Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

Summary: A very different abortion storyline.

Disclaimer: I don't own a freakin' thing more's the pity. Give it up Josh, give it up. You have your new dumb shows you obviously don't want it anymore! ;-P

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Yo ho ho I just finished the first of my second year exams this morning. 2/3 of this year is completed. Two more exams and 40 of my entire degree is done. Eeek! I thought I'd take a little break...as I can't face starting revision again yet, and get a chapter sorted for you. Still haven't managed to complete Christmas here; it just spiralled out of control hehe!

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Noel

The paper fell away to reveal a painting resting on my lap. A big painting, burning its way off a canvas that must have been at least 3'x 2'. It was a sunset I realised; a fiery orb at the centre, and I swallowed. I used to paint sunsets. Not quite like that. Probably not that good. The whole canvas had been washed red and the sun was a clashing pink against the sky and sea which were both aflame. The clouds were smudges of blue-mauve smoke, each wave on the ocean transformed into a flame. They scorched a path from the sun to the bottom edge of the painting, muting sideways from reds and oranges into ochres, greens and blues with the red still vibrant beneath. The horizon was a thin golden thread, barely visible, sea and sky blazing into each other. It was an intense picture; even the cooler corners smouldered, and I didn't quite know what to feel.



It was an amazing piece of art, yes, but I didn't want it. I didn't want it at all. I didn't want ever to have seen it because it made me feel too much. My head was full of suppressed thoughts, my heart yearning with unfulfilled dreams and ambitions. I was more than wistful about what could have been, I was heartbroken, and I wondered how I'd managed to repress that all those years, how this painting could take me back to when all I wanted in the world was to paint.

I could smell the oils and felt like crying.

You used to paint sunsets. The picture taunted me. You used to be an artist. Or you pretended to, because what artist would really just give it up. Artists have a fire inside that can't be quenched. Not creating would drive them crazy. Perhaps you were never destined to really be an artist. You thought you could be something more than where you came from and look where you ended up. Right. Back. Home.

It was true. I used to paint. I was an Art-Art History Major for crying out loud. And sunsets were my thing. Growing up in Newport there was a lot of beauty around but nothing as real and natural as the sunsets over the beach. My childhood room looked out across the ocean and I can't count the nights I sat and watched the sun go down. It became, in some senses, an obsession to try and catch the sunset; that perfect thing in a town of fakes. Another part of it was therapy. I drew sunset after sunset, through tears, through anger, through smiles. There were the angry pencil drawings after fights with my father, the watercolours of sad days, the abstract accidents when the bottle of vodka was half empty beside me on the window seat. So many of them weren't any good. Too many times I painted a sunset I didn't actually see before me, the lines too exact, the colours too limited. But I learned and I grew and being free from Newport and all its restrictions my sunsets became wilder, realer, raw. I knew exactly why Sandy had bought this painting. He remembered something.



Towards the end of my freshman year I had woken Sandy up in the early hours of the morning by leaping out of bed and frantically starting to paint on the back of the large notice-board hung on my wall. Exams were finally over and we'd been celebrating hard the last couple of days. I don't think I'd been sober for a week and the previous night I'd been smoking too. Sandy wasn't exactly a 'bad boy' but my father would have certainly classed him as a bad influence. Newport heiresses weren't exactly supposed to get ridiculously drunk, smoke weed and have incredible sex with Jewish boys from the Bronx. All in all it had been an amazing night and I guess I have to attribute some of what happened later to the alcohol and pot rather than my own talent and imagination. Sadly.

Basically I'd had dreamt of a lurid technicolour sunset. It doesn't sound much but it was the most trip-esque dream I have ever experienced and I woke knowing I had to try capture the colours and images in my head before sleepy darkness stole them from me. It was around four am so we couldn't have been asleep long when Sandy was so rudely awakened. He thought I was sleepwalking, sleep-painting I guess, and was more than a little freaked out. No doubt I did look more than a little strange standing naked in the shaft of light where we'd forgotten to close the curtains, feverishly painting on an improvised canvas.

