HI AGAIN! THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I ENJOY READING THEM. :-) PLEASE LEAVE AN OPINION FOR THIS CHAPTER AS WELL! ANY COMMENTS, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, AND/OR SUGGESTIONS ARE WELCOME! THANKS!
(*SIDE NOTE... HAD A SAND SOCCER TOURNAMENT YESTERDAY AND SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON WATCHING A GAME IN WHICH THERE WAS A PLAYER WHO, AND I AM NOT LYING, LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE MATTHEW PERRY. SERIOUSLY. EVEN MY FRIENDS AGREED. ::SIGH:: TOUGH TO CONCENTRATE ON SOCCER AFTER THAT, LET ME TELL YOU!*)
As Sarah sat on her bed with her journal in her lap, she silently gazed out the window as the lyrics to one of her favorite songs filled the room. She didn't know why, but every time she heard it, she thought of her mother. While she had no memories of the woman who'd given birth to her, the stories and memories provided by the five people that knew her had to suffice, and Sarah had used them to build her own. She stared out at the rain that was drizzling down her windowpane and absently twirled her pen around in her fingers as she let the familiar lyrics surround her.
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance.
For a break that would make it okay.
There's always one reason to feel not good enough,
And it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction,
Oh, beautiful release,
Memory seeps from my veins,
Let me be empty,
Oh, and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.
In the arms of an angel,
Fly away from here,
From this dark, cold, hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie,
In the arms of your angel,
May you find some comfort here.
You're so tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back,
The storm keeps on twisting,
You keep on building on the lie
That you make up for all that you lack,
It don't make no difference,
Escaping one last time,
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness,
Oh, this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees.
In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here,
From this stark, cold, hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear,
Oh, you are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie,
In the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.
As the last notes of the song drifted out, she stopped the disc and put her journal on the bed, rising and going over to her desk. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her photo album and then shut the drawer as she headed back to her bed. Plopping down on her stomach, she flipped it open and turned past the pages onto which she'd glued photos of her and her friends. In the back, clipped to the very last page, was a photograph that had been handled so often that the edges were rough and the corners bent. It was her favorite picture of her mother, and the worn looks told how often she looked at it.
Rachel had told her that it was taken just after her parents had gotten engaged. She could tell that it was the same apartment, and she figured it had to be near summertime because they were all wearing cool clothing. Her mother had on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and her father was wearing a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt.
She stared at her parents and the happy looks on their faces. Monica was standing between the kitchen and the couch and Chandler was behind her with his arms around her waist. Her hands were over his and they were both smiling at the camera. Sarah felt a pang as she realized, not for the first time, that the picture was the only time and place she'd ever seen that look on her father's face. He looked happy, and while he wasn't constantly miserable now, he never had the same look that seemed to light up his whole face.
Sarah stared at the face of the beautiful woman that was smiling back up at her, and she tried to feel connected to her, but the same feeling returned that she always felt when she thought of her mother for a long enough period of time. Her eyes filled with tears as she carefully placed the photo back in the album and put the book back in her drawer. She turned off her bedroom light and crawled under the covers after she'd hidden her journal underneath her mattress.
As she buried her face in her pillow, she allowed the tears to disappear into the cool, white linen as she tried to ignore the thoughts that had surfaced once again.
"I killed my mother," she whispered into the darkness, hoping that saying it would somehow make it sound absurd. But she didn't feel illogical -- she only felt worse. "My mother's dead and my father's unhappy because of me." She grabbed the stuffed dog that resided on the pillow beside her -- a toy that Phoebe had given her when she was young and that she had christened "Benbo" after her cousin. She tried to find solace in the dog's matted fur, but she found herself wishing that she was crying to something that had arms to hug her back.
"Sarah?" Chandler poked his head in her bedroom door and tried to make out her form through the darkness. "You asleep?"
"Almost," came the groggy reply.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I just wanted to tell you I was home. I'm sorry about dinner tonight."
"'S okay," she mumbled. "Went to Uncle Ross's."
"Oh. Okay. Well... goodnight then," he whispered as he kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"'Night, Dad."
He closed the door silently behind him and went into the kitchen as he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the couch. Turning on the coffeepot, he sank into one of the kitchen chairs and ran his hands through his hair as he sighed. He grabbed the mail off the counter where Sarah had left it and sorted through it, sighing when he realized it was nothing more than a bunch of bills. Suddenly feeling the urge to go for a walk, he rose and turned the coffeepot off and grabbed his jacket.
Not wanting to wake Sarah again, he scribbled a note and exited the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Hey, Mon," he whispered as he stood in front of Monica's headstone. It seemed that every time he went out for a walk, his legs steered him to the cemetery where his wife was buried. He sat down on the cool grass and took a sip of the coffee that he'd bought from the Starbucks between his apartment and the graveyard. He sat in silence for a moment before sighing.
