Fandom: The Mentalist

Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim… if not his sanity, itself.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading. I try to get these chapters out in a "timely" manner, but life has a way of stealing seconds and then minutes and then hours. Plus, this stuff is heavy to write. It's probably heavy to read, too. But it's very heavy to write. I appreciate every review. I know this is a shorter chapter, but it is what it is. Thanks, guys. - Lex

"Is there a fire in the sky

Is there a moon up there

Is anything alive now

This darkness is what I hear

This is a breathless silence

A moment out of time

I see your face in the shadows

The tell-tale signs are in your eyes" - The Big Hush by Shriekback

"There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps

Running before times took our dreams away" - High Hopes by Pink Floyd

"It is in your nature to do one thing correctly: Tremble." - Francis Dollarhyde in Manhunter (1986)

Jane moved himself to the couch after he was sure Charlotte was asleep. His body trembled and ached. He lay his head down on the couch cushions, pulled a thin throw blanket over his body. The lamps were dimmed. He'd catch a few hours, try to rest...

The sound of movement woke him. He opened his eyes, rubbed them. Charlotte was awake and was carrying something to the bathroom.

"Charlotte?" He said groggily and sat up on the couch. She was wearing her house coat, had a bag of stuff, had an old vintage bath castle with a Cabbage Patch Kids theme going for it which had been vintage when she'd been a toddler. Angela had purchased the bath castle at a thrift store or yard sale or some such, and Charlotte had played with it as a toddler. Jane had kept it and now Charlotte was carrying it towards the bathroom.

"You okay?" Jane said, standing up, walking into the hall.

"Going to get a bath. Am cold," she said tiredly and carried the castle into the bathroom, closed the door.

Jane walked the final few feet to the closed bathroom door, gently tapped on the door.

"Charlie?"

"Cold," he heard from inside the bathroom. Other than that, she sounded okay.

"Okay," Jane said patiently. He heard the sound of water splashing as she got into the tub. He glanced around, didn't see Dixon. Listened outside the door and heard the dog's overgrown nails on the linoleum bathroom floor, inside.

"Dixon in there with you?" Jane called through the door.

"Dixon's cold too," Charlotte said back. Jane considered her words. Wondered if this meant she was going to get a bath with the dog.

Whatever. Focus on one thing at a time.

He looked down at his wristwatch. It was a little after 7 in the morning. His arms and legs ached from tension and lactic acid. His head pounded dully and he had a crick in his neck from sleeping propped up by couch cushions. He rubbed his hands over his upper arms. It felt chilly in here, cold, even though it was nearing the last week of August in California.

Jane walked down the hall, stopped at the thermostat, turned the heat on. He wandered back to the bathroom door. Tapped gently again.

"I'm going to make us some breakfast. You want some breakfast?" Jane called softly.

There was a splashing noise. Silence. Then Charlotte's voice, groggy sounding.

"Okay."

"I can make us pancakes or french toast. Or grilled cheese or something. Eggs. What do you want?"

Silence for a moment as Charlotte ran various possibilities through her head.

"Grilled cheese and tater tots?"

"I can make that for you, yes," Jane called back. He felt nervous about leaving her. She was in a regressed state, alone in the bathroom, dealing with the sort of nightmare-making memories that drove more people than not to suicide.

But she'd carried that damned plastic castle inside the bathroom. And her dog. Those were good signs.

"Good". As good as things got in this lifetime, maybe.

When Charlotte had been little she'd been confused about "grilled cheese", had thought for the longest time her Daddy had been saying "girl cheese". She'd asked him, aged three, what boy cheese sandwiches tasted like.

Now, remembering that, Jane smiled a little to himself.

He walked back into the kitchen, pulled the frying pan out from where it was stationed under the oven, pulled a block of cheddar and the butter out from the fridge, the white bread (Charlotte ate) out from the cabinet. He turned the oven on, got the tater tots out from the freezer. Filled the kettle with tap water and set it to boil for his morning tea.

Life never stopped. No matter what happened, no matter how much pain some pocket of time contained, life continued on. And the body's need for food and drink and sleep and rest.

Charlotte's grilled cheese was done, her tater tots stacked up on the side of the plate, a little dollop of kitchen beside everything and a dill pickle next to the sandwich. Cooling on the plate.

Jane had fixed himself scrambled eggs and a few strips of bacon, some stewed tomatoes. The tomatoes were a British thing, something he'd started eating a few years ago. A good way to boost vitamin C levels.

He'd had a cup of tea with a little bit of sugar and two motrins for a developing headache, the muscle pain.

Back to the bathroom. He rapped on the door.

"Charlotte? Your food is done," Jane called through the thin plywood.

