1 Day
Quinn spends it in the nursery. She locks the door, ignores the knocks of her mother. Persistent, pleading.
Come out of there.
Please eat something.
Talk to me.
Everything will be okay, Quinnie.
I loved her too.
Quinn just rocks. She stares at the crib.
She contemplates burning it to the ground, but the room smells of Beth and she just can't leave.
Her womb aches. Her head is dizzy from lack of food, lack of sleep.
The light fades, the room goes dark.
Judy pounds at the door.
Quinn just rocks.
2 Days
More knocking. The voice behind the door is masculine.
Hey, come out of there.
I want to help.
She was my kid, too.
She owes her mother nothing, not after she let Quinn be thrown out of her home, and only let her back due to some sick notion of self-salvation. But she owes something to Puck, she feels.
So she speaks.
Her voice sounds foreign, weary, and all she can muster are two words.
Go away.
The deafening silence speaks of Puck's relief, his all-too-eager exit.
Quinn rocks.
4 Days
She picked out the dress.
Beth is beautiful in pink and black, little black booties on her feet, and a band in her hair.
Quinn stays at her side as people file past; she's managed to slip her finger into one cool, tiny hand, and she holds.
Beth holds her up.
The baby's visitors are people she never knew, people she will never know: Judy's church friends. Quinn accepts their hugs, the kisses on her cheek, the whispered platitudes that her baby girl is with God, that she's an angel now, that everything will be all right.
She wants to tell them all to go to hell.
Her father doesn't show. Quinn thanks God for that, at least.
Mr. Schuester comes and gives Quinn a hug; she accepts it wordlessly.
Puck lingers near the door, his eyes ever on Quinn, but never approaching her. He's afraid; she can tell.
She knows he's not strong enough. Fathers never are, she thinks. She was Beth's mother. Puck was there, but Quinn's the one who brought her into the world.
She was the one who discovered Beth had left the world, on a bright and early August morning that was already stinging hot.
Then, she thought the tears wouldn't stop, the anguished wails – first when her tiny reason for living was put in the ambulance, and again when they told her how quickly a heart can just… stop.
Now she doesn't cry.
In the doorway of the room she catches sight of someone she doesn't expect to be there. She hadn't expected anyone from glee club to be there, but this person, the one with pornographic pictures of herself in the school bathroom… is now standing in the middle of the room, watching her.
Rachel is calm, resolute, always in tune with an inner stage presence that has been the mode by which she lives her life, but there is something else in her eyes as she takes in Quinn and her hand lightly fisted inside a two-foot long white coffin.
Tenderness.
She doesn't approach Quinn. She doesn't pass by to glance down at the child that everyone keeps saying looks like a "doll," which makes her mother sick.
Dolls aren't alive.
Beth deserves to be.
Rachel spies Puck, loitering now up against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. Rachel looks from him to Quinn, then back at Puck, and her brow furrows.
Then she is executing the perfect stage walk over to Puck, who looks just as surprised to see her as Quinn is. He leans down so that Rachel can whisper into his ear. She manages a totally unsubtle point at Quinn, and the blonde girl stiffens.
Surely Rachel wouldn't make a scene… not here.
But he looks chastised, she looks furious, and in minutes, Puck is striding over to Quinn with as much courage as he can muster.
He slips his arm around her waist and stands with her for the rest of the hour.
Rachel stays for mere minutes after talking to Puck; her eyes glued on Quinn, even though she averts hers and concentrates on tiny baby fingers, the fluff of brown baby hair, baby brown eyes that are forever closed.
When she notices Rachel has left, Quinn is too tucked inside her loss to care.
5 Days
There are words of the gift of Beth's life, words about God's grace and mercy, words of what the pastor probably thinks is wisdom.
Quinn hears nothing that he says.
On the rustle of the trees in the wind there is a baby's cry, in the song of a bird there is her mother's lilting lullaby. The sun is bright and shining there, where her Beth will lie, and though it's not soothing it's… something, because all Quinn can think of is dark and cold and why.
Puck holds her hand and there is no comfort in his rough fingers linked with hers.
