Prologue
The Days
Darkness. Darkness was all it had ever known, and from its reasoning, ever would know. Reaching into the black surroundings, and suspended in this weightless environment, this immature soul did not expect to ever feel anything, but sudden contact with both an invisible barrier and unknown object had changed this perspective.
It wasn't alone in this strange environment – before this moment, this being had only known loneliness – an odd, yet primitive sensation. It reached out toward the previously unknown object, eager to interact for the first time. Finally, upon touching this object, to its surprise, found another living being much like itself – curious and wonderful in design.
It puzzled just as to why they'd never interacted before.
What seemed like only a split second later, or possibly an eternity, it was suddenly constricted, the two were entangled with one another and the environment was no longer weightless. The constriction was also growing more and more oppressive, forcing the being downward at a growing rate. It soon felt even more constricted – far more than the environment ever had, and felt something new: fear – an emotion, and just the first of many. It struggled against the force, especially as it felt a draft of cold on its head, and then a sudden, blinding sensation in its eyes.
A cacophony of noise sounded around the form, and in sympathetic response, it began to wail and cry in inexplicable fear of this new and strange world, flailing as it was suddenly freed from the constriction felt during its dark journey and began a labored breathing.
This inexplicable fear grew to a fever pitch as it felt a sudden upward motion, and a draft of cold air, complemented as the being felt a semblance of warmth return to its body in response, noticing the strange material now wrapped around its body, all but its head and arms. This frightened it even more than the sudden and quite sharp sensation that it'd felt for a split second – pain – again new, and unpleasant at that.
It suddenly ceased wailing for a time as its blurred gaze caught the eyes of a gentle, kind face, smiling down on it. In wonder, it reached upward toward this blurry, yet kind face, albeit unsuccessfully – another frustration of this new environment.
Yet, before it could even begin wailing in fright again, this soul heard another sharp cry, one of pain, from the direction opposite that which it was facing and turned its head and blurred gaze toward this perceived cry.
It was able to make out another face and form through its slowly clearing vision, a being similar in appearance to the kind face above, but this one's face was instead contorted in pain and obviously forcing extreme effort into some task its beholder could not understand.
Vision finally clearing, it looked back up to the kind face, smile still readily visible. It began to cry yet again, re-blurring its vision, spasms – hiccups from tiny lungs echoing in its ears.
The kind face above began uttering calming noises for a short time before patting his back and speaking the first words he had ever heard.
"Hello little one – welcome to the world."
March 12, 1988
– 9:50 a.m.
A few hours later, four year-old Peter Lynch trotted down a long corridor of the 20th floor maternity ward at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, shaggy brown hair bobbing with each eager step, his grandfather, William Lynch, in tow. Despite having awakened just over an hour ago, young Peter was energetic, full of excitement at seeing his new siblings for the first time.
"Ooh, look Granpa! I can see the big black rabbit building with the X's!" Peter exclaimed with joy and excitement – typical of a child his age – as he veered down a short corridor that ended at a large plate-glass window. William Lynch rolled his eyes and chuckled as he followed his wayward grandson to the window.
Bounded by St. Clair, Huron, and Erie Streets, the practically brand-new hospital had been finished just a month earlier, and being only a half-dozen blocks or so from the John Hancock Center added to Peter's perceived illusion of the one-hundred story skyscraper's height. Leaving an imprint of his small hand on the plate glass – in syrup of all things, Peter kept reaching for the black monolith and its twin broadcast antennas, as if he were actually succeeding at his task in grabbing the one of many buildings scattered throughout the city's extensive rise of steel and concrete.
William gently removed his grandson's hand from the window and bent down to eye level with the young boy.
"I thought you cleaned your hands off after breakfast, Peter."
No response was forthcoming from the anxious four year-old.
"You did wash your hands, didn't you?" William asked.
Peter stared down at the floor, averting his eyes from his grandfather's, a look of shame apparent on his face.
William again spoke to his grandson, with a gentle tone. "Peter, you're not in trouble – I just want to know whether or not you washed your hands this morning."
