Chapter Ten: Letters and Memories

Spencer Reid couldn't remember his mother's funeral. For the genius with one of the best memories a human being could possess, he could not recount a single detail. He recalled nothing after sitting down on that front step of the hotel. He couldn't recollect the ride over to the cemetery, not the polished words by the priest, nor the empty words and handshakes from old neighbors and family friends. He didn't notice the peculiar glances offered to him by his mother's personal doctor or the discreet conversation he entered into with Hotch. After sitting defiantly on that cement, the next vivid memory Spencer Reid found himself with was nearly a week later. Everything in between had been nothing more than a meaningless blur. He had spoken with attorneys and even a real estate agent, but none of that was important. It all flowed together until Reid was met with the one task that frightened him almost as much as saying goodbye to his mother. The gravity of the situation was enough to jolt Spencer out of his grieving fog and etch the following events harshly into his mind.

Spencer could only successfully avoid his father for so long and when the two crashed paths at the place Reid was avoiding harder than he had for the past ten years, he nearly lost himself to darkness again.

"What are you doing here?" Spencer questioned coldly.

"Her doctor asked me to come."

"You never came here before. Why come now?" Again, his own words felt like they were turning right around and firing straight into his heart.

"Please," the man sounded drained and desperate, "Spencer, can we not do this today?"

Reid wanted to do this today. He wanted to tear into the man who called himself his father. Countless words, insults and questions bubbled behind Spencer's lips, yet he remained silent. Exhaustion won out over anger and Reid contended himself with instead simply not speaking to the man. They walked together in silence until they were met by the doctor Reid had come to know throughout the years. The gentleman spoke few pleasantries before unlocking a familiar door and stepping aside, waiting for the two visitors to pass by. When they didn't, it was as if no one dared to move. The three remained like that for several moments. Clearing his throat, Spencer reached out and twisted the doorknob. The agent stepped inside and was met with the haunting feeling he knew so well. It was there every time he entered the home of a victim. The house was still a house. The room was still a room. Yet, there existed this looming sense that somewhere, something was missing.

Reid made his way slowly across the room and began opening drawers and filling a box without saying a word. He moved like a robot, going from drawer to drawer, shelf to shelf. There wasn't much to take, but it felt like Reid was filling that box for hours. Spencer turned and for the first time since stepping inside, hesitated. The bedside table caught his gaze and he swallowed back tears. His feet began to move without his mind's permission and he found himself silently hovering above the diminutive piece of furniture. His fingers trembled as his arm reached forward. They brushed against the handle of the small drawer but then reeled back. Spencer closed his eyes and again attempted to open the seemingly trivial compartment. It slid open and Reid cautiously peeled back his eyelids. There, snug in the corner laid a notebook. This wasn't just any notebook though, it was a journal, her journal. His fingers caressed the spine as he lifted it into his hands. He felt himself breaking apart when his eye caught something else. A dark object peaked out from underneath the bed, as if beckoning him. He glanced back at his father before bending down and peering underneath the bed. A line of shoeboxes rested uniformly together, all of them barely fitting in the small area. Spencer pulled one out and pushed off the lid. His heart immediately dropped. His entire body quaked now as he gingerly plucked the contents out. The paper was coarse and aged against Reid's skin. The color had faded and the creases were becoming slits. Despite the flaws, Reid could still see the handwriting clearly. He would recognize it anywhere. It was his.

"She kept them," he muttered to himself in disbelief.

"What?" Will turned around and approached his son.

"My – my letters. Every day for the past 10 years – I – I wrote mom – I wrote her a letter. This one – it's dated – it was only a couple months after she came here. I can't believe she – she kept them." He paused an cleared his throat. "A lot of good they are now."

"What do you mean?"

"I wrote her a letter every day so I wouldn't have to – so I could feel better with myself for hardly ever visiting her."

"Spencer –"

"She kept every single one. This – this is all she had of me. This is all she died with. She didn't even get to see me – before –"

"Spencer, don't –"

"No! I should've been there! I should've been with her when she – I should've come to see her more. I could've done something. This is all my fault. I sent her away. I couldn't help her – so I – I killed her."

"Spencer, stop. This – this wasn't your fault. If it's anyone's fault – it's mine. I left. She – she had letters from you. She had nothing but painful memories from me. I was in a conference when she fell. My phone was off all weekend. Then when I got back – well, I couldn't do it. I barely got there before –" He trailed off and sighed with such a weight that didn't require words to express.

After a moment of silence, Will grasped Reid's shoulders and lifted his son to his feet.

"Spencer, son, this is not your fault. You hear me? Don't ever think that again. Ever."

Reid lowered his head and neglected to respond. Will imagined his son would rip away from his grip and begin the verbal assault that accompanied their last reunion. Instead, Will began to feel his son shake. Spencer's shoulders shuddered underneath his father's strong grasp. Will squeezed his son's shoulders as he too began to weep. In one sudden and unexpected movement, Will pulled Spencer close to him in a tight embrace. His hand found the back of his son's head and Will was brought back to Spencer as a small child.

A four year old Spencer had been sitting at the base of a bookshelf in their home. He began pulling thick novels out and soon the packed shelf was becoming unstable. Young Spencer continued ripping books from their home as if playing Jenga. At last, he tugged on the wrong book and several more came crashing down on top of the curious child. He screamed and daddy came running. Swooping the child up in his arms, he caressed his son's head and allowed the boy to cry into his shoulder.

This was what happened as both Will and Spencer Reid began to break down. Will held his son tight and permitted Spencer's tears to soak his shirt and his own watery sorrow slid down his cheeks. For awhile, Spencer merely allowed his father to hold him up and close. Arms at his side, he leaned into the man. In a moment that was unexpected by both father and son, Spencer lifted his arms and wrapped them around his father's neck and back. Will's heart exploded. For as much sadness and pain that filled him, a rush of joy took over with that action. Tears of mourning quickly turned to symbols of happiness. They remained like that for neither knew how long, together mourning, together bonding.