Wow! I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! I didn't expect such a response, and such an overwhelmingly positive one at that. So I decided to post this chapter a few days early. I hope you enjoy it!
1991
When Freya was eleven, her mother died.
It wasn't foreseen, but neither was it entirely unexpected, however. One day Freya and Ben came home from school and sat down at the table while their mother explained to them that she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. It started out in her brain, she said, and Freya remembered all the years where Patricia had tired quickly, when she'd had headaches that the doctor had called migraines—but by the time it was detected, the cancer had already spread to her lungs and liver, and the stage was too advanced for an operation. Barely six months later, she was dead, having passed away in her bed at Gotham General in the middle of the night, with not even a nurse to hold her hand.
But the thing that tore Freya apart the most was the fact that it could have been preventable if had been caught early enough. Patricia had been feeling seriously ill for at least a year before the diagnosis, so why hadn't she gone to the doctor? When Freya had asked her that very question, several weeks before she died, Patricia had just closed her eyes and mumbled something about thinking it was a mid-life crisis and it would eventually pass. But Freya knew she was lying. Her insides burned with rage—not just at her mother, but at the incompetent doctors who'd failed to recognize the symptoms in time, at her father for refusing to think about anyone other than himself, and at her brother for never being there when she wanted to cry with him. On the morning after Patricia's death, he'd said to her, "Sucks, doesn't it? At least she's not in pain anymore," and left the room. Freya had heard a barely-suppressed sob in his voice, but he'd made it clear that his method of grieving was not the same as hers. Not that anyone expected a fourteen-year-old boy to cry on someone's shoulder, but she thought he could at least be a bit more expressive.
And although Freya knew it was irrational, she blamed her mother for not seeking treatment sooner, for refusing chemotherapy and drugs that could have at least prolonged her life. Instead, she had slept in her hospital bed for months on end, her family forced to watch her slowly wasting away. On a bitterly cold, rainy November morning, the three remaining Millers huddled under an umbrella and watched Patricia's coffin lowered into the dirt with a finality that was somehow even worse than seeing her body had been. Freya was able to wipe the moisture off her glasses and blame it on the rain.
Nicholas half-heartedly proposed going to a restaurant after the funeral, but it was obvious no one was hungry, and so they drove in silence back to their house. Freya didn't bother taking off her coat or shoes when she walked in the front door; she just went straight up to her bedroom, shut the door, and curled up in the window seat, hugging a cushion tightly to her chest.
The rain outside was pounding against the glass, leaving streaks that looked like tears. If Freya had been less practical, she might have thought it was a real-life example of pathetic fallacy instead of Gotham's usual wet, bleary autumn. She rested her cheek against the window and half-closed her eyes. She knew she wouldn't be able to cry anymore. Instead she was filled with an aching exhaustion that somehow reached all the way down into her bones. If only Patricia had gone to the doctor sooner…if only she'd agreed to receive treatment…if only…
Freya was now staring blindly over at the Napiers' house across the street, willing her thoughts to take a less painful turn. Instead of concentrating on what could have been, she forced herself to think about anything other than her mother, which was much harder than it sounded. She had learned everything she knew about their mysterious neighbors from Patricia, who had been the neighborhood gossip. Freya used to tease her about this and had never understood the rabid curiosity to know the goings-on of everyone who lived around them. Now she would give anything to hear her mother gossip again.
Nicholas hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that the Napiers liked to keep to themselves. In the three years that they'd lived across the street, Freya rarely saw any of them, and her bedroom window faced their house. She and Ben often referred to them as the "Addams Family of Gotham", and although he'd once dared her to run up and ring their doorbell, Freya had been quick to refuse. She didn't even go to their house on Halloween. Their front door always stayed shut, their curtains drawn tightly closed even in the heat of summer.
George reportedly taught criminology at the university, and indeed he was the one who Freya saw most often—although she could count those times on one hand. He would walk from the house to his car, or vice versa, dressed in that same bland suit she'd first seen him wearing, without acknowledging anything or anyone.