"Still... cold..."

That was troubling.

"Why don't you come out of the bath and get dried and come eat your breakfast? You might feel a little better."

"Cold. Staying in here."

Jane sighed at the door. He felt uneasy. No dog noises from inside the bathroom.

He knocked again.

"You can come in," Charlotte said and he heard something like a chatter in her voice. She was 16 and in the washroom, bathing, but he was worried. He tried the door, and it opened.

Charlotte was wearing her bathing suit. She had the bath filled up with water and bubbles as high as she could fill it without the water overflowing and flooding the bathroom. The vintage Cabbage Patch Kids bath castle was resting on the lip of the bathtub, and she had some plastic juice tumblers floating in the bath. Her hair was soaking, flecked with bubbles. Dixon was in the bath too- content, it appeared, just to sit in the bubbles next to his master like some dog posing for a family photo. The dog grinned at Jane as Jane approached the tub, sat down on the edge.

As Jane watched, Charlotte filled one of the plastic juice tumblers with the bath water, poured it down a little hole in the bath castle. The water run through, down a little plastic slide meant for flat cabbage patch kids. The cabbage patch kids had been lost long ago. Only the pastel-colored plastic castle with its slide for ghosts was left.

The water was aquamarine. Jane had purchased Charlotte some fizzy color bath bombs, which dyed the water green or blue or yellow or purple. Charlotte had used two of them, apparently, and dyed the water a strong blue-green.

Even in the bath water, she was shivering.

Jane felt sad, watching her, regressed and cold and alone. Covered in bubbles, eyes distant, trying to reclaim her broken childhood. He watched as she poured another tumbler of blue-green bath water down the slide. Then another.

She looked up at him with wet eyes.

"I don't get this," She said and looked back down at the bath castle.

"It's a toddler toy," Jane said softly, got up from the edge of the tub and shifted over to the toilet, put the lid down and sat down. Tented his fingers and watched his kid, elbows on his knees.

"I wanted it to be fun," Charlotte said to the castle and tried another tumbler of water with a tragically hopeful expression on her face.

"Well... it's a toy for very little children, Charlie," Jane said again, as softly as he could, as gently as possible. "You're too big for it, now. You've outgrown it."

She didn't seem to be listening to him. Didn't acknowledge his words.

"Didn't there used to be little people that went down the slide?" Charlotte asked the room, and her finger traced the little slot in the side of the bath castle that the Cabbage Patch Kids had dropped through once upon a time. A life time ago.

"Yes, I think so," Jane said in that same careful, soft tone.

"Where are the little people?"

"I think they got lost," Jane said matter-of-factly.

"They were very little people," Charlotte said to the bath castle in a tender voice. Jane nodded.

"Yes. They were."

"Do you think they were happy? Once upon a time?"

"I think they were happy once," Jane said tightly. He kept his words as neutral as he could manage. They weren't talking about toys anymore. If they ever had been.

The castle was her life from before, a metaphor, whether she consciously knew it or not. The lost little people had been her, her Daddy, her dead mother. All ghosts now. Her mother gone and buried, her father no longer the same care-free man and the girl?

The girl was definitely not the same, not the same at all. An entirely different person dreaming the memories of someone who no longer existed.

The pre-Red-John-Charlotte no longer existed in anything but shards of memories.

"Feeling any warmer?" Jane asked after a minute. Charlotte shivered in the water. Dunked her head under the blue-green bubbles and came back up again, wiping the water from her squinting eyes with her soapy, wrinkled fingers.

When she'd first come back into his life, he'd thought she was short at about five feet, maybe 5 foot one if he was being generous. But she'd been wearing sneakers with fairly thick rubber soles. Without shoes, wearing only socks or going barefoot, Jane estimated she might only be 4 foot ten or so. Maybe 4 foot eleven.

Stunted in body and mind and emotions.

Fucking Red John.

"I feel so cold," Charlotte told the bath water. Jane scooted over to the bathtub, tested the water with his finger tips.

It was lukewarm.

"We could drain some of the water out and put hotter water in the bath?" Jane suggested helpfully. Charlotte nodded, reached under the bubbles and pulled the bath plug. When about half of the water was gone, she popped it back into place.

Jane turned the hot water spigot, added a bit of cold so she wouldn't burn herself, and filled the bath back up.

"Better?" Jane asked his daughter. She nodded, head coated in a mane of bubbles.

"I could go and get your food if you want. Do you want to eat in the bath?"

Charlotte considered this option. Finally nodded.

"Yes, please."

Jane smiled. Walked back to the kitchen, came back with the food.

Dixon moved in the water at the approach and smell of food.

