December 19th, 1990
The pale rose hue of dawn outside the window contrasting against the soft gray winter clouds should have been beautiful. Except that after staring out the window all night, eyes strained and stiff from a full night's tears, with Miss Whiskers purring with concern on her lap, Alyse could find no beauty in it.
The universe was perversely unfair. After all it had taken to bring them together, and everything they had done to remain so. After all the times Cal had almost died, and then she almost had… it just couldn't end this way. Missing-in-Action my foot. The news had hit her with such force she had stopped breathing for several seconds. Minutes later she had been demanding an explanation into the phone, shouting at the man on the other end of the line giving her the news—she had shouted at her husband's best friend. She knew Tore had called as soon as they got word at headquarters, but that in no way softened the agony of what she had been told. She had demanded to know everything, and since there had apparently been no reason to keep it secret, Tore had told her every detail Sara had sent in her report about the battle, and the explosion, and the only clue to if he might be alive, at all, being a scrap of bloodstained material.
Cal always promised to come home, and up until now he had never broken his word. Of course, he also promised to try not to get shot, and while she was sure he tried, Cal almost always seemed to fail at that in every war. Yet he'd always managed to come home to her. But this—how did a man survive something like that? Even one as clever and quick-minded as her husband. Had he managed to get off a transmutation that protected him, or had he managed to slow his descent, hold on to the rocks, make his way down to the bottom without being fully at the mercy of rapids that, in her mind, were huge, violent, frothing swells.
Alyse had never considered herself superstitious, but she couldn't help thing of how paranoid Cal had been about these missions into Drachma. How he said they felt wrong, how he was worried about things going wrong in ways they hadn't before. She had reassured him, but now she couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't been right. You're supposed to come home, sheepish, but alive, and promise me it will never happen again, and then fill out that damned retirement paperwork so we can just enjoy the rest of our life together. That had been the plan, as soon as this was done, retirement. An end to his desk-job frustrations, and all the time they could want to be together.
Now, she might never see him again. Chances were slim, but at least no one had sugar-coated the information or tried to give her false hope. Especially since their primary rationale for the possibility of his survival was that the Zinoveks had—probably—bothered to remove him from the river and haul him all the way to their camp. A dead man was a useless bargaining tool.
That's a morbid thought. Must be all those years living with State Alchemists. Or at least one. Her father had possibly had the least-morbid sense of humor for a State Alchemist, and he was the one who had once—at least so she had been told many times—inhabited a suit of armor for multiple years.
Calvin had always been more the soldier type than her father had been; a little rough around the edges, more worldly in a different way, but not stupid or shallow. He had just come by his knowledge of the world via another route than she had, and she had been first intrigued, and then completely in love. Not that it had always been easy, but nothing worth keeping ever really was, or so she'd found. Their differences rubbed as much as they complimented each other. Or at least, they had. The past few years had been so much smoother. Now…
If you're dead, Calvin Fischer, I will never let you live it down.
Alyse reached for the mug on the table in front of her, sipping tea that had long gone cold. The shifting of her lap woke the dozing cat, and Miss Whiskers looked up at her, irritated. "Well I'm sorry," Alyse retorted. "I know you miss him, too, don't you?" She started stroking the cat again. "He always has been able to charm females of any species." No past tense, no finality, not without proof. All she could do was hope he hadn't spent hours lying out there, dying a slow death the way he had always feared. After the number of times he had almost gone that way, she understood his terror. She remembered only too well the day she had watched them wheel him into the infirmary tent, a gaping gut wound sucking the life from him, his body already near-ice cold. She had begged Ethan to teach her how to help save him, how to share her own energy with her meager alchemical abilities.
