Chapter 70: Partial Visibility

Sliding a piping hot cup of freshly brewed tea across the kitchen table to her daughter as she placed one before her own chair, Joyce turned around, opening the refrigerator to retrieve the pint of milk from its shelf in the door. She set it down between them, now taking her own seat and pulling the chair closer to the table's well rounded edge. Cully had at last slid her jacket from her shoulders, folding it over itself on her lap to reveal a blouse slightly rumpled by the hours stuffed into a bag over her shoulder as both were tossed about on a train. Once or twice, even as her daughter poured a dollop of milk into both cups, Cully kneaded at one side of her neck with her other hand, the collar of her blouse disappearing beneath her palm.

"Are you all right?"

Cully looked up, squinting against the harsh glare of the overhead light. "Hmm?"

"You keep rubbing at your neck. Is it bothering you?"

"No," her daughter said, shaking her head as her hand fell onto the table. "I—slept oddly, that's all."

With the first sip of her tea, Joyce wasn't certain she entirely believed her daughter—but not that she had outright lied; those moments were far in the past. There was too much hesitancy in her voice for total honesty—her gaze too much focused on her own mug, still sat on the table before her. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I suppose..." Cully stopped, folding her fingers around the warm cup. "Things just didn't go how I expected this weekend."

"It didn't go well?"

"No, that's not it."

"Then what happened?" Joyce asked, leaning forward. "You still haven't told us about your audition. And I'm sure Gavin will want to know, too. If you didn't discuss it with him already."

"I—didn't read for it, Mum, in the end."

That was the last sentence Joyce expected to hear, her eyes narrowing in surprise. "Why not?"

Cully released a sigh, tapping her fingers along the handle of her cup—at least until her hands suddenly froze. "While I was waiting—I couldn't stop thinking..."

"About what?"

"I suppose I just realized—I didn't want to. Or at least, I didn't want to then."

It was so odd—but after the past weeks, Joyce found herself unsurprised. A year ago would have been rather quite different, Cully's impetuosity and stubborn nature bearing her forward from one project to another with little to no hesitation, no tarrying as she peered into the past. (At the people she might leave behind with only memories to cherish or despise?) And while she occasionally regretted her choices in in plays or productions in the aftermath, she inevitably moved on without any wavering or questioning. But perhaps she was right not to be surprised, in the end; somehow, everything surrounding her daughter and Gavin was entirely different. All for the best, Joyce thought. "Were you and Gavin able to talk over the weekend?" It was the point, after all. Between the young man and the time that had evaporated between early Saturday morning and now, everything was truly transformed.

Cully rubbed at her neck again, still always that same hollow where it gave way to the swell of her shoulder. "Yes."

Of course, Joyce thought with another sip of her tea. When Cully ducked into the kitchen with her, pulling the last ingredients from the cupboards and the refrigerator, her voice was happier and her smile more real, like some devastating weight was finally banished from her shoulders. "You just look rather happier than you did Saturday morning." Somehow, everything was suddenly—newly—completely different.

"There were a lot of things..." Cully said quietly, her voice trailing away and her eyes suddenly drifting away from Joyce. Lost in her thoughts—or something else?

"What?"

"We had some things we'd always tried not to talk about, and we finally sorted those out." Cully drew in another deep breath. "And—I suppose I figured out what really mattered."

And perhaps that was all the answer Joyce required. Even if her daughter didn't specify what mattered, she could have a guess. Gavin had only occupied more and more of Cully's mind over the past months, just as he had for long moments in the past. And perhaps even more? "The most important questions need answers more than the rest."

"I know." Cully was quiet for a few seconds, simply opting for a quick sip of her tea before she settled the cup back on the table, still nestled between her palms. "Mum, can I ask you…?"

"Of course."

"How did you decide, you and—I mean—"

"Are you worrying over the future—and Gavin?" Cully hadn't finished her question, but Joyce didn't need her to. How had she and Tom decided there was something so proper and right about one another for not just a few weeks or months, but much longer?

"I guess," her daughter said as she shrugged, the movement bringing a small mark up from beneath the collar of her blouse. If Cully hadn't been so protective of that one spot a few minutes earlier, Joyce might not have even noticed the yellowy, bluish bruise. Oh Cully...You really are farther gone down the road than I realized.

