Author's Note:My deepest appreciation goes to Mike, who tore himself away from a US Women's soccer team match to edit this chapter for me.
Adam Montgomery's office was the opposite of its occupant.
In his patterned blazer and lime-green pants, he was the only splash of color and personality in an otherwise generic office setting; a quality that had attracted a newly-graduated Rachel Berry years ago, when she was searching for her first agent.
"Rachel!"
"Hi, Adam," she said, and was promptly wrapped up in a hug. "Thanks for calling me."
"Oh no, darling, thank you for coming down." He released her with a peck on her cheek, and snatched up a thick bundle of pages in a plastic folder from his desk, holding it out to her. "Here you go. Do you want the brief rundown?"
"Please."
He motioned for Rachel to sit, perching on the corner of his desk, and taking what looked like a rather dog-eared version of the script from a drawer. "Alright, so, it's about a bunch of young adults trying to make sense of their dysfunctional modern life, but it's a comedic musical. Like… Dear Evan Hansen meets that old TV show about a high school Glee club, I forget the name…"
"Huh," said Rachel, already flipping through the pages, "and you're sure this is the next big thing?"
"Have I ever steered you wrong?"
She laughed indulgently. "No, I suppose not," said Rachel, and Adam beamed at her.
"Just take it home. Read through it. Sleep on it. No pressure, okay?"
"Have you got a team?"
Adam nodded. "Most of the old crew is interested, but their confirmation depends on the cast."
"Meaning?"
He pressed his palms together. "Our funding depends on whether we've got Rachel Berry headlining this." Here he looked a bit sheepish. "I'll be frank; the only reason I'm even in on this in the first place is because I'm your agent; Matthew – that's the writer – wrote the female lead with you in mind."
Rachel sighed. "That's a lot of pressure."
"I can always tell them you're not interested," he said gently. "You're practically family, Rachel. You come first."
"But you love this."
"I do," he admitted, "but you're not me." He sprang to his feet and gently coaxed Rachel onto hers, pointing her in the direction of the door. "Here's a demo tape of Matthew's music," said Adam, pressing a flash drive into her hand. "Call me whenever, okay?"
What's it like there?
Rachel?
Just humor me. Okay?
I'm not completely convinced this is the best course of action to take, Rachel. Speaking as a friend.
Rachel wasn't quite sure when the Abomination had started using vernacular that made it seem more… human. She decided it didn't bother her.
Please.
She was counting on the machine to be unable to refuse her request – it's been programmed with Quinn's personality, and Quinn had always had difficulty saying no to her. Rachel releases a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding when the reply is a single:
Okay.
Thank you.
Don't mention it.
To answer your question… it's everything and nothing at the same time. Peaceful. There's nothing to worry about. Nowhere to go. Nothing to feel.
Rachel smiled. It was, almost verbatim, the answer Quinn had given when they'd talked about life after death. It was her version of heaven; a place she would be free of the burdens and self-doubt she'd carried in life. While Rachel had never held a strong opinion on the afterlife, she'd found herself wanting one like Quinn's – ideally, one with Quinn.
And you're happy?
I'm at peace.
I'm glad. Of course I wish you were here with me right now, but at least you're at peace now.
No answer was immediately forthcoming. Rachel didn't wait for one; she turned off the power after sending the message.
It was a week later when Rachel flopped on the couch, exhausted from a long day of chasing a rambunctious toddler through the house, and something underneath rustled. Her initial thought as she stuck a hand under the seat cushion was that it was one of Elly's picture books until she pulled out a rumpled script still in its plastic folder, a flash drive taped to the front.
"Oh," she said, sheepishly. Rachel vaguely remembered tossing it on the couch when she'd gotten home that night and then forgetting all about it.
Now seemed like the perfect time to read. Elly was asleep, and she didn't have anything else to do. Rachel smoothed out the worst of the creases and left the script on her coffee table, starting the preparations for her script reading ritual automatically. As she puttered around the house, she half-expected to look up and see Quinn in her favorite armchair watching her.
She could see it now; Quinn with a book or her laptop in her hands, glasses perched on her nose, watching her with that faintly amused smile, eyes molten gold in lamplight. When they moved in together, Rachel added stealing a kiss from Quinn to her ritual.
Rachel found the thought comforting rather than devastating, as it would have been months ago. When she returned from the kitchen, herbal tea in hand, she let her fingers trail over the back of the armchair on her way to the couch.
So… I was thinking of going back to work.
Rachel, that's wonderful news. Tell me more about this new show.
