Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely isn't mine. I'm just doing this for fun.
Story Summary: Life isn't like a story. Post-ep for "Moments in the Woods."
Fall Down on My Knees
A story by Ryeloza
Once upon a time…
Lynette gets a library card when she is six. The library is only a block away: a big, old building with these pretty windows of colored glass that shine so strangely in the sunshine. She used to think it was some kind of castle.
The one time she goes inside, she has run away from home. It's raining and cold—February is miserable—but she is running, running, running (literally), and doesn't stop until she sees that building. There is a mother with a red umbrella, holding her little girl close as they hurry inside; Lynette follows them like a beacon of light through a thick fog.
It isn't a castle.
At first she's overwhelmed because there are so many books, more than she's seen in her entire life, and the sight of them takes her breath away. She wants to stare forever—at those books and the marble staircase and those pretty, strange windows—but she has a keen sense of wariness, and one of the women standing at the desk is glaring at her. Survival instinct kicks in; she doesn't want to leave, so she hurries after the red umbrella into depths of this wonderful world.
The journey ends downstairs in the children's room. The mother and daughter peruse the shelves like a treasure trove—even at six, she realizes that is what this is—but instead of doing the same, she sits down at a little table and just watches them. Her mind captures the moment like the slow motion action of a film: the daughter pulling books off of the shelf and turning to her mother with hopeful eyes; the mother wrapping her child in a hug so tight it lifts her off of the ground; the tenderness of her touch when she brushes her daughter's hair off of her face.
It is the first time Lynette ever remembers feeling alone.
In a fantasy world, something might have happened. Someone would have noticed the shivering little girl with the cut on her face and tear tracks marring her cheeks. But the reality is that she sits there for a long time, long past when the mother and daughter leave, long past her dinner time, long enough that her hair dries in frightful clumps around her face, until finally she stands with the realization that she must go home. For some reason she pulls a book off of the shelf and tucks it under her arm, acting like she belongs in a world that has never wanted her, and is about to walk out when she's stopped by a librarian.
"You have to check that out," she says, and Lynette drops her head, the instinctive reaction she always has when any adult looks too closely at her. "Do you have a library card?"
She shakes her head, waits for the book to be confiscated, but instead the librarian takes her to a desk and gets her a card. All she has to do is sign her name, which she's long since mastered at school.
So she has a library card. And a book.
She never comes back.
She sits in her car for a long time after she leaves Tom. The smell of the lobster is overwhelming and inexplicably nauseating, and after awhile she opens the window and dumps it outside. It still feels like a waste of money even now that they have money to spare, and she smiles at the thought of throwing Tom's hard work out the window, even as she wonders if hypocrisy is a sin.
It feels like a sin. And yet…
This moment has reduced her to a nothingness she hasn't felt in ages. She is small and inconsequential like no one in the world can or will notice her; she is ridiculous in this overpriced dress that she doesn't need and shoes she can scarcely walk in; she is pathetic for sitting here crying without end. Years have passed without her feeling this insignificant, and it's startling to remember how awful this is. It's startling to realize that for two decades, Tom has been the one to keep this feeling at bay, only to be the one to bring it all back tonight in less than ten minutes.
Less than ten minutes.
How little she has changed.
She is eight-years old the first time anyone notices her.
"I want to talk to you about this story you wrote," her teacher says. Lynette keeps her eyes fixed on the blackboard behind her. There is a sentence written on the board in cursive: The fast fox ran through the green, grassy field. She thinks of how she still can't quite make the lower case "s" correctly. She thinks of how she'd like to be running through a green, grassy field. She thinks of how she should never have written that story.
"This part where the girl breaks her arm because she's pushed down the stairs…" Mrs. Curran continues. "Lynette, is everything okay at home?"
Lynette tries to hide her cast behind her back. Yesterday she let Lucy draw people on it; she made all of their heads in the shape of hearts. "It's fine."
"It's just you and your mom, right?"
"And my sisters. Lydia is two. Babies can't take care of themselves." Lynette bites her lip. That was a stupid thing to say.
"No, they can't. I'm sure you help out a lot. You're a good girl."
"I have to go home."
"Lynette?" Mrs. Curran touches her shoulder; Lynette flinches. "I want you to know you can talk to me about anything. Not just school."
Lynette nods, but she knows she won't.
The fast fox ran through the green, grassy field.