But it's into his shoulder she turns when at last it's over, finality has won, and the only thing she can say is "Please don't make me leave her; she'll be scared without me."
He leads her away from there, the place where Beth will never leave, and through her tears she's shocked to see a flash of brown, a touch of argyle, a tiny girl still seated in the back row.
Two weeks
There are furtive looks, whispers that seem deafening even amongst the daily clatter of lockers slamming, cheerleaders laughing, slushies splashing.
Quinn can feel their eyes on her as she walks down the hall towards her own locker, but she ignores them. She can see Puck, just ahead of her at his, staring at her. She just looks at him, and her heart clenches when he turns on his heel and walks away.
But she didn't expect any better.
His pain, though bitter, isn't as deep. He was willing to go days without seeing his daughter; Quinn found it hard to go minutes. Now she prays nightly for blessed sleep to overtake her, because it's in dreams that she sees Beth, laughing and cooing and alive.
Brittany waves at her as she and Santana pass by; Santana's own brown eyes are full of sympathy, but that doesn't enable her to break past her own wall and provide comfort.
And again, Quinn didn't expect better. It's astonishing how well she knows her friends.
She gathers her books and closes the locker door, nearly jumping back when she's confronted by a girl who stares up at her with big brown eyes full of concern.
"I thought you might like someone to walk with you today," Rachel says quietly. "Of course, you might also like to be alone; I've learned through doing some reading on the internet that everyone grieves differently, and so if I'm overstepping the bounds of… whatever friendship we might have… by being here, I hope that you will—"
"Berry." Her words are weary; she can't muster up any malice around the gratitude and exhaustion she is feeling at that exact moment.
"Let's go."
Rachel walks a little slowly and she seems bent under the backpack that she wears all day, and it's midway into sixth period that Quinn realizes why.
Rachel has carried every book in her bag for all of her classes that day – so she could walk Quinn to all of hers.
It's a peculiar warmth that spread into Quinn's chest as she tries to concentrate on algebra, and she tries not to dwell on it.
She tries not to put too much into the fact that Rachel is the only one who seems to care.
Rachel starts walking Quinn to class every day.
Quinn doesn't have the heart to ask her to stop, and thinks that even if she did have the heart… she wouldn't ask.
4 months
Everyone has stopped tiptoeing around her, and life is returning to some semblance of normal. The only thing different is that Rachel Berry has somehow slipped her way into Quinn Fabray's life as a bonafide friend, and Quinn would think about the absurdity of it if she wasn't so grateful.
Rachel sits with her at lunch and talks about the mundane, rambling on in her own familiar way and Quinn just listens. Sometimes she catches herself smiling when Rachel has gone off on some tangent about glee or whatever song Schuester has chosen for their next performance at Sectionals, and it makes Quinn wonder when the last time was that she really smiled.
She thinks it was… the night that Beth went to sleep.
Before the morning, when Quinn's sweet baby girl never woke up.
She's not sure she deserves to smile, that she deserves to be happy, but Rachel blushes when she catches Quinn staring, cutting her off in the middle of a rant about Santana's sub-par interest in glee's success.
And when Rachel ducks her head and shyly whispers "Sorry," before chewing on her lower lip, Quinn can't help but smile.
10 months
She doesn't know who else to ask. She contemplates asking Puck, for a split second, but she doesn't want him there. She knows her mother wants to go, and she thinks maybe she'll go again later, with her. But with her mother it's always The Judy Fabray Show, and all eyes and hearts must be focused on her, on her own pain.
Quinn has never considered herself to be an unselfish person. She went against God and had sex before marriage. She cheated on her boyfriend, then lied to him. Her life has been about boys and Cheerios and status, for sixteen years.
But then just a year ago, things were uprooted. Life suddenly became about feedings, diaper changes, trying to figure out which cry meant what. Late-night rocking with a little body tucked warmly against hers, soft cooing that sent little thrills into her heart.
The first time Beth smiled at her, all Quinn could think of was that Beth knew. Beth knew she was her mama, and Quinn felt… forgiven.
So she feels selfish, now. She wants it to be all about her pain, her loss, her grief.