Blue-green water now coated the bathroom linoleum around the tub.

Jane put Charlotte's plate of food on the top of the toilet seat, hunched down near the tub. One of Charlotte's water-wrinkled hands came out of the bath water, grabbed a handful of tater tots, stuffed them into her mouth in one go.

Dixon shifted in the bath water, craned his head for food. Jane sighed. More water was splashing over the edge of the bath tub, onto the floor.

"Dixon... out..." Jane said and got a towel off the towel rack on the wall. The dog jumped out of the bath, excited, shook his body. Water droplets flew everywhere. Jane draped the towel over him, rubbed the dog to get most of the water absorbed. Dixon wriggled out from the towel, broke fear and ran down the hall to go hydrate the living room sofa. Great. Jane dropped the wrinkled, damp towel on the bathroom floor, kicked it around to sop up most of the floor's water.

"Eat your food, and then shower off. Okay?" Watching her stare longingly at that old, pastel bath toy for kids still in training pants was hurting his heart.

"I still feel cold," Charlotte said and grabbed a few more tater tots.

"I know, but I think that feeling is more psychological than anything."

"Hmm?"

"I don't think staying in the bath any longer will help you feel warmer," Jane explained patiently.

"Okay," Charlotte said between gulps of tater tots and ketchup. She reached out and grabbed at the sandwich. Now she had half of the grilled cheese in her soapy hands, and then she was furiously biting at the bread, the cheese, eyes heavily dilated.

Jane watched her wolf it down like it might grow wings and fly away. Food insecurity. Common in kids who had grown up in prisoner-of-war camps and concentration camps, war zones. To see his own teenaged, regressed child clutching food and gulping it down like a starving, wild animal also hurt his heart, too. His soul.

"Okay, why don't you shower off now, okay?" Jane said gently when both halves of the sandwich had been wolfed down and all that was left of the tater tots were grease and ketchup smears on the plate.

"I feel dirty," Charlotte told him, dipping her head back under the blue-green bath water. Jane waited until she came back up for air. She wiped her eyes again and stared at him for answers.

"Dirty?"

"Greasy. Dirty. My pores are full of dirt," she said and showed him her arms, where she had scrubbed them raw with the nail brush. To get the dirt out.

Dirt that couldn't come out, because it wasn't in any way physical.

Jane considered the red, raw flesh. Bubbles everywhere in the tub, sliding down the outside of the porcelain enamel side of the bathtub. Huge, lost, pained eyes staring out at him from his daughter's lost, small face.

"You're not dirty, though," Jane said with a calm he didn't feel. "Feelings aren't always accurate representations of reality. You know you're not dirty."

"I can't get the dirt off," Charlotte said sadly, looking down at the bath water as if it had betrayed her. "And I am cold."

"Let's drain the bath water, okay? And you can shower off. You're covered in soap."

Charlotte listened to his words and nodded. Looked back at the bath castle and traced the outside, molded surface with one wrinkled pointer finger.

"That enough food? Or are you still hungry?" Jane asked, bending down to pick up the plate from the toilet seat.

"I can wash that plate in the bath," Charlotte said helpfully, not answering his question. Jane shook his head. Made a face.

"Come on. That's gross."

Charlotte laughed. Jane rewarded her with a smile and took the plate back to the kitchen, rinsed it under the water spigot and put it in the dishwasher for the next load.

His head was pounding something fierce. Red-hot knives were shooting through his temples, a sensation like rubber bands squeezing his brains out.

His eyes burned. His throat worked hard like he might be sick. A sob burst out of him, then another.

He sank down onto the floor, back propped up against the dishwasher, and sobbed like a child. He tried to be quiet. Didn't need to scare Charlotte after everything else. But the sobbing was years old, repressed. Broken and wounded and starting to emotionally ferment.

Dixon heard him, came running in from the living room where he'd watered the furniture, drove his boxy head into Jane's stomach in an attempt to comfort the man. Began to lick the man's salty face.

Dixon's primary duty in life was to CHEER UP and PROTECT the GIRL, but the man was also important. Dixon began to clamber over Jane's lap, jumping up to lick his cheeks, his nose, his ears. Jane pushed the dog off gently.

Smiled through his tears. Pulled the puppy into a hug and kissed his broad forehead.

Damn, this dog probably thought they were all insane. Maybe they were.

"You're a good dog," Jane told the animal blandly. Dixon just stared at him, craned his head to the side and studied Jane's pained, stressed face, then ran back to the living room to sit on the sofa again. Job apparently done.

For the briefest of moments, Jane almost envied the dog. His simple view of reality, his devil-may-care attitude.

