"You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting." J.M. Barrie
For a man who had just been told he may be imminently dying, Gomez Addams was remarkably calm. Perhaps his mind was protecting him at this moment, as he neared the end of his evening walk around the graveyards of his family home. Death held no fear for him, only intrigue and excitement. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that he only welcomed death if his beautiful wife was by his side to take that adventure with him, but he pushed those unwelcome thoughts aside for the time being, as he entered the family crypt, one hand in the pocket of his quilted jacket and puffing on his cigar; the very image out outward collectedness and indifference.
"How about that, then Mamma," he murmured, as he stood in front of a grand monument to Mother and Father Addams, shaking his head in solemn amusement. It just wasn't the Addams' style to fade away into obscurity. His family met their ends in gloriously terrifying ways. Was he to be the first to break that great tradition?
After a full hour re-communing with his lost loved ones, Gomez slowly returned home long past sundown to an eerie house. The flickering remnants of the church candles Lurch had lit many hours before lighting his way through the mansion, casting terrifying shadows across the walls, shadows which filled Gomez with a reassuring calmness and familiarity. His home, his castle, with all the fear and foreboding it held for anyone outside the Addams Family, and yet it was the place he felt safest in this world. No harm could come to him, his beloved wife, his children, his brother, mother-in-law or their loved ones, within its walls. He had always believed that. Now, for the first time, he knew not even this grand family home could protect him from his future.
As he wandered through the halls that night, he stopped at the doorway of each slumbering family member, lost in fond thought as he watched his children sleeping like the dead; Wednesday perfectly still, her arms folded across her chest and Pugsley, his hand dangling over the edge of his bed, still clutching the carving knife he had taken to bed, clearly with the intent of scaring his sister before falling asleep. Gomez chuckled as he strode to his son's bedside, gently ruffled his hair and reached out to take the knife from him. Pugsley, still deep in sleep, took that moment to sigh and roll onto his side, hugging the knife close to his chest as though it were a teddy.
"Goodnight, my son," Gomez whispered fondly as he turned to leave. He continued his tour of the house, that same remarkable calm settling over him once again. Whether he had accepted his lot, make peace with the news, or was in denial, he did not know at that moment, but he relished the feeling. He was still in control, for now.
In not much time at all, Gomez found himself at the master bedroom door. The climb up that last set of steps had been the hardest of the night. Morticia and he had made the decision many years ago now that their room, their sanctuary, must be on a floor of its own, far from prying eyes and unwelcome interruptions. They adored their family, but their time together prior to bed was the most precious few hours of the day. Gomez could handle the thought of breaking the news to everyone else, but now he was mere steps away from his beloved Morticia, his resolve deserted him. When he had asked Dr. Croupenstein how he could tell his wife what was to come, the good doctor had asked him to do the impossible.
"Put yourself in Mrs Addams' place," she had suggested. "If it were her who was dying, would you not want to know sooner rather than later?"
It had been a well-intentioned piece of advice, and Gomez appreciated the candour as she spoke about dying and death; in fact, he had instructed her to use such words, to be straight with him. What he couldn't bear was the mere notion of Morticia coming to the end of her life. Rather than focus on the task in hand, thinking how he would want the subject to be broached if he were in Morticia's shoes, he grew overwhelmed at the uninvited images now flooding his head. He had taken a courteous leave of the doctor, and walked the several miles back home, trying all the while to banish the thoughts of a desperately ill Morticia breathing her last as he looked on helplessly. The walk home, and the stroll around his grounds had calmed Gomez somewhat, but now as he pushed open the hard oak door, he felt fully lost once again.
Morticia was naturally still awake, unwilling as she was to fall asleep without her husband at her side. She hadn't asked where he was bound when he had left that afternoon, and he hadn't offered the information himself, for fear of worrying her. Sat up in bed, draped in whisper-thin black gossamer and lace, she looked up from her book and smiled at her husband's return.
"Mon cher, I've missed you," she said simply, reaching out her hand to him. Gomez crossed quickly to her side, sinking to his knees as he grasped her hand gently and pressed it to his lips. Morticia noted the usual fervour and passion with which he kissed her hand (and wrist, arm, neck…) was missing, replaced now with a tender sadness in his usually fiery eyes.
"Darling, what is it?" she inquired with concern, her fingers caressing his cheek, thumb brushing over his lips by force of habit.
"Nothing, cara mia," his said eventually, nuzzling her wrist. It could wait until the morning. Why ruin their time together in the safety and peace of the night.