Chapter 3 – Prim's Goodbye
I watch as my wife's face blanches in shock, then reddens in anger, as she listened to the claim of the stranger standing in front of us. It has been a few minutes after this boy, Frecks he said his name is, proclaimed with no embarrassment whatsoever that he was Prim's boyfriend. I look in sympathy, although I have no idea who to sympathize with first. The boy for having to face my wife's incredulity, or my wife for being told something that seems so impossible.
"I don't believe you," Katniss' voice is low, cold, and rife with barely suppressed indignation.
She looks him over, from head to foot, taking in everything from his clothing to his white muddy shoes. I recognize the outfit. He must have been a part of the team in District 13's hospital. While everyone else wore gray in 13, the hospital staff wore white. It is for this reason alone that I am entertaining the possibility of this boy telling the truth. That he might have met Prim in the hospital and they got close. I am careful not to show any sign of this thought on my face, my wife being as aggravated now as she is.
"She would have told me if she were ever remotely interested in anybody," Katniss is yelling now. "I would have known before anyone else!"
She's storming off in a huff, towards the line of pull-carts that serves as our district's main transportation nowadays. Her furious voice now directly aimed at the horse and the driver as she demands a ride on one of the carts, pointing in the direction of our house. The Victors Village is a few kilometers away from the center of the town, thirty minutes away on foot. If I ever hope to catch her, I need to ride on one of the carts myself soon.
But first things first, the boy.
"Don't take it personally," I say, sounding apologetic. "She's just pissed you may be telling the truth. You know how close she was to her sister."
His face winces as if he's in great pain, being reminded again that what he came here for is not here. Not anywhere. Looking at his shoes, he says quietly, "I still cannot believe she's dead. Not when I'm just about ready to tell her how I feel."
I sigh, trying to assess the situation. Should I take him home with me and risk Katniss flying off the handle? Or, should I leave him in the care of the peacekeepers? It's highly likely that he will show up in our doorstep in the morning, anyway. I can sense his ambivalence at Katniss' rejection. He has unfinished business in 12 regarding Prim, and we're the only ones that can tell him what happened to Prim. If he went this far to see her, he will want answers. Frankly, I want an explanation myself. I want to hear his story.
"I have something to give your wife, sir," he says, making the decision for me, "It's from Prim."
He's imploring with his eyes, even as he slouches lower and grips his bag closer to his chest. He's shaking again as the first night breeze starts to blow through the meadow. Whatever he wants to give Katniss is in his bag, I think to myself. What could it be? For a second, I give in to thoughts that he could be a Mockingjay fan or stalker from 13, wanting to see the famous girl that killed their leader. But there's a tone in his voice that I can't ignore. A heartbroken tone that reminds me of the way I was when I thought I'd lost Katniss to the Capitol, to the madness that permeated her mind even as she tried desperately to forget. Making a judgment call has always been my strong point, and there's a hopelessness about his demeanor that my heart sympathizes with, even as my mind leaps into wariness.
We sit side by side on the cart, and I look at the strange boy from the corner of my eyes. He still acts like the slightest sound from around us startles him. The sun has almost set by now, and he looks furtively at it as it settles between the clouds in the horizon, just a sliver of orange in the distance. We pass through the denser areas of 12, where people are either out on their lawns setting up their tables for the next day's affair, or bustling around inside their homes preparing dinner. It must be weird the way people on the surface operate, to a person who lived most of his life underground.
The lights are on when we reach our house, the doorway ajar. Inside I can see Haymitch pacing around holding a glass of what looks like mulled wine. Katniss must have asked him over, telling him about our guest, and her doubts about the boy from district 13. I pay the driver, who sits back and stares at the boy wobbling slightly as he comes down from the cart before riding away. I lead him inside, where Katniss is now seated in the living room, occupying the center of the loveseat where we cuddle every night right after dinner. Haymitch makes himself comfortable in the armchair to her right, almost putting his feet up on the low coffee table in front of him but crossing his legs instead. They leave the long divan across them free. Katniss has her arms across her chest, fidgeting expectantly, her fingers drumming on her elbows.
I sit right next to Frecks on the divan and watch him wordlessly open his sack, revealing a pile of clothes, a small plastic case filled with toilet items they gave everyone in district 13, a framed photograph and what looks like a folder of documents. Finally, he extracted a small wooden box from underneath the pile of clothing and handed it to Katniss. She looks at the box with a look of recognition, snatching it from Frecks' hands possessively and clutches it to her chest.
"How did you get this?" she demands, eyes welling up. "This was hers."
I seldom see Katniss emotional like this, especially in recent years. As acceptance of our past became our main goal, we hardly talk about the people we lost, concentrating instead on the future and the thousands of mundane things that need attention. But as she clutches the shoe box, I am reminded of the damaged girl that left the first Games with me. Small and vulnerable, and breakable. I look on, knowing we're reopening wounds that have barely healed. Letting old memories flood our minds. Letting the pain in again.