She couldn't look anywhere in her house without seeing traces of Cal, or stirring up a memory. Anything from him crashed out on the couch with one of their children napping on top of him, to pulling a snack out of the refrigerator, or coming up the stairs to ask a question, or cornering her in the bedroom hoping for a little intimate time. The times he surprised her with flowers for no particular reason. The ages of these memories never came in any particular order. In some of them he was the age they were now, and in others his younger self, with his unruly curls, carefree grin, and a body that looked like it was off the cover of a convenience store romance paperback.
A living body she would have given anything to have right here, in any condition, to wrap her arms around and squeeze tightly and hold on to forever.
The knock at the front door was so unexpected she jumped, nearly dumping Miss Whiskers on the floor. With a grumble of disgruntlement, the cat moved, and jumped down onto the floor. Alyse stood, pulling her fleecy house-robe around her as she went to the door. Who would be here at this hour?
A peek through the peep-hole revealed her brother standing on the porch.
Alyse opened the door. Will was not only standing on her doorstep; he was standing on her doorstep with what looked like breakfast from her favorite pastry shop.
"Hey, Sis." Will held up the bag and a large sized take-out cup of coffee. "I thought you could use a pick-me-up this morning."
"If that is a double-chocolate coffee with milk and honey, and a strawberry scone you are officially the best brother in the universe." Alyse managed a weak smile.
Will shrugged. "What else would it be? May I come in?"
"Since you come bearing offerings, yes." Alyse stepped out of the way, and let Will in. Of course he knew—it had been all over last night's news, in her daughter's voice, coming from her daughter's face. Her poor, brave girl, reporting as a true professional, even as the words coming out were reporting the missing status of her own father. She didn't break down, and she didn't cry. Her voice wavered, but never broke, and Alyse could not have been prouder of her for holding it together, when she was certain Gloria was devastated and conflicted the way she was. That made her think about Charlie. Had he seen the news? Did he know? What did he think? Would this prompt him to at the least reach out?
Will set her coffee at the kitchen table, and pulled out a small plate for her scone. "How are you doing this morning?" he asked then, as they sat down across from each other. He had rushed over last night after seeing the news, and Alyse had cried on her brother for nearly twenty minutes, before eventually assuring him she would be all right until morning, and that she needed some time to herself.
She should have expected him back over again so early, really. "A little better," she replied before picking up the cup of rich decadence that had been her favorite since high school, but something she rarely indulged in now. "Not much, but I don't expect I'll even know what to feel until we have some kind of answers as to what happened. I want to believe he's alive, but I don't want to delude myself either. It's another situation where I don't know if someone I love is alive, or dead, or even really where they are, and… I just have to wait, again. I really hate waiting."
"I've noticed." Her brother's expression was nothing but open sympathy. "I also know you'll find a way to keep yourself busy, to keep your mind off it, to keep going. You'll tell yourself you can't fall apart, because the rest of the family needs you. Well… don't. It's okay if you need somewhere to cry. It's okay to not be the strong one for everyone. Give them a chance to feel like they're the strong ones, and let them comfort you."
Alyse had to admit, she'd never thought of it that way. "Does that work?" she asked.
"Did it help last night?"
"It did," she acknowledged. There was never an age at which letting her mother, or her father, or her older brother—on fewer occasions, but still—be someone she could lean on for support. "I guess I've just gotten used to being the one everyone looks to to hold things together."
"You weren't that person when you were sick," Will reminded her, "And everyone survived."
"Survived is not the same as handled it all right," Alyse pointed out sourly. "My husband was falling apart and my teenage son started sleeping with his girlfriend." The outcome of which was still, years later, to fully be realized, but it had caused a lot of complex chaos in all of their lives.
"Okay, so it wasn't the best example, but it happened, and you can't always be the one people rely on, or they don't learn to do it for themselves and for others. Better moral?" Will suggested.
"Yes, I suppose. I just… I can't dump my feelings on others. It feels selfish."
Will looked frustrated, but he shrugged. "So be a little selfish, and if you don't want to dump this on anyone else, talk to me. I'm your big brother, I can take it."
