AN: The reason I write this type of familial dysfunction is because I've lived it, or rather, variations thereof. So if you can relate...I feel your pain.
December 24th
Jane takes advantage of the forty minute cab ride to her mother's house to steel herself. It had been seven years since she'd been back to Weybridge, and she was practically a ball of anxiety. She knew she had come back different, perhaps a little damaged and injured, having seen and done things— well that her family couldn't begin to fathom. Her temper was short, and her tolerance for ignorance was even shorter. It was going to be interesting, being around her mother who insisted on cramming everyone into their neat little boxes in order to preserve the illusion of perfection she tried so hard to paint. Of course, her sister did a fantastic job at blowing the top of that when she announced to their parents that she was a lesbian at the age of sixteen. Remembering the horrified look on their mother's face when she insisted on being called Harry instead of Harriet brings a wry smile to her lips. Just thinking about her, eases the knot in her stomach. Harry promised she would be there, shehad to be there.
She presses her forehead against the cold window.
All of Surrey was practically lit up like one giant roman candle which was lovely apart from the fact that the colours all blurred together, red, gold, and green all indistinguishable from each other. She thought that being back would have changed this, but every morning she woke up and it was the same; that Grey ceiling in her depressing bedsit staring balefully back at her. The thing was, she knew what everything looked like, knew which colours belonged to what — it was just her eyes refused to see them for some reason as if reminding her of her abject sense of purposelessness. It was bloody infuriating, and no one could explain it. The third time she went into the doctor, they suggested given her circumstances, she should start seeing a therapist. She still had the bloke's number tucked into her wallet. Every time she thought about making an appointment something always stopped her, excuses and whatnot. But now, it was going on four months with no change. Perhaps she was well and truly cracked. What was the harm in trying? Maybe that would be her New Year's resolution for herself. It was a better plan than she currently had which was none so there was that.
"45 Mockingbird Lane, Miss," the cabbie says, jolting Jane out of her musings.
"Right. Yes, thanks. How much?"
"Tell yer wot," he winks at her in the rearview mirror. "Give us a tenner and have a Happy Christmas, eh?"
Jane blinks craning her neck to see the meter. It was nearly forty quid.
"Oh I couldn't possibly —"
"I insist, Miss. Not every day I get to drive around a pretty lady. But do me a favour. Chin up. It's the Holidays."
Stunned, she climbs out of the cab, slinging her trusty duffle over her good shoulder. "Thank you," she says through the window trying to imbue as much sincerity as she can into her words. "Merry Christmas."
He tuts good-naturedly and winks one last time before driving off. Jane watches the tail lights all the way down to the end of the block, desperately wishing she was inside and on her way back to the train station where she came from. She looks at the picturesque Victorian house with the country shutters forlornly. It's decorated from top to bottom like the rest of the houses on the block. It was a wonder something so cheery could bring about such dread within her.
"Don't be a coward, Janey," she admonishes. "You invaded Afghanistan for crying out loud." She takes a step towards the house. "You're a Captain in her Majesty's Royal Army." A slick, swift nausea settles low in her stomach. "You're a Doctor. A damn good one too. You can handle your own mother, for chrissakes."
She barely gets a chance to knock before the door is flung open wide, buffeting her with the heavenly smells of ham and spices and buttery rosemary biscuits.
"Janette!" her mother cries, unshed tears in her eyes. They were purely for show, of course. Her mother was always into theatrics. She's nearly mauled to death, her head being crushed into her mother's chest like the prodigal son before she even gets a chance to say hello or step into the house for that matter.
"Hi Mum," Jane manages into a wooly cardigan bedecked with holly.
Her mother pulls her back and looks at her seriously. "'Hi mum?' I've not seen you for the better part of a decade and all you say with your pretty mouth is 'hi mum'?" She put her best put-upon scowl and cupped her chin.
"It's been hardly a decade, Mum. Don't be so dramatic," Jane says. Despite herself, a twinge of affection pings in her chest at her mother's nattering.
"Well come in, then and see everybody! Couldn't have gotten here any sooner could you? Of course not, you're a fancy doctor now, saving lives in the big city. Can't expect you to remember us country folk," her mother yammers on, dragging Jane in by her wrist. It was like she was a nuclear bomb: all intensity and expectation.
"No Mum, I'm not —" she tried to correct, but it was pointless as her mother carried on like a bloody steamroller.