She goes to the one person she thinks might understand, based on the tenderness of a look shared across the room of a funeral home. The fact that she is the one person who hasn't left Quinn's side, in spite of everything that they shared… before.
The one person that watched Quinn break down, two months after Beth died, watched as Quinn collapsed inside herself in the bathroom, sliding to the floor and shaking with the force of her sobs. The one person who locked the door so no one else could get in, who simply sat and held her hand, not saying a word.
Who just hugged Quinn and walked her to her next class, then left her with a gentle squeeze to her hand.
It's too weird and Quinn almost can't get the words out, and she's turned away to go back to her locker when she feels gentle fingers encircle her forearm, anchoring her, and the "yes" is soft on Rachel's lips.
Quinn goes home after school to change, then picks Rachel up an hour later. She's carrying something in a huge bag and Quinn quirks an eyebrow, but Rachel says nothing and Quinn doesn't ask. The drive to the cemetery is short; the walk to Beth's grave is long, too long.
Her step falters only a little as the small white headstone comes into Quinn's line of sight, and without realizing it Rachel has put her hand on the small of Quinn's back. She steadies her as first the blonde girl kneels, then Rachel – off to the side. Her eyes are trained on the etched letters of the stone as Quinn reads them softly aloud.
"God, in the book of life, wrote down my baby's birth." She takes in a great shuddering sigh before she continues. "And whispered as He closed the book, 'She's just too beautiful for the earth.'"
The sob leaves her throat before she can control it, but somehow she knows it's all right. And even though Rachel doesn't hug her this time, it's not what Quinn wants anyway. It's enough that Rachel's small hand is warm and firm on her shoulder.
Holding her up.
She manages to get her crying under control and wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. When her vision clears she's surprised to see wetness on Rachel's cheeks, and the lip that is tucked between Rachel's teeth is trembling.
"I'm sorry," Quinn says softly.
Rachel shakes her head. "It's all right to cry, Quinn."
"No, I mean, that I made you upset."
Again Rachel shakes her head, more vigorously this time. "It's just that…" Her tear-stained cheeks flush pink, and she looks away. "You don't deserve it," she says, in a voice barely above a whisper. "You've been through so much already. You…" She shrugs. Her voice returns, stronger.
"You deserve to be happy."
Quinn smiles a little. "I was."
"You will be again." Rachel sees the roll of Quinn's eyes, and she nods. "I know. I know you don't want anyone to say that to you. But… I believe it."
"Thanks."
"I… I brought some things," Rachel says haltingly.
Quinn raises an eyebrow.
"For Beth," Rachel says, looking more uncertain and embarrassed by the minute.
It's cute, Quinn realizes.
She then makes a mental note to have her eyes checked.
"What did you bring?" She tries to sound nonchalant; she squeaks instead.
Luckily, Rachel's too caught up in some idea of humiliation to notice, and now even her ears are red as she reaches for the bag and buries one hand inside.
When that hand comes back out, Quinn's breath catches at the way Rachel's fingers have curled, almost lovingly, around the small teddy bear with the purple bow.
And then Rachel's eyes are unfocused, as if she has gone somewhere else in her mind, somewhere that Quinn can't touch and she's not sure what would happen if she went there with her. Rachel kisses the teddy bear's tiny snout, and tucks it up against the headstone.
Rachel reaches into the bag again and comes back with three roses – two pink, one white. Those lie on top of the headstone and Quinn feels the tears start to fall, at the gentle way Rachel arranges them until they are just perfect, at the way her fingers worship the petals almost reverently, as if…
As if Rachel had loved Beth, too.
But that was impossible, even if Quinn's eyes widen as Rachel goes for the bag again and this time brings out a small, silver and pink mylar balloon – that she has somehow managed to affix with a gold star sticker – with Happy Birthday printed on it. She ties the string around the roses and together, the two girls watch as the balloon floats just a little higher and stops, a beacon over the grass and stone.
It sways in the wind and Quinn imagines a tiny fisted hand, bopping at the balloon. If she listens harder to the rustle of the trees, like she did the first time she was here, she hopes maybe she can hear Beth's giggle.
It's the one thing she can't bear to forget.