"Our answer won't be the same as yours, Cully, it can't be. It's for you and Gavin to decide."

Her daughter smiled weakly across the table, her hands still clasped around that delicate cup. "And I suppose it won't be easy either."

"The most important things in life usually aren't."

"Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it," she said quietly.

"How do you mean?"

"If something hasn't been easy before, why should it be now?"

Joyce had so many questions she needn't ask; they would receive no answers. Difficulties had always somehow arisen between Cully and Gavin, but their path had appeared clearer over the last half year or so, no matter how the pair struggled to hold what was so obviously blossoming romance to themselves. (Though usually their attempts at discretion were rather more successful than tonight, the scene unfolding around the dining room table more like something ripped from a rom-com than an evening in anyone's real life.) But perhaps it was more than that: Tom had made it painfully clear throughout the past years that he was no fan of them sharing anything but the barest friendship. "Things do change, you know that."

"Yes, but is it always this difficult to be sure of...anything?"

"Not necessarily, love, but you might find you understand everything before you know anything."

"Just..."

"What?"

Cully took a deep breath. "I feel I've always—known where I'm going and usually how to get there, and...who to have along with me on the way. Even if I don't understand exactly everything in its moment."

The last doubts fled Joyce's mind: her daughter was truly falling down the rabbit hole. "Cully, sometimes you have to feel your way through things. You can't always know."

"And what if I still can't be sure?"

"Sometimes, you can't be sure."

"But I don't know—"

Joyce shook her head, folding her hand around Cully's. "But you have to remember, you can't think through some things, some things you have to feel that path."

"And did you?"

"Yes." It hadn't always been easy, Joyce remembered; her own growing feelings for the policeman who became her husband had little by little rubbed her parents raw—until suddenly they didn't. "At some point, thoughts won't serve you well any longer."

"But—"

"I've seen you trust your feelings before, Cully, both when they made you happy and sad."

"I suppose that's why you told me I need to understand everything first."

"Yes," Joyce said with a nod. "Whatever happened this weekend, really?"

"Maybe—I finally saw and...understood, like you've said, Mum."

"Understood what?"

"What was important, not—" Cully stopped, searching for a breath before she started again. "Not what was easy—or nice."

"And that was?" she asked quietly. But need she really ask? If anything, all Joyce wanted was some final confirmation of whom was important—Cully's voice at last admitting it aloud as all her gazes and faint grins had over the course of dinner.

Cully took another sip of tea, perhaps allowing herself another few seconds to think before she spoke. "I'm...still not sure. But it wasn't in Cambridge."

"Was your university friend that trying for just a day or so?"

It was delightful to hear her daughter laugh again, even if she had heard a small measure of that same happiness when she walked through the door that evening with Gavin. "No, of course not. James was—the same as always."

And then, the silence was back again as they both continued to make short work of their tea, though thinner and less pained. "Do you think you'll read for the next production at the Playhouse?" Joyce finally asked. "Even if it isn't Salomé?"

"Probably," Cully said with a slow nod. "I'm still not sure how I feel about that play, though."

"How so?"

"I don't know. The more I think on it and remember it, the weirder it sounds."

Again, Joyce knew, it was odd. "You've been in uncomfortable plays before." She still well remembered that very first major play in Cambridge, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore: Annabella, yielding to the incestuous passion of her brother. Perhaps it would have rankled more if Tom had not been so amused, finally understanding some reference in a case that had eluded him even after its conclusion.

"Yes," Cully went on, glancing away for a second, "but...I'm still not certain. At least now."

"So if not, what will you do next?"

"I may look into voice-over work, in London."

"Really?" It was not the answer she expected. "That's never been your favorite thing."

"No—and I don't think that will ever change."

"Then why?"

"Well," Cully began slowly, as though she was choosing her words more cautiously than ever, "it's so easy to start and stop, and it's hardly more than overnight in town, if that."

"Is it that important for you to be here rather than there?"

Her daughter nodded. "For now...I think so." With another swift sip or two, Cully finished her tea and folded her jacket into the crook of her elbow, the feet of her chair scraping on the tile as she pushed her chair back and stood. "Thanks for listening, Mum," she said quietly.

"Of course. I—we're always here to listen."