She wasn't going to win this argument; not if she kept refusing, and in truth, she didn't want to. Alyse desperately wanted someone to lean on right now, and the person it should be was the one she was worried about and couldn't have. "Thanks, Will. You're right, and I can't turn down an offer like that. I just hope you have a lot of dry shirts."
"If I have to, I'll bring a towel."
Sara had never particularly been a fan of the phrase no news, is good news. The idea that hearing nothing was better than hearing the worst, or that if you hadn't heard anything, that meant things were fine. Sure, that might work in some circumstances, but she had rarely found it true in any of her work as a State Alchemist.
There had been nothing that Mihalov's spies had seen or heard yet of Cal, and while they had been ordered to investigate the possibility of an Amestrian prisoner, or corpse, that would take time. Until then, they had to carry on as planned, with Sara in sole command of the Amestrian alchemists. Not that she had any concerns about handling command, but as hard as they were trying to put on a professional face and just work, she knew that it was affecting the morale of the entire alchemist unit. Not even the arrival of the second plane, with plenty of supplies, and an additional alkahestrist, here primarily as a physician, had done much to lift anyone's spirits. The other handful of Amestrians to arrive were also regular military personnel, and not Alchemists, there for support purposes, and more consistent and efficient military communications.
Down the hill, the Zinoveks were not taking their setback quietly. What little intelligence they had so far included repairs and upgrades to some of their vehicles and other equipment, particularly that salvaged from the failed forward push. Sara would bet all eight years of non-existent back pay that their repairs and improvements included their aircraft. There would be more bombings, and they would have some new plan to try and counteract the alchemist's defenses.
Just to be safe, even though Mihalov assured Sara he knew who the handful of likely spies in his army were, Sara had ordered the alchemists to start using alchemy to check their food and beverages for poisons or other drugs before eating from now on.
Into the grimness of her day was injected a small ray of brightness, as one of their communications officers found her standing on the wall, wearing a radio. "We have a communication from the northern post," he informed her, handing her the receiver. "Proteus Alchemist on the line for you."
Ted. Sara took the receiver. "Report Proteus. This is Twilight."
"The Northern Pass is secure, Twilight," Ted's voice came across the line, sounding incredibly smug and satisfied.
"Already?" Sara blurted out, startled.
Ted laughed. "What can I say, we're efficient. Once we had their troops convinced that we had half the demons of ancient Drachma on our side attacking them, their spirit was broken. The Western Drachman men were able to overrun them. If they're not dead, we've got them in chains except for the handful we let escape on purpose. They'll have to report to their leader that they've failed, and we've got a terrifying force up here. They won't want to die, and the real story will make them sound like blithering fools, so I kind of look forward to seeing what they tell Savahin about what happens up here."
"You'd better hope it's not something that causes him to send more reinforcements," Sara pointed out, though she couldn't help but feel a bit of pride at the effectiveness of the alchemists they had sent. "Where are you sending the prisoners?"
"Up to Tilish," Ted replied, naming another of the prison cities. "They've got the room, and it's far enough away that it won't be worth trying a rescue attempt on Savahin's part, not that he seems the rescue attempt type."
"That he doesn't." Not that they could afford to throw away soldiers, but Savahin now controlled a military that was almost eighty-percent the size of the previous standing Drachman military, which still dwarfed the Amestrian military, and certainly the growing army of Western Drachma. "Will you be staying put for now then, to see what happens?"
"That's what the Drachman units are doing," Ted replied, and his voice sobered and got quiet. "Is it true about Whitewater?"
Even out there without easy access to television, word had reached them. "That he's missing, yes," she replied, her own voice dropping in volume to match his by habit. "There are people investigating his whereabouts and whether or not he survived, but at the moment that's all we know."
"Do you want any of us back down there?" Ted asked.
"Not yet. At least, not all of you. Not unless the Western Drachman strategy changes and they pull their other soldiers back here as well. You might still be needed there, and you're best as a unit. Why, who were you thinking of sending?" It was possible that they might want the reinforcement, or that Ted had an idea.