It's a satirical comedy musical; Rent, but with darker humor. I feel like that's an understatement, because it's witty and sharp and full of references to modern dysfunction… you would have loved it. It's like one of your thick Times non-fiction bestseller list books set to music.
Social Dysfunction, The Musical? I don't know how that works, but if you say it does, I'll take your word for it. You're the professional actress, after all.
I suppose so, but I haven't even decided if I'm taking the job yet.
What's stopping you?
Rachel leaned back in her chair. There was nothing stopping her, physically, but it hurt her brain trying to rationalize all the emotional reasons to a damned machine.
For one thing, the fact that I'm talking to you and not my wife.
Oh.
Elly needs me. It's not even been a year, and I don't think I'm ready to go back to work. It feels like… I'm moving on with the rest of my life. And I'm not ready for that yet. I think. I don't know how to put this in words.
You're doing very well so far.
I still feel like it's lacking. I'm not the best at expressing myself in words alone, when you can't see my facial expressions and you can't hear the tone of my voice. I'm a stage actress, for God's sake.
I know, Rachel.
Rachel worried her lower lip incessantly. Many times she attempted to type a response, paused, and then deleted it. Quinn knew her, and this machine was the closest she had to Quinn now, so it stood to reason that she shouldn't have to worry about expressing herself, and yet…
Rachel, I may be a machine, but I can hear you freaking out. Breathe.
She was no longer startled when the Abomination spouted Quinn-isms at her.
Sorry.
Don't apologize. It's fine.
So, what's stopping you? Apart from the fact you're talking to a machine?
Rachel laughed.
Yes – apart from that – I'm scared.
Scared?
Yeah. Things will never be the same again. But if I go back to the stage, I'm afraid there'll be a moment when I'll forget, and the thought of crashing back into reality… it'll hurt. I don't want that to happen. I don't want to forget.
Performing's such a big part of you. Even before me.
You're a big part of me. Performing used to be that thing that filled up the huge void in my life, but you changed that.
No, I didn't.
The Abomination's blatant reply gave Rachel pause.
Rachel, I may not have seen you perform. But I have memories of the way Quinn felt when she watched you onstage, when she heard you sing. I know how your eyes sparkle after a successful premiere, how hard you work on bringing your character to life, how you talk about Fanny and Elphaba and Fantine like they're old friends and not fictional characters.
Performing doesn't bring the same joy and meaning that you did.
It doesn't, but isn't it joy nonetheless?
There's more than one kind of happiness in this world, Rachel.
And I want you, more than any person in that world, to be happy.
Messages flashed in quick succession across the screen; Rachel, tears blurring her eyes, took her hands off the keyboard to wipe them away.
Thank you.
For a moment, the lines blurred. She felt like Quinn was there with her, and everything was alright.
Luckily for Rachel, the nanny she and Quinn had first hired when Elly was born was still available. After she had officially confirmed her participation in the production with Adam, the pace had picked up considerably, and the first workshop was scheduled for late November.
Apart from the show, Rachel had a lot of work to do on herself. She was physically out of shape, and her voice cracked whenever she attempted vocally challenging songs like Defying Gravity. With a few months to go before the tentative first rehearsal, she swallowed her pride and called an old acquaintance.
Cassandra July met her outside the main campus building of NYADA bright and early. "Well, Ohio," she said, looking Rachel up and down, "you definitely called the right professional, you look like you need help. We'll have you passably competent in no time."
The years had mostly immunized Rachel to Cassie's jabs. "You look well, Cassie. At first, I wasn't even sure you were alive," she said, following Cassie into the building.
Her former dance teacher chuckled. "I was right. Nothing like the real world for putting a backbone in. It suits you." She unlocked the studio and lifted the blinds, letting the early morning sunlight in. "Now, I didn't give up my morning to listen to your pathetic bitching. Give me Christine's ballet routine from Phantom. That was last year, so I trust you haven't forgotten that like you have your fashion sense."
Rachel ignored the jibes. She stood, back ramrod-straight, waiting for her cue. Cassie started the music, and Rachel leapt forward.
She danced in silence up until Cassie said, "Stop, stop," and walked forward, waving her cane. Rachel tried not to gasp for air; trust Cassie to have picked the most demanding routine for someone who hadn't performed in half a year.
"That was the clumsiest Christine I've ever seen, and I've seen many, many freshmen attempt that. Hell, even a goddamn high-schooler at theater summer camp did it better," snapped the older woman. "Forget it. Do the aria."
She'd only gotten a few bars in before Cassie waved for her to stop. "I've heard enough. It's worse than I thought. We have a lot of work to do if you want to be passable; I can't have you out there embarrassing me and this school."
"We?"