That painting never got finished.

Sandy dozed for two hours, leaving me to work uninterrupted because I had evidently viciously snapped at him when he tried to guide me back to bed. I don't remember that. I don't remember much of it. Just a dimming recollection of the intense feeling I had. I painted until there wasn't a scrap of paint left in the room. It being the end of the semester stocks were already low but I had improvised; cutting tubes to get that last bead of paint, crushing watercolour blocks, using pastels dipped in water and stealing my roommate's acrylics and even her make-up.



The sun had risen before I collapsed beside Sandy again, my eyes itching with tiredness, fingers covered with paint. Half the board was alight; dawn sunshine reflecting off bright streaks of drying paint. The other half was blank and it stayed that way. When I woke again I didn't know how I had created that vibrant, abstract, crazy, beautiful painting or how to finish it. No matter how many times I tried to recreate the feeling, repeat that night, and believe me, Sandy was happy to oblige, I couldn't remember the dream clearly enough and I never found that muse again.

'Honey?'

Sandy's voice fast-forwarded me seventeen years where I was sat hunched over a similar painting. But one that was finished and wasn't mine.

'Sorry,' I said. 'I was just…speechless.'

I hoped he would think I had been engrossed in the painting, not lost in memories of another lifetime.

'Does that doesn't it? I couldn't stop staring the first time I saw it.'

'It's certainly something,' I agreed faintly, still not looking up and completely oblivious to Seth's scrutiny. Sandy was satisfied with my reaction and began rambling.

'I was in L.A. for that case remember? Right next to the court was an exhibition hall and I ended up going in during recess. You weren't meant to eat in there but...I did...I'd found a great little sandwich place around the corner you see...anyway... The artist's actually from San Francisco but she had a few paintings in the show. I saw this and couldn't walk away. Reminded me of…that painting…you know?'

I nodded and he continued almost seamlessly. 'Plus she's actually a graduate of Berkeley! So we're helping a new artist from our alma mater, isn't that great?'

'That…that's a really nice thought,' I forced out, shaping my face into a smile and looking up. 'Thank you.'



Sandy accepted a kiss, making faces when it only brushed his cheek. I just didn't feel I could hold everything together much longer, particularly if I had to open my mouth. Standing up, I rested the painting on the floor against the side of the armchair beside the tree and voiced my intention of going for a shower. Sandy was lighting the menorah but I think Seth may have seen the tears well over at the corner of my eyes as I swiped my glass of eggnog and left the room.

In the sanctuary of our bathroom I downed the rest of the golden liquid and leant against the basin, staring at myself in the mirror. The tears had begun slipping down my face somewhere between the family room and the bedroom and now I wasn't even trying to stop them. My face looked pale, eyes glassy and green. What happened to you? I wondered. Why are you so upset over a damn painting?

Except it wasn't just some painting. It was a painting that should have been mine. A life that should have been mine. A life I'd given up.

I had wanted to paint, to have exhibitions, a gallery in Sorselido. I'd wanted it enough to nearly get disinherited over going to a UC school where I could take Art.

But I'd let it all go. Talent wasted, training forgotten, dreams pushed to the back of the closet, what would probably have been my best painting unfinished and lost somewhere in the intervening years.

Perhaps I just hadn't been good enough.

My reflection was getting red and shiny and I turned away, undressing and carefully pulling the elastic support off my wrist. There's something therapeutic about hot water. I'm not sure if the shower or bed is my favourite haven but the shower does have the added bonus of washing away the evidence. No one had to know I'd cried in there for a good twenty minutes.

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'Hey honey,' Sandy sing-songed as I entered the kitchen. 'You're very dressed up, are we expecting anyone for dinner?'

I smiled tightly, knowing he was teasing but feeling a little insecure. Flawless make-up and perfect style were my facade. I didn't think I was that smart really and my make-up was minimal. True I was wearing a dress but it wasn't very formal and I'd curled my hair simply because I'd felt like it, and it gave me an excuse to hideaway a little longer, compose myself for the day ahead.

