Chapter 4 – Singing for Mother

"I think you are being very hard on yourself Katniss," mother says, her voice tinny over the phone line. "Think of how far you've come in just the past few months…after everything…and Prim."

I put my head in my hands and squeeze it against the phone. It kills me to hear the break in her voice as she says Prim's name. But she's struggling to be strong for me, and I have to try to return the favor.

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right. Greasy Sae tells me that you're hunting again, and that you and Peeta are working on a book. She says you look good, stronger. That your…scars are fading."

"Ha ha," I laugh sarcastically, "yeah, I won't be entering any beauty contests anytime soon. I've just gotten better at hiding my scars."

"We all have," she says, and she's silent.

We sit in silence for about a minute. We do this sometimes on the phone. It isn't awkward silence; it is more like we are just spending time with one another without being physically present.

"Can I ask you for something Katniss?"

"Sure," I say, not thinking anything about it.

"It is a little bit strange."

Now she has my attention.

"Okay," I say, feeling wary.

"Will you sing for me?"

"What?"

"It's just…I miss it. Your father…he used to sing. And you really do have such a lovely voice. I was thinking about it the other day and I thought that I would ask the next time we spoke. If it bothers you…"

"No. No, it is fine," I say. "You don't really ask for much these days." I'm silent for a few moments. "What is it you want me to sing?"

"Nothing in particular. Just something from home."

I think about it for a while before settling on an air that I know she was particularly fond of.

"Okay, I've got one. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

I begin to sing. I stumble over the words a few times here and there. Singing into the phone is a bit strange, but I try to sing as soft and clear as I can so that the sound comes through okay.

I hear the front door open and I know Peeta is there. I turn toward him and give him a signal to let him know that I'll be done in a minute. We are supposed to go into town to pick up a shipment from my mother. Peeta will be happy – his new paints have arrived.

I finish the song and wait for my mother to respond. She is quiet.

"Was that okay?" I ask. "Was it what you wanted?"

"Yes," she says, and I can hear water in her voice. "Is it okay if I ask you to do that every so often?"

"Sure. Singing is…well it brings up more happy than sad things for me now. Memories of dad. And Prim. And you, too. From when I was little."

"Good," she whispers. "I'm going to go now Katniss." Her voice is weak with emotion.

"Okay. Thanks for the stuff."

"Anytime I can get my hands on something that can help you, just call me."

She hangs up before saying goodbye. It is something that we do. It makes it easier somehow.

I look at the receiver in my hands for a few moments before returning it to its cradle.

"That was pretty," Peeta says.

I look at him but then quickly avert my eyes, suddenly feeling embarrassed and exposed.

"Thanks," I say, fumbling for something to change the subject.

"You're voice is even better now than it was when we were kids. It's fuller, more resonant."

I look at him, and I know what he's thinking about. He's thinking about a girl wearing a red dress and standing on a chair singing. I think about her too, and the emotions that go through me are so strong that I have to hold my breath for a moment to contain them. That was before. Before everything. That girls knew hardship and hunger, that is for sure, but she was so, so innocent. I ache for that phantom child self like I haven't ached for anything in a long time.

"Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"Where did you go?"

"Oh," I let out a nervous chuckle, "someplace else," waving it away. No point in dwelling in the past.

"Are you ready to go?" I ask, deciding we need to move past this moment as soon as possible.

"I brought the wheelbarrow."

"How many paints did you order?"

"Don't ask," he says, sighing.

We walk to town in silence. About half way there Peeta asks,

"Do you think your children will inherit your voice?"

I'm genuinely shocked. I don't know what to say. I continue walking and stare at the ground, grappling for an answer.

"I mean, you obviously got yours from your father. It is probably pretty likely."

"Peeta, I'm never having children," I say, my voice gentle, but also clear and definite.

It is his turn to be quiet, and I assume he's thinking about what to say.

"You never told me that before," he says quietly, and then catches himself, "real?"

"Yes, real. I don't think it ever really came up."

"I'm surprised we didn't talk about it during the Quarter Quell…the pregnancy story…that must have been hard for you."

"Well, we couldn't really discuss it during the Quell. That would have given away your brilliant little game, wouldn't it?"

He looks uncomfortable.

"I can't believe I didn't know this about you," he says. He sounds sad, and despite all of the implications of his sadness that I don't really want to deal with, I feel guilty.

"We were children ourselves when our friendship started, Peeta. When would it have come up?"

"Did Gale know?"

This brings me to a stop. We stand a little bit apart in the lane and Peeta puts down the handles of the wheelbarrow.

"Yeah, I think so," I say, beginning to feel defensive.

"And he was okay with it?"

"It didn't really concern him, did it?" my voice turning to ice.

Peeta looks completely confused and he is silent for a few moments, looking around at the ground. By the time he looks up I am seething with anger. Something pulls him up short when he sees my face.

"Wait, Katniss, I'm sorry. I'd just assumed that…it just seemed that before the Games you two were going to end up together."

"And you had this figured out at the ripe old age of sixteen? That I was going to marry Gale and have a litter of his kids?" I am really angry now. "Who else assumed this back then? I know that it became a hot topic during the Games for certain people…but I'm just wondering how many people had plotted the course of my life before the Reaping."

"I don't know…" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Who says that you have to get married? And who says that you have to have kids?" I am yelling now. "It would be the height of selfishness and cruelty to bring a child into the world we live in Peeta!"

He is standing there looking at me. His shoulders are square and his composure is intact, but I can see that I've hurt him.