"Honestly, you'd be best off with Glacier. He's no Whitewater, but him and Rapid together might be useful, and his fog trick would be incredibly good for limiting flight visibility. If the Drachman planes can't see well enough to fly safely, they'll be grounded. Sensation too. Her abilities don't require physical contact as long as there's air to mess with, and if she can get pilots questioning their own senses, and if those start contradicting their instruments, you'd have another benefit. What she was pulling freaking them all out up here might work down there as well. Let them think the Western Demon Army is spreading."
Two cocky hormone-ridden water alchemists; just what Sara needed under her command. Still, Ted made a good point, and Sensation was a responsible, level-headed woman who could be useful. "Can you spare them?" It would take at least two days for them to get back down here, but it was better to get started now if that was the case. Or, it occurred to her, she could send Rothschild up with the plane and have them back tonight.
"Right now, we're sitting on our asses staring at the remains of an empty camp. I think we'll be fine."
"Good. Have them ready to go right after dark. Do you have a stretch of road you can clear of about two-thousand meters?"
"There's a long straight stretch just west of us with nothing parked along it. I'm sure it's that long."
"Keep it clear. I'm sending Rothschild and he'll be arriving before sunset."
She could almost imagine Ted's ears perking up like a dog. The tone in his voice certainly lifted with curiosity and understanding as he responded, even if the words were just, "I'll have them ready."
"See that you do. Twilight Out." She handed the radio handset back to the operator. "Find me Lieutenant Rothschild. I have a mission for him."
"Yes, General." The communication officer saluted briefly, then vanished back the way he had come.
Sara turned her attention back to the movements beyond the wall. Despite any obvious movement, she knew there was a lot going on. At some point, in order to get to the Zinoveks, they would have to remove the destruction that now barricaded the road through the pass. For now, however, it would work in their favor. As long as they couldn't go down, the enemy could not come up. Their only options would be long-range weaponry, which was now almost entirely out of reach, and the planes. With more alchemists with defensive capabilities the pilots and their officers could not so easily plan for, it would give them a much-needed edge. They needed to destroy those aircraft, or at least find ways to ground and delay them until Amestris could complete enough of the new lighter, faster planes designed with the ability to fight back in the air.
She just hoped that they could hold them off long enough.
Most days Charlie sort of enjoyed his work. Old Man Eli—as everyone in the small town called him—ran the only automotive mechanical shop in town, imaginatively named Eli's Automotive. Widowed, arthritic, and going slowly blind, Eli had put out a sign advertising a single full-time job, but hadn't been able to get anyone in town to bite on it. Charlie had seen the add on a jobs board in the post office the next town over, and had been incredibly lucky that Eli didn't mind taking on an employee who did good work, just not quickly. Though Charlie's hand had continued to get better with daily use. It ached often, especially on rainy and cold days, but he was getting better at using it for the fine-tuning work he could do with the other.
The old man owned a house separate from the shop, on a lot the street right behind it. Charlie had been able to move into the single bedroom place above the shop, which was actually one of the storage rooms, cleared out. Thankfully the shop had a full shower downstairs, even if it was small, and all Charlie really needed was a place to wash, do his business, and sleep. While food wasn't technically part of the job deal, Charlie had an open invitation to eat with Eli any night he wanted, and he hadn't seen any of that taken out of his meager pay.
Eli seemed to like having the company. Charlie was the first person he had talked to in a long time who hadn't heard all of his old stories until they were bored to tears, and the novelty of a new audience was probably enough to make the old man like him. That, and Charlie always did his best work.
Today had not been one of those great days. Charlie had opted to spend the evening the night before sitting at the bar, nursing down a drink and listening to the radio and general chit-chat of the locals. They had stopped asking nosy questions of Harlen Ellis after the first couple of weeks after his arrival, and just accepted him as someone who didn't like to talk about his past, but was getting their cars worked on much faster than Eli could manage, and that was good enough for them.