The fast fox got away.
She wants to see someone.
It's the only validation when the loneliness creeps inside of her like a chill, threatening to freeze her until she's dead to the world. Her mind meanders through the possibilities and only serves to draw her further into herself. Her children are all gone for the night, and they wouldn't understand (she doesn't want them to understand). And her friends…
Well her friends have all been through this. Every single one of them. And that is exactly why she can't go to them. She can't face them when she's sure they've seen the smugness in her face at one time or another; that undeniable relief she'd always felt because Tom wasn't like that, and he never could be.
She knows that it wouldn't be like that with them; they would be compassionate and sweet and loving. Somehow that's worse to face. Especially from Renee. Renee, who knew she was out to prove a point tonight; Renee, who would know more than anyone how she'd been slapped in the face.
You're no different from the rest of us.
She can't go to her sisters. They would be smug even if they didn't mean to be; they are too much like her.
And that only leaves one possibility.
The first time she realizes I love you doesn't really mean anything is the day Glen leaves. Her mother isn't there when they wake up in the morning (which isn't unusual), but the second Glen makes them all come into the living room for a family meeting, her heart begins to pound in this panicky way, and she knows that everything is about to fall apart again.
"This doesn't mean I don't love you girls," he explains, and it's at that point that Lucy gets up and storms off. The whole time this suitcase is sitting by the front door, and Lynette can't stop staring at it. Lydia is crying, sniffling softly into her shirt. "Your mother and I just can't be married any more."
"It's because she cheated on you, isn't it?" she asks, and she hates herself for the tremulous sadness that lingers beneath the anger in her voice.
"No, sweetie. It's…It's more complicated than that."
She doesn't believe him. She doesn't believe any of it. And she hates him for lying.
"Can't we go with you?" Lydia asks in this small voice. And Lynette hates herself because before Glen says anything, she answers, "No. That's not how it works. He's not really our dad."
And Glen gets this hurt look in his eyes that she pretends gives her such pleasure. "Lynnie," he says, reaching out and putting a tender hand on her knee.
"You're not," she says, standing up and yanking Lydia off of the couch harder than she means to. "So why don't you just go?"
She doesn't mean it. Not a word.
He goes anyway.
The first time she realizes I love you does mean something is the day she hears it from Tom.
Her mother moved into a spacious apartment last month, but Lynette hasn't been there until now, didn't even hear about it from her mother. Lydia let it slip over the phone a couple of weeks ago in a conversation mostly full of derogatory comments about how she possibly could have denied their mother finally giving them something after all of these years. Now she stands here, needing her mother to give her the only thing she's ever wanted, and still fairly certain she's not going to get it. She knocks on the door, and her mother answers holding a whiskey sour and cocking an eyebrow in triumphant derision. "Well, well, well," she says. "Look what the cat dragged in. Where the hell are your shoes?"
"I left them in the car. Can I come in?"
Her mother turns her back and goes into the apartment, and Lynette follows obediently. It looks nothing like her mother: cream carpets and leather furniture and strange, meaningless knickknacks. She has to repress a sudden, violent impulse to break something, and silently vows not to let her own home become unrecognizable.
"Here," her mother says, handing her the drink in her hand and crossing the room to fix herself another one. For once, Lynette doesn't hesitate to down it, trying hard to ignore the piercing once-over her mother gives her. "You have a fight with Tom or something?"
"No. We were supposed to have a date night. He had to cancel."
"Uh-huh. And you ended up here. I think this is the part where I express some concern."
Lynette sighs and sinks down onto the couch; her dress makes an uncomfortable sound against the leather. "I…" made a mistake. She hesitates and starts again. "Tom started a new job last month. It's great. More money. A better title. And he's so much happier. He's the happiest I've seen him in years."
"Gee. Sounds like you're living in paradise, kiddo." Her mother sits down next to her with this absurd gracefulness, as though somehow she's fooled herself into thinking this world is hers. "You want to tell me the truth, or did you just come over to talk yourself into something?"
"That is the truth."
"Okay."
"But—"
Her mother grins, and reaches out to pat her leg. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"The 'but.' There's always a 'but' with you. 'I meant to call, but…' 'I was going to go back to work, but…' So what is it this time? 'Tom's got a great new job, but….'"