She's not sure where it comes from, but her own voice is clear and strong with the simplest of songs, one that she never got to sing for her little girl, one that she wishes more than anything she had appreciated.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you… happy birthday…" Her voice cracks.
Rachel's hand finds hers, their fingers linking, and though it's awkward, Quinn squeezes as Rachel's voice, soft and gentle, blends with hers.
"Happy birthday, dear Beth… happy birthday to you…"
Quinn takes in the grass under her knees, the harsh heat of the June mid-day, the white of her baby's tribute and Rachel's gifts… and she feels like she doesn't deserve any of it.
Selfish. Every insult thrown Rachel's way, every person Quinn has ever hurt in her entire teenaged existence, everything she's ever done… selfishness.
It's her fault, she knows.
She was sixteen years old, and if she'd known the risks were higher she would have been more careful.
Too careful to hurt people, too careful not to see other lives beyond her own. Too careful to let a coach strip away her self-esteem. Too careful to let a boy "convince" her with smooth words and sour alcohol.
And now Beth is gone. Never to see her first birthday. Never to learn to walk, learn to speak. Never to have a first day of kindergarten, never to try out for cheerleading or sports, or for the debate team or quiz bowl. Never to walk across the stage at graduation, or down the aisle towards the new beginning of love.
Quinn will never hold her baby girl after a nightmare. She'll never bandage up a skinned knee and kiss it to make it better. She'll never endure the scream of "I hate you" after grounding a teenage daughter for missing curfew. She'll never hold a crying Beth in her arms, promising murder on whomever it was that broke her baby girl's heart for the very first time.
Her punishment has been meted out on the innocent.
In that instant, she sees God for who He is.
A monster.
Rachel mistakes her renewed tears as a different kind of grief, and she says quickly, "I'll leave you alone for a minute."
But as she moves to stand Quinn's fingers hold tight, and she mumbles, "Please don't go. Please."
Rachel nods and sinks back onto her knees, and suddenly they are shoulder-to-shoulder.
"Does Puck come here?"
Quinn shrugs. "I don't know. Not with me."
"How often…" Rachel lets the rest of the sentence slip away into the summer air.
"Every weekend."
She nods again. "Would you… would you like some company?"
It's a strange place to build upon a friendship, if that's even what this is, and it's on the tip of Quinn's tongue to say no.
But her heart and mind are awash with grief and pink roses, dark brown eyes and the gentle warmth of a hand in hers…
And Quinn can't find the strength to say anything but yes.
When Quinn drops Rachel off back at her house she tries to say thank you but Rachel cuts her off.
"You don't have to thank me. I can't say that I'm happy to do it because I'd rather not, if it meant… if it meant you weren't going through so much pain. But as it is, I'm just glad… that you're letting someone be there for you. And I'm glad… that it's me."
Rachel's looking shyly out the window towards her house and Quinn suddenly feels a surge of affection for the little girl with the gigantic voice, and so she leans across the console to press a kiss to Rachel's cheek…
Right as Rachel turns back towards Quinn to say goodbye, and their lips graze together.
Rachel sits back, stunned, and Quinn stays where she is, frozen in shock, her lips tingling.
The corners of Rachel's mouth turn up, ever so slightly, as she gently says goodbye and leaves the car. She looks back as she reaches her front door and sees Quinn, still in the same position that she left her.
Only when Rachel waves and then disappears inside her house does Quinn settle back into the driver's seat.
That night, she cries when she thinks more about Rachel than her daughter.
14 months
Rachel knocks on the front door at exactly 10 a.m.
Judy Fabray lets her in with a worried look; Rachel just nods at her over the box she's holding in her arms.
Quinn stands up at the top of the stairs, waiting for her; she doesn't say a word as she turns and leads Rachel down the hall.
Rachel's been in this house every day since the inadvertent kiss she shared with Quinn four months ago; since then, there have been more kisses – none of them an accident.
They've shared a multitude of firsts together, since that day.
Their first date, a double with Brittany and Santana to Breadstix, and by the end of the night Quinn had to practically pry Rachel off the Latina after one too many jokes about her height. Santana laughed until Quinn asked her to accompany her to the restroom.