"Sorry I haven't been here in a couple weeks... things have been crazy." He was silent for another moment before speaking again. "God, babe, I'm really screwed up, aren't I? I mean, here I am, almost eighteen years later, and I still can't..." He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
"I'm screwing up Sarah, too, aren't I? I'm such a horrible father... I just..." His eyes filled with tears. "I don't know what to do. I mean, I feel like she's... like she doesn't need me, and she probably hates me." He smiled ironically. "Did I tell you she applied to colleges in four different states? Her first choice is UCLA." He sighed. "Could she GET any further away from me?" He paused as he took another sip of his coffee. "Not that I blame her. It's not like I've done much for her the past eighteen years, why should the next four be any different?" He paused. "You know, you're the only person I can talk to like this?" He was silent for a few minutes before he wiped away the tears that had fallen.
"Eighteen years," he whispered. "Eighteen years, and I still miss you so damn much. I still feel as empty as I did the day you left, and I don't even feel like half a person. Did I tell you Rachel tried to set me up with someone from her job? I got really mad and I yelled at her. I feel bad for flipping out, but I just... I'm not ready, ya know? I mean... I still love you as much as the day I married you and I can't... I just can't imagine being with anyone else. I'm still married to you, and I still love you." Again he wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"God, it all seems so unfair. Thousands and thousands of divorces in this country... thousands of unhappy marriages, and you and me... we were actual soul mates, and you got taken away from me." He paused.
"I wish you were here to tell me what to do. With Sarah... with everything. She's so... she's smart and she's beautiful and... she's so much like you. Sometimes, especially when she's upset, she gets this look on her face and she looks so much like you that it hurts. And she hums just like you. Sometimes when she's cleaning I hear her humming and it feels like you're somewhere in the apartment again." He began to cry a little harder. "It makes me ache... feeling like you're so close, but at the same time you're so far away. All I want is to hear your voice again, to get to kiss you one more time... To have one more second with you I'd give anything in this world." He gazed at her headstone.
"Monica E. Bing," it read. "Beloved wife, mother, daughter, and friend." Underneath, Chandler had put a line from an old Yeats poem that he knew she had loved: "Take me out of this dull world, for I will ride with you upon the wind and dance across the mountains like a flame."
He absently ran his fingers over the cool stone before rising.
"I'd better get home. I don't want Sarah to wake up alone and worry." He paused as he bent down and kissed the headstone. "I love you," he whispered. "I'll be back soon." He turned and walked away, drying his cheeks and trying to fight the tears that still lurked.
"Sarah," Rachel said, surprised. "Hey, sweetie... everything okay?" She opened the door wider so that her niece could enter.
"Can I ask you something?" Sarah asked frankly.
"Of course. You want something to eat?"
Sarah shook her head and Rachel noticed that there was an album under her arm. "I was looking at these today," she said, producing the book. "And I had a question about something." Rach recognized the album as the one with Sarah's baby pictures in it. She nodded encouragingly. "How come there aren't any pictures of me at home?" Rachel hesitated.
"What do you mean?"
Sarah dropped her bag inside the door and opened the album. "I never really noticed it before, but there aren't any pictures of me in my apartment. Almost all of them are of me over here. And there aren't even as many of me and Dad as there are of me with you and Uncle Ross. Look." She held the open album toward her aunt, who stared at it for a moment and sighed.
"Come on in, hon, let's have a talk." She closed the door behind them and Sarah followed her to the couch. "Can I see?" she asked, holding her hands out for the album. Sarah nodded and handed it to her. She flipped through the pages and noticed that Sarah was right -- there weren't any of her in her own apartment until she was practically a year old. Chandler wasn't even in many of the photos, except the ones from holidays and a few here and there.
"How come?" Sarah asked simply. Rach sighed.
"Hon, maybe this is a conversation you should have with your Dad--"
"Maybe," Sarah interrupted, her voice firm. "But there are a lot of conversations I should have with my Dad that I don't. Right now I'm asking you." Rachel sighed, realizing that Sarah had her mother's determination, and she closed the book slowly.
"Well, basically... there aren't many pictures of you in your apartment early on because you didn't live there."
Sarah frowned. "I thought you guys all told me that I've always lived there... that it was Mom and Dad's apartment when they got married."
Rachel nodded. "Yeah, it was your parents' place. And your Dad has lived there since he first moved in with your Mom." She paused. "But you didn't live there at first."
Sarah's brow furrowed. "I don't get it."