"Yes, Granpa," Peter said as he kicked at some imaginary object on the floor, eyes wandering the shining tile beneath his feet. "I – I did not."
"That's okay for now, bud – It's just I was worried at first. I know how your Grandma doesn't like syrup, especially on windows – doesn't matter whether they're hers or not."
"This place's new – that is why, right?" Peter inquired, now staring up at William with inquisitive, blue-green eyes.
"Especially since it's new, so just don't –"
"William, what are you two doing? I thought you were trying to find Jen's room," Martha Lynch interrupted. "And, is that a handprint on that window back there?"
"Peter wanted to look at the Hancock Center. I couldn't stop him from coming down here, and besides, I had a man-to-man talk with him – not to mention he's a big brother now."
"That's just what I was saying – wait, did you just say that to divert me from that awful handprint behind you?" Martha asked, face wrinkled in disgust.
William scoffed. "No, every word I said was true, Martha – true to my old bones. And now, I'm quite sure that Peter would like to see his parents and new siblings. Am I right, bud?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" Peter exclaimed happily, clapping his hands and jumping as high as his short legs would allow. He was glad his grandpa had changed the subject.
"Well, this way then, Peter," Martha said in a tired voice as she ushered her grandson forward. "Mommy and Daddy are waiting."
She took his hand in hers and walked back to the main corridor, William falling into step a short ways behind them. After striding down the fairly busy corridor for a time, with Peter peering curiously into nearly every room they passed, Martha finally spied her son and Peter's father, Martin, standing a short ways down the corridor.
"Look, there's Daddy, Peter," Martha said in a relieved voice as she pointed Martin out to her grandson.
"Daddy! I'm here, I'm here! Peter's here!" Peter cried as he let go of his grandmother's hand and joyfully raced toward his father.
Martin bent to his knees just as Peter skidded to a halt, embracing his son with a bear hug, Peter giggling happily the whole time.
With Peter still giggling and broadly grinning, Martin released his hug and stood to greet his parents.
The thirty-five year-old first embraced Martha, a look of relief on both their faces.
Martin sighed as he lightly embraced his mother. "Mom."
"It's good to see you, Martin – I'll bet you're glad to see us," Martha said, proudly beaming.
"Oh, you have no idea, Mom," Martin said exhaustedly, releasing his mother and moving to his father, who proceeded to proudly slap him on the back as they briefly embraced.
"You look exhausted, son," William stated, without very much subtlety as his son ushered him to the doorway of Jenny's room.
Martin weakly grinned. "Oh, now you tell me, Pops."
Peter tugged at his father's arm impatiently. "Daddy, is Mommy awake?"
"Mommy's very tired, Peter," Martin said as he glanced down at his four year-old son. He then turned back to his parents, a tired look in his eyes and unshaven stubble peppering his jaw. "Last I knew Jen was still sleeping. I think we should probably go somewhere and wait – let her rest, and then come back in a couple hours or so."
William spoke up, albeit in a low voice. "There's a cafeteria three floors down, Martin – we could wait there for a while."
"We just ate an hour ago, William!" Martha exclaimed, "And Peter certainly doesn't need any food – those leftover hotcakes Jen had in the refrigerator were gone in ten minutes."
Martin was taken slightly aback and stared down in his four year-old in wonder before looking back to his parents. "How many did he eat, Mom?"
Before Martha could answer, William spoke up. "Don't worry – he only had two. You're mom's exaggerating."
"What else is new?" Martin grumbled.
It was now Martha's turn to be taken aback.
"Martin…!" she exclaimed, her voice surprised.
"I'm sorry, Mom – I'm sure you can understand – I've had a busy morning," Martin said apologetically.
"And I'll bet that getting Jen up at 1:30 didn't help, either," William chimed in.
"No, it certainly didn't," his son replied, staring down the corridor blankly.
After a short time in which Martin pondered his tumultuous thoughts, a weak voice came from within the room: "I'm awake, honey – you can come back in."
Peter bounded through the door before Martin was able to stop him, a broad smile on the boy's face as he passed a creamy-white cloth partition curtain, curious as to why it was drawn across nearly half the room.