"Prim gave me the box for safekeeping before she went with the others to the Capitol," the boy answers simply, calmly looking at us in turn. "She said to give it to Katniss Everdeen if she didn't return. I-…"
He breaks off as he passed me a rumpled promotional poster of Katniss during the rebellion, its back side filled with writing. I read the small print and saw my name there, along with the names of Katniss, Haymitch and Gale. I pass the poster to Haymitch, who looks it over and hands it to Katniss. Haymitch motions for Frecks to hand him the folder still inside his open sack, and carefully leafs through the papers within. I lean over to read the contents along with him. In the folder is a government-issued pass to the capitol and to the other districts of Panem, birth records, a medic's license, a recommendation letter from his superior Nursy Jones, and several documents detailing his employment history. Augustine Jones, 23 years old. Lived and worked inside district 13's hospital pharmacy. Adopted by a member of the hospital staff at 2 years old. Birth parents refugees from the Capitol.
"I'm sorry I only delivered it now. I... I was waiting for her to return," he finishes lamely.
He's holding the framed photograph now, opening the frame and shaking several other photographs free. He hands all the photographs to Katniss. My wife's face has turned beet red with suppressed emotion, Prim's box on her lap as she looks at the photos. I can tell my wife's struggling to keep her composure and her disbelief, but failing, as the boy produces proof upon proof that he really did know her sister. Proof that he might have been a part of Prim's life, the part Katniss never knew about.
Though skeptical myself about what he said about being Prim's boyfriend, there is no doubt that he knew her personally during her stay in district 13. My guess is that his love for Prim was unrequited, something I can relate with. Katniss places the photographs carefully on the table, eyes glistening. She doesn't say anything, just stares at the boy and then back at the photographs.
The first photo shows Prim making a funny face at the camera, lips puckered, eyes squinting, and both hands over her blonde head like antlers. The other photograph is a group shot with the hospital staff including Prim and Katniss' mother in their white overalls. And the third one… the third one shows Prim beside the pharmacy counter, smiling straight at the camera, her cheeks pink and eyes bright. I swallow a lump in my throat as I see the family resemblance, as if seeing Prim for the first time. Despite striking dissimilarities, the girl in the photo could have been a blonde, younger Katniss in her happy mode. They have the same cheekbones, the same playful look in their eyes. Prim's holding a pen in one hand and a clear jar of what looks like fennel seeds in the other. Right across her is the boy Frecks, or rather, a much younger version, his wavy red hair swept in a loose ponytail on his nape. He is facing the camera, but his blue eyes are looking sideways at Prim, with an expression in them I can only describe as lovesick.
"So, Prim's boyfriend, huh?" Haymitch breaks the silence first, slightly amused, and more than a bit drunk. "How far have you gone? Kissed her already?" Trust Haymitch to ask the most inappropriate questions.
Frecks blushes defensively, "It's not like that," he starts, neck turning red when he hears Katniss give a loud snort, "She told me once that I'm special, and told her she's special, too. But it didn't go farther than that." He's clasping and unclasping his hands in embarrassment. "At best, we were close friends."
"What was she like in the hospital," I ask curiously, knowing Katniss would want to know. "Tell us more about how you knew her."
Frecks paints a clear picture of the girl Prim, as if we never knew her, his face animated. He talks in a light, bragging tone, which sets Katniss on edge slightly, I can tell from the way she curls her lips while listening to his tirade of stories. He recalls conversations with Prim in a strange manner, talking in the district 12 cadence as he repeats things that Prim had said, his voice turning shrill and girl-like. Even Katniss, who until now has been adamant about treating this boy coldly, is smiling slightly, eyebrows going up and down as she listens. At one point, Haymitch tries vainly to contain his laughter but ends up choking on his wine. Watching the boy talk is like watching one of the slapstick shows that Plutarch airs after the news. I feel a surge of camaraderie with the boy, and I know instantly that I would probably sound like him if asked to tell stories about Katniss.
The Prim he knew had a sweet disposition, but had a temper. He talks about how she would demand only the best herbal medicines from the pharmacy, and would go into a serious fit when something's not right. She would apologize just as easily with a big grin after he delivers exactly what she asked for, as if the temper tantrum was just his imagination. He talks about the girl who would jump around in joy when one of her patients showed signs of recovery, and would burst into tears in private after a patient dies. He tells us about how Prim stared down the bullies in the stock room the day before she went away. The Primrose Everdeen he knew and loved is the same person that grew up with Katniss, but resembles her older sister distinctly in many ways. In his stories, Prim comes across as volatile, devoted and caring, not unlike the girl I married.
"And then, she would say 'Katniss this, Katnish that' as if you were some god-like being who can do no wrong," he says looking at Katniss with more than a hint of nostalgia on his face, as if seeing Prim in her older sister's face. Katniss snorts again, rolling her eyes at him, but her face is softer now. Katniss stares at the fire, while the boy turns to me and quietly asks, "What happened to her? How did she die?"