'Just…thought I'd look nice for Christmas.'

'And you do,' he said. 'But you're putting me to shame, I better go shower and change.'

'You don't…' I began but he cut me off.

'I'm not promising a suit but I think I can do better than pjs!'

'Okay, where's Seth?'

'Still in the lounge,' he called back over his shoulder. 'He's half-way though his first comic already.'

'Graphic novel,' I heard Seth correct him as I began unpinning my hair, letting the curls fall naturally and start to come loose.

'Mom, what are you doing in the kitchen?' came the call and all of a sudden Seth was beside me, obviously concerned I was attempting something culinary.

'Relax Seth I'm nowhere near the food.'

'Good.'

'Does my hair look alright?' I asked seeing as the kitchen was lacking in mirrors.

'Uh…yeah but it was fine before.'

Surprised that he'd bothered to answer so positively I kept talking. 'Just your father thought I looked too smart.'

'Well you did look a little Newpsie-convention-esque...maybe lose the pearls as well.'



'Thanks Seth,' I said sarcastically, removing the offending jewellery, not really sure if I was hurt or not.

'It's a pleasure,' he told me, just as sarcastically. 'Anything to help a lowly gentile look as hot as the Cohen men.'

I shook my head, almost laughing. 'So you like your gifts?'

He grinned, 'Totally, they're great. Christmukkah rocks this year.' He began picking absently at a bowl of nuts on the kitchen island. 'Uh, mom…?'

'Yes?'

'Why did you freak out over what dad got you?'

'What?'

'The painting…'

'I didn't.'

'It's okay, I don't think Dad noticed.'

My breath escaped my mouth in a relieved hiss before I could stop it and Seth looked at me pointedly.

'I just…it reminded me of the past, that's all.'

'How?'

'You know I used to paint.'

'Yeah...'

'I painted a lot of sunsets.'

'Oh, and?'

'Well it just made me think about that, that time of my life...'

'Why's that so upsetting?'

'Because everything changed Seth. All those dreams went out the window.'

'And you regret it?'



I nodded. 'I know you think I didn't care about leaving Berkeley but I did. I miss it as much if not more than you.'

Seth had one eyebrow raised and his tone was laced with scepticism. 'Uhu.'

'It's true. I'm not saying coming back here wasn't easiest for me but it wasn't easy. Berkeley was…it meant a lot to me.'

'Cos you met dad?'

'Partly…but because it was the first place I got to be me. You know what this town's like… You've always had an escape plan, you're desperate to go to college far, far away and believe it or not I was exactly the same.'

'Really?'

'Berkeley might only be eight hours north but it's a world away from here.'

'You don't need to tell me.'

'I know, I just want you to understand that I loved it too. College was one of the best times of my life. I was free, I was independent, I met your father. But also it was the first place I could really pursue art, admit that's what I wanted to do with my life. We've never done anything less than encourage you to be creative…'

'Even when I drew all over the walls in the Berkeley house?'

'Well…I wasn't very happy at first but at least my baby was artistic. He took after me despite being the spitting image of his father.'

Seth laughed and my heart swelled. 'Grandpa didn't like you doing art?'

'That's perhaps an understatement.'

'He must be pretty happy now then.'

A 'not that you'd know it,' slipped out before I could stop it and Seth looked shocked. 'I never wanted to come back Seth.' I pleaded. Desperately wanting him to listen to me this time.



'Then why…'

'My mom was dying, you know that. I wanted you to spend time with her, hell I wanted to spend time with her…' I broke off, my emotion getting the better of my vocal chords.

'I know that,' he said quietly. 'I get it…I…appreciate it but…why stay?'

'We've been through this Seth…'

'Yeah but you've never really told me how much you didn't want to.'