It takes everything in her willpower not to stand up and leave. Only her sudden, ridiculous fear of going home to that empty house, of having to clean up the remains of that dinner, of having to go to bed alone, keep her rooted to that couch. "I don't think…It's not that I'm losing him…I just…"
"Spit it out."
"I'm not his whole world any more."
The second the words are out of her mouth, she wants to take them back. It almost physically hurts to confess that level of selfishness to herself, let alone to another living soul. And to her mother…
It's like admitting they're more alike than she ever wanted to believe.
For the first time in her life, her mother doesn't say anything. She stares at Lynette expectantly, as if she actually wants her to compose herself and continue; the world feels completely off its axis.
"It's just…I used to be what made him happy. And I don't think…Not that he doesn't love me…" She shakes her head, trying to knock the thought out of her mind. "I'm being ridiculous. This was just a bad night."
She swallows what remains of the drink and stands, not really wanting to leave but feeling foolish for even coming here, when her mother surprises her by catching her hand. "Lynette," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes her sit back down. "You're not ridiculous. You're just insecure. You always have been."
She can't believe that of all of the people in her life, her mother is the one that knows this deep dark secret.
"You've spent twenty years with a guy who's been completely devoted to you, and now he's got something else in his life to care about." She shrugs. "It's gotta sting, kiddo. But that's life. Things change."
Lynette frowns, reaching out and taking her mother's drink. The alcohol burns as it slides down her throat, but it keeps the words from falling from her lips; the one admittance she can't make.
It's all her fault.
They get ice cream one night. They've only been dating a few months, and everything is still new and exciting and alive. They sit side by side on a picnic table, licking their ice cream, and as she leans into him slightly she can tell that he's smiling.
"You know that part of It's a Wonderful Life where he says that he'd give her the moon?" Tom asks. It comes out of nowhere, but feels like one of those conversations they've been in the middle of forever. She nods, turning her head to look up at him; unexpectedly, he kisses her. "I'd give you the moon," he says softly. "I'd give you anything you want."
And it's like one of those moments where she just feels so loved that she wants to cry. It seems so abnormal; she doesn't think that other people would react this way; she knows other people wouldn't. But when she's with Tom, it's like she's hyper-aware of how starved she's been for all of these years.
Starved for affection. Starved for someone to care about her unequivocally. Starved for love.
She's been slowly dying all of these years, but didn't even know it until Tom saved her.
She buries her head in his chest then, because she doesn't want him to know; she doesn't want him to see it in her eyes. It's too much of a burden to put on him.
Too much to say that she doesn't want the moon, she just wants him. Forever.
She dreams that night.
She's back on that plane, but it's different this time. She's wearing her jeans and a tank top, hair sloppily clipped away from her face, and Tom has that look in his eyes like nothing in the world could possibly keep him from her. He rises to greet her, stepping toward her and resting his hands on her hips with that comfortable assuredness that comes from so many years together. She is his to touch, his to love, his to possess.
"I missed you," he says.
"I'm right here."
"Are you?"
She kisses him, going up on tiptoe to reach him, her tongue slipping past his lips and stroking his passionately. He moans into her mouth in a way that curls her toes, and roughly pulls her toward him, hands drifting behind to grasp her ass. "Missed you so much," he mumbles into her mouth.
"Stay with me?"
"I did. You're the one who left."
It doesn't make sense; she's sure it's not right. But Tom takes off her shirt, leaning down and sucking one of her nipples into his mouth, and her mind goes blank. Everything is just the feel of him against her: kneading, stroking, licking, kissing, teasing her into oblivion.
"Don't go," he begs as he sends her over the edge, but all she can think of is the way her body is flush with pleasure like she's never known before.
She wakes up on her mother's couch, dim light creeping through the blinds, and doesn't cry.
She looks at him sometimes and knows he's searching for something.
Sometimes he tells her that he needs more.
Whatever that more is remains elusive to him, perhaps unattainable, perhaps unknowable.
But she never worries, because when his eyes fall back on her, they light up like stars in the sky, reassuring her more than any words ever could.
He has her, and she has him. And in some way, that is everything.
The next day, she stops at the bank and transfers all of the remaining ten grand into their savings account. A few hours later, Tom comes home with flowers. She kisses him, and she thinks that maybe it will be okay.
After all, life doesn't end like a story; there is no such thing as happily ever after; there is no ending at all.
They just keep going on together, even when they're apart.