into a small, sad smile. "All right, dearie. We'll see if that helps."
...
When Lucy stepped off the bus that day, her eyes lit up with joy when she saw that both of her parents were waiting for her. Her mother wore loose jeans and a sweater that was far too large for slight frame, her hair twisted into a messy braid. She looked like a phantom beside Lucy's father, whose black suit was as pristine as it had been earlier that morning. But Belle clung to his hand as if she was holding on for dear life, and gave her daughter a weak smile.
"How was school, Lucy?" She stood up from the bench where they were sitting, opened her arms for a hug.
"Mommy!" Lucy ran, embraced her mother and squeezed her tight. Too tight-when she felt her mother flinch against her, she released her. "Are you feeling better now?" Lucy looked away, traced patterns in the dirt with the toe of her shoe while waiting for her mother's answer.
"I feel lovely. I'm sorry about this morning," she said softly, and held her hand out to her daughter. "Do you forgive me?"
Their fingers, Lucy's small and soft, and Belle's thin and long and hard, entwined effortlessly, and no more words were needed, for now.
Mr. Gold stood now, leaning on his cane. He beamed at them, his beautiful wife and the daughter who looked so much like them both. No magic would fix all of it, he knew, but maybe this was enough. He bowed theatrically, as though he were Rumpelstiltskin again, and offered Lucy his hand. She took it with a grin.
"Let's go home," he said. And Lucy skipped there, chirping a new song about butterflies, something she'd learned that day at school, hand in hand with both of her parents.
...
One night when Lucy was thirteen, over a dinner of burnt chicken and soggy mashed potatoes-Belle had never been a very good cook, even on one of her "good days" like this-her mother asked her, "How would you feel about trading bedrooms with your father and me?"
Lucy shot a glance at her father. She watched the trembling in his hand as he slowly brought a forkful of chicken to his thin lips. The rage was rising in him, she knew, had been growing for months, really, as his body began to fail him. He had never been afraid of anything, as far as Lucy knew, but he was afraid now, despite how he tried to hide it from his daughter. Most nights he still insisted on taking the stairs without any help besides his cane and the bannister, but she suspected the toll it took. He rarely accepted his daughter's offer of help to climb the stairs.
She tried to kept her voice light. "Sure! I need a bigger room for all my stuff anyway. Even though it'll be harder to sneak boys in if I'm on the second floor," she joked.
Her father answered with his characteristic glare. "That's why we're trading rooms. No boys." As an afterthought, he added, "Ever."
Lucy and her mother shared a knowing look. If it made him accept the room switch, then so be it. Neither one of them would force him to face the truth that they themselves could hardly handle. "Of course, Dad. No boys, ever."
"Then its settled," her mother said, dropping her own utensil. "I'll ask Emma and August to help us move the furniture tomorrow." She set a hand on her husband's knee, squeezed it with reassurance. "We'll take of everything while you're at the shop tomorrow, I promise."
And Mr. Gold smiled at his wife, grateful that this would give her something to do, to busy her. When her mind was occupied with something more substantial than a book, it was less likely to drift and fall apart. Underneath the table, he held her hand, but it didn't still the constant shaking in his own.
...
Even after three years in Lucy's clean, sunny room, there were days that Belle couldn't get out of bed. But Lucy no longer needed an escort to the bus stop anymore, or someone to make her a decent lunch. On her mother's bad days she got up early, cooked up some eggs and bacon, and ate breakfast with her father. Her nose was always in a book, while he flipped through that morning's newspaper, which Lucy always brought in from the front lawn for him.
This morning Lucy made sure to undercook the bacon, the way she knew her father liked it best. She had already peeked in on her mother-curled up in bed, quietly sobbing. She cried more often now, and Lucy wished she knew why, wished she knew what to say so that her mother wouldn't cry anymore. But if her father couldn't manage it, then no one could, and they all knew that he had tried his best, time and time again.
She plated two eggs, sunny-side-up, and several strips of bacon for her father. Poured his tea into his favorite cup-the one with the chip-and left the paper turned open to the business section, where he always started his perusal. Lucy sat down at the table herself, munching on a slice of toast, savoring every line of her new favorite novel, Wuthering Heights. Five minutes passed, then ten. Her father was never late for anything, not even breakfast. Perhaps he had gone into the shop early?
Lucy wandered around the house, poking into his study and their library, to see if he had busied himself in there and lost track of the time.
Empty.
As silently as possible, Lucy peered into her old room again. But only her mother was there, now fast asleep. The carpet was scattered with used Kleenexes, from too much nose-blowing and tear-wiping. She closed the door.
"Dad?" Lucy arrived at the shut bathroom-door, and knocked. "Dad?"