Charlotte came into the living room about 20 minutes later. Her hair had been toweled mostly dry and she was wearing sweats and an oversized ACDC sweatshirt. Her face was pale and she looked almost sullen. But she wasn't sullen.

She was hurting.

Jane had hoped fiercly that she would somehow, miraculously, understand she was loved and safe and the past would just... go away. But real life very rarely was as neat and simple as one's hopes. People who had been tortured and abused for years in the most sadistic of ways didn't just fall into a routine, go back to school, ride off into the sunset with glowing smiles.

Oftentimes, they got worse when they came into a safe home because the pain and trauma of years could be dealt with. When they were in the environment which had caused their scars, they knew- subconsciously if not consciously- that they couldn't face their issues, their demons. Because they weren't safe.

But when they were removed from the trauma, they often decompensated, because all those traumatic memories and wounds were given room to air out and breathe. It was when war veterans went back home and tried to integrate back into "normal" society that the symptoms of PTSD usually first appeared in earnest. And with the trauma bubbling up, often times what could happen was a loss of faith, a loss of hope. The traumatized person knew they were broken, and if they could deny that fact on the battlefield, it became obvious in the normal "safety" of everyday reality.

They couldn't keep up, couldn't sleep, startled at shadows, screamed in the night, suffered crying jags. And all of those symptoms,- while necessary for healing- also were giant neon signs that they were different, that they had been wounded in soul-crushing ways. And that realization of brokenness, of damage, was sometimes harder to process than the original injuries.

It was one thing to realize you'd been through Hell. It was quite another thing to realize and come to terms with the degree of loss involved. To begin to understand just how much had been lost and had been damaged, and maybe even died, those aspects of a person which made their lives whole. Hope. Innocence. Faith in other humans. Trust. Interest in regular, boring, every-day things.

It was during this process that depression- severe, life-threatening depression- became most dangerous. During this period of soul searching, of seeing oneself as a damaged beyond repair.

Jane had felt that back when Red John had come back and killed his wife, killed the child he'd believed without question was his daughter. At first, there had been rage and grief- sharp as pieces of glass cutting into his mind and soul. Dizzying grief, the type which seemed to choke oxygen itself from one's lungs, which made the muscles in the arms and legs burn with adrenaline and cortisol and lactic acid. The poor sleep. The all-pervading sense of hopelessness, of a loss too great to bear.

But, day by day, hour by hour, something more insidious took over. One started to realize that not only had people they loved been stolen from them, not only were they dealing with that horrendous grief and pain but they, themselves, were no longer the same. Broken. Damaged. Possibly damaged beyond repair.

It was during those moments of self-reflection that Jane had felt closest to wanting to give up life altogether. The loss was almost beyond words to express, but the depression had arrived, sneaking in more and more, dulling the colors of the world, draining the meaning and the joy from his life. Foods tasted bland and eating was just a way of powering a body he no longer cared to power.

Sleep was thin and full of tormented dreams. There was no escape in sleep. There was no escape during the day, during the waking hours, just shadows on the walls growing longer and longer as he stared at them from his armchair in the living room with the lights turned off. The door bells ringing as people he didn't really care about checked on him dutifully to make sure he was still alive. Mail piling up in the mailbox, bills to be paid, whiskers to be shaved, the body to be showered and cleaned and God, was it draining.

He didn't want to do any of it. So much work... and for what? What was the payoff? He was crushed. Life had no more meaning.

In the deepest of this dark hole was when the desire to end his life had bubbled up, taking him bit by bit. First in thoughts full of self-loathing and guilt and shame, then in sensations of dread and the certainty that life could never be okay again. How could it? He had gotten his entire family murdered, and it was his fault.

Months of that. Months of shadowy rooms and not eating, drinking barely enough water to get by, thin sleep and the fatigue growing stronger by the day. Months and then he found himself in a locked ward, in the darkest place he'd ever been even though it had been fully illuminated by flourescent tube lights.

Charlotte would experience something similar. He had no doubt. She had her own lion's share of grief and guilt, and a childhood which had been almost completely stolen.

More than that, she had been so stunted by her experiences that she couldn't fit in with her peers. Another insult to injury.

She wasn't a little child, but she wasn't in any meaningful way a teenager either. Jane wasn't sure, but he thought Red John's torture might very well have left his child sterile, and if she was, surely Charlotte would know. Another unforgivable blow, the loss of future children and a family of her own, denied all the basics that humans took for granted as "necessities" for a happy life. Red John had cut the joy and innocence and trust and pleasure and even future dreams out of her life like a sadistic Nazi surgeon gleefully cutting out a victim's eyes and ears and parts of their brain. Leaving them alive, but only to suffer.