"Mommy!" Peter exclaimed joyfully as he rushed to the side of Jenny's bed, his short form barely showing above it. Jenny quickly noticed her son and patted him on the head, motioning for him to climb up.
Martin quickly strode in, with his parents following close behind. He displayed annoyance to no end.
"Where is he?" Martin growled.
"Calm down, hon," Jenny said, "He's not harming me any."
"If you say so, Jen," Martin said in relief, his face finally relaxing as he sank into a nearby chair.
"Besides," Jenny continued as Peter clambered up beside her, "I wanted to see my only child – oh, wait."
"What, Mommy?" Peter asked.
"You're not my only child anymore!" she weakly exclaimed, almost joking.
Peter looked and sounded confused. "What?"
"You know what, silly – you're a big brother now, that's what," Jenny stated, her voice tired.
Peter looked to his left and saw them – a pair of hospital cradles side by side about four feet from the bed, and within them were his new siblings. He slid off the bed and wandered to the nearest of the newborns, gazing in wonder and curiosity.
Walking past a dozing Martin, William and Martha came forward to greet Jenny. Jenny propped herself up to offer her hand to William, who instead decided to give a hearty bear-hug to the second-time mother.
"It's good to see you too, William," Jenny exclaimed, slightly startled as she briefly returned the hug, and William finally let her go.
"Forgive him, Jen – he's had too much coffee this morning," Martha quipped, "But then again I—"
"Don't have much room to speak, Martha?" William asked, with a hint of underlying sarcasm.
"Yes, but that's not really the reason we're here, Bill. We're here to see our daughter-in-law and the new little ones aren't we?"
"Nah, I just thought I'd drop in for the food," William said, grinning as he made his way toward the curtain Peter had disappeared behind a short time ago.
Martha then drew it aside to see Peter peering intently into the first cradle, gazing in wonder at its sleeping occupant. William then took the curtain and pulled it even further aside, almost to the second cradle, before letting it drop aside as he walked up beside Peter, looking down at the first cradle's occupant.
Martha turned to Jenny, an inquisitive look in her eyes.
Jenny immediately caught this look and laid back, settling deeply into the pillows as Martha pulled another chair to the foot of the bed and sat in it, the surprisingly new wood of the chair frame creaking.
"What time did they say?"
"Around 6:07 for the first one, 6:10 for the second – and did that first one put up a fuss, even before they cut the umbilical." Jenny briefly paused to catch her breath before continuing. "Even Peter never put up that much of a fuss; neither did he put up that much of a fight, either."
William looked down to his second grandchild before turning to face Jenny. "That little fella?" Jenny nodded affirmatively.
Peter trotted over to the second cradle, its occupant semi-awake and waving its arms around, smacking the sides weakly. Peter looked at his second sibling in equal awe to the first, their eyes meeting for the first time.
"He is a fella, right, Jen?" William asked a look of almost sheepish uncertainty apparent on his face.
"Him and his brother," Jenny said, beaming.
"They're both fellas?"
"That they are, William."
A sudden cry from the nearest infant brought everyone's attention to it, even that of Peter, who proceeded back over to Jenny, and past his crying brother, an inquisitive look on his face.
"Mommy, what'd you say about the crying one?" Peter asked.
"Mostly just that he was very loud, far louder than after you were born, hon," Jenny replied, breathing heavily.
"He cry for a while?"
"At least a half-hour after he was born, yes – why do you ask?"
"I saw, on the TV last week, National Geograpic, about these wild things called – hynas, no, hyneas, yes," Peter said excitedly.
Jenny chuckled weakly again. "You mean hyenas, and National Geographic don't you, hon?"
"YES! That's it!" he exclaimed again. "Hyenas."
Martin, having reawakened a short time earlier, rose from his chair and delicately handed his father a still running camcorder, just before taking a few short strides over to Jenny's bed.
"Dad," Martin said.
"What, son?"
"I left that seat open for you," he said, motioning to the vacant seat, "and besides, I wanted to find out what hyenas have to do with one of my new sons." After hesitating a few seconds, William gratefully eased himself into the padded green chair, camcorder still running.