Her tea cup still lay wrapped in one hand, fingers laced around its bowl to hold it tight and safe. "I think I've been saying thank you too often, these past few weeks."

Her daughter had, and Joyce was rather glad about it. "I'd rather you did than hold everything to yourself."

"Perhaps, but I suppose I'm just worried."

"Still over Gavin?"

Cully nodded again. "Yes. And not...tomorrow, or anything like that. It was—so difficult to listen to what happened, when I talked with him that evening."

Joyce hadn't said anything about that incident to Cully, not wanting her to think on it anymore than she clearly already was, even with the faintest outline of the tale. Tom already struggled to shield them both from some of the darker aspects of the work he and his sergeant pursued each day around the county and his words were more cautious than usual. He had quietly regaled her with some of the details as they readied themselves for bed, changing into pajamas and turning down the sheets; she still suspected her husband had danced around a few nastier moments. And to know Cully had immediately turned to him in that unnerving moment...Joyce was completely unsurprised. "He told you what happened, then?"

"Yes." Her daughter shuddered, some memory rising in her mind. "It—it could have been so much worse, Mum."

"It wasn't—and you have to remember you can't think about what could be all the time. You know that."

"I know. But so soon, I can't quite get it out of my head. And, it's not just that."

"Then what?"

"How much will...I asked him over the weekend, what did Dad say to him all those months ago." Joyce wanted to ask something—but instead, she waited, wondering if Cully would say something without being prodded. "And I hope..." her daughter finally added, though her voice faded away.

"What?"

"It's nothing. And thank you again for listening." Dropping her jacket onto her chair and circling around to the sink, Cully splashed a few drops of soap into her cup, washing it out quickly before she rinsed the last suds from the bowl down the drain. "I think I'll say goodnight, though."

"It's rather early, love," Joyce said even as Cully turned her tea cup over, setting it on the draining board with a delicate hand. "Are you sure you're ready for bed?"

"Maybe not, but I thought I'd call Gavin after...this evening."

Of course. "To see if he's all right?"

Cully almost smiled, gathering her windbreaker again as she took a few steps to the kitchen's entrance. "I guess you could say so."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow."

Still seated in her chair at the small kitchen table in their small kitchen, Joyce sipped at the remnants of her cooling tea, Cully's footsteps drumming up the staircase and over her head. Quite early to be going to bed, as she had just said, but perhaps her daughter had other things to do before finally falling into bed for the night. Too many things were bubbling away in the girl's mind that she didn't quite seem ready to give voice, too many things that Joyce remembered herself from so many years ago.

It was a hard place to be, struggling to understand how to find your way in life—and who to bring with you along the way. In a world of possibilities where one choice cut off all other paths...how terrifying to make one bold decision and change everything. And with Cully no doubt still chafing beneath the Tom's frustration over her relationship with Gavin...maybe it was unsurprising in the end.

"You have to make a choice at some point, darling. And if you change your life, you change your life." Joyce whispered, at last finishing the last dregs of tea. She well remembered her own parents' disapproval over Tom, those first months of unhappy commentary on their marriage—and the disappointment fading to acceptance, finally giving way to affection. If it was what Cully stumbled into, in the end, that was something Tom would simply need to learn and understand. Even as she stood, at last slipping the milk back into its home in the refrigerator before she washed out her own delicate cup, settling it beside her daughter's. "If you're falling in love, Cully, don't throw it away without a reason."

As the evening further darkened and the admittedly mild mid-autumn temperature suddenly dropped, Joyce whiled away the next couple of hours in the front room again, at first just trying to pay attention to the latest news from around the county. Nothing too wretched: the next few days' weather in the region, a review and plea for help for a stalled murder case. After the end of the report, she returned her attention to the travel book she had been reading when Cully and Gavin stumbled through the front door. She hadn't heard Tom make his way up the stairs, so she supposed he was still in his study; giving a final review to the reports for the court case she knew was upcoming rather than brooding, she hoped. But there was no way of knowing, at least for now.

When the chill of the night finally grew too much and the goosebumps bubbled over her skin, she made the trek to her own bedroom, ignoring the low murmurs from Cully's. No need to ask why. By the time Tom finally stepped in from the hallway, she was already sat up and tucked beneath the covers of their bed clad in her pajamas, buried the novel she had been reading little by little each evening. "I didn't think you'd ever come to bed," she said quietly as the door closed softly and she let the book's pages fall shut around her fingers.