Last night, the radio had been on the right station to catch the international broadcast out of Drachma. Charlie had known there was one, but he hadn't known until that moment that his sister and Alexei were back in Drachma, covering the war. From previous news broadcasts, he had known his father was going, but there was little surprise there.
The first shock was the sound of Gloria's voice coming out of the radio less than ten feet from him, reaching across the distance, as if she were speaking straight to her brother.
The second, was the words coming out of her mouth. What did that mean, exactly, that their father was missing-in-action? Charlie knew what the phrase meant, but not in what way it applied this time. Was he really just missing, or was that the military's way of not saying he was almost certainly dead?
He had spent the rest of the evening in a twisted knot of tension and conflict, worrying about his mother, who had to be terrified, and his sister who had to sit there and be all professional when Charlie could tell—even if no one else could—that she was holding back tears by a sheer willpower few could ever have managed in that situation. He had also drunk more beers than he meant to.
As a result, he spent the next day quietly and manfully forcing himself to focus on work, when his mind wanted to be elsewhere, thankfully only mildly hung-over. It wouldn't do to make mistakes. Eli was counting on him.
Apparently, he was even more reticent than usual, because at the end of the day, Eli waited until they were done cleaning up, and did not give him a choice about dinner. "Miss Lillian Pevens said she's going to bring me by a huge beef casserole and an apple cobbler as a thank you for us getting her car done so fast last week. Since you did all the work on it, only right you eat your share. I'll expect you at six."
That gave him about half an hour to wash up. Charlie nodded. "Yes, sir." It was easier than arguing, and he didn't really have any other plans for food.
He arrived showered, changed, and vaguely presentable at Eli's back door right on time. What he hadn't expected, however, was that Miss Lillian Pevens would still be there.
Having worked on her little white car, Charlie had seen Lillian in passing a few times, and when she brought the car in and picked it up. She was one of the teachers at the regional school, where the four small towns in the area all sent their children. Maybe three years older than Charlie, she dressed the way he imagined his mother had in her youth—in a lot of knee-length florals, pastels, with cute over-sweaters, and she kept her hair back conservatively with thick fabric hairbands, but otherwise down. She taught elementary, never looked a bit out of place even when she was worried about having her car so she wouldn't miss work, and had an air of innocence still about her that was both appealing and yet screamed unmarried virgin.
Which made him more than a little cautious when she smiled at him. The table was set for three, with the casserole freshly served, a side-salad, and water and a bottle of wine on the table. "Good evening, Harlen," she said as he entered the room.
"Good evening, Miss Pevens," he replied, keeping it cautiously formal. He had never once mentioned to Eli—or anyone else in town—that he was married, or that he had children. He never talked about his past because he didn't want to let something slip, and a lie would be difficult to keep up, so he had simply said it was painful, complicated, swore he hadn't done anything against the law, and that had been it. He hoped this wasn't about to turn awkward.
The meal itself went fine. They talked mostly about recent local events, and he asked questions about her work and her students that he knew would keep Lillian talking for hours if the meal went on that long. Eli just seemed pleased not to be alone, though he looked between them just often enough that Charlie was sure he was trying to read how well the two 'young folk' got along. Charlie also couldn't help but notice that aside from animated warmth, Lillian kept glancing his way when she thought he wasn't looking.
Once, he'd have been happy to see that look on a woman's face. Now, he found it filled him with dread. He made sure not to get too close, or look in her eyes too long, or seem overly interested in what she had to say outside of polite formality. The food was delicious, and he made a point of very slowly sipping his wine. He did not trust himself to drink much with her over. Finally, the evening was over, and she left.
When she was gone, Charlie turned to his boss. "Why did you invite her to stay?"
Startled as his tone, Eli shrugged. "It would have been rude not to, since she made dinner. Besides, she's a single gal, no one to go home to. Dinner's always better with company."