Peter continued on. "I just thought a name for him – Simon."
"Simon?" Martin asked, curious as to what his son knew about the name, seeing as how he didn't want to go through a drawn-out naming process with his in-laws again.
"Why Simon, honey?" Jenny asked in turn, catching a look from Martin that she knew all too well, and completely agreed with: try and start the naming process before her parents would get too much of a say and make things awkward – like after Peter was born.
Peter eagerly told. "In He-brew, it can mean – ob-e-dient, lis-ten, or little hyena."
A look of understanding dawned on Martin and Jenny's faces, both suddenly realizing what he'd meant.
"So, your talk about hyenas was just a way to tell us, wasn't it, Peter?" Jenny asked, only slightly curious, already knowing her son's answer.
"Does it have to be, Mommy?" Peter almost seemed to plead.
"It does if you want to name your little brother," Martha said, "Right, Martin?"
Martin sighed, almost exasperated by his mother's tone, but agreeing all the same. "I guess so, yeah."
"Exactly," Jenny said. After a brief pause to catch her breath, she continued. "So, are you absolutely sure you want to name him 'Simon?'" she asked, motioning to the now-hiccupping infant.
Peter appeared to ponder his mother's words.
"Take your time, Peter – don't be too hasty," Martin said matter-of-factly.
"Hasty? Like tasty, Daddy?" Peter asked, breaking his concentration.
Martin chuckled and Jenny almost giggled before they grew serious again, amused at Peter's unexpected mix-up.
"No, not like that, Pete – more like too quick, too fast – that kind of thing."
"Ohh, I see – like that," Peter said, now understanding.
After yet another short period in which to think, during which he did so quite intently, Peter piped up and looked to his nearest infant brother, still hiccupping:
"He is Simon," the four year-old proclaimed rather proudly.
Martin and Jenny exchanged looks of relief – at least they wouldn't have to deal with Jenny's parents any time soon.
"Any ideas on your youngest brother, Peter?" William asked, peering from behind the camcorder.
"He special on that side, Granpa – which side is that?"
"The right side."
"For him, give another He-brew name – Benjimin."
"Benjamin, you mean," his grandfather replied.
"Yes, yes, Benjamin. I heard it refer to 'son of right hand' or youngest – both make sense enough."
"Again, think this through and don't be too quick, Peter – it's a big job picking out your siblings' names," Martha said.
"Don't they usually use 'Benjamin' for the youngest born significantly later or last?" William inquired.
"Sometimes," Peter replied. He then pursed his lips and sighed, the noise practically echoed by the newly-named Simon, still periodically hiccupping.
"I have changed my mind – how about…" he trailed off, pausing for effect. "Benjamin!" Looking to Jenny, he continued, giggling incessantly. "See, I 'changed my mind', Mommy."
William looked to Martin in surprise, chuckling.
"Martin, did your son just make a joke?"
"I believe he did, Pop," Martin said. "I guess this is a day of birth in more ways than one…"
September 20, 1988
– 3:14 p.m.
Jenny Lynch took her first steps out of the old station wagon, umbrella in hand, followed closely by Martin, who gently took the umbrella from his wife as the rain poured around them. Jenny's first tentative steps on the gravel were unsteady ones, but fairly solid nonetheless. Upon reaching the blanket of wet grass, however, her shoes sank into the muck beneath, the ugly brown mud oozing between the once-green blades.
A quick look ahead determined what Martin and Jenny already knew – they were the last of a total of eight people to arrive, not including the minister and gravediggers. A small, open-air tent had been erected above the grave, at the head of which stood Minister Parkins, pastor of a nearby church and close friend of one of the other three couples present – the Ohlmeyers.
Chas and Nita Ohlmeyer had only become friends of the Lynches in the past few months, some of the most difficult months of Martin and Jenny's lives. In June, they had taken Simon for a routine brain scan at Northwestern, but had become confused at the results and soon learned that he was autistic after visiting Chas, head of neuropsychiatry at Loyola's new Lakeshore Campus, situated just three blocks west of Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan itself. Before that time, Martin and Jenny had never heard of autism, despite the condition's slowly growing national attention.