I glance at Katniss furtively, gauging her reaction. Haymitch stands to refill his glass, and I clear my throat.
"The medic team was bombed in the middle of the capitol as they were trying to save the children" I say as gently as I can, trying not to look at Katniss. "Prim died a hero, Frecks."
Frecks' eyes widen, but he says nothing. He looks at the fire in the hearth, eyes narrowing as if trying to recall. His eyebrows furrow deeply, not taking his eyes from the fireplace. Finally, he says, "There were five medic teams deployed to the Capitol that day. Prim was in the last one. Did anyone confirm that Prim was in the medic team that got bombed?"
"There was no need to. There were eye witnesses that said she was in the fray," We're treading on dangerous ground, I know. I can feel my wife agitated and ready to pounce from where she's seated.
Frecks stands up, his chest heaving, eyes wild. "But it was never confirmed that she was in that group. How could people just write her off as dead when they didn't even check? Did anyone search the remains to identify her body?" To my horror, he turns accusingly to Katniss, "For all you know, she might be somewhere else right now, injured permanently, unable to recall who she is. Did you try looking for her at all?"
Katniss is standing up herself, furious at the boy's audacity. She's a heartbeat away from throwing a fit, shocked at the implications of the boy's words. "I saw her die myself, you stupid boy! I lost my mind trying to forget the memory of my little sister bursting into flames. How dare you imply that I did nothing to confirm whether she died or not! HOW DARE YOU!"
I move quickly to where my wife is standing, poised for a fight. I hug her close, pressing my lips on her ears, "Hush. He's in denial, sweetheart. Let him be," I whisper, willing her to loosen her fists. "Let him be." Her body is still rigid with consternation, not willing to back down from the boy's accusations. I can understand what she's feeling as much as I can relate to the emotions of the boy across her. He's just learning about Prim's death, while the rest of us, Katniss especially, have spent almost a decade trying to heal. It's like being hit by a bullet, at first there's numbness and your brain denies that you've been hit. It takes a while for the pain to sink in.
I pick up the box from the floor where it fell when Katniss stood up, my other arm still holding her in place. Frecks has crumpled to the floor, head on his knees and crying quietly. He holds the photo of Prim, the one taken inside the pharmacy, to his chest. I half carry, half drag Katniss upstairs, hoping she can stay there for a while until her emotions settle. Exchanging a glance with Haymitch, who has been standing by the kitchen counter all this time looking on as Katniss and Frecks are having their row, I nod to him as he pours water in a glass for the boy. He's here mostly for damage control, which he does often when letters arrive to us from other districts. Even a decade after the rebellion, there's no telling what could set us spiraling back to the way we were right after the war. Sanity is a delicate thing for us survivors, and every day is a battle for normalcy that we hope to win for the long term.
"That insolent kid," Katniss is still ranting when we reach our room, "That… that… BUTTERCUP!" she says the last word as if it is the most horrible description she can give a person.
I reach out to comfort her again, hiding my sad smile in her hair, seeing the parallel between the boy and the orange tabby cat that lived with us for 4 years until her death five years ago. They both travelled from 13 intent on finding Prim, only to be told she's gone for good. Buttercup, the cat, lived for as long as she can afterwards, still mewing hopefully every time the door opened or someone uncorked a bottle of herbs. After a few years of this, she simply stopped eating anything we offered her, retreating to her corner, refusing to move. For his sake, I hope Frecks handles Prim's death better than her cat did.
I lead her to the bed and sit with her. I hold Katniss as she opens Prim's shoe box reverently. She gasps when she sees the treasures Prim has collected over the years. Things Katniss has forgotten. An old medal from a spelling contest, a dried out baby tooth for the tooth fairy, their father's belt buckle, the expensive flea collar Prim begged her to buy for buttercup… small trinkets from their childhood lovingly kept in the tiny shoe box. Katniss starts wailing as she lifts what looks like a braided piece of rope from the box. In wonder, I realize the rope is made up of two thick hair locks, one brown and one blonde, twined together to form one braid.
"She was too scared to… cut her hair… so I… c-cut mine, too," Katniss hiccups, trying to hold her sobs as she recalls, "we collected our fallen hair and braided them, made a promise that w-we will always be… ss-sisters."
She collapses on my chest, sobbing hard, pressing the braid to her lips as she cried. I hug her so hard, overwhelmed at the flood of emotions flowing out of my wife, knowing I can't do anything but hold her until she stops. I rock back and forth, crooning slightly, until her sobs cease. I lay her on the bed gently and she doesn't resist. I'm going to prepare dinner so she might as well rest for a while. She nods, squeezing my hand. She's more expressive with her emotions now, leaving them bare to heal naturally instead of shutting them inside her consciousness where they could fester into terrible nightmares. Crying together or alone helps more than we realize. Even Haymitch has learned how to cry. We're healing. No matter how long it takes, we will all heal someday.
