A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews of CH 11. I'm glad you guys are enjoying Amanda's soliloquy. The Devil's Cut is referenced heavily in this chapter, just FYI. Happy Wednesday, happy reading.

CHAPTER 12: Sing a Song of Sixpence

. . .

"She's got more grace than you or I will ever have, so I'm gonna agree to the name. Because it reminds me of her, not you."

Amanda swiped at her runny nose and flipped the shoebox lid abruptly onto the stone ledge. She hefted the box—it wasn't heavy, but anything she lifted these days required hefting—into the bowl of her arm, and withdrew the handful of pictures she'd printed out at work the day before. "This is our wedding announcement from the paper, which I had to talk her into. I wanted her to know how proud I was to be adding her name to mine. And goddamit, you should've been there. She was the most beautiful bride you ever saw."

Tears filled her eyes at the memory of Olivia's smile that day, never more radiant—and yet tinged with wistfulness, as if she were looking for someone not in attendance. Amanda slapped the newspaper article onto the top of Serena's stone, then selected the next picture in the deck. "This is your grandson, Noah. He's eight years old, and he's pretty amazing. A lot like her, when it comes to patience and thoughtfulness. And he can dance like you wouldn't believe. You could be going to his recitals instead of lying here in the dirt, if you'd just gotten your shit together."

She pressed the picture of her son atop the wedding announcement, and moved on to the next. "This here's my girl, Jesse. She turned six on Thanksgiving. And I say 'my,' but she's just as much Liv's now too. I actually think they're each other's favorite. She treats Jesse like she's been her mama, day one. And Jesse looks out for her like I tried looking out for my— anyway. You would've liked her. She's smart and funny and getting to be a kid in ways Liv and I never did."

Jesse's photo went the way of the first two. "Our youngest, for now," Amanda said, extending the next picture. "Her name's Matilda, but everybody calls her Tilly. And everybody adores her. She's the sweetest little thing I ever— she's what I think Liv would have been like if you'd just loved her and let her be happy. Tilly's daddy was a rapist and murderer who did awful things to Olivia, and the bio mom was his accomplice. But not once have I ever seen that woman look at Tilly with anything other than pure love and devotion. Not a single damn time."

When Matilda had joined her brother and sister, Amanda displayed the final photo in the array: a 3D sonogram from the latest prenatal checkup. It was kind of creepy (while offering a glimpse of the baby's features in vivid detail, it also rather resembled an eyeless fetus sculpted in melting butter), but mostly adorable. Samantha appeared to be sucking on her big toe. "She gets this from you," Amanda had teased Olivia, when the tech was out of the room. "I don't even like feet."

"Hush." Olivia had rested her chin on Amanda's shoulder, grinning enormously as they admired the lifelike rendering of their child. "We both know you're the bendy one. Not to mention your oral fixation."

Amanda smiled to herself for a moment, remembering (I do love me some oral, had been the response that got them both giggling until the doctor arrived), but it faded when she returned her attention to Serena. "You pro'ly noticed I'm pregnant," she said dryly, rounding a hand over the bump. "You're dead, not stupid, right? Well, this is her. We're naming her Samantha. Samantha Grace Rollins-Benson. Sammie, for short. She's due on Valentine's Day, which is kinda funny and perfect. I been telling Liv not to expect too many other gifts for her birthday and V-day, since I'm growing her a human and all. I don't think she mentioned it was so close to your birthday too, though."

According to the grave marker, Serena had entered the world on February 3, 1948. Olivia had arrived twenty years and four short days later. God, a single mother at twenty years old, impregnated by the man who raped her when she was nineteen. Happy birthday, Serena Benson. Was that why she had mistreated teenaged Olivia so badly? Resentful of everything that had been taken away from her, at not much older?

Amanda still didn't feel sorry for her, any more than she felt sorry for Beth Anne subjecting herself and her daughters to years of domestic violence, or for Mean Dean and the hard knocks he'd taken growing up poor in rural Alabama, learning to knock back twice as hard. One thing she knew about addicts and abusers was that they felt plenty sorry for themselves already. They didn't need it from anyone else.

"Anyway." Amanda hastily pecked the photo of Sammie—her little pineapple-sized princess—before adding it to the rest. She reached back into the box and fished out another slip of paper, this one a photocopy with some of the text and numbers blacked out. "Speaking of gifts. Okay, so, brief recap: that damned expensive watch you gave Liv when she made detective? The Breitling? It, uh, it got smashed last— well, the Christmas before this latest one. It's a long story, but I had the watch fixed and that sorta set off a whole big thing. We fought, Liv and me. I said and did some things that were really awful. I hurt her . . . probably about as much as you ever did."