His wife, the former model Alice, was even more of a mystery. Freya had seen her once in the grocery store shortly before Patricia's diagnosis and smiled, but the woman had just stared though her as if she hadn't even noticed her presence. Admittedly, Freya wasn't too offended: if Alice had never left the house in years, as she privately thought was the case, it wasn't plausible that she would even know who her neighbors were.
But the strangest aspect of all was that of the two children, Jack and Mary. The supposedly brain-damaged Mary had never been seen by anyone, and Freya had come to associate her with Mr. Rochester's mad wife in Jane Eyre, kept locked up in the attic. Ben had told her that he'd seen the ghost of a little girl in the window once, and though Freya had laughed at him, later she began to wonder if he'd seen Mary after all. Her heart went out to the poor girl: the Napiers were the oddest family Freya had ever known.
And according to Patricia, who still kept up with the news even when she'd been in the hospital, Jack went to a boarding school along the coast—that, at least, explained why Freya never saw him. She no longer saw their first encounter as her fault or proof of her lack of worth; instead, she looked back on it with embarrassment and more than a little bit of regret. She had been too forthcoming as a child, and knew she wouldn't make that same mistake again.
But Freya didn't care about them anymore, really. It all paled in comparison to her loss.
She pulled her knees up to her chin and rested her forehead on her knees, knowing she was wallowing in self-pity but not caring. She didn't want to have to go to school the next day; to face the curious gazes and the false pity and the sympathetic looks. The transition back to normal life would be the most difficult. How was she supposed to do her homework or concentrate on anything without somehow being reminded of Patricia?
It wasn't fair. Why did she have to suffer? She was a good person. Her mother had been a good person, if a bit garrulous. Freya didn't deserve this.
Feeling a mixture of frustration and grief bubbling inside her, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut as if to keep her emotions bottled up inside. But the more she fought against them, the more they threatened to consume her. She finally gave up and tried to force the tears out—she figured it was better to do it now than before she was caught off-guard at the worst possible moment—but none came. She had already mourned her mother while Patricia was still alive. Still, there was a part of her that felt guilty for not crying, but hollow somehow, as if something essential had been removed from her, like her heart or her lungs.
Over the sound of the rain, she heard a muffled slam, and Freya opened her eyes again, disoriented. Across the street, her gaze fell on a hooded figure walking down the Napiers' driveway, shoulders hunched against the rain.
She leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. The slim build and clothes—jeans and a dark sweater—told her that it was Jack. He carried a covered rectangular dish in his hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw one of the curtains in the Napiers' house flutter, as if someone was watching him, but Freya convinced herself it was just her imagination.
She expected him to continue down the street, or even to get in the car, but instead he crossed the street and began walking up their driveway.
Freya froze; what was he doing, today of all days? She stayed stock-still, like an animal sensing a predator was near, until she heard the distant chime of the doorbell.
Freya waited for her father or brother to answer it so she could eavesdrop on the ensuing conversation, but there was only silence. A minute later, the doorbell rang again.
Refusing to admit to herself just how badly she needed a distraction, Freya stood up and tiptoed out of her room, glancing up and down the hallway. Both Nicholas's and Ben's doors were closed: loud rock music blared from Ben's—Nirvana, Freya guessed; he only listened to them when he was upset—and silence from Nicholas's. Either they hadn't heard the bell or were choosing to ignore it.
Freya chewed on the ends of her hair, a nervous habit she'd picked up as a child, as she padded down the staircase to the front door. She could see Jack's silhouette behind the frosted glass, looking nearly as tall as Ben, though she remembered him as being her age. He looked grotesque, unreal, as if he was a monster instead of a boy.
Nicholas had warned her never to open the door to strangers, but Jack wasn't exactly a stranger, and besides, Freya didn't want to leave him standing out in the rain…but it was too late: by the time she opened the door, Jack was already drenched, soaked through by the downpour. It wasn't even the gentle, warm rain of spring or summer; it was the freezing sleet of late autumn. Freya stepped aside, wondering if he wanted to come in, but Jack stayed standing on the front step.