"Now go upstairs and change out of those horrid clothes, you smell like the train you rode in on. I laid out a jumper I made you especially for Christmas, and cleared out a drawer in your old room. I expect you'll be staying through until New Years." It wasn't a question or a request, and Jane swallowed.
"Acutally, Mum, I'm going back the twenty-eighth so…" she trails off under that sharp gaze. She hated how it made her feel like she was young and awkward again.
"We'll talk about it later," she says with finality, and all but pushes her up the stairs. "Go get changed Janette, and come see everyone!"
Shaking her head and feeling positively bowled over by a tornado, Jane trudges to her old room dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor before flicking on the lights.
The room was Spartan, like it had always been. She never really had much uses for many things like other girls when she was growing up. Just a bookcase full of well read paperbacks, a small writing desk, and a poster of her favourite rugby team over her bed was sufficient. Jane was always the type that would rather be out in the world doing things than cooped up in her room. Harry's room on the other hand had always been reminiscent of a bomb site, the epicenter usually being her bed or her overflowing closet. The bathroom they shared as girls was even more horrifying. She shakes her head fondly at the memory, and sits on her narrow bed next to the gaudy jumper her mother mentioned. She tugs it over her head, and flops backwards on the dusty mattress with a huff. At least it was warm even if it did have a life size Rudolph on the front. She lays there for a moment, luxuriating in the familiar, the back of her hand smoothing the worn duvet when she notices something's missing.
Her grandmother's hand made quilt that was almost always folded neatly on the end of her bed was gone.
Jane sits up, panicked at first. It's an heirloom, and one of her most beloved possessions. Her Grand-mère and her namesake, Janette Elfeire, stitched a quilt for her husband who fought in the First World War. For what ever reason, she entrusted it to her care when she was a little girl, and Jane took her charge very seriously. She remembers hiding under it when she woke up from nightmares, and letting the scent of lavender that reminded her so much of Grand-mère wash over her.
She's half way across the room intent on tearing apart the house in order to find it, when the thought hits her that her mother obviously had a hand in its mysterious disappearance. She feels like laughing at her idiocy when she realises it's not that mysterious after all, because it is Christmas, and chances are it's sitting under the tree with her name on it. Her mother was always clever like that and how fitting too after her most recent endeavours. Maybe her homecoming wouldn't be so bad after all. She smiled, and made her way down stairs.
"There she is!" her mother sang, and a chorus of 'seasons greetings' and 'welcome homes' bombarded her, and before she knew it, she was being passed around the room.
"These are all the ladies from my Tuesday book club!" her mother explains delightfully as a woman with silver hair styled into an impressive bouffant and loads of mascara pinches her cheek. Jane wouldn't be surprised if she would have a mark there later.
"Oh Celeste, she is a doll!" Mable (Mavis?) says with a wide grin. Jane felt as if she was seven again, and she bristles at the fact. It wasn't like she was in her thirties and a decorated war hero or anything…
Suddenly, a miniature bulldozer hits the back of her legs at full force almost making her fall forward.
"Eddie, darling," he mother chides as she tugs the little boy by the elbow so he will focus on her. "What did I say about running in the house?"
"Sorry, Auntie," the little boy mumbles, twisting his shirt collar up and into his mouth to chew on it diffidently.
"Now go get a spot of treacle, there's a good boy," she says and ruffles his hair as he goes bounding off in the direction of the kitchen which no doubt had every surface occupied with sweets and snacks galore.
"Is that really Edward?" Jane asks, stunned. "Last time I saw him he was a baby."
"Yes, he has grown. But that's what children do, dear. You would know if you bothered to visit more often."
"Well it wasn't like I could just get up and come down whenever I felt like it."
"Oh sure you could. You could have tried harder," her mother sniffed.
"I was fighting a war, Mum. Not on Holiday."
"Keep your voice down!" her mother says in a harsh whisper. She grips Jane's wrist as she did little Eddie's, and Jane tries not to let the sudden flare of her temper get the best of her.
"I got shot," Jane says her tone rising, yanking her arm out of her mother's reprimanding grasp. With hard look her mother steers her away from the sitting room full of aunts and uncles and insufferable 'book club' patrons and stuffy people from the country club, and into the hall.
"That's enough!" her mother bites out. Jane steps back as if she were physically slapped, which to be honest, she wouldn't put it past her to do so.