The thought made Jane shiver, and now, looking at his child, he could see she was depressed. She was fighting, but how could she possibly be anything but depressed, facing so much unbearable, bitter loss?

He forced his expression to remain neutral. Charlotte had come out to the living room to join him in her sweats and promptly laid down on the sofa as if the simple act of sitting up was too much energy. Energy she couldn't summon.

Jane tried to make his voice cheerful.

"I want to talk to you today. I think we need to do something besides sitting around in the apartment all day. I don't think it's good for either of us."

"I'm so... tired," Charlotte murmured softly. Yes. Drifting into the pale pastel purple grey of depression.

People thought of depression as severe sadness, but severe sadness was something else. Depression was the loss of energy, loss of hope, loss of will, loss of light. The colors were muted, the sounds no longer mattered.

"I know it's hard. Coming back and trying to live a normal life. I can't imagine how hard it must be, but I have some idea," Jane said carefully. Charlotte was staring at him with distant eyes. Just enough interest there to compel him to keep going.

"What do you mean?"

"When Red John... killed your mom. And I thought he killed you... I became... very sad. Very hopeless, Nothing felt interesting anymore, and my entire body ached. I couldn't sleep and yet, all I wanted to do was sleep. Every day felt like I was running on an endless hamster wheel and I couldn't see hope for anything like real happiness again."

Jane was silent, let her slowly absorb his words. Another aspect of depression was that cognition was impaired. It was hard to concetrate.

Charlotte finally nodded.

"Do you ever feel like that? That life, itself, is just.. not worth all the work it takes to maintain? School and showering and chores and eating... and why? Why bother Am I anywhere close?"

Charlotte sighed. Finally nodded.

"I don't know what I am doing. And I can't seem to really... " she trailed.

"What?" Jane prodded.

"If I watch a show, I can't concentrate on it. And even when I can, when I force myself, I don't really care about the characters. I don't care about the plot. Maybe... maybe I'm a psychopath."

"No," Jane said, almost sternly. "You're not a psychopath. You've never been a psychopath and you never will be. You're depressed."

Charlotte stared at him, shrugged. Maybe. Who cared, though?

"Charlie, I know how dark it can get. Feels like there is no way out. Like you'll never be healthy or normal and you can't relate to things everybody else seems to get without question."

"Yeah," Charlotte said glumly.

"I want you to know, that feeling of loss of hope and interest... it's very normal. It's what happens to the human mind when it's been traumatized and sees itself as damaged and can't relate to normal life anymore. But it doesn't make you abnormal. It means what you went through was abnormal. What you went through was horrendous, hellish. But you beat it. You survived it."

"Yeah," Charlotte said in that same glum tone. Like maybe it would have been more to the good if she hadn't survived.

"You got your body physically through, alive. Your mind, your soul, your emotions... they are hurting a lot. But you can get through this time, too. You can get through this bleakness."

"How do you know?" Charlotte said from the couch. She was hugging one of the couch cushions to her chest like a shield.

"I was in my own bleak place. I didn't want to go on anymore. I didn't want to wake up."

"Do you mean..." Charlotte trailed. She didn't want to say it, but Jane was staring at her, urging her to continue.

"You can say it. It's okay," Jane said kindly.

"You wanted to die?"

"I wanted my loss of hope and interest and all the shame and guilt and grief to go away. Even if that meant dying. I just didn't want to feel it anymore, and death seemed like the only way not to feel it anymore."

"Did you... you know..." Charlotte's expression was a little less bored. Still sad and pinched, but somewhat more engaged. "Did you..."

"Did I attempt suicide?" Jane finished for her softly.

"Yes?" Charlotte said in what was little more than a whisper.

"Yes," Jane said softly. "I didn't do a very good job of it. I didn't really want to die, but I didn't want to be in any more pain."

"What happened?" Charlotte said. He had told her the basics before but never framed it this way before.

"I ended up on a locked psychiatric ward. I had good insurance and a fair bit of money saved up."

Charlotte shuddered. "I don't want to end up on some locked ward."

"I know. I don't want you to. But I don't want you to die, now, after everything. If you ever get to a place where you feel you can't bear to keep going... you have to promise me, right now. Right now, okay? You will come to me, or Lisbon. You will tell me if you ever get that far into the dark."

Charlotte gazed across the room, features pinched in sadness. It was all different now. She'd come home from a hellish war, and it was all different, and there was no way to go back, or undue it, or get back the stolen pieces. If she had come back missing legs or arms, at least that would be a physical confirmation of her loss. But physically, at least fully clothed, she looked more or less intact.

Looks could be deceiving.