"The world is different now," he says quietly.

I decide to sidestep the very dangerous personal implications of what he has just said and shoot back at him indifferently,

"The world may have changed, but I haven't."

We stand there staring at one another. I don't have any idea what is going through Peeta's head. I am aware that I feel angry, but there is something else just beneath the surface that I can't quite uncover. I struggle with it, try to get my fingers around it to pry it open.

And then I realize what it is – the implications of this line of questioning. I've been sidestepping them, but there they are, beating their fists against the door of my heart.

What are Peeta and I ultimately going to be for each other? Once the healing is done, or at least once the pain is considered livable, will we be together again? Not just friends, not star-crossed lovers, but together in love?

My anger evaporates and my eyes are suddenly on the ground and my breath is speeding up. The strength of my ambivalence is frightening. On the one hand, I balk at the idea of it. Our love story was a fiction fabricated to keep us alive and then used as a weapon to try to destroy us. On the other hand, when I look ahead into the hazy future of my life, do I not see this man standing by my side for its entirety? Could I endure it without him? Can I expect him to do that without becoming closer, without sharing a home and bed, without love?

And then it hits me.

I would never wish for Peeta that he live a life without love! I want him to be loved and cherished. But I don't know if I am fit to do it. I know that I care for him more than anyone else in my life, but is that enough? Will it become more?

I begin to cry. And then I begin to sob. I wrap my arms around my waist and bend forward, heaving sob after sob down to the earth. This seems to go on for a long time, though it is probably less than a minute.

Peeta touches my arm.

"Hey," he says gently, "it is okay, Katniss. We don't have to talk about this."

But I am inconsolable. I am about to do down on the ground, when he catches me in his arms and pulls me to his chest. I lean all of my weight into him, giving myself over completely. He takes it.

This is the first true embrace we have had since returning to district twelve eight months ago. Its effect on me is devastating. It is like a seam has ripped open inside of me, and the entire contents of my soul are being poured out. At first I keep my arms wrapped around my waist, but soon I have reached around his neck and am clinging to him. I have forgotten about his strength and warmth.

I cry for a long time so we just stand in the lane holding one another. I don't know what, if anything is going on around us. It is possible that all of this has gone unseen by anyone else, since repopulation is still in the early stages, and not many people walk the lane between the Victor's Village and the town that is being rebuilt. If it's anyone, it would be Haymitch, but that wouldn't matter.

"You okay?" he asks after many minutes have passed. I nod my head, sniffling and wiping my eyes, all without letting go of him.

"Yeah. It's just…a lot. A lot of things that I'm just not really ready to deal with."

He pulls back away from me a bit, still holding me, and looks at my face.

"Katniss…how I'm feeling isn't really that different. It's good to know that we have each other to go through this with." For the first time I realize that his voice is shaking a little.

"Oh, that's good," I say, hiccupping a bit. "I thought I was the only one going through some kind of a mental breakdown."

He smiles a bit and shakes his head.

"Nope. You just beat me to it this time."

"Ha ha," I say quietly.

"Are you ready to go into town to get those paints?"

"Of course," I say. But I don't let go of him, and he doesn't let go of me either. We embrace again for a few moments before parting and continuing to walk down the lane.

We arrive in what will eventually be the center of town. There are a few houses, a government building that is also a school for the small population of children who have returned, a general store, a train station, and a post office. We head into the post office.

Peeta immediately strikes up a conversation with the woman behind the counter, and I stand next to him, vaguely marveling at his ability to talk to anyone, especially given the emotional scene we've just had. The thought of talking exhausts me, and I think about taking a nap.

"Well of course you two will be coming?" I hear the woman chirp.

"Ahhh, well I'm not sure about that," Peeta says.

"Oh you have to be there," she continues, "it is a celebration day! And it wouldn't really have been possible without you."

They are both silent for several beats, and it takes me a while to realize that is because she was talking to me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, trying to sound good-natured.

"Mary was just asking if we would be coming to the dance this weekend to celebrate the Day of Independence."

"What Day of Independence would that be?" I ask, still channeling Peeta's congenial tone.

"Why sweetie," Mary says, "that's the day you all beat the Capitol in the war and ended our oppression."

"Oh," I say, stiffening and losing my polite expression.

Peeta wraps things up quickly and pleasantly and somehow manages to carry out a huge box of paints while steering me out of the post office.

We are halfway down the lane when I ask.

"Are they having a party on the day my sister died?"

He is quiet for a moment before answering,

"Yep. Pretty much."

I imagine he's steeling himself for another breakdown of some kind, and really, who could blame him. My track record today has not been stellar.

Oddly, I am not angry. I try to be. I try to be ragingly indignant that they could turn a national tragedy, not to mention my own personal tragedy, into a holiday. But it doesn't come. All I can think, is this:

That Prim would love it if she knew that people were dancing on the day that she died. That she, in all of her old soul wisdom, would see it as proof of the goodness of people, that they would have the good sense to celebrate life after tragedy. And what better way to do that than dancing.

"I don't want to go into town for that," I say.

"Okay," Peeta says, and I can hear that he is waiting for the fall out.

"But I think I'd like to have a party at the house, just you and me. We can invite Haymitch…he's been better since he's been working on the book with us. And I want to dance."

I look over at him and he looking ahead as he is walking, a smile on his face.

"Sure, I think that would be nice."

"Yeah, I think…" and I pause, because my voice is threatening to be overtaken by my emotions again.

"Prim would love it," he finishes for me.