'I had to.' I sighed. 'Hailey was younger than you are, I couldn't leave her. Dad was struggling, burying himself in work; someone had to look after her, and him. And it was hard thinking about leaving…I felt closest to my mom here…' I bit my lip. 'I don't think we ever completely meant to stay, it just kinda happened. One year slipped into two, I had a good job, we were financially stable for the first time in a long time. The house in Berkeley was sold, we worried about you changing school again…'

'Mmm.'

'Seth…I'm sorry.'

'Me too,' he said bitterly.

'I guess the painting just, brought it all back…everything I gave up.'

'So you're jealous? Of that artist?'

'Partly.' Seemed like he hadn't really taken in everything I'd said after all.

'Then you shouldn't have compromised, it was your life mom.'

'I've explained my reasons,' I snapped, not wanting to cry in front of him.

'But…'

'We're done talking about this Seth.'

He looked perturbed. 'I thought you wanted me to understand.'

I glared at him. 'I've just been trying.' The angry tone of my voice was unintentional as I tried to compensate for the waver that let me know tears were building.



Seth saw them about to spill over and rolled his eyes. 'God, you're so damn hormonal, anyone would think you were pregnant!'

I sucked in my breath sharply. 'Seth! Don't be rude.'

'I wasn't.'

'Blaspheming, swearing and being insulting isn't rude?'

Sandy appeared at the doorway and immediately registered the tension.

'What's going on son?' he asked taking in Seth's angry face and my flustered one.

'I only said she was acting all pregnant and hormonal.'

'Which I'm not!'

He was immediately in mediator mode, leaning against the counter between us, eyeing us both judiciously.

'It's Christmas…'

'Christmukkah,' Seth grumbled.

'Whatever it is we're not arguing today. Seth, apologise to your mother.'

There was a pause. 'Sorry.'

'And Kirsten, Seth was just voicing his opinion, I don't think he meant to be offensive…'

I hated it when he did this; it made me feel Seth's age.

'I'm sorry Seth, I shouldn't have yelled at you.'

Sandy was smirking. 'Good,' he continued in his honeyed, slightly patronising tone. 'Seth, you're the only one not showered, hop to it.'

Our son narrowed his eyes, 'Hop to it? What am I, five?' but sloped off.

'What was all that about?' Sandy asked.

'Oh nothing.'

'I thought you two were getting along lately.'



'He's a teenager, I'm his mother, I don't think 'getting-along' really features in our shared vocabulary right now.'

'Well with that attitude it won't.'

I was rinsing my glass tumbler wishing I'd refilled it instead. 'Sandy…I don't need you judging me right now.'

'I'm not,' he defended, following as I headed for the family room which was still strewn with redundant wrapping paper. Oh the joys of living with two men. 'I just don't get how you and Seth come to be arguing about pregnancy of all things.'

My hands were shaking as I began gathering up the trash, being careful to save any pretty bows or ribbons. 'It was just…Seth being Seth.'

'So why did you get angry?'

Because he hit far too close to home Sandy. Because I was fucking pregnant but aborted it and that's why I'm hormonal.

It's hard to think what to say when those kind of thoughts are running through your head.

'It was a peculiar accusation, it threw me…'

Sandy watched me. My agitation was no doubt evident. 'You couldn't be though could you?'

Fuck.

'No Sandy! I said I'm not.'

'I know, I know it's just that Seth is partly right; you have been a little…off lately.'

I sighed, part annoyed, part nervous. 'Look…I just…I've been busy, stressed…'

'And that's nothing new.'

'I changed contraceptive so it's bound to scramble things for a little while.' It wasn't exactly a lie.

'Oh…Why did y-'

'Anyway,' I cut him off. 'It's Christmas morning and I don't really want to talk about it so…'



'Kirsten…?'

'Yes?' I shot him a look and he crumbled.

'Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas Sandy,' I said and could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest as he hugged me.

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So it's a bit shorter than the last one and I'm sorry about that but I figured an update was better than nothing and I'm struggling to get Kiki drunk in a satisfactory way for the rest of the chapter! Hope you enjoyed, please read and review.

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