So they were back to this again, were they? Her mother pretending the war didn't exist so that the quintessential family she tried so hard to uphold would remain intact in front of the people she desperately wanted approval from. Can't have a daughter of hers haring off to join the Army like some plebeian, no sir. God only knows what she told them about her and why she was gone or about Harry for that matter —
"Did you even invite Harry this year?" Jane asks suddenly, an edge in her voice.
Her mother blinks at the sudden change in tack before smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "Your sister Harriet is allowed to come over any time she wants as long as she leaves the trash at the door."
The blatantly cruel remark has Jane nearly incensed. Good god no wonder she'd kept away for so long. With the pretense of Christmas, she almost forgot how spiteful her mother could be.
"Jesus. I would have thought that by now you would have gotten over the fact. If Dad were here —"
"Well he's not!" her mother practically shouts, her composure dissolving, and Jane can see it, the perfect place to attack, the perfect thing to say that will push her over the edge. Something barbed and hateful that would launch them into their familiar dance of verbal assault where past failures and expectations were waiting to be hurtled at one another like proverbial grenades.
She's always been good at riling her mother up, and in the past she wouldn't have hesitated one bit. But now she bites her tongue. She's so tired of fighting and destruction, having seen enough for a lifetime, and if her mother found solace in her little artificial world, then so be it. At least she managed to find some happiness somewhere.
Jane closes her eyes and huffs a breath out of her nose. "Mum. Let's not…okay? It's Christmas. I'm sorry, all right?"
Her mother looks taken aback, and the expression on her face is baffled, yet haunted. It makes Jane itch to get away from it for some reason, and she can't put her finger on it until her mother's eyes drift towards her left shoulder. Her wound prickles under the weight of that gaze.
"You've changed, Janette," her mother says, and Jane is startled by the sudden tears glistening in her mother's eyes. Her hand tentatively reaches towards her shoulder, and Jane panics and intercepts the hand with her own.
"Nope," she smiles. She hopes it's not as broken as she feels, and gives her an encouraging squeeze. "Same old Janey. Champing at the bit for a row, mouth as big as Australia." Quoting her father twists something painful in her chest, but it has the desired effect when her mother laughs. "But it's Christmas, yeah?"
"Yes it is," her mother says, slipping back into that starched and untouchable persona. "Go in the kitchen and get you something to eat. There's still ham left over, and all sorts of nibbles and things. We'll do presents in a bit."
Jane swallows hard, and lets her mother hug her tightly before she rushes off to play venerable hostess once more. She rotates her shoulder under the jumper to ease some of the tension, and wanders off in search for a stiff drink.
…
The presents on Christmas Eve were mostly for the kids, so they were handed out first. Within minuets the quaint sitting room looked like a miniature Chernobyl of ribbon, bow ties, tinsel, and wrapping paper, and the adults were snapping pictures while the little ones squealed and chased each other with wooden swords.
Jane sits quietly on the settee across from the tree and watches one of her baby cousins carefully fold the shiny paper into fourths so as not to spoil it. It's astonishing how many new cousins she seems to have, a testament to life outside of her stint in an entirely different world. It's almost as if she's a voyeur, looking at the little girl obliviously happy and only at the beginning of her life…
The breath catches in her throat, and her arms wrap about her abdomen as if she's trying to hold herself together. More than anything she wants to run her fingers through the little girl's golden ringlets, but before she gets the chance to act on the impulse, Jane's Aunt Tula calls her over.
"Annabelle, sweetheart! Show Nana your pretty dolly."
The little girl, Annabelle, jumps to her feet, dress nearly dragging on the floor, a Barbie crushed to her chest. She giggles as she practically flings herself into her Nana's arms. Aunt Tula beams at Jane, talking quietly in Annabelle's ear. After a moment, she waves shyly at Jane, and before she could wave back, buries her face in her hands with another giggle.
"All right little darlings!" her mother's sing-song voice floats through the sitting room. "Time for bed!" There were collective groans from the children as they were herded like little lambs downstairs to the den to await Father Christmas.
Jane watches them go one by one, their eyes bright with sleep and excitement. Something in her chest disconnects. The hollowness fills her with its dull ache as she remembers how they scraped her out from the inside and left nothing, not even hope.
So lost in her thoughts was she that she almost didn't notice the persistent tugging on her hand.
"Hello," Jane says in response to Annabelle's sweet smile.
"We have to go asleep," she says. "For Santa to come."
"Yes that's right," Jane smiles.
"Tuck me in?"