"Took you long enough," he remarked—his voice had already dropped and was a deep baritone, though there was a hint of a nasal quality to it. He pronounced each word carefully, enunciating them clearly. "I was beginning to think you would just leave me waiting out here." If Freya hadn't known better, she would have thought there was a teasing tone to his voice, as if they were good friends. Again, he looked much older than she would have guessed. He pushed back his hood slightly, his blond curls dripping with water. There was something mischievous about his eyes—they were sparking, wild, and the hint of a smirk played at his lips, like he knew all of her secrets and was debating which one to announce first.
Freya hadn't realized she was staring open-mouthed at him until it occurred to her that she hadn't spoken yet. "Sorry," she mumbled automatically, unable to look him in the eyes. "It's just not a very good time for us right now." Why was she apologizing? She didn't owe him anything.
Jack's smirk disappeared, and he took a step forward into the entryway, out of the rain. Freya felt suddenly, ridiculously embarrassed and protective of her house: it was nothing at all like his marble pillared near-mansion. She lived in one of the smaller houses on the block, with its neo-Victorian architecture. Freya had certainly never complained about it before, especially since her bedroom was in one of the turrets, but there was something about the way Jack's gaze swept around the interior, like he was carefully evaluating every piece of furniture, every painting in its frame.
"So…" she began carefully, praying that Nicholas or Ben would rescue her. "It's, um, nice to finally meet you."
Jack's sharp gaze darted back toward her, and this time he grinned easily. "I believe we've met before," he corrected, and nodded in the direction of his house.
"Oh," said Freya, feeling distinctly like she was having an out-of-body experience. Maybe she was just dreaming and would wake up any minute. "Yeah, I guess so."
"But just in case you've forgotten, my name is Jack," he offered, and held out his hand. Freya had the sense that he was silently laughing at her, and shook his hand awkwardly before letting go as fast as she could.
"Freya," she muttered in return, and searching for something to say, pointed at the covered dish he was still holding. "What's that?"
Jack glanced down at it as if he'd forgotten its existence before handing it to her. "It's a casserole," he explained. "Isn't that what the family of the deceased is usually given after the funeral?"
Freya blinked. Not only was she stunned that one of the Napiers, the most secretive family in the neighborhood, had made a casserole for them, she had no idea how they'd even known about the funeral. "Did…did you make it?"
Jack actually laughed this time—the sound was more pleasant than she'd expected—before shaking his head, the curls falling over his eyes. "No," he said, still chuckling. Freya waited for him to apologize for laughing when she was so obviously distraught, for his expression to morph into one of sympathy, but no apology came. It seemed as if he had no idea what the social norms were in this kind of situation—or that he simply didn't care about them.
"Then why—" she began, about to ask him why he'd brought the casserole over if he hadn't even made it, or even to ask him why he'd refused to become friends with her years ago and was now acting as if they'd known each other their entire lives, but for a reason that she didn't even fully understand, she said, "Thank you," instead.
Jack nodded once and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. He looked as though he was waiting for her to say something else, but before any of them could break the silence she saw the Napiers' front door open again. A slight figure wearing a vintage floral dress stepped out onto their lawn, their hair perfectly coiffed, and Freya guessed that it was Alice, resembling a housewife from the nineteen-fifties calling her child back into the house for dinner.
Jack, seeing that her gaze had moved over his shoulder, turned around to see his mother standing at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for him. He muttered something Freya couldn't quite hear under his breath before scuffing his shoes and abruptly turning around, all traces of amusement disappearing from his face. Freya blinked at him. "Do you want to stay?" she asked awkwardly, feeling as if she should at least extend the invitation.
His eyes quickly flickered to hers before he stared down at the ground again, and she was reminded of the first time she'd met him; there was something almost sheepish in his demeanor. "Not particularly," he said, and leaned out their front door again. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but the porch was absolutely soaked. "But maybe I'll see you around…Freya." His lips quirked upwards again as he said her name, as if there was something hilarious about the entire situation.