No answer.
She tried the handle. Locked. "Dad? Are you in there?" Lucy knocked again, this time louder, more forcefully. "Okay, well if you think this is funny just wait till I break the door down!" She could hear the desperation in her own voice, felt her heartbeat quicken. After backing up from the door a few paces, Lucy slammed her foot into the door, near the doorknob, just as she'd seen someone do on television. The door swung open.
"Dad?" Lucy had never been one for tears, but she could feel them rising now. "Dad?" she said again, and this time it was a sob.
Her father, in his maroon, terry-cloth bathrobe, was sprawled across the bathroom tile, his cane lying uselessly beside him.
...
Hooked up to all these needles and tubes, a thick mask over his mouth and nose to pump in oxygen, Belle could barely recognize her husband. He seemed so small in the hospital bed, surrounded by humming machines. She shuffled about the room-a large room, with wide windows-only the best for Mr. Gold, always-tearing at her hair and shuddering uncontrollably. She wore one of her husband's suit jackets thrown over her flannel pajamas-the same thing she was wearing four days ago, when Lucy found him in the bathroom. No one would tell Mrs. Gold what to do, even while her fearsome protector was incapacitated. Lucy had tried to get her to go home and shower, even to take a nap, but it was entirely futile.
Lucy sat at her father's side, constant and stable while her mother couldn't bear to be. She had tried to hold his hand, but the chill of it, the stillness, was too much even for Lucy to handle. Dr. Whale had given them the news earlier that morning-the stroke had damaged too much of her father's brain, there was no hope of recovery, but they could keep him on life support, if they wished. They could certainly afford it.
"No magic is going to save him, Mom," Lucy finally said, as she watched the mechanical rise and fall of her father's chest.
Belle bunched her hands in her pockets, stared at her daughter to avoid the sight of her husband. "It will. The Dark One wouldn't let himself be felled by something like this. He wouldn't."
"But he's not the Dark One anymore, is he? He gave it up."
Her mother approached her, placed both hands on Lucy's shoulders from behind, and stared down intently at the top of her head. Brown curls, identical to Belle's own. "He gave it up," she agreed. "And we gave up the magical world, to keep you safe. It's safer without magic, really."
Lucy sighed. "And he gave himself mortality in the process. Dad. Rumpelstiltskin." The name felt strange, unnatural on her lips. "There's no magic left to save him."
"And why not hope? There's always hope, I've learned. Even when all is dark and empty."
Lucy turned to face her mother, who seemed like the last person to say those words. Her mother, huddled in bed every other morning, unable to leave the house because of her hopelessness. How could she have hope now? But when Belle had been in the asylum for all those years, she'd lost hope, but Rumpelstiltskin had finally saved her, hadn't he? Lucy knew the story.
Her mother's familiar, bright blue eyes sparkled with new tears, unshed ones, but she seemed more lucid now than she had all week. "I don't think he'd want to go on like this though, do you? Dad was nothing without his pride."
"That's true," her mother murmured. "But he won't leave me, he wouldn't. I know he wouldn't."
Lucy reached out, stilled her mother's wringing hands. "He won't. But maybe we should let him go?" For four days she'd been considering the possibility, what to do if all was lost.
She had to be strong, for her mother. It was what he would've wanted, because Rumpelstiltskin knew his daughter was stronger than he ever was, and even braver than Belle was, once upon a time, before she began to fear her own shadow.
Both of her mother's hands fit into Lucy's palm-Lucy wondered when that had happened-and she held them close. "We'll give it a few days, all right?" Lucy asked.
Belle exhaled slowly, then straightened her back and nodded her head. She had to be strong and brave, for her daughter's sake. "Okay."
...
It always seems to rain on the day of a funeral, but the day that Mr. Gold was buried in Storybrooke's cemetery, the sun beamed down, and the heat made Lucy sweat underneath her black dress. It was as if the weather itself was happy to say goodbye to the town menace.
They chose not to have much of a service, no priests or pastors there to say a few words-it's unlikely they would've come anyway, most churches in town weren't exactly on good terms with Mr. Gold. No one was, really. Emma and August made a brief appearance, for Belle's sake, not the late Mr. Gold's. Lucy's mother, to her credit, remained stoic, no fits of grief or rage, just a few tears, but no more than anyone expected. She spoke in muted tones with her few friends, accepting their condolences.
"I never thought about how old he was, from the day I met him until his last breath," Lucy heard her mother say. "It's just so hard, having to deal with it now. I'd never though about it before, that he could die before me." She made a noise, something strange between a sob and laugh, and Lucy slid an arm around her mother's waist, to keep her upright if that's what she had to do.