Ten minutes later, the apologies were quick to fall from Santana's lips, as Rachel's jaw dropped in shock and Quinn just smirked.
Their first kiss that lasted longer than thirty seconds, in the basement of Rachel's house. They were lying together on the couch with Quinn tucked against Rachel's chest, watching Funny Girl for not the first time. Quinn was bored and kisses usually worked to distract Rachel, and by the time they came up for air Rachel was distracted to the point that her hair was disheveled, Quinn's hands were up her shirt, and Rachel's teeth were on Quinn's neck.
Their first fight, when Rachel accused Quinn of being too scared to show her real feelings and admit that she might be in love. The first time Rachel stormed out of Quinn's house, slamming the door and driving away so fast her tires squealed against the pavement. It was the first time Quinn admitted that she thought Beth's death was her fault, because she was a selfish bitch, and she couldn't tell Rachel she loved her, because she couldn't lose Rachel, too. For the first time – and not the last – Rachel held Quinn as she cried herself to sleep, and the next morning Quinn held Rachel as she slept, because the girl had watched over her the entire night.
But this will be the first time Quinn lets Rachel into the one place her girlfriend (Quinn is still getting used to that word, and how happy it makes her) has been afraid to show anyone.
Rachel sits the box down on the nursery floor as Quinn stands behind her, leaning against the door and worrying her nervous hands in the fabric of her dress. Rachel's eyes take everything in: the crib still standing in the corner; the changing table; the stack of pictures on the little bookshelf shaped like a house; the stuffed animals.
The sweet scent of baby powder that still lingers after just a little over a year, trapped behind a locked door of memories and grief.
Rachel takes a deep breath as her eyes at last land on the small stack of boxes, resting against the far wall. She doesn't look away, but simply reaches back her hand. Delicate fingers entwine with hers and Rachel squeezes; Quinn feels the courage transfer into her and the tears start.
It only takes two hours: one hour for Rachel to dismantle the crib; another hour for both Quinn and Rachel to fold up baby clothes and place them into the Goodwill boxes. Here and there Quinn lays something aside, a faraway look in her eyes, and Rachel watches carefully until Quinn comes back to her.
Rachel reaches into the box she has brought and pulls out the white photo album; together, she and Quinn sit, filling up the album with Beth's pictures. Rachel's arm is steady around Quinn's waist as she cries, soft kisses against her ear and softer words anchoring her, pushing away the guilt and anger.
"Do you think," Quinn asks quietly, "if I had given her up… she'd still be alive?"
Rachel stiffens momentarily, before she kneels up and pulls Quinn into her arms. "I think," she whispers, "that Beth only cares about how much you loved her, how much you still love her. I think that she loves you, so much, and she wants you to know that none of this is your fault."
Quinn smiles a little, wanting so much to believe, and kisses her.
Rachel leaves Quinn alone in the nursery with her thoughts as she carries each box and the crib down the stairs; Quinn's mother arranged for someone else to take the things away, knowing neither she nor her daughter had the heart for it.
Once back upstairs, Rachel watches as Quinn folds up Beth's baby blanket and places it in the wooden box she brought. It's followed by Beth's little pajamas, a tiny pink pacifier with Piglet on it, and last, Beth's stuffed lamb, that never failed to make her smile and gurgle when Quinn tickled her face with it. Even Rachel's tears fall fast and hard when Quinn closes the box on the last remnants of Beth's two-month-old life, and her fingers trace the angel wings etched into the wood.
Rachel has paid extra for the inscription, and Quinn clings to her hand as she reads the words.
"Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight."
As Quinn presses her lips wetly to Rachel's hand, she thinks of another day, and another box, remarkably similar to this one, and she can't help but think that this time, the box holds a promise.
That night, in Quinn's bed, she and Rachel share another first. Her eyes stay locked on Rachel's as her fingers move slowly, carefully, and just as she claims her, Quinn kisses Rachel and opens herself to the joy, the fear, the hope.
"I love you."
Rachel cries as she says it back.
5 years
Quinn falls back onto the pillows, taking a deep breath and trying to return her heartbeat back to normal. Rachel spoons her, nestling their naked bodies close together, humming softly in the afterglow.