Rach sighed. "You lived with your Uncle Ross... here. This was when your uncle and I were first dating, so I didn't live here, really. But when you moved in, I pretty much camped out here to help out." Reading the look of confusion on her niece's face, she continued slowly. "Your dad... he was really a mess after your mom died. He was barely even alive. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he barely spoke... we were so worried about him and we had no idea what to do. He just... withdrew from everything. He could barely look after himself, and we were worried about how he was going to cope with a new baby. I guess he knew what we were thinking because--"
"He unloaded me onto you guys," Sarah said coldly.
"No--" Rachel began, but she was cut off.
"He didn't even want me. The baby who killed his wife." Rachel froze, shocked. Sarah took no notice and continued. "He couldn't even bear to have me in his house? He had to just give me away?"
"No, sweetie, it wasn't like that." Rachel stared at her for a moment. "What do you mean, 'the baby who killed his wife?'" Sarah silenced, realizing that she'd let her emotions dictate her words. "Sarah..." Rachel's voice demanded an explanation.
"Well, it's what I did, isn't it?" she said quietly after a moment. "I killed her. It's my fault she's dead. It's my fault he's so depressed and it's my fault that she's gone." Rachel tried to hug her, but Sarah pushed her arms away and stood up as tears started to roll down her cheeks. "So why don't you guys hate me, too? I mean, I took your best friend and Uncle Ross's sister... if I were you guys, I'd hate me. Makes sense, though... why Dad's the way he is. I mean, who on earth would want to deal with the person who killed their wife?" She turned and ran out of the apartment, leaving Rachel frozen on the couch in a state of shock. She silently rose and picked up Sarah's photo album, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the phone. It was about time father and daughter worked things out.
"What's up, Rach?" Chandler stepped inside the apartment as she closed the door behind him.
"We have to talk."
"Is this about that woman? Look, I'm sorry I yelled, but..."
"No, Chandler," she cut him off. "It's got nothing to do with her. It's about Sarah." Chandler's eyes flickered.
"What? What happened?" he demanded. "Is she okay? Is she hurt?"
"Not physically."
"Rachel, what the hell is going on?"
"Look, Sarah's fine. It's just... you have to talk to her."
"Why, what about?"
Rach sighed. "She came over today with the photos from when she was a baby and she asked why there weren't any of her in your apartment."
Chandler's eyes narrowed. "What did you tell her?"
"The truth."
"What do you mean, 'the truth?'"
"I mean I told her that she lived here for a year. Well, almost a year. Well, actually, I didn't tell her how long, but she knows it was awhile from the photos."
Chandler sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. "What did she say?"
Rachel sighed as she sat down next to him. "She thinks she killed Monica."
Chandler's head snapped up as he stared at her in disbelief. "What?!"
"She thinks she killed Mon," Rachel repeated. "She said it's her fault Monica's dead and it's her fault you're so depressed. She thinks... she thinks you resent her."
"That's crazy!" Chandler replied defensively. "She's my daughter! I love her, I'd do anything for her."
"Okay, sweetie, don't take this the wrong way, but I have to say something." Chandler nodded. "I can see how she might think that way."
"What?"
Rach held up her hand. "I'm not saying she's right. I'm just saying I think I know where it's coming from."
"Where?" he demanded.
"Chandler, when was the last time you talked to her about Monica?" He was silent. "When was the last time you just went out and did something fun with her?"
"Rach..."
"Chandler, she's competing with a ghost." Reading his confused expression, she continued. "She's afraid of you, afraid of hurting you. She thinks that because she was born, Monica died, and that she's already taken enough from you. She has to live with the knowledge that she's under this shadow... the memory of someone she never knew. Your entire life is wrapped up in the memory of Monica."
"She was my wife! She was everything to me, of course I'm going to miss her," he replied defensively.
"I know, hon. But there's a different between just missing someone and... well, and what you're doing."
"And what am I doing?"
Rach looked at him sadly. "You're shutting out the world of the living. You want to be with Monica so badly that you're forgetting about the living, breathing humans around you."
"Rachel..." His voice trailed off as his eyes began to sting. "When she died, I died right along with her. I'm doing the best I can!"
"I know, sweetie, I know you are. But you've got to come back to the world. It's been almost eighteen years. I know you loved her--"
"LOVE her," Chandler corrected.
"See?" Rachel said sadly. "You treat her like she's still around."
"So? Just because she died in the physical sense doesn't mean she has to die completely."
"I know, Chandler. But there's a difference between trying to keep her memory alive and trying to keep HER alive. Look, you have a daughter who's amazing. She's smart and she's funny and she's amazing, but she's hurting too. And as much as I love her and as much as we all love her, me, Ross, Ben, Phoebe, Joey... none of us can help her with this. I mean, it was easy when she was little, but now... Chandler, she needs you."
"How am I going to help her?"
Rach sighed. "Talk about Monica. Don't make it such a touchy subject. She's struggling with something that she doesn't even feel like she can talk about."