"I'll be fine, dear. I promise," Belle told her daughter.
But when it was time for the coffin to be lowered into the ground, beneath the enormous marble headstone that read R. Gold-no dates of birth or death-Belle sat in the car, afraid that if she were to watch it, she would jump right in after it.
Lucy stood above the perfect rectangle, dug into the ground. She pulled at the petals of one of the roses that Emma had brought for them, spilling the drops of white on top of her father's coffin.
...
"And your mother? How is she doing?" Dr. Hopper asked, eyes unfailingly kind behind his spectacles.
Lucy flushed. "I'm sorry, Archie-" She'd taken to calling him Archie instead of his professional title. Something about the name made her instantly more comfortable. "I've been trying to get her to come to these appointments, but-"
"No, no, it's all right. I understand her lack of faith in the mental health system entirely. But how is she?" he asked again.
She considered for a few moments before answering, and Archie didn't press her. She liked these meetings, actually, their warmth, Archie's concern-they lacked the clinical nature that she had expected from the start. He didn't even have a notebook and pen in his hands, for note-taking. No, he just listened, and nodded, and talked to her, like she was a real human being, and not simply the offspring of Storybrooke's most feared man with the town madwoman.
Finally she answered him. "She's better. Stronger than I can ever remember seeing her, actually. I think she thinks she has to be, without the old dragon protecting her from the world."
"And how does that make you feel?"
Ah, there it was, that stereotypical question that all therapists asked. But Lucy was her father's daughter, not one for feelings and emotions-she preferred to bottle them up until they burst. Lucy wondered when she would burst-she would, if genetics had any say in the matter, even though she never had in seventeen years. But, she supposed, this would be healthier, talking to Archie instead. She dropped her voice to a murmur. "I'm glad, for Mom's sake. But I wish she was sadder, sometimes. And I wish she could've been this strong for Dad. I wonder if its selfishness, that makes her like this. She only leaned on him so much because he was there. Now that he's gone..." Lucy trailed off, and shrugged.
"And can she lean on you, instead?"
"She does! She always has, at least a little. I want to be there for her now, if she'd let me."
Archie nodded, and stroked his chin in thought. "And what about her bad days?"
"She doesn't have bad days anymore. But she doesn't have good days, either." Lucy struggled to explain.
"What do you mean?"
Lucy waved her arms, in a gesture remarkably like her father's, although her movement was to express her confusion, rather than simple ostentatiousness. "She never spends all day in bed anymore. But every day is a struggle for her get out of bed, I can tell. Usually she ends up on the sofa, drinking tea from that damned broken cup and staring off into space. But she talks to me, asks me about school. She's even offered to take me shopping."
"But it's better?" Archie asked.
She settled back into the leather chair, watching her own steepled hands-another gesture of her father's she'd adopted, without even realizing it until now. "I guess it is."
...
When Lucy stepped into the house-only one person less, and it had become a house, hardly a home anymore-her mother was at the kitchen table, sipping tea from her father's favorite cup and waiting for her. A pile of styrofoam containers sat in front of her.
"I got us Chinese food, for dinner," Belle began, with that permanent hesitation in her voice. She hadn't cooked a meal since her husband's death. What was the point if he wasn't there to pretend to like it?
"Thanks." Lucy sat across from her mother, but made no motion to start eating.
"How did your meeting with Dr. Hopper go?"
She took a deep breath. "Archie and I talked a lot about you, actually."
Once upon a time that would've made her mother run to her room and hide under the bed, if a doctor had talked about her. But now her fingers just clenched into fists, and her gaze wavered only slightly. "What about me?"
"How much better you've been. And how that scares me."
Belle narrowed her eyes at her daughter, though not in an unkind way. "You're like your father in nearly every way, you know. Sometimes it breaks my heart even to look at you. But he was never as forthright as you are, Lucy."
"I get that from you, though, don't I?"
Her mother flinched. "I guess you do." And her voice softened. "Why are you scared?"
"I don't want you to pretend to be strong for me if you're not."
"You're my daughter." She set down the teacup, reached her hand out to Lucy and laid it on her arm. "I want to be strong for you."
"But you can't. You've never been able to be strong before. Why now?" Lucy struggled to keep the whining, the pleading from her voice. Rare tears were welling, and Lucy struggled even harder to keep those back.
Her mother shrugged, looking helpless. "Since your father isn't here to be strong enough for both of us, someone has to be."
And when Lucy crumpled at that moment, wracked with sobs that were days and weeks and years old, her face hidden in her hands, Belle did the brave thing, alighting from her chair and holding her daughter in her arms as she cried.
She smoothed back Lucy's hair as she let her sob into her shoulder, with continual whispers of, "We'll be okay."