"Do you think... for real, Patrick. For REAL... that there can be any sort of future for me? A good one, where I feel... good feelings? For REAL?"

She was pleading with her eyes for him to only speak the truth.

Jane sighed. Looked at his hands.

"I think the battle you have to face is maybe one of the toughest I have ever heard about or seen. I think you have a very hard, probably very long, battle ahead. To make a life that is worth living, in the ways you define worth-while."

"But if I do that? If I stay... and I work. And try? If I stay... then I can maybe have a life that is..."

She trailed. It would never be a life full of hopeful, youthful innocence. Red John had made that sort of life impossible, as neatly and simply as if he had denied someone with dreams of running marathons their dream by amputating their legs.

But Jane thought, possibly, with a lot of work, and a lot of time, Charlotte could have a life she liked more days than not. She could build a life worth living, and find moments of joy in it, and make it something that, on the whole, was a worthy experience.

He said this.

Charlotte listened to him with those distant, heavy-lidded eyes. She was so tired. And the life he spoke of (and couldn't even guarantee, at that) seemed galaxies away.

"I know you don't believe it, or it's hard to see right now, but you've already gotten through and survived the very worst of what you'll have to face in life. It might not feel like it, but you have already done the heavy lifting. You just have to stay around long enough to give your mind and soul time to catch up, to realize that you made it out of that Hell and that you have more power than you think. That you can change things."

"Maybe."

"And part of that, of letting your brain know life can be okay, is by doing things that make it harder for depression to take a hold of you. Staying home all day today and lying on the courch might feel like all you want to do, but it's not a good idea."

Charlotte shrugged.

"I'm tired."

"I know. And you can go to bed early tonight if you still feel drained. But today, at least for a little while, we're going to go out."

"Where?"

"The beach? Maybe to the library? Do some shopping. Drive in the car, maybe. Take Dixon to the dog park. There are lots of possibilities."

"None of them sound that interesting," Charlotte said and shut her eyes against the list of chores.

"I know, but this is part of how you rebuild your mind. So pick one, okay? We're going to leave in ten minutes. Do you want to go to the swimming pool? Take Dixon to the dog park? Or maybe just go shopping?"

"I don't care," Charlotte said tiredly. "You pick."

Jane got up out of his easy chair and walked to the kitchen and flipped through the cabinet. Looked in the fridge.

"We're running low on cereal and soup and stuff. And there is nothing in this house that doesn't come in a box or can. Why don't we get some fresh food, too?"

Charlotte sighed. Jane forced himself to smile back at that.

"Here's what we're going to do. I want you to get up and go to your room and get a pen or a pencil and some paper. We're going to make a list of 15 things we need to buy at the store. Easy food to cook and eat, so that we both eat more regularly. And at least 5 of those items have to be stuff that can go bad."

"Perishable food," Charlotte clarified.

"Yes," Jane said again, with more interest than he felt. "Okay? Go get something to write with and a pencil."

Charlotte stared at him drearily. He clapped his hands loudly and she startled a little, eyes brighter, staring at him.

"Come on. Chop chop. Go get the paper and pen. We're going to make our shopping list."

Slowly, as if by magic, she put the cushion down. It seemed to be a multi-step process, but she got up off the soda, stood up, wiped her eyes and slowly slogged to her bedroom in her stocking feet.

She came back a minute late with a school book and a pencil. She was chewing on the pencil. She sat down at the kitchen table and Jane took the chair across from her. Then stood up.

"One minute. I am going to make some tea. Would you like some tea?" He said with manufactured chipperness.

"Ugggghhhhhhhh," Charlotte moaned and hung her head. Jane smiled at that.

"What would you like to drink instead? We have orange juice, milk, and coffee. And tea."

"What sort of orange juice?" Charlotte said, as even answering the question was a huge burden.

"I think Sunny-D," Jane said, chipper as ever.

They had Sunny-D because Charlotte drank it. To Jane, it tasted weird, oily and too sweet, with a sharp, weird aftertaste.

"Fine. The Sunny-D," Charlotte droned. Jane nodded, smiled, got up and got a plastic drink tumbler out of the dishwasher, put it on the counter, filled it with the orange juice.

He brought the juice back to his child, and by then the water in the kettle was starting to howl.

"Perfect timing," Jane said with the same overly bright, optimistic tone of voice, and pulled a coffee mug out of the cabinet, dunked a tea bag (orange and ginger) into the mug, filled it with steaming water.

Came back with his drink and sat down.

"Okay, so we're going to make our list. What goes at the top?" Jane prodded.

Charlotte stared at the lined paper. Scrawled "Grocery list" at the top in her strangely clumsy printing and stared at Jane. He smiled and gave her a thumb's up.

