The disclaimer continues. Don angst follows.


Chapter 7

"I wonder," Kerry pondered, "if we could somehow use rhododendrons. It's silly, and they aren't wedding flowers at all, but since Don was hacking one up while he was trying to get up the nerve to come talk to me, it seems fitting."

Alan made a note on the pad of paper in front of him. "Never hurts to ask, I always say."

In the six weeks since Don had proposed, he had moved entirely into Kerry's house. The little time he spent at home had dwindled to almost nothing and it hadn't made sense to wait. At first, mindful of the children, he stayed on the couch, until Bridget finally said, exasperated, "You guys, you're getting married this summer. I promise if Don moves upstairs, it won't make me have sex with Cave."

Don and Kerry were planning a simple civil ceremony in Charlie's backyard, the third weekend in June, almost two months away. Alan was trying very hard to walk the line between helping and meddling. He was driving Don crazy. Kerry thought he was adorable.

On this Saturday afternoon, Don was in the garage with Charlie, going over some equations for one of Don's cases. Kerry and Alan were at the dining room table, talking guest list and hors d'oeuvres.

"I hope your parents will come," Alan said quietly. "I'd like to meet them."

"We'll have to see," Kerry said. "They weren't happy we came to California in the first place, and they were furious I didn't go back after Brendan died. They haven't been good about being in touch with us, sad to say. I'm waiting for them to get used to the idea of Don." She looked at Alan intently. "I don't think I've told you how much I appreciate your accepting this."

"I'm still embarrassed at my initial reaction," Alan admitted.

"No, please don't be. It was entirely understandable." Kerry looked down at Margaret's ring – her ring – and smiled. "Your boys are lucky to have you so close by, so available. To have you just be there for them, you know? To just love them."

"Try telling them that."

"Oh, they know," Kerry said. "I don't suppose they tell you, but they know."

Alan smiled. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Or course," Kerry answered. "We're going to be related in a couple of months."

"How did you know you were ready to get married again? How did you know you were …"

"Over my husband?" Kerry filled in.

Alan winced. "I hate that expression."

"Me, too. And I suppose I'll have to think of him as my first husband. God, that sounds odd." She sighed. "How did I know I was past the worst of it, I think you mean."

"Yes," Alan said. "That's it exactly. Past the darkest part of the grief."

Kerry paused for so long Alan was not sure she was going to answer him. Finally, she said, "It's kind of like long division. If the first number doesn't go into the second one exactly, you get a remainder. Sometimes you can keep dividing, and the remainder just gets smaller and smaller, until it's too small to see or feel. It doesn't bother you. You don't think about it every day. You don't have to factor it into everything you do. But it's always there. It never goes away completely. I guess the remainder is small enough now."

Alan smiled at Kerry fondly. "You will fit into this family just fine," he said.

Kerry glanced at her watch. "We should think about going. We have to pick up the kids at the mall – Bridget is not to be trusted in Hot Topic for more than an hour. Do you have a paper clip or something, so I can keep these notes together?"

"Check in the piano bench," Alan said. Kerry looked at him quizzically and Alan shrugged. "We don't use it much. It's become a sort of repository."

"Like the junk drawer in the kitchen," Kerry said. She followed Alan's instructions and came back with an envelope and a book of music, "Etude in G Minor" by Margaret Mann. "Isn't this your Margaret?"

"Yes."

"Wow. I didn't know she composed. Would you mind playing it for me?"

"Oh, no, I don't play. But Donny could do that for you."

"Donny could do what for her?" Don asked, coming in through the kitchen door.

"Play your mother's piece," Alan answered.

"Nah," he said lightly. "I'm way too rusty."

"Will you give it a try?" Kerry asked. "Please? I'd really love to hear it. And how come you never told me you play the piano?"

"Because I don't, not really," Don said. "Charlie and I took lessons when we were kids, but it's been a long time."

"Please?"

Sighing, he sat on the bench and Kerry settled beside him. He only made it through the first three bars before his fingers started shaking and he stopped. "Sorry, babe."

"It's all right," Kerry encouraged. "Go on. Introduce me to your mother."

