Life
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weighs you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, how can a body withstand this?
Today was one of those days.
They'd been coming less often lately. The days where all she wanted to do was stay under the covers and let the world move around her but not enter her safe bubble of her bedroom.
An avoidance technique. That's what her therapist would say. Hiding in her room was avoiding the issue.
Kate pulls the blankets up over her head, letting the darkness circle around her. A good darkness, one that made her feel safe and right and okay even if only for a few minutes. The noise echoes in the cavern she's created, the sound of her heartbeat louder and stronger.
The alarm goes off again, a screeching sound that breaks through her quiet silence. Kate fumbles a hand out from the cocoon of the sheets and hits the snooze button a third time. The excuse of another ten minutes of sleep wore out months ago; she knows she's procrastinating the inevitable.
So she crawls from the comforting weight of her quilt, turns the alarm off, and pulls her t-shirt down over her stomach. She knows her hair is a mess from sleeping in a braid but she only runs her hand over the wispy ends curling around her face as she walks from the bedroom to the hallway. She goes into the kitchen of the apartment, feet sticking on the floor a little from the sweat of the night as she turns the coffee machine on. It clicks loudly as it starts up.
Glass hits the ground behind her, barely muffled by the rug under the coffee table in the living room. She turns, knowing what she'll see but bracing herself anyway.
"Katie…" he rasps, swinging his arm up from the ground to rub at his eyes.
"Hey, Dad," she says quietly, spinning the bread twist-tie back onto the loaf before putting the slices into the toaster. "Want breakfast?"
They're both messes but at least she manages to get to bed each night. He falls asleep on the couch with whatever bottle he grabs on his way in after work. One shoe is off under the coffee table, the other still hanging on his toes. Kate picks up both of them and places them in the hall.
"Making toast," she calls, just loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough to startle him.
He pushes his feet off the couch to the floor. "Sounds good."
Kate adds another two slices of bread to the toaster after taking the first pair out. She spreads butter on his before looking in the fridge for the raspberry jam. It's not a tough search; their fridge hasn't been full for a month now. She locates it behind the half-empty bottle of red wine that neither of them has finished off or poured out.
They can't.
It was hers.
The toast pops up and Kate sees her dad jump. She holds back the biting comment as she places the plate on the coffee table in front of him. "Coffee?"
He nods, dragging his hand over his face. "You don't need to do this every morning. I know you need to be somewhere."
"Shush and eat breakfast," she scolds, pouring out the coffee into his mug and stirring in the sugar. "I still have time."
It's a lie. She's going to be late and they both know it. But as long as neither puts it into words, it's not real. If they both play along, it'll be okay.
So she grabs one of her pieces of toast, smears the jam over it, and holds it in her mouth as she scoops her dad's shoes up to bring them to his room. The bed is still made, the comforter tucked into the sides of the mattress and the decorative throw pillows that she had picked out when they found the apartment arranged on the bed.
Kate tucks the shoes into the closet along with the rest of his loafers and sneakers, snuggled next to her black heels and ballet flats. They haven't gotten rid of her suits or the soft sweaters or the wedding gown still in the back of the closet. She touches the navy blue blazer, tracing the narrow silver pinstripes with her nail. It takes all of her energy to turn and leave, to not pull the jacket off the hanger and slip her arms into it and wrap herself up in her mom's scent.
She pulls on a pair of jeans, worn impossibly soft over the years, and a charcoal grey turtleneck. The glance in the mirror as she brushes out the tangles and snarls of her hair tells her the lack of sleep is showing. Even the swipe of concealer, the purple half-moons under her eyes show. But she doesn't need to try for this so that's as far as she goes with make-up.
"Katie, don't you have your meeting with Dr. Dyer this morning?"
Slipping her feet into a pair of flats and pulling on a wool trench coat, Kate eats the rest of the toast as she throws things into her bag. "Yes," she calls back.
He's still on the couch, drinking coffee and looking just as unhappy as she feels. "You're gonna be late again."
"He'll wait." Kate leans on the arm of the couch and presses a kiss to his cheek. "See you tonight, Dad."
Her dad catches her wrist as she pushes off the couch. "Be safe."