"How many food items did I say we have to get?"

Charlotte scratched her cheek, looked down at the ruled paper.

"Fifteen?"

"Right. So what goes next?"

Slowly she wrote down the numbers 1 through 15 on the paper. Jane smiled, nodded, gave her another thumb's up.

"Okay, so we want easy, relatively healthy and stuff you'll eat. What's first?"

"Uggggggggggggggh," Charlotte moaned and put her head down on the table as if he was asking her to explain Cantor's orders of infinities.

"Come on, kiddo. You can do this. We'll make our list, and then no more exhaustive writing for a bit. What's first?" He stared at her with an earnest expression.

"Um.. chef boyardee cheese ravioli in tomato sauce?" Charlotte said slowly as if drawing on all the strength she had.

"Uh huh, but remember, we're going to put some stuff on this list that doesn't come in a can, too, right?"

"Can I put down the Chef Boyardee," Charlotte persisted. Jane nodded.

"Yes, but how about some fruit? Do you want some bananas?"

"Ugggggggh," Charlotte said again. Jane was starting to appreciate just how much work his kid's aide must put in on any given school day to keep her somewhat focused and on task. He smiled at the thought. Reminded himself that even though his kid was complaining, she also felt very shitty and her ability to concrete and focus (as much as she tried to hide it) was basically nil. Focusing and paying attention was hard for her. When he'd been lost in depression, the steps involved in showering, dressing and completing a basic hygiene routine had seemed almost insurmountable.

There were just too many other things in her mind clamoring for attention, and most of them soaked in blood and tears.

He couldn't be too compassionate in this situation.

It took close to an hour but they eventually had their shopping list. The five "perishable" foods were Strawberries (Jane's addition), Blueberry jam (Charlotte's addition), drinkable yogurt protein shakes, hummus and baby carrots. The rest of the list was essentially junk food, but his kid had tried, and that was what counted.

"Okay, go put your shoes on. Let's go shopping," Jane said with the same, careful, manufactured brightness.

"Yay," Charlotte said, somewhat sarcastically, but he noticed she seemed less lethargic while moving to put her shoes on than she had during the list-making task.

Baby steps.

After they went shopping (Charlotte rode the back of the cart, shoes hanging off the ledge and periodically fetched an item from the shelves and dumped it in the cart) and had brought their haul home, it was time for the park.

Charlotte muttered at this. But Jane persisted, and they scooped up Dixon, took Jane's Citroen to a little park a good half an hour away with a large, flat field and few people.

"Nice, right?" Jane coaxed as he unclipped Dixon's collar from the leash and the dog took off sprinting on the grass.

"I guess," Charlotte said tiredly. She was wearing a hoody, now, and had the hood up.

"Maybe we could get a kite, come here on the weekend, fly a kite."

"What's so great about kites? You've seen one, you've seen them all."

"Not true," Jane said with that same forced enthusiasm. "They always fly differently. I know it probably seems that almost everything is boring and more energy than its worth, but right now I look at it like this: you have to fake it till you make it."

"What?!" Charlotte said, screwing up her face as if her father was speaking Klingon.

"You have to do things which might feel or seem boring or pointless because I am betting pretty much everything feels somewhat boring and pointless to you right now. Am I right?"

Charlotte eventually nodded.

"So you have to train your brain, again, to appreciate the subtle differences in experiences. You have to train yourself to find things interesting again. And it's going to feel forced at first. Because it will be forced. But eventually, your brain will start to understand that life is all about small moments where you make something new and interesting out of this little piece of time you have, and you simply observe the beauty in that small unit of time."

"Even if you don't feel it is interesting or beautiful?" Charlotte said slowly.

"The feelings come later. Some of them are afraid to express themselves because feeling joy and awe and all those good things essentially mean hoping in life. Hoping in the future. And if you've been really badly hurt, it's hard to trust things can be good and go well and get better. So people often feel bad for months or years or even decades, because it's less scary than risking being disappointed again. But at first, it will feel... artificial. And one day, you'll find yourself doing something like drawing or reading a book or building a sand castle and you'll realize you were, genuinely, enjoying yourself. You'll stop asking yourself why you're forcing yourself to do such and such an activity, and the activity will feel interesting all by iself."

"Really?" Charlotte asked skeptically.

"Really," Jane confirmed. "Might take a while. Which is why it's a good idea to practice having fun every chance you get, to speed that process along."

"Hmmm," Charlotte said. Not a confirmation, not a sign of agreement, but just an auditory cue that she'd heard him, and was listening.