The smile on her face grows wider, and this time she gives in and cards her hand through Annabelle's silky hair. "Of course. Lead the way."
They go over and Jane's Aunt Tula hands her Annabelle's overnight bag.
"I see you've made friends, Bella," Aunt Tula says and gives Jane a winning smile. "Welcome home, Jane. Lacey wanted to be here, but she had to work. She told me to pass on her love. I know how close you all were when you were younger."
"Thanks Auntie. Give Lacey my love as well, and tell her when you see her she has a beautiful daughter," Jane says, and lets herself be dragged down stairs to the den where all of the other kids were sprawled out on the floor with blankets and sleeping bags. A wave of nostalgia washes over her. When they were kids, her and Harry would zip their sleeping bags together and try to stay up as long as they possibly could, listening astutely for sleigh bells and reindeer. They never made it very long before falling asleep together in the warmth and glow of pure unbridled happiness that one only seems to experience during childhood.
Annabelle bounds over to the nest of pillows near the bookcases giggling with Eddie and Eddie's older sister Eva. She drags her lovely Christmas dress over her head unashamedly as young children were wont to do, and plops herself down expectantly. Jane crouches down and rummages in the bag, tugging out the pair of princess pyjamas neatly folded on top.
"I do it!" Annabelle says, and Jane watches her make sense of the shirt, her face screwed up in intense concentration as she works out that the picture of the crown goes in front. Jane laughs when she next attempts to wiggle into her bottoms while still sitting on the floor.
She sweeps the little girl up, chuckling at her shriek of laughter, and tugs the little bottoms the rest of the way up before tickling her under the chin.
"All set?" Jane asks, and Annabelle slides off her lap.
"Yes," she says sagely, and flops down between Eddie and Eva who are both almost asleep at this point and blinking up at her owlishly. "Blankie," she says and points to her bag. Jane digs around in the bag again until her fingers brush fabric. She unfurls the soft and worn material and the unmistakable scent of lavender washes over her: Grand-mère's quilt. Her thumbs run along the stitching. "Dolly too," Annabelle's sweet little voice piped, pulling Jane out of her reverie.
"Right," she says, and hands the Barbie to Annabelle while tucking the quilt under her chin. Her fingers are reluctant to break contact with the quilt, so she rests her hand on Annabelle's warm foot. "This is a lovely blanket. Where did you get it?"
"Auntie Celeste for my birthday," she says sleepily. "Said it was for big girls. I'm a big girl."
"That's right, you sure are," Jane nods squeezing her foot. She tries to rid the sudden lump in her throat, and the cold that washes over her. "And I bet you'll take really good care of it, won't you?"
"Mmhm," she nods, her eyes closing as she burrows down further into the pillows. Jane smiles sadly and waits until she can hear Annabelle's tiny snuffling snores before pulling herself up and quietly ascending the stairs.
"Sweet little things aren't they?" her mother simpers when she enters the kitchen. She takes a seat at the table and watches as she buzzes about, tossing things into Tupperware and wrapping up the ham with foil. "Just precious."
"Yeah. Little Annabelle is something…" Jane trails off letting her mother clatter about a bit longer. "You gave her Grand-mère's quilt," she says quietly after a minute.
Her mother pauses only slightly before resuming with the plastic wrap. "I did. Yes."
"But that was supposed to go to me."
"It's not like you were using it."
"No but that doesn't mean I didn't want it. Grand-mère left it to me."
"I just thought it would be best if it went to your cousin Lacey," her mother says practically. "My mother would have wanted an heirloom like that to be passed down from generation to generation. Lacey has Annabelle and another on the way; it's only ideal, Janette."
"Er…what are you saying, exactly?" Jane asks, her temper beginning to hum under her skin.
"Oh, come on. It's not like you're having children any time soon. You don't even have a young man set aside or anything. And your sister…well it's not like she's getting any younger or any less queer for that matter," her mother snorts. It's clear she's had maybe one too many brandies that evening.
Jane feels as if she's been struck by a blow. That hollow feeling rings out within her, and she quickly latches on to the other potent feeling bolting through her like electricity. Anger doesn't even begin to describe what she feels at that moment. She grinds her teeth together trying to rein herself in. "You're impossible."
Her mother stops, and takes in Jane's rigid posture and thunderous expression. She slaps her hands down on the counter, suddenly incensed. "Think of how it is for me! Just for once, you selfish child!" Jane's head snaps up, eyes flashing.
"Me? Selfish?"