"She kept looking at me."
"She likes you. I'd think that would be obvious."
"She doesn't know the first thing about me." Charlie shook his head as he returned to the table and took a swig out of his glass of wine.
"No, but she might if you let her."
Oh, no. They weren't even getting started on that. "That's not happening."
"Lillian's a good girl who's turned into a fine woman. I've known her since she was a tiny thing." He shook his head. "I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I wasn't trying to set you up."
"Good, because I'd hate to hurt her feelings by having to turn her down." That was a woman looking for a real relationship, and he was possibly the worst place she could have come looking for one.
Eli got quiet. "Something's bothering you today, more than usual. Something happen last night?"
Well, there was no point in pretending nothing had happened. Even the nearly-blind man could see. "I… got some news last night that I wasn't expecting." When Eli didn't ask any prompting or probing questions, he went on. "One of my relatives was sent up to Drachma with our allied forces and, he's been wounded." There, that was close enough. "I'm just worried about him, that's all."
Eli's expression turned sympathetic, and he nodded. "Must be someone you're pretty close to. I lost a lot of friends in the last war. It never gets easier. Not that that's what you want to hear, I'm sure, and you probably know that."
Charlie finished his wine, and refilled the glass. "Why would I know that?"
"I may be mostly blind, but I'm not dumb," Eli retorted. "Your skills, age, the auto-mail; you were a soldier before you came here, engineer corps I'd bet my left eye on it, and that's the good one."
"What if I was?" Charlie drank, then turned and walked over to the couch and sat. "I'm not now."
Eli remained in his easy chair that he had moved to during after-dinner conversation. "No, but we're of a breed, if you get me. You're a hard worker, Harlen, and a good man as far as I've seen. You're no pup, even if you are young enough to be my grand-son. I don't know everything you've been through, and I'm still not gonna ask. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
That simple; the old man cared. Charlie felt a little foolish, and then guilty for the lies he'd been telling him since his arrival; the lies he would keep telling for as long as he was here. "I appreciate that," he admitted, hoping he sounded appropriately grateful. "This news just took me by surprise, and… I'd appreciate it if you didn't encourage Lillian in my direction. I'm not looking. I… my last relationship burned, and it was pretty much entirely my fault. Until I can be a better person, no one deserves the mess I'd make of their lives if we were involved."
"Well, you're the only one of us who has the knowledge to be any judge of that," Eli conceded. "But I still think you're being a bit hard on yourself. In any case, if she keeps nosing around I'll make sure to politely discourage her from pursuing you. Not that I can promise she'll listen to an old man."
It would have to do. Even if his marriage was a sham, and almost certainly over, Charlie couldn't even look at someone with a future ahead of her and consider mucking it up. "Thanks." He drank the rest of his glass without another word, and Eli was content to sit in silence.
Eventually they returned to small talk until it got later, and Charlie went back to his room above the shop, no less concerned and conflicted than he had been that morning, and possibly more-so. His father might be dead. He hadn't heard a word about any of the rest of his family. His fault, of course. He had never put a return address on anything he sent Shelby, on purpose. The money was more use to her than his presence, and being a constant drain on her life. She didn't need a useless dead-beat who couldn't parent complicated life. Surely, by now, she was over him, or getting there. If he went back… there was no reason thinking about it. Shelby must hate him for leaving, no matter that he was sending most of his earnings so she and the children could live well. He wanted her to finish school, and work in a job she loved, and the children she had borne to have happy lives. They were better off without him.
They all were. He could not imagine evening his parents forgiving him for this.
Upstairs, he stripped for bed before turning on the radio. It was about time for the late night news broadcast, which meant if there was anything from Drachma recorded, they would re-transmit it.
Charlie didn't bother to turn on the light. The moon came through the window, casting enough that he could see the vague shapes of his bed, the small desk and chair, and the low dresser which held his meager belongings he had taken with him—a single duffel bag worth.