The words come out of her mouth before she can stop herself.
"I want another baby someday."
Rachel sits up so fast it makes Quinn dizzy, and she tucks her lower lip between her teeth, staring up at her girlfriend.
"You what?"
It's not one of Rachel's finer moments of clarity, but Quinn's willing to forgive her, because Rachel's eyes are wide with love and hope, even as she looks completely terrified.
So Quinn repeats it again, slowly in the dim light of the room, a small smile playing about her lips at the reality of it.
Not right now, because they're only 21, and she's still not finished with med school – pediatrics – plus Rachel deserves to have her time in the Broadway spotlight before it fades slightly, to care for a child.
But Quinn knows: she wants a baby.
With Rachel, she clarifies, because in her heart there's still this insecurity that Rachel might see the selfishness in her, and leave.
She wants Rachel's baby.
But Rachel is still looking uncertain, and she says, so carefully, "Sweetheart, are you sure?"
Quinn knows the risks. She knows that she'll worry. She knows that during the pregnancy she'll be frantic, that for once someone other than Rachel will be obsessed with something. She'll be obsessed about obstetrics appointments, prenatal vitamins; if she has her way Rachel won't leave their bed for nine months.
Quinn knows she'll be spending countless hours on the internet looking up potential problems that she already knows, that Rachel will have to gently close the laptop, and pull her away from her fears with a kiss, placing a hand on her belly to feel the soft flutter of a tiny foot.
She knows that at random points she'll break down with the weight of Beth's memory and feel like she's betraying it. And Rachel, always Rachel, will put her back together with just a hand on her back and soft words whispered into her ear.
She also knows that for the first six months she'll worry herself sick, that there will be baby monitors in every room of the house, and Rachel will have to stop her from wanting to check on their baby every five minutes. She knows that the worry will wear on Rachel, too, and Quinn will catch her getting out of bed at four in the morning to tiptoe down the hall to the nursery, returning with a relieved expression on her face.
Quinn also knows – hopes – that it will be worth it.
She's sure, and Rachel's bright smile is infectious as Quinn cuddles her, her body alight with the fire of love and dreams.
10 years
Quinn wakes up cold, which turns into confusion when the warm body she tries to curl into is missing from next to her. Her heart lurches with sudden pain when the worry hits; she scrambles to find the light and floods the room, staring at the small white monitor. The alarm grows when she hears nothing, so Quinn stumbles out of bed and slides into her slippers.
Her mind is full of the memory of it: soft baby hands gone cold; pink skin fading into porcelain. Quinn tries to calm her racing heart but her racing mind spurs her feet on until she skids to a stop in front of the open nursery door.
Rachel's brown hair gleams in the moonlight, her eyes shining and happy as she rocks the small blue bundle in her arms, balancing the photo album on her lap. Cuddling her son in the crook of one arm, she moves her hand to open the album.
She doesn't see Quinn in the doorway and so her wife leans against the doorjamb, watching and listening as Rachel speaks softly to the boy with his mama's brown hair and eyes.
"This pretty baby," Rachel nuzzles the baby's head with her cheek, pointing to the photo album, "is Beth. She's your big sister."
Quinn cups her mouth with her hand as she starts to cry, trying to keep silent so as to not interrupt the moment. Rachel doesn't hear her, and her gentle voice continues.
"I'm sorry you won't ever get to meet her, Jonathan, but you'll grow up knowing that she's special, because now she's your very own guardian angel. And she loves you, just as much as your mommy and I love you."
This time Quinn can't stop a sob from escaping, and immediately Rachel turns, the photo album clattering to the floor. Her wide eyes are worried, as if she is sure she's done something wrong. Quinn merely crosses the floor, gesturing, and Rachel stands up. Balancing her son, she replaces the photo album on the table, then turns back to her wife. She is seated in the rocking chair, and pulls Rachel onto her lap. Quinn nestles her chin on Rachel's shoulder, breathing in her scent – Rachel's perfume combined with the baby powder newness of their son – and presses a soft kiss to her wife's cheek as together, she and Rachel watch their tiny little boy drift off back to sleep.
Quinn smiles with tears dotting her eyelids… and rocks.