"Did you ever think how it was for me when you left? All on my own. Your sister gone 'round the twist, your father dead! You were all that was left. Then you had to go and hare off half way around the world, and why? Could you really not stand the sight of me?"
"I didn't join the Army to get away from you, Mum. Not everything me and Harry do is because of you."
"Sure fooled me," her mother spits.
"You know, for some one who is so bloody terrified of being alone you sure are an expert of driving people away!" Jane snaps leaping to her feet, her pent up anger finally getting the best of her. "God, no wonder Dad wanted to move out! But god forbid it if he ever did, you might have guilted him to death before that happened. He's just lucky he beat you to it!" The words are like a double edged sword that cut her just as much on the way out, and she instantly regrets them. Her mother claps her mouth shut with an audible click, blinking against a sudden fury of tears, her face flushing. She makes her way across the room, eyes pointedly fixed on the wall.
"Mum…wait. That's not — I didn't mean —" She tries to grab her shoulder.
Her mother spins around shaking her off, her eyes ablaze with livid, unshed tears. "I think you should get some rest. You don't want to miss your train in the morning."
"Right," she says, her heart cramping in her chest.
"I hope you're happy. You've ruined Christmas. Your father would be disappointed in you," her mother says coldly before continuing out into the lounge to her remaining guests. Even though her voice sounds cheery, Jane can hear the slight waver there.
"Way to go, Janey," she mumbles and stands abjectly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment before pulling the jumper she was wearing over her head. She folds it neatly and places it on the table before making her way up the dark staircase.
…
Jane wakes with a start to the sound of what she thinks is machine-gun fire. For a moment, she panics not recoginising her immediate surroundings, and before she can catch up with herself, she's on her feet thrumming with adrenaline. Her eyes flash wildly around her childhood bedroom, and she exhales a shaky breath, wiping the damp sweat from her hairline. She practically jumps out of her skin when the cacophony that had woken her pierces through the silence for the second time.
Not machine-gun fire, or shrapnel for that matter she realises as she makes her way to the window just in time to see a flurry of pebbles raining down against the glass. She opens the window, and pokes her head out, peering into the dim moonlight.
"Janey? Is that you?"
"Harry?"
"Wizard! Knew I'd get you eventually," Harry says, and breaks out in a string of giggles.
"What are you doing here?"
"Promised I'd come!" she shouts, and Jane hurriedly shushes her. "God, it's freezing."
"Hang on, come 'round to the front, I'll let you in," Jane says and ducks back into the room.
As quiet as she can, she creeps past the guest rooms and down the stairs, being careful to skip the third step from the top that still creaks like a dying cat, and makes it to the front door.
"Hey sis!" Harry says a little too loud, and practically falls into her in a clumsy hug. Jane can smell the alcohol on her.
"Oh, Harry. What are you doing here?" Jane murmurs, and helps her sister into the house.
"You really don't think I would abandon you to deal with the Dragon Lady all by yourself did you?" Harry says in a stage whisper that really isn't quiet at all. Jane rolls her eyes, and together they stagger back up to her room.
"Jesus, Harry, your fingers are like icicles. How long were you out there for?"
"Forty-five minutes. You sleep bloody hard, did you know? I tried one pebble, and that didn't work at all. It always works in the movies, you know," Harry remarked sagely as Jane plops her down on the edge of the bed.
"Well I'm glad you didn't decide on banging on the door at…what time is it anyhow?"
Harry takes her mobile out of her jacket pocket and squints at it. "Three-thirty."
"Chirst. You smell like a pub, did you know?"
"Well I should think so seeing as that's where I was all night." Jane gives her a stern look. "Don't worry I didn't drive here. I took a taxi. Car's still at Brewster's."
"Hang on. When did you get in? Where's Clara?"
Harry looks at her blearily, her face contorting in a grimace of pain as she takes a stuttering breath. She quickly shakes it off, and throws herself back on the bed in mock exasperation. "Why the twenty questions, Janey? I'm tired let's just talk in the morning."
Jane's heart sinks. This night has gone from bad to worse. She massages her shoulder as it starts to throb from the chill. She goes over to the small wardrobe and rummages around for a decent shirt that could be used as a pyjama top, and a pair of track bottoms.
"Here. Put these on and get into bed. You'll warm up faster," she says and goes downstairs again to get a glass of water and the trash bin. When she returns Harry is sitting back against the headboard staring at her feet with a frown.