The wine wasn't enough for him to be drunk—Lillian had only brought the one bottle for them all to share over dinner—but it was enough to get him muzzy-headed. The news was dull, mostly local stuff, even on the regional station. Finally, they got around to news from the Drachman front, and once again, he heard Gloria's voice reporting the days news; clean-up and a low number of casualties, no new strikes on the part of the Zinovek troops. There was also not a single word about their missing father. After Gloria's part ended, he turned the radio off again.
I don't know if you're alive, Dad. I hope so, unless being alive where you are would be worse than being dead. If you are dead, and you can hear me, I'm sorry. Just, forget I was ever your son. You've got Gloria. You never needed me. All I've ever been is trouble and a liability. I know that now. At least now, you don't have to keep trying to repair my mistakes.
He was out of anything else to drink in his room, except the water from the tap. Closing his eyes, Charlie rolled over, and waited for unconsciousness to set in.
Tonight, was one of those nights where she just wasn't going to get any sleep. Shelby had resigned herself to it hours ago. Summer was teething and fussy and wanted nothing more than to be held every moment Shelby was home for the past few days. Cameron had bumped his head earlier in the day and, while he hadn't needed a trip to the doctor, he had been clingy as well. Abigail had been the easiest of the lot, and the almost-four-year-old had caught a cold from someone in her play-group, and had spent the day on the couch, looking at picture books, and watching children's programming on the television.
The day itself had not been the best either. While her mother had watched the children, Shelby was dragging. She had barely made it through her work shift, or the one class she'd had that day, and her pre-natal visit had not been satisfactory or reassuring. Half-way through her pregnancy, it was already the hardest one she had dealt with by far. As if having Charlie walk out on them hadn't been bad enough, balancing everything else made it much more of a stress on her body. Her blood-sugar and blood pressure numbers were higher than her doctor liked, and the constant, draining nausea had dragged on into her second trimester. Even with the help of her mother, her mother-in-law, Alyse's mother Elicia, and her own friends, finding the time and energy to do everything just seemed to get harder.
Tonight, she was in the recliner in the living room, with Cameron asleep tucked to one side of her, and Summer asleep on the other; Abigail passed out still on the couch. The last was good, because there wasn't room in the chair for a fourth person. Between the sleeping babes, she could feel the subtle twitches of her unborn. The only sounds in the room were the soft breathing of her children, whom she loved more than anything, even when they drove her crazy.
It hurt though, to realize just how true that thought was; she loved them more than anyone… even the man who fathered them. After more than three months, she was beginning to come to terms with the fact that Charlie was gone. Sure, he sent money, but money was not a person, a life partner, a supportive lover, a father.
Objectively though, had Charlie ever been most of those things? Maybe at one time, and on and off, and sometimes. He had certainly had passion at the start. When it was easier, when they were living with his parents, he had doted on Abigail, and on her. After that, it all got complicated, and she never could decide if his infidelity had been a symptom of discontent with just his job, with her, or the fact that neither of them had been truly happy living up north. How much of any of this was still her making excuses because she cared, versus being unfair? She just didn't know. Charlie had defied his family and societal conventions to be with her, had worked under a supervisor he hated to provide for them, had gone off to war working to take care of them, and then, he had disappeared, but he was still providing. It was just a confusing muddle, and one she wished she could find him to talk about.
That was the worst part; the lack of understanding, the lack of closure. What if he really never came back? If he died, or gave up and stopped sending money, or anything happened to him at all, she would never know why, only that something had. Or what if she made the decision to move on, to file for divorce, to find someone else, and then he came back? What would that do to their children? Summer had barely known him, and this new one would possibly never know his or her father.
Shelby's cheeks were wet. With a child on each arm she could not reach off to wipe the tears from her face, so they just fell, sliding slow and quiet. Her vision blurred, until all that was clear was the soft cold blue glow of the winter moon.