"Look at Dixon running around out there. That's the great thing about dogs. They don't think "am I having fun?" or "what's the purpose of this activity?" they just go out there, running and barking and smelling the grass and chasing squirrels and live. And they do have fun."

"Yeah, but I'm not a dog," Charlotte said, but now she had a trace of a smile on her face.

"No, you're not," Jane quipped back. "But the principle is the same. Thinking is generally a good activity, but if you think for too long about why you're doing something, and analyze every aspect of it, you can make a chore out of anything. Even going to a carnival. Even Halloween."

"Halloween?" Charlotte said, but she sounded genuinely curious now. "What about Halloween?"

"You always like trick-or-treating. Want to do that this year?"

"Daaaaad," Charlotte moaned, but she was smiling now. "I'm too old!"

"You're short enough," Jane said, sizing her up visually. He was grinning. "And God knows, you deserve to have some more trick or treating experiences. I won't tell people how old you are if you don't."

His kid was smiling. "But they'll say I'm too big!"

"With a costume on, you could easily pass for ten. Maybe 11. Twelve at the oldest. You're a shortie! Definitely not too tall to trick-or-treat, and with a costume on, that's all that matters. How much of a shortie you are!"

"So I could go trick or treating? For real? Get a costume and everything?"

"Sure. I think we'll even invite Lisbon. I bet she'd love to come with us. We could even dress Dixon up if you want to?"

Charlotte considered this. Her face wanted to remain serious, but the grin was tweaking the corners of her mouth.

"Can I use a pillow case to collect candy?"

"I don't see why not," Jane said easily.

"Can we stay out for a long time? I mean, not just five or six houses, but get tons of candy?"

Jane considered this. "Yes, but I think I will ration that candy out afterwords, or you'll leapfrog your way to type 2 diabetes inside of a week."

Charlotte considered his words. Snickered. Jane was smiling, but this time he didn't have to force it.

"Will you dress up, too?"

"Would you want me to?"

"Um... I don't know," Charlotte said, but she seemed more alive than she had in weeks.

She'd loved Halloween as a little girl. The cool, Californian nights. The kids hollering in the streets, the flashlight beams cutting across residential streets, the flashing safety lights pinned to autumn windbreakers and jackets, the glow sticks, the smell of firecrackers being set off in back alleys by teenagers, the jack o lanterns, and yard displays.

"Does that sound like it might be kind of fun?" Jane coaxed, smiling.

"Yeah."

Jane nodded. There were moments of hope, and sometimes, that was the best you could do. He reached into his suit pocket, pulled a rubber Nerf ball out, one designed for dogs.

"I bet you Dixon would have a lot of fun if we threw this for him to catch," Jane told his daughter.

Charlotte considered the ball.

"Okay. Throw it," she said. Jane nodded, pitched the ball like he was pitching a baseball and the dog looked up, tongue hanging out, watching as the ball flew across the field. Then Dixon was sprinting towards the ball as if everything in his life depended on him GETTING that ball and bringing it back as quickly as possible.

The dog came striding back towards the humans, eyes shining. When Charlotte went to get the ball, he pulled it away, unwilling to give it up.

"Dixon, drop it. Or I can't throw it."

"Silly, silly dog," Jane confirmed.

Finally, the dog dropped the ball, but when Charlotte went to pick it up, Dixon grabbed it first and went tearing off across the field as if Charlotte might try to steal it from him. Stubby tail wagging back and forth so quickly it was almost a blur.

Charlotte watched the dog and another soft smile came over her face.

"He's nuts," she told her father conspiratorially.

"He's still a puppy for a few more months," Jane observed. "They're all nuts. That's half of what makes puppies so much fun."

"What's the other half?" Charlotte asked, watching her dog streak around the field in circles.

Jane pretended to consider this.

"I don't know... digging escape tunnels in the family sofa?" He said. "Pooping in the master's shoes on cold winter mornings?"

Charlotte laughed at that.

"See?" Jane said after a moment, watching his child. "You still know what fun is. It's just... hiding in you."

Dixon was coming back to them again, a bit slower now. He was exhausting himself, running like that. Finally, the dog was again within petting distance. He looked at each of the Janes in the eye, dropped the nerf ball and stared up at them expectantly. Charlotte went to pick up the ball, and the dog grabbed it again before she could get it, and was off again like a shot.

"He's really insane," Charlotte said, but there was admiration in her voice.

"Yes. He's the good type of insane," Jane said, smiling.

He reached over to hug his daughter, and though she stiffened a little, she let him pull her into a hug. And they had this moment. This pocket of time in which, though hurting, life had the possibility of more. Or at least the possibility of a possibility.

And that was enough for now.

One day at a time. One moment at a time. Because, realistically, the moment was all anybody ever had.