She goes back for another kiss on the cheek. "I will."
By some minor New York City miracle, there's a cabbie taking a break right outside the apartment building. Before the man can decide to kick her out, Kate gives the address of the office and takes her phone out of her purse to scan through messages. E-mails from pre-law friends from Stanford wondering when she'd be coming back to California piled on, one after another.
They hurt because she's not going back to Stanford. She can't because Mom went to Stanford and just thinking about the campus makes her think of Mom and suddenly, Kate feels the band tighten around her chest.
Breathe, Kate, she tells herself. No panic attacks in the backseat of a taxi cab.
She deletes the e-mails.
Instead of lingering on the questions from her friends, she makes a shopping list for after the meeting. They need food like they need fixing. Kate can solve one of their problems.
"You gonna get out, lady?"
Kate blinks, looking up from her phone to the barrier between them. The driver is glaring back at her. "Yeah. Yeah," Kate says, digging her wallet from her purse and taking money from the bill fold, sliding it through the mesh.
February wind cuts at her neck as she runs toward the building. The phone in her pocket vibrates and Kate checks it as she opens the door to the building. It's Dyer, e-mailing her, wondering where she is. She doesn't bother e-mailing him back as she jogs up the stairs two at a time, using the railing to swing around at the corner to the right hallway.
The secretary in the little office opens her mouth but doesn't have a chance to speak as Kate goes past her into the adjoining room.
"Sorry," she huffs, tugging her jacket off and tossing it over the back of the couch. "I'm sorry."
The man just watches as Kate drops into the cushions, all quiet eyes and soft smile. "Just glad you made it, Kate. What kept you?"
Figures he'd jump right into this. She narrows her eyes, forcing herself not to pull her feet up onto the couch and curl into a ball. No. Kate Beckett would face this head-on. "Dad drank himself to sleep again last night. On the couch. Didn't even make it to bed."
"And what did you say to him this morning?"
"Nothing." She focuses on her fingernails, worried to the quick. "Made him breakfast and ran out the door."
"Kate," Dyer says, sitting forward a little, "you can't do that forever. You have a life to live, one that isn't to be solely dedicated to caring for your father. He needs to learn to do that for himself."
She presses knuckles against her mouth, holding back the choked sob. "I can't," she manages, shaking her head slowly. "He'd…"
"He'd what?"
"Drown himself in the grief. I can't lose both of them."
"So you would rather lose yourself trying to keep him afloat?"
"Yes," she mutters. "If that's what it takes."
He sighs. "Kate, you can't do that. It's not healthy and you'd end up drowning yourself as you attempt to keep his head above water."
"I can survive." Her voice wavers, betraying everything.
She's crumbling already.
"It's over?"
Kate twists the sleeve of her sweatshirt between her fingers, arms wrapped around her shins. She has her cheek cushioned on her knee, looking out the window at the sunset. The colors are broken buy the skyscrapers and apartment buildings; black lines against the reds and oranges and indigos. Her breathing stutters but her words are clear. "It's over."
Burke is watching her. He no longer holds a pad of paper or a pen in his hands – they abandoned those tools long ago for simple conversation – and instead, he sits back in the chair, hands clasped. "And?"
"And I don't know what to do with myself now," she sighs, sticking her thumb through the hole in the cuff of her sweatshirt. "It's like, my whole life has been her case and now that it's gone, I'm drifting." Kate turns her eyes to the man across from her. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Live life, Kate. Let it go and just live," he prods. "There'll be a learning curve but you can do it."
"I don't think I can…"
"Go home tonight. Open a bottle of wine. Watch a movie with that man of yours." Burke grins when Kate's lips turn up in the smallest of smiles. "Fall asleep on the couch. Don't think for the night. Take it a day at a time."
"Okay," Kate says, unfolding her legs from the chair and slipping her feet into the flats on the ground. "Okay. I can do that." She drags her hand through her hair, loosening the braid at her temple. "Thank you, Carter. For everything."
She's glad she took a cab to the office rather than driving. Her hands are steady but her mind is racing. He shouldn't be at the apartment – last-minute meetings with Paula over tour details for Summer Heat – so after Kate pays for the taxi, she jogs through the lobby, flashing a smile for Eduardo as she swings through the stairwell door.