Simon now had monthly visits to Chas's office, for whatever effective therapy could be attempted on the six month-old. Peter, especially, was quite dumbfounded at his younger brother's condition.
These thoughts flooded Jenny's mind as she and Martin finally reached the tent, tears already welling in her eyes. Her emotions were obvious to everyone present, but no one could notice more so than her parents: Robert Sr. and Laura Simmons. Though they were more than twenty years senior to their oldest child, they could still recognize when she was more deeply upset than showed. Wisely choosing to check their conversation, Robert and Laura both silently embraced their daughter, affirming their compassion for her situation.
The last couple present was Martin's parents, William and Martha. Having been present six months earlier when the twins were first introduced to the family, and at which time young Peter had so eagerly named them, it was a solemn turn of events to be present for one of their burials. As Martin silently embraced his parents, he thought on how they had been forced together on this date – a time when they shouldn't have been.
A week ago, while feeding the twins, Jenny had noticed Benjamin's coughing becoming far more severe and chronic than even Simon's, and, on closer inspection, she discovered, to her horror, he was coughing up blood. Immediately calling Martin home from work, they had proceeded to take both of the twins back to Northwestern Memorial for tests. After two hours, Simon was cleared, but the doctors there had requested Benjamin remain overnight for observation – just as a precaution, of course.
But, when Martin returned the next day to take Benjamin home, he received a grim report on his youngest son's condition – the boy had terminal lung cancer, and was dying. Martin had desperately inquired about an emergency NCD treatment and the doctors simply shook their heads, stating that Benjamin's cancer was too far gone for even NCD, (short for nano-cancer disintegration) which had been hailed as the cure for the dread condition upon its introduction only ten years ago, in 1978.
Devastated, Martin had returned home to deliver the news to Jenny – she nearly collapsed where she had stood, disbelieving of the unfortunate truth. The rigors of how tragic this truth was became readily apparent over the next couple of days, during which they visited Benjamin in the hospital, his condition rapidly degrading, until he had died in the early morning hours of the 17th. Jenny had cried for hours that day, before Peter had even woken up, and once he had, and learned of Benjamin's death, joined his mother in crying himself.
Since then, Jenny and Peter had cried every day, together, while Martin had made arrangements for the funeral, bringing both his and Jenny's parents to Chicago. And now, here they all were, assembled for something that they all knew should never have happened.
Finally, after finished silently greeting their parents, Martin and Jenny sat in the only two chairs present, while their respective parents gathered behind them. The Ohlmeyers stood off to Jenny's left, silent and motionless. Finishing a silent prayer, Parkins opened his worn, leather-bound Bible and began to speak.
"Those of you gathered here today, do so in remembrance of one so young that he had barely begun his long journey down the path of life. This path is always marked by trials, temptations, and suffering, no matter how long it is, but these events always manage to bear fruit to those watching closely for such things. I believe that though this young man would have faced these trials as he matured, God would have made him the soul he was meant to be. Torments face us every day in life, but I pray that today will not let this family lose their hope."
Parkins indirectly motioned to the gravediggers, who began to slowly lower the tiny casket into the ground as he continued.
"And let us not forget these words of comfort, written by John in Revelation 21:4 – 'And he shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there no longer shall be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.'" Parkins then proceeded to close his Bible before lowering his head. "Now, please join me in a word of prayer."
Martin, Jenny, their parents, and the Ohlmeyers all lowered their heads and closed their eyes as Parkins began his prayer.
"Dear Lord, this is indeed a trying time for those here today, but do not let Martin and Jenny stray from the true reason for their son's existence – the glory and wonder of life that you provided for them to rejoice in. And though his time among us may have been short, we know that he is now with you, and that Martin and Jenny will never forget the life you gave them, the one we knew as Benjamin Scott Lynch. Comfort them with all your love, and may they feel it especially today. In the name of your son Jesus, Amen."