Amanda scanned the copy of the watch repair bill—her credit card number and personal information were slashed through with permanent marker—but didn't actually see it, as she blinked at the fresh tears that surfaced. She cleared her throat and shook her head, flicking away the bangs that fell into her eyes. Olivia would lecture her something fierce if she found out Amanda was standing outside in the cold without a hat or gloves on. I have to keep my babies warm, she'd undoubtedly say, as if Amanda and Sammie were her full-time job and the captain thing was just a side gig.

"Difference is—" Amanda's voice came out strained, and she cleared her throat a second time. "Difference is, I learned my lesson and I will never do that to her again. I'd sooner lie down here in the dirt beside you than ever lay another finger— than ever treat her so bad again. It's a miracle she even went ahead and married me after that, and I guess I owe some of that to you. If you hadn't made her so tolerant of being abused, I probably would have lost her for good. Thanks for that."

A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped Amanda's lips and she showed the purchase slip to Serena like an upraised middle finger, then slapped it down next to the pictures. She'd been planning a joke about bringing the receipts, but she was too pissed off for humor just then. Not only because of Serena's terrible mistreatment of her daughter, and her cold, cowardly silence now, but because she herself—Amanda, the supposedly fierce and loyal protector—was just as guilty. Olivia had long ago forgiven her (see, grace personified), she didn't doubt that. And Hanover kept encouraging Amanda to forgive herself. Maybe one day she would get there.

Not today.

She plucked the gold medallion from within the box and pinched it between her index and middle fingers, resisting the urge to weave it in and out of each digit, a little parlor trick she'd picked up from her daddy, or flip it like a coin. It was a running joke among GA members, about giving out sobriety chips to a bunch of compulsive gamblers. Labeling them "medallions" and stamping the serenity prayer on the back only got you so far.

"My one-year sober chip," she said, flashing the gold token at the headstone. She had briefly considered bringing a mini bottle of Absolut for her mother-in-law, rather than the chip she'd worked hard earning, but quickly nixed the idea; she didn't want to chance Olivia visiting the grave and seeing something like that. It was cruel, and Amanda didn't want to be cruel anymore. Besides, someone else would probably come along to nick the bottle and nip the booze, anyway.

"I just got it, beginning of this month. My second one. Probably wouldn't have gotten it the first time, if not for her riding my ass. 'Cause she doesn't give up on people, even when she should. You shoulda seen how proud she was of me when I brought this home the other day. That's worth way more than any amount of money I could win. You could've had that too—her pride and support—if you'd just tried harder." Amanda placed the medallion on top of the pictures, then gave the stone a clumsy pat, as if comforting it. There, there.

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry you weren't able to overcome it. I really am. But you had options, at least later on. Or were you so ashamed of the way you'd treated her all those years, you didn't wanna get better and have to face her sober? Yeah, that sounds about right. Better to die and leave her all alone than to tell her you're sorry."

Sighing heavily, she removed the next item from the box: a gold pin shaped like a tiny NYPD captain's shield, complete with laurels and crown. "She got this when she made captain. I doubt she told you about that, either. Maybe you wouldn't have been proud—I know you thought she was wasting her potential or whatever by becoming a cop. But she's done more good and helped more people than you ever would have with your fancy-pants professorship. She literally saves people's lives. People like you.

"I'm not giving you this one. It's hers, and you don't deserve it. I just thought you should know how amazing she turned out, in spite of you." Amanda folded the pin into her palm and tucked it safely inside her coat pocket. She would return it to Olivia's jewelry collection that evening, while her poor feverish wife shivered and tossed fitfully on the couch, refusing to bring her germs to their marriage bed. "Woman's got all kinds of medals and honors and certificates, but she'd never brag to you about any of it. So, I'll do it for her. She's the best damn cop in the city, and if you walked into our squad room right now, she'd work her ass off to make sure you got justice and some kinda closure. Some kinda help.

"I think she still expects you to show up, you know. Not literally, just . . . you in another form, so she can get some of that closure you denied her. But she's never gonna get it, is she? And it's not something I'll ever be able to give her. She'll always just be waitin' . . . "

Feeling herself about to cry again, Amanda inhaled deeply—or as deeply as the pineapple in her belly would allow—and took out the last memento from the shoebox, handling it with care. It would surely crumble, out here in the elements, or be swept away by winter winds, but she had another at home. She wasn't sentimental about too many things, other than her kids, her wife, and their dogs—that which was irreplaceable. You couldn't let yourself get attached to stuff when it might be stolen or pawned out from underneath you. Nevertheless, she loved the faded yellow peony whose petals looked and felt like crêpe paper.

It had been Olivia's idea to preserve the flowers, of course. She was the one who understood the importance of keepsakes; how, even if you couldn't take it with you, it didn't hurt to treasure something beautiful and want to hang onto the memory as long as possible. Her yellow rose had taken on a lovely butterscotch patina that perfectly complemented the elegant, vintage decor of their bedroom. She giggled every time Amanda saw it in the little ring dish atop the dresser and started singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas," usually while attempting to remove the clothes the captain had just put on.

