Jack stood in the hallway, one hand on the door handle, the other holding a cardboard box. He willed himself to breathe. Willed himself to calm down. Willed himself to go in there.
He had to do it. It was time. Carol had offered. Kitty had offered. He appreciated their gestures. He knew it couldn't have been easy for either of them. They had already done enough: organizing the parade of casseroles that had marched through their kitchen, ensuring a few bites of each had actually made it into his and Kim's stomachs. Helping with the funeral arrangements.
Carol had been especially great at fending off her parents. All the goodwill he had slowly built up over the years was washed away with one phone call. He hadn't looked after their daughter after all. He couldn't have faced them without Carol.
This, though… this he had to do this himself. He forced his lungs to expand, then contract. Expand, contract. His hand tensed, gripping the door handle. Expand – the phone rang. Contract. Expand – it kept ringing. Dammit.
"Kim! Can you please get that?" The ringing stopped.
He let go of the handle, running his hand through his hair. Okay. Expand. His hand reached for the handle again.
"Dad, it's for you," Kim called from her room. "It's Uncle Graem."
Great. "Tell him I'll call him back."
"He says it's important."
Oh, for fuck's sake. He dropped the box abruptly and stormed down the hallway to the kitchen. "Fine. I've got it." He heard the click as his daughter hung up.
"Yeah?"
"Jack."
"Grae."
"How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, Grae. What do you want?"
"Always one to cut the small talk, aren't you Jack?"
"What do you want, Grae?" his fingers tightened on the handset.
"Dad asked me to call. He'd heard you quit CTU." Graem sounded smug.
"I didn't quit, Grae. I'm inactive. Temporarily." Jack growled.
"Right, right. Inactive. You know, it's okay to admit you can't handle it. Anyone would agree that it would be too tough to go back there after what happ—"
Jack cut him off. "What do you want?"
His brother's voice scurried like a rat caught in the light. "Dad was wondering, well, we were wondering, if you wanted to come and work for BXJ. You know, now that you're so tight with Palmer, you would be a real asset."
"Jesus, Grae." Jack knew his brother well enough. It unnerved him that he could still be surprised by the way Graem let his ambition show so nakedly.
"What?"
"Unbelievable. No, Graem, no, I do not want to come and work for BXJ."
"Still not ready to work at all, huh? Okay, well, I understand. The government must have a real nice disability package."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait! Jack, wait. I'm sorry, that was out of line." Contrite was not his strong suit, but he knew how to play to his big brother's ego. "Listen, Dad could really use your help right now. Things are a little tough." He shifted in his comfortable leather chair, leaning forward into the phone. "To be honest, Jack, we could lose the company."
"What?" Jack was incredulous. His father was too shrewd to let things get out of hand. Graem must have really screwed up. "I'm sorry to hear that, Grae, but I'm sure you can handle it."
"I think so, but Dad's not so sure. He really thinks you have expertise that we could use."
Jack sighed, looking at the ceiling as he rubbed his neck. "I just, no. No, it wouldn't be a good idea."
"Jack, it's been four months." Graem said gently. "It's time, man. You have to get over this."
"Get over this, Grae? Get over this? What, like you got over Mom when she died?"
"Listen, Jack –."
"No, you listen, Graem. I know what you're trying to do. And the answer is no."
"I can't believe you won't help out your family, Jack. But then, I guess looking after your family isn't what you're good at, is it?"
"Fuck you." Jack pressed his thumb on the button, wishing for a good old-fashioned rotary phone he could slam down. He lifted the handset and flung it against the wall where it shattered, spilling its circuitry as it fell to the floor. Better. He strode purposefully back down the hall, grabbing the box and pushing open the door in one fluid motion.
He dropped the box on the bed and yanked open a drawer without thinking, pulling out handfuls of socks and stuffing them in the box. The next drawer was t-shirts. Into the box. This wasn't so bad. He was getting a rhythm going. On to the next drawer.
His hands hit the silk before his eyes did, but his mind recognized the object instantly. The next thing he knew he was on the floor, letting the folds of the camisole run through his fingers as the tears ran down his face.
She'd worn this just a few days before she'd died. He remembered it clearly. It had been a warm day, and she'd gone to sit in the yard with a magazine. He'd brought her some lemonade and had paused in the doorway to marvel at her, looking so relaxed and beautiful, curled up like a cat in the sun.
He raised the thin material to his nose, but her scent was gone.
"I'm so sorry, Sweetheart," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."