The apartment isn't quiet and, for a moment, Kate wonders if he snuck out of his meeting early. Soft jazz is playing, weaving through the loft and settling on her shoulders like a comfortable weight. They left the stereo on from the morning, a morning that had started with breakfast and lead to slow dancing in the living room before they had parted ways. She toes her shoes off in the entrance, walking barefoot into the kitchen.
The man collects wine like he collects comic books. She pulls bottles out at random, examines the labels until she finds one that she likes – he always mocks her for picking wine by the designs on the labels but she doesn't stop. Next comes the wine glasses from the top cupboard, clicking lightly on the granite as she sets them out next to the bottle of red. Her right foot sneaks up behind her left, toenails scratching lightly on her calf.
Pouring the wine out, glasses balanced in a single hand, Kate wanders to the shelf of DVDs next to the television. No romantic comedies or musicals or horror movies tonight. Her finger touches the spine of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, tugging it from its spot in line. John and Jane's trials might just be perfect. Placing the glasses, bottle of wine, and popping the DVD into the player, she moves into the bedroom, unbraiding her hair so the curls fall onto her shoulders.
Her jeans are off when she hears the door open. She doesn't bother finding the leggings she was planning on changing into. With the hem of the sweatshirt covering the tops of her thighs, Kate pads out into the study, leaning her shoulder against the bookshelf. "Hey, Writer Boy."
His mock annoyance makes her grin. "Writer Boy? Really, Kate?"
"You love it," she says, resting her toes on one another. When he shrugs, the smile widens. "How were the meetings?"
"Don't want to talk about it," he mumbles, taking off his jacket and tossing it over the side table in the hallway. "How was your session?"
"Good."
Castle moves over to her, cupping her elbows in his hands, and pulling her into his body. "You've got wine and a movie. Need to unwind?"
"Need to move on," she says quietly, lips brushing the curve of his neck. "But I need your help for that."
"Whatever it takes, Kate. You know that."
"Even if it means I break down again?" Again because she did that a week ago. And a month ago. And yesterday for a few minutes.
He kisses the shell of her ear, moving down to her cheek before resting his forehead to hers. "Through everything." His hands skate down her sides, cool fingertips touching her thighs. "You wore my sweatshirt out."
"Is it corny if I say it smelled like you?"
"Yes."
Kate shrugs, pressing her nose against his cheek. "Then I'm corny. I needed the comfort. It was like you were there, hugging me."
His arms tighten around her in a true hug. "Let me get changed and we'll watch our movie."
She snuggles into the couch, wrapping her fingers around the wine glass. She can feel the breakdown on the edge of her consciousness. Like when this all started except back then she was keeping someone else out of the darkness. It was easier. Now she was relying on someone to pull her back from the brink.
That someone came out of the bedroom in flannel pants and a navy blue t-shirt, ruffling his own hair before he flops onto the leather couch. "What're we watching tonight?"
"Married assassins who try to kill each other," she says, scooting over so that she's against his side.
"You gonna try and kill me when we're married?" he questions as she hits the play button on the remote.
"Probably." Kate turns her head up to his. "Let's face it. I want to kill you most days, Castle." Off his shocked, open mouth, she squeezes his upper arm. "You know, when I don't want to jump you absolutely everywhere."
He growls, shifting so she's propped against the arm of the couch as the opening scene plays. "Can't say things like that and not expect repercussions." His mouth travels down from her temple to her nose, along the slope under her eye, tasting the salt of her tears. "Hey. You okay?"
"Fine," she breathes out. Kate tangles her hands in his hair, pulling him down for a fierce kiss before framing his face in her palms.
His eyes are warm and gentle as he regards her. One of his hands twirls into the short hairs above her ear. His thumb caresses the arch of her cheekbone, wiping away the remaining tears.
Her eyes flutter for a moment before she tips her head up to kiss him gently. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"I do know. Still nice to hear the words."
So she whispers them again, peppering kisses across his lips and jaw and nose. "Love you, Castle."
And with each word, life started again.
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
- Ellen Bass