"You know that song is problematic and kind of offensive, right?" Olivia had asked once, trying to conceal her amusement at the twangy rendition of the folksong.

"Well, then you better think of a way to shut me up, little darlin'," Amanda had replied, dodging her wife's puckered lips and belting, "Fooor the yellow rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee!"

Gently, Amanda lowered the peony to the headstone and tipped it from her hand like she was releasing it onto the waters of a tranquil pond. "That's one of the flowers she wore in her hair on our wedding day. She loves her pretty little things, and I think maybe she got that from you. I read that peonies can symbolize compassion, so I figured . . . well, she'd have compassion for you, even if I can't. But I'm trying. And this is me promising that I won't ever let you or your Mommie Dearest bullshit—or my own parents from hell—interfere with my and her happiness again."

She had expected to leave it at that, to gather up the shoebox and walk away, probably never to return. But as she tucked the box and lid under her arm and prepared to go, she felt compelled to say something more. Maybe it wasn't only Olivia who needed a little closure. "I want you to know . . . I'll take care of her. Me and the kids—we got this. They make her so damn happy. And I'm never going to let anything else bad happen to her. Not ever. If that's worrying you, wherever you are, and keeping you from finding peace, you can stop now. She's gonna be okay. So, just . . . leave her be, will ya? I'll make sure she gets all the love you couldn't give her."

Amanda gazed at the silent stone a moment longer, unsure what, if anything, she expected. Maybe the engraved letters to swirl and rearrange themselves, a mystical answer emerging from the granite like the fortune-telling triangle in a Magic 8-Ball. Outlook good. Signs point to yes. You can count on it.

Ask again later.

"Um, okay. Bye now," she said, and made to leave again. This time it was a hurtling snowball that stopped her in her tracks. There was no way she could have dodged it, in her current elephantine state, but luckily it wasn't meant for her. She gazed over her shoulder at Serena's marker, the middle letters of her name now veined in white where the missile had hit (ENA BE, it read), and back at Daphne, the thrower.

"Looked like you could use some backup," the little clerk said, smiling wickedly under her floppy knit cap. Her cheeks were as rosy as Rudolph's fabled red nose, and she gave a mighty, vacuum-powered sniff. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear. I'm just really good at reading body language. She seems like a stone-cold bitch, by the way."

"Yeah," Amanda said, lacking some of her earlier conviction. She was ready to go home and take care of her sick wife, no matter how much that wife might protest. It was hard to take her seriously, with her pink nose and chattering teeth, her mismatched pajamas and the peach throw blanket she'd taken to wearing like a very large bib. But Amanda would get her stubborn, selfless captain well, even if she had to sit on Olivia to do it. Plump as Amanda was right then, Olivia would surrender in no time.

"Here. Try it." Daphne bent over, propped heavily on her cane, and swiped at the snow in front of her highly impractical footwear. She packed the fine white fluff as best she could between her gloved hands and offered it to Amanda, who grasped her by the arm to help her stand. "You'll feel better."

Amanda eyed the misshapen pellet of snow, momentarily tempted ("How can I love someone who was conceived by a monster?"), but resisted the urge to reach for it. She was trying to be the bigger person here, and while it shouldn't be hard, considering the other party was probably just skeletal remains by now, she doubted throwing snowballs at her mother-in-law's grave constituted mature adult behavior. "Nah, I called a truce with her. No sense stirring something up again. She's caused enough trouble for me 'n Liv, as is."

"Oh, come on. Don't make me be the bad guy who threw something at a dead woman. It'll be good therapy, get out some of that mama bear aggression you've got stewing around in there." Daphne wavered the snow under Amanda's nose, as if she were seducing her with a chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven. "Just one? I won't tell. It'll be between us and Serena. And . . . all these other poor, dead schlubs."

"Well," Amanda drawled, gazing furtively at the nearby markers like some of the poor, dead schlubs might pop out from behind them and catch her in the act. An unlikely scenario, at best. "Maybe just one."

By the time they were through, she and Daphne had pelted Serena Benson's headstone with three snowballs apiece. It was the slowest snowball fight in history, with Daphne crouching down after each launch to make more ammunition. Amanda's aim was piss-poor (you try hitting a target while carrying around a pineapple and thirty extra pounds), but she still managed to nail the Beloved Mother epithet right in the kisser. Ironically, the snow interlaced with the etched stone for a pretty gingerbread icing effect. Amanda couldn't help but laugh as they trundled back to the visitors' path, leaving Serena Grace behind.

"Last one to the cab is a rotten inseminated egg," Daphne announced, and set off at a brisk clip when they reached the flatter, drier pavement. Her heels clacked the whole way.

. . .