Don felt his throat get tight, but after a few deep breaths, he put his hands back on the keys and began to play. He stumbled through the beginning, but as he reached the second page of music, he grew more confident. He could feel Margaret in the notes, as if she were urging him on, as if she was standing next to him, humming softly and keeping time, as she often did when he practiced.

When he finished, Kerry said, "It's beautiful."

Don nodded, not trusting his voice. The notes on the page were blurring together.

"I think we should play it at the wedding. Would that be all right with you?"

At the wedding. There were so many things Margaret was missing. She would never see her boys get married and become fathers. She didn't get to retire and travel with Alan. She never got back to her music. She hadn't even been 60 when she died – it was incredibly unfair. There was so much more for her. She should be with there, with them. With him. To meet his wife.

Don tightened his fingers on the edge of the keyboard, his chin quivering, his jaw aching from clenching it against the pain.

Kerry stroked his cheek. "You know what the best part of being married is?" she asked softly. "It's that you don't have to go through anything alone."

Don opened his mouth to respond and stunned himself by bursting into tears instead. It was a deep, almost wailing cry, and he collapsed against Kerry so completely that he almost toppled the two of them off the piano bench. He clutched a fistful of Kerry's hair, his other arm around her waist, and choked out, "Son of a bitch." The sound of his sobbing brought Alan rushing over and for the next several minutes, Don's anguish was the only noise in the room. Kerry held him tightly and Alan rested a hand on top of Don's head, rubbing gently with this thumb.

When Don started to calm down, Alan left to get a box of tissues and a glass of water. He waited patiently while Don blew his nose and took a couple of deep breaths, not at all surprised to see his eldest avoiding his eyes. "How do you feel, son?"

"Mortified," Don mumbled.

Alan reached over and cupped his son's chin firmly, forcing Don to look at him. "Don't you ever be embarrassed to be human, Donny," he chided him gently. "Don't you ever be ashamed to miss your mother."


"I don't know what the hell that was," Don said for the third time. He and Kerry were lying in bed, holding hands, watching the moon make shadow pictures on the wall. He had been subdued the rest of the evening, more quiet than his new family had ever seen him, clearly disturbed by the outburst at his brother's.

"You know, when Bren died, I spent almost a year bursting into tears for no reason at all," Kerry said. "Or because of some silly little thing – like I saw a guy with a jacket he had, that kind of thing. It was like having PMS all the time. It was awful. Completely normal and understandable, but awful. But it passes, you know? You just kind of have to get through it, and it passes."

"I never cried when my mother died," Don admitted in a low voice.

Kerry rolled over on her side and propped herself up on one elbow. "Are you serious?" When Don nodded, she said, "Well, then that's what hell that was, honey."

Don was silent. Finally, Kerry said, "Why not?"

"I couldn't. My father – my father was completely devastated. The person he always leaned on was the one who was dying. And Charlie was in the freakin' garage trying to prove something that can't be proved. They relied on me." Don reached over to touch Kerry's cheek. "Even when I was alone with her, I held it together. I was always afraid she'd open her eyes and see me sitting there blubbering, and she'd think … "

His voice trailed off.

"She'd think what?" Kerry prompted.

"That she couldn't go. That she had to stay and suffer, because we were too weak to get along without her."

Kerry turned her face to kiss Don's hand.

"It was bad, Kerry," he said hoarsely. "It was really, really bad at the end. She had a morphine drip, and even the maximum dosage didn't seem to be enough, and it was like she had one foot away from us, in another world, for a week. I always thought she was waiting for Charlie to come in, but he never did, and then she couldn't wait anymore." His eyes glittered in the moonlight. "I was furious with him because I felt like she endured more pain than she had to, because she was waiting to say goodbye to him, and he couldn't get his head out of his ass long enough to see it wasn't all about him. After everything she did for him. For us. But mostly for him."

There was nothing to say to that, and Kerry didn't try. She just lay back down and snuggled tightly against Don. They were both quiet for so long they drifted off, and just before Don surrendered to sleep, he whispered, "My mother would have really loved you, baby."