That day he cried.
Except for a few inescapable tears when something specific made him focus on his daughter or his wife – or especially their deaths – he hadn't really cried for them.
And he hated himself for that.
He'd always been afraid to cry. He'd known, deep down in his soul, that if he let go, if he let himself truly think about what he had lost, he wouldn't be able to come back. He suspected that he'd lose what little was left of himself.
He'd spent months in a mental hospital, learning to deal with his grief, to not go mad with it – or maybe to come back from madness. But there he'd also learned to suppress grief, to cover it over with his quest, to laugh, to pretend, to wear a mask. What he hadn't done, was face it. No – over time the mask had become part of him and sometimes even he hadn't known it wasn't real, hadn't known that he hadn't let himself grieve.
Now it was time. There was nothing to stand in the way of his grief; no quest, no team, no friends, no work. All that was left was miles of ocean and a man who had nothing but his memories.
He sat on the beach and looked out towards the water, long into the evening, long after the sun had set – and he cried. And through his tears he remembered – he made himself remember because he knew it was finally time, it was something he had to do. So he thought about his wife, about Angela – her face, her shape – how she laughed, how she cried, how she made love. He heard her voice in his mind, he smelled her, he felt her – he surrounded himself with her memory. He opened her room in his memory palace and let all of her out.
Angela – his Angela. The little girl who had followed him around, the teenaged girl who had been his only friend, the woman who was his love – he thought of her – and he cried.
He cried for her, and for himself. He longed to hold her again, to have her beside him, the one knowing him and yet still loving him. He wanted her to come and sit beside him, to rest her head on his shoulder and together, with him, face the world.
Angela – his love was gone, and he cried.
He thought about Charlotte – the baby who slipped into his arms and then immediately into his heart. Her toothless grin, followed by giggles and kisses. Her big blue eyes looking at him, loving him. Tossing her into the air, holding her, teaching her – loving her. Charlotte - his little girl who loved him without reserve – who looked to him as her hero. His sweet daughter, who he'd never hold, who would never give him kisses, was gone. He'd never again hear her giggles or smell her sweet, innocent smell.
Charlotte – his baby was gone, and he cried.
He cried until the sun came up. And then, finally, he stopped. It was not that his grief had gone – but he was exhausted. He was also calm – calmer than he'd been in many years. By letting himself cry, by remembering his girls, the grief that had lived buried was starting to emerge, and as it did, it began to lose its power over him.
He had finally begun to face his grief, and, yes, it had brought him to his knees. But it hadn't destroyed him. He felt tired, yes – exhausted and weak – but he had survived. He had survived the memories, the reality of his loss. He had thought the grief would destroy him – but he had finally let it go and rather than destroying him, it had cleansed him.
He knew his grief wouldn't simply disappear in one night. But he also knew that the first step had been taken – and that he was going to be okay.
He chuckled softly – although there was little humor in it. It had taken him long enough to get to this point. Ten years. Ten long years in which he hadn't let himself truly feel. But as of tonight, that was no longer true. There was no quest – no Red John. There was no team, no finding and arresting bad guys, no purpose left, except to look reality in the eye, and finally accept it.
He had lost his family – and he missed them. He was alone – and he was lonely. But rather than destroy him, he was going to acknowledge those things, make them part of who he was – but then he would go on. He would go on and he would live.
Feeling shaky, he stood and wiped the sand from his pants. He knew he must look like hell – his face blotchy, his hair wild from the wind, and his clothes wrinkled and covered in sand. No matter. It was early and he could go home and sleep.
And he did just that. He walked slowly back to his room, seeing only a few early morning housewives and listening to roosters welcome the beginning of the day. He made it up the stairs to his room, opened his door and began to strip. He was tempted to simply throw himself on his bed, but decided he didn't want to deal with all the sand.
Once naked he climbed under the covers and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath – in some ways it felt like the first really deep breath he'd taken in years – and closed his eyes.
Within minutes he was sound asleep.
He slept for over twelve hours. There were no bad dreams, no waking up – just deep, cleansing sleep. He couldn't claim to be happy – that was something that disappeared ten years before – but he was feeling tranquil.
Over the next few weeks he spent time, each day, consciously thinking about Angela and Charlotte. Although it was hard, he tried to keep the memories to more happy times. The picture of the last time he'd seen them kept trying to intrude, but he would force it out. He had to work to start erasing that memory – to remove it from his mind. It would take time and work, but he was determined to no longer let it live with him.
It was hard, during those weeks, not to fall constantly into deep and paralyzing grief. Some days he didn't want to get out of bed. Some days he grew so angry he wanted to destroy something. There were even times he thought about going and getting drunk. Instead he would go to the beach and sit quietly – and cry - and remember his girls.
Over time he recognized that things were starting to change, that he was moving to a new place in his grief. It wasn't that the grief was any less – but the moments between – when he felt calm and not full of anguish, became longer and longer. In some strange way he felt himself coming back to life. The strange detachment, numbness of the past ten years had left and been replaced by him finally facing his agony. In facing it, he was finally winning.
Two months after he had begun his journey – his acceptance of grief, he woke up, and knew that today was a momentous day. He knew exactly what he had to do. Gathering a few items he quickly checked that his door was locked and then he headed towards his favorite spot on the beach. Along the way he stopped and bought two flowers – two white lilies.
He stood beside the water for a long time, again thinking of Angela, of Charlotte. Finally he closed his eyes, and for the first time spoke. "I will always love you Angela. I will always love you Charlotte." He paused and took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the wide expanse of ocean. "Goodbye", he whispered, and then he tossed the two flowers into the water.
As the tears streamed down his face, he knew that what he had just done was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life – but it was the right thing. It was time to finally say goodbye.