Cassie stared at her. "Yes, we. Unless your hearing has also degenerated?"
Rachel frowned in confusion. "Cassie, I only asked for your professional evaluation so I know what to start working on first. I didn't ask you to coach me."
"And my professional evaluation is that you're hopeless," retorted Cassie bluntly. "I will not have you wasting the time of any other professional out there. You came into my class as an arrogant child years ago, and I made sure you left it as a real performer – barely competent – but real, nonetheless." She put a hand on her hip. "I'm sure I could manage that again."
"But your classes? Your students?"
"Schwimmer, the more you open your mouth, the more I'm convinced that you belong in a nursing home and not onstage. The incompetent trash that call themselves teaching assistants can fill in now and then; and I'm sure you don't have any plans in the evenings and weekends apart from feeling sorry for yourself."
Rachel opened her mouth to protest, then thought the better of it. This was Cassie offering to help – in her unique, charming way – and Rachel found herself grateful for it. "Thank you, Cassie."
The older woman gave her an evil smile as she spun on her heel and headed towards her laptop. "Oh, you won't be thanking me once we're done here tonight, sweetcakes."
Rachel gulped.
"Owowowow," Rachel muttered under her breath as she fished her keys out of her purse. She ached in places she didn't even know she could ache; on top of a long and busy day, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath and her bed. Rachel had never been this sore as a college student; she wondered how much Cassandra July had been holding back.
While Rachel mostly blamed her sadistic former teacher (or should that be amended?) for her sorry condition, a small part knew she had let herself go, and Cassie was only doing what was necessary to get Rachel Berry back in top Broadway form in the shortest time possible.
And she of all people knew what sacrifice was. There was her elliptical, and her MySpace videos (later YouTube), and her vocal coaches. She'd given up on having a normal teenager's life for her dreams, and if not for Glee, she wouldn't have experienced it at all.
She put on her biggest smile and opened the door.
"Hello, baby," said Rachel as Elly babbled and toddled over, scooping her daughter up. "How was your day?"
"Babaloogoo," said Elly. She rested her head on Rachel's shoulder.
"She was a perfect angel. We watched Barney and every Disney movie you have," said the sitter. "She even went down for a nap."
"Is that right!" Rachel kissed the side of Elly's head. "My good girl."
Not long after the sitter left, the doorbell chimed, and Rachel frowned. Recently there had been too many people showing up on her doorstep unannounced, and she was hoping that it wouldn't be happening often.
"Schwimmer," drawled an unmistakable voice from outside, "open this door, I know you're in there."
"Cassie?"
"Congratulations, you've won the solid gold Kewpie doll. Now let me in."
She unlocked the door, hoping it was a nightmare; but it was indeed Cassandra July standing outside. "You left this in my studio," she said, holding out a rhinestone-studded diary. Rachel took it absently. "By the way, did you know your daughter is trying to eat your hair?"
"What?" She turned her head to find it was true. "Elly! No! We don't eat Mama's hair!" Rachel struggled to extract her hair from Elly's mouth but it was difficult with her daughter occupying one hand and the other still holding her diary.
"Berry, give her here."
Rachel paused. "... What?"
Cassie made an impatient gesture. "I said, give her here. Watching you be a mess wasn't how I imagined spending my evening. Let me take your kid while you pull yourself together." She stepped into the house proper, hands held out.
Rachel simply handed her daughter to her dance teacher (Elly whined in protest as her new toy was taken from her) and swept her hair over her shoulder with a grimace. "I'm sorry. Let me get this cleaned up."
"Take your time," said Cassie. She bounced Elly in her arms, making her giggle.
When Rachel got back, she was surprised to see Cassie singing, and her daughter clapping her hands in delight.
"You're very good with her."
"I had to look after my three kid siblings when I was still a kid myself," said Cassie dryly. "My mother was either at work or drunk."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. That was a long time ago; they're all grown up now with little brats of their own." Cassie adjusted her stance. "Now, I believe this belongs to you."
Rachel took the fussing toddler back. "Thank you, Cassie. Not just for this – for everything." She lifted a free hand, waved it once; half-expecting a cutting remark in response.
Instead, the older woman simply shrugged. "Don't sweat it, Ohio. Now, my studio is free Monday and Wednesday mornings; I'll expect you at eight sharp."
The abrupt change of subject threw Rachel off-kilter for a moment. "What?"
Cassie gave her a withering look. "Schwimmer, I have so many things I want to say to you right now but luckily for you, I'm not about to stoop low enough to insult you in front of your kid." She turned on her heel and opened the door. "Monday, Berry," she called, and then it clicked shut behind her.