"Just some things on my mind, Joyce," he said, shrugging even as he yawned, "and there were—his reports to review for later this week."

You aren't the only one. "Do you think there will be any problems?"

"In court? I doubt it." In front of their dresser, at last fiddling with the top button of his shirt, he slowly asked, "Did you talk with Cully?"

"Of course, Tom, she had some things she wanted to sort out."

"I'm not surprised after this evening."

"You're not going on about that again."

He sighed, his fingers pausing on his third shirt button. "No, I'm not, Joyce. Or at least..."

"What?"

"I'm trying not to."

Opening her book again to fold the top corner down to mark her place to return a Victorian adventure across the dark and windy moors, Joyce set it beneath the lamp on her side table. "She still seems quite taken with him—more than ever, I think."

Tom nodded slowly. "I know."

"You'll have to talk to them both eventually."

"Give me a little time."

She couldn't hold in her sigh. "I think you've had more than a little. How long has it been?"

"Things are rather different than the beginning of the summer."

"Aren't they allowed to be?"

"Joyce—"

"She isn't your little girl anymore, Tom," she said loudly, sitting up straighter.

She heard him let out a long breath as he finally sat beside her on the edge of their bed beside her; Joyce felt the mattress sag slightly as his shoulders slumped. "I am quite aware of that. I'm not sure she ever was."

Running her hand over the top of his back, Joyce said quietly, "I wouldn't go that far."

"Well then, she certainly grew up quickly."

"We can agree on that."

Tom was tugging at his collar, as though he forgot he had no tie to discard on a Sunday evening. "Just she's been through this so many times before."

Joyce tried to pull him closer, her hand drifting to his far shoulder. "Perhaps—but she's a little older now."

"Which gives me hope that..."

"What?"

He glanced back at her, the lines on his face etched deeper and sharper in shadows of the growing darkness. "You still know what I think of him, love."

"And you've never tried to mince your words about your sergeant, not him." From almost the first moment he was assigned the young, newly promoted sergeant—not altogether happily taking the man under his wing—Tom had held him at arm's length, struggling to hem Gavin into his working world. But in the end, Cully always had other plans. "I don't think you know him, not really."

Clasping his palm over her hand on his shoulder, Tom said quietly, "You never fail to remind me of that."

"Then what is it?"

"I know there's—not much I can do."

"Much?"

He had a small smile, like he was thinking about a different future and world than the one he feared was taking shape in front of his eyes. "Then nothing."

One step at a time, she thought, even if I don't suppose you truly believe it. "You're right about that."

"But how many times, Joyce?"

"Of what?" she asked quietly, sliding her hand from beneath his.

"How many times have we seen her so taken with someone and so happy, and watched it all fall apart in the end?"

"Keep trying to remember, Tom, she is older than she was then—and hopefully a little wiser." Already, Joyce had seen the difference in their daughter: her uncertainty and confusion, trying to understand what Gavin truly was to her, foregoing her audition in a city she adored to be back in her hometown in a rural home county to be with him. Cully needn't say it aloud, just as she needn't be honest with her words about the course of the weekend; all the glances and little smiles between the pair of them and the bruise at the base of her neck she fancied she had kept hidden told the tale clearly enough.

"Suppose the next thing you'll say is that I'll have to wait and see if it all holds together?"

"Something like that."

Tom finally found the next button on his shirt, his mind finally settling back in the here and now rather than drifting amongst possibilities and a tomorrow she knew to be the last path he wanted to see Cully wander along. "I guess we'll just have to see."

A short while later—even with the overhead light snapped off and the night closing in around them as she returned to her book beneath the fainter glow of her own lamp—Joyce heard the mattress creak once or twice as her husband turned from one side to the other. The low sound of his breathing was constant, refusing to give way to the faint snores she knew after decades of marriage. Still keeping his thoughts to himself, she decided, turning another page of the paperback in her hands. Seems like everyone is.

A/N: This is coming out later than I wish it was, especially for a chapter that is—simultaneously—complicated and quite uncomplicated. I'm sorry. The last couple of weeks or so, I've been emotionally overwhelmed by...stuff, and when that happens, I just shut down. And Happy Zombie Jesus Day, y'all!