After solemnly repeating Parkins' 'Amen', the Ohlmeyers, and both Martin and Jenny's parents moved forward to silently pay their final respects, gently casting damp white lilies into the grave, whose loose petals fluttered to land atop the tiny casket. After a short while, they moved away and shook hands with Parkins, complementing him on his kind words.
Martin and Jenny continued to remain seated for a time, Jenny sobbing, before Martin finally urged her from her seat, albeit reluctantly. Upon reaching the edge of the grave, Jenny's sobbing reached a fever pitch, tears rolling down her cheeks and into the grass, unnoticeable to the already damp blades of faded green and brown. Martin hugged his wife tightly as her sobbing gave way to hiccups, strained and choked words emerging from between the outbursts of intense emotion.
"I – I can't believe he's gone, Martin…"
"I know, hon – I know," Martin spoke in a comforting tone to his distraught wife, just barely able to contain his own emotions.
"My – my baby, my Benjamin… What happened?!" Jenny sobbed aloud.
"We had no control, Jen, but I think – no, I know that Parkins is right – our son is with God now, and that he's in a place where there is no pain, no suffering of any kind."
"Or mourning?" Jenny weakly croaked, choking back her tears.
"Or mourning," Martin answered affirmatively, hugging his wife closer.
Silence pervaded between them, and for a time, the only noise was that of the heavy rain, drumming on the roof of the tent and the trees around them, pooling on the ground in rippling brown puddles. Still sniffling, Jenny shoved her tissue deep into her pocket and brushed her auburn hair aside as she bent to her knees to retrieve a pair of freshly cut white lilies, handing one to her husband without turning as she rose back to her feet.
They both cast the flowers into the grave simultaneously, some of the petals again detaching and fluttering down gently onto the casket. And, as the last of the petals gently settled, the mourning parents moved away from the grave, allowing the diggers to begin their solemn job.
After a brief exchange with Parkins, thanking him for his time, patience, and kind words, Martin retrieved the umbrella before he and Jenny began their sojourn back to the station wagon, rain still pouring just as hard as when they arrived. Farewells to their parents could wait, since they weren't leaving for another two days, so as to spend time with Martin, Jenny, and Peter, in addition to getting to better know little Simon.
Midway back to the car, and surrounded by the soggy grass and ugly brown puddles, Jenny stopped her husband's stride and looked into his eyes pleadingly.
"Never again, Martin. I never want to lose a child again – ever."
Martin again broke into stride, gently pulling his wife along with him, and as they neared the car, he merely nodded to her, his reply quite faint. "We'll do everything we can, Jen – whatever we can."
Without another word, they both got in the car. Slamming his door shut, Martin started the car up, the radio abruptly flaring to life. Shaking his head, he engaged the gearshift before starting slowly down the road, tires crunching on the wet gravel.
The radio jockey was still busy talking about the weather – as if he had nothing better to do, which, as usual, he apparently didn't.
"Well, folks, it looks like what's left of Hurricane Jeanne is still lingering over Chicago and Lake Michigan, and it's giving us this nasty old downpour. We've already had three inches of rain over the past twelve hours – how much more is old Mother Nature going to throw at us?"
Suddenly, as if answering the man's question, the rain slowed, and all but stopped. Jenny leaned forward to peer through the windshield and the tree canopy overhead – she was soon greeted by a sudden ray of warm sunlight that pierced the gloom and illuminated her face, and the first smile she had worn in days.
Martin briefly looked to his wife and then up at the sunlight, smiling too.
Jenny smiled back at him and settled into her seat, closing her eyes just as the old cellphone's ring sounded from her purse – condolences from friends, most likely. Jenny's smile faded, but – now boldly determined to confront what was to come – she answered, no longer afraid to face her sorrow...
A/N: Please review! So, opinions thus far?
Note that any discrepancies within this story are there for a reason: it takes place in an AU. Things will be different. Like 'Hurricane Jeanne' in 1988; Jeanne here in "Alternity" is our Hurricane Gilbert. In reality (and here) the storm's remnants passed over Chicago in mid-September 1988.