"Why now? I mean, Monica's been gone for her entire life..."
"And now she's old enough to understand what that means. She's old enough to see your emotions, even when you hide them." She sighed as a tear rolled down his cheek. "Oh, Chandler, I know it's hard..."
"No, you don't. Rach, it's been eighteen years and I can't stop hurting. As much as I want to move on, I can't. She was everything to me... she was the happiness and the sadness. The joys were doubled and the troubles were cut in half. I felt like as long as I had her, I'd always be okay. She was the reason I got up every morning... she gave me something to live for."
"And she left you something to live for. Chandler, look at Sarah. She's got so much life... if you want to look at it this way, it's easy to see that the life Monica had is in your daughter. She's so full of life and energy just bursting to be set free. She's great."
"She's her mother," he said softly, wiping his eyes.
Rach smiled sadly. "She's you." He looked up, surprised. "She's you and she's Monica. She's got your wit and Monica's liveliness. She's got your humor and Monica's stubbornness. She's the perfect mix of both of you, both physically and in terms of character. And she's also got the pain of living without Monica... just like you." He sighed. "Chandler, imagine what would have happened if, God forbid, you died suddenly when Sarah was a baby. Monica would have been devastated, okay? God knows she would have been a wreck. She'd be feeling what you're feeling and she'd be dying inside, too. But put that into perspective... what would you have wanted her to do? To go on living and raise your daughter, right?" Chandler nodded slowly. "It's okay to be sad. Hell, it's expected. But you can't let that sadness be the key presence in your life. You have to live. You owe that to Monica, and you owe it to Sarah."
Chandler nodded as he stood up slowly and gave Rachel a hug. "Thanks, Rach," he whispered. She nodded. "Now what do I do?"
She smiled. "Just talk to her. About Monica. About whatever she wants to talk about. That'll be step one."
He nodded and took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing."
PART THREE COMING SOON! PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! THANKS FOR READING! :-)
(*SIDE NOTE... HAD A SAND SOCCER TOURNAMENT YESTERDAY AND SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON WATCHING A GAME IN WHICH THERE WAS A PLAYER WHO, AND I AM NOT LYING, LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE MATTHEW PERRY. SERIOUSLY. EVEN MY FRIENDS AGREED. ::SIGH:: TOUGH TO CONCENTRATE ON SOCCER AFTER THAT, LET ME TELL YOU!*)
As Sarah sat on her bed with her journal in her lap, she silently gazed out the window as the lyrics to one of her favorite songs filled the room. She didn't know why, but every time she heard it, she thought of her mother. While she had no memories of the woman who'd given birth to her, the stories and memories provided by the five people that knew her had to suffice, and Sarah had used them to build her own. She stared out at the rain that was drizzling down her windowpane and absently twirled her pen around in her fingers as she let the familiar lyrics surround her.
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance.
For a break that would make it okay.
There's always one reason to feel not good enough,
And it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction,
Oh, beautiful release,
Memory seeps from my veins,
Let me be empty,
Oh, and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.
In the arms of an angel,
Fly away from here,
From this dark, cold, hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie,
In the arms of your angel,
May you find some comfort here.
You're so tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back,
The storm keeps on twisting,
You keep on building on the lie
That you make up for all that you lack,
It don't make no difference,
Escaping one last time,
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness,
Oh, this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees.
In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here,
From this stark, cold, hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear,
Oh, you are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie,
In the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.
As the last notes of the song drifted out, she stopped the disc and put her journal on the bed, rising and going over to her desk. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her photo album and then shut the drawer as she headed back to her bed. Plopping down on her stomach, she flipped it open and turned past the pages onto which she'd glued photos of her and her friends. In the back, clipped to the very last page, was a photograph that had been handled so often that the edges were rough and the corners bent. It was her favorite picture of her mother, and the worn looks told how often she looked at it.
Rachel had told her that it was taken just after her parents had gotten engaged. She could tell that it was the same apartment, and she figured it had to be near summertime because they were all wearing cool clothing. Her mother had on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and her father was wearing a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt.
She stared at her parents and the happy looks on their faces. Monica was standing between the kitchen and the couch and Chandler was behind her with his arms around her waist. Her hands were over his and they were both smiling at the camera. Sarah felt a pang as she realized, not for the first time, that the picture was the only time and place she'd ever seen that look on her father's face. He looked happy, and while he wasn't constantly miserable now, he never had the same look that seemed to light up his whole face.
Sarah stared at the face of the beautiful woman that was smiling back up at her, and she tried to feel connected to her, but the same feeling returned that she always felt when she thought of her mother for a long enough period of time. Her eyes filled with tears as she carefully placed the photo back in the album and put the book back in her drawer. She turned off her bedroom light and crawled under the covers