"These are too short. My ankles are cold," she whines.
"That's because they're mine, now budge up," Jane says and peels back the duvet. She shimmies in beside her and tries not to wince at her cold feet. She should have pulled out some socks. "If you're going to be sick try to aim for the bin. I set in on the floor next to your head to increase accuracy," she grumbles and snaps off the beside lamp.
"You're angry at me," Harry says into the dark in a small voice.
"Yes. I am," Jane huffs. "You promised you wouldn't anymore."
"I know, I know," Harry groans and tugs the blanket over her head. She sniffs loudly, and the bed starts to shake lightly with repressed sobs.
"Hey," Jane soothes, and sidles up next to her even closer so she can pull the blanket down and stroke her sister's tangled hair. "Just sleep for now. We'll sort it out later."
"Clara left me," she says. "I'm a fuck up, Janey. I'm surprised she stayed with me as long as she did."
"Hush, Harry. It's all right. We'll just try harder next time, yeah?"
"What's the point? Everyone expects me to slip up again anyway." It's supposed to sound angry, but to Jane's ears it's more of a cold acceptance.
"Harriet Watson," Jane says with a hard commanding edge in her voice. "I will never forgive you if you give up. That to me is unacceptable. Even if you make a mistake or backslide, it's far better than not trying. Do you hear me? I've already buried my own father, I don't want to bury my sister due to liver failure."
Harry sucks in a sharp breath. "Do you think I didn't feel the same way?" she says, her voice watery. "When I found out you got bloody shot out there? Christ, Janey. You couldn't have just stayed here and be a normal doctor could you? Needed to run away from all of us."
"Harry I didn't run away!"
"Oh, oh yes you did," she guffaws. "I don't blame you though. With Mum being as neurotic as she is, and me as your loveable drunk sister it's no wonder."
"Stoppit," Jane says equally hurt and ashamed. The thing about a drunk Harry, was she was an honest Harry with an uncanny ability to expose the truth. Harry turns over so she can stare at her in the face. Her eyes narrow.
"Why did it take you a month before you told me you were back in London, then? And don't give me that bollocks about not being able to get in touch."
"It's true though. I told you, I had just got back and couldn't afford a phone." She averts her gaze feeling like she used to when they were young and she could never pull one over on her older sister.
"You're a bloody awful liar," Harry says curling her lip bitterly. She flings the bedclothes back and half stumbles across the dark room much to the protests of Jane. She finds her discarded jacket and digs furiously in the pockets for something. She finally makes her way back to the bed with something in her hand, and before Jane can question her, she throws the object at her and it lands with a soft fhump on her stomach. "Merry Christmas. Now you don't have any excuses not to call."
"But it's your phone. How do I call you if you're giving me your phone?" Jane asks.
Harry's brow furrows. "I clearly didn't think this through," she says annoyed at herself, and Jane can't help but to huff a laugh.
"I don't want your phone, Harry. I'll get one eventually."
"No! No you have to take that one. Please? It'll make me feel better, and besides I have the money to get a new one right away. Just…I don't want that one."
"Why it this so important?" Jane asks, puzzled at Harry's passionate insistence. When Harry doesn't answer, Jane examines the phone. The wallpaper on the home screen is a picture of her and Clara, and when she turns it over she sees the engraving: To Harry from Clara xxx. "Oh, Harry. I'm so sorry."
Harry sniffs loudly again and curls on her side away from her. "It doesn't matter. Just try to stay in touch all right? And let me know when you get back to London tomorrow even if it's just email. It's a smart phone. It does email, you know."
"How did you know I'm leaving tomorrow?"
Harry snorts at this. "Please. I left you alone with Mum. I'm frankly surprised the house is still standing to be honest."
Jane chuckles sadly and pulls the duvet back up over her shoulders.
"I miss Dad," Harry says, her voice heavy as she sinks down into sleep.
"Me too." Jane says even through her sister doesn't hear. She sits there until the sun comes up, and when that hatful Grey light filters into her room, she makes a decision.
She needs a change, and her mind drifts back to the white business card in her wallet with the therapist's information printed in neat block letters. It's time she got her life back. She looks at her sister's prone form. It's time she was useful to somebody again.
AN:So this is then end of part one of this little series! Hopefully I did the characters justice. Next part will undoubtedly be a redeux of ASiP. Feed back is helpful!
Oh yes and I diverged from Watson being of Scottish descent to Jane being of the French. Because: reasons.