She could do nothing but nod as she watched him jog down the front lawn and back across the street; Alice had by now disappeared inside the house. For a split second, Freya wondered what would happen if she were to follow him.
Jack stopped just before he reached his driveway, walking backwards and still somehow not managing to hit his father's car. "Don't bother about returning the dish," he called back to her. Freya automatically looked down at the dish; it was a plain, untarnished white, a bit like the exterior of their house. Perfectly normal. Ordinary. But she doubted the Napiers were either ordinary or normal—at least from what she'd seen of them.
Freya stood standing in the same place for a long moment after Jack had vanished, replaying their conversation in her head. She began to wonder if maybe Jack had wanted to be friends with her after all, but at the same time knew that, no matter what he said, she wouldn't see him again for a very long time, if ever.
When she finally shut the door and walked into the kitchen, she brought out a plate and cutlery before the thought occurred to her that it might be poisoned. Freya paused in the middle of ladling a piece onto the plate, wishing she'd been more careful. But even so, she couldn't imagine any reason that Jack would have for poisoning her—and even if he did, surely he would be more subtle about it. He had told her to keep the dish, after all, but what if that was just so she wouldn't go over to his house to return it? After a moment of deliberation Freya's hunger got the better of her and she hesitantly took a bite.
The casserole was still hot and burned her tongue, but it was surprisingly tasty, and she'd gobbled it up before she could have any more reservations. After she'd waited five minutes to make sure she wasn't choking or vomiting, she scooped out two more pieces and brought them upstairs, hoping that her father and brother were hungry.
Freya knocked on Nicholas's door first, and when there was no answer she cautiously pushed it open, unsure of what she would find. He was sprawled out on his bed—it was only his now, Freya reminded herself—and snoring lightly, his hand lying inches from the phone, which was lying off the hook and its cord tangled. Who could he have been talking to? Freya placed the plate on his bedside table before picking up the phone and holding it to her ear. The dull buzz of the dial tone was her only answer, so she gently placed it back on its cradle before tiptoeing out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Ben's music had stopped, so Freya felt it was safe to knock on his door as well. When she heard a muffled "Go away", she took that as an invitation to enter all the same.
Her brother's room had always been messy, but this was taking it to a whole new level. His curtains were pulled tightly shut, allowing no light inside whatsoever. The only glow came from the infrared lamp hanging over the tank in the corner of the room; his snake, Titan, was curled up on one of the rocks, watching Freya with unblinking yellow eyes. Ben's clothes were scattered haphazardly on the floor, and Freya nearly tripped over a soccer ball on her way inside.
"Ben?" she asked the room at large, not spotting him immediately. The covers on his bed suddenly shifted, and Freya saw that he was lying under the blankets, the pillows pulled over his head. A tuft of reddish-brown hair stuck up from the depths of the bed, and he grumbled, "Are you deaf? I said go away."
"No," Freya replied, just as fiercely, and nearly shoved the casserole at him. "Jack Napier brought it over. It's actually good. Please, Ben."
He didn't even seem to care about the mention of the Napiers. Instead he burrowed back under the covers. Freya felt a flash of anger—God, maybe she should see a psychologist. She wasn't having any of the right reactions today.
"Benjamin Miller, eat that right now or I'll—"she looked wildly around the room for something to threaten him with, but Ben had already sat up again, staring at her with wide eyes.
"You sound exactly like her," he said hoarsely, looking lost—a little boy waking up from a nightmare only to realize it had come true after all. "…Mom."
The way his voice cracked awakened something in Freya, some aspect of empathy that she didn't even know she had when it came to her brother. She felt her face crumple, and though she would have hated herself for doing it at any other time, she sat down on the edge of Ben's bed and hugged him, feeling the tears finally spill over. Although she could tell he was averse to showing any forms of tender emotion, he eventually hugged her back. They spent the rest of the afternoon crying, the casserole forgotten. It was the closest Freya had felt to Ben in years, and though of course there was no way she could know it then, it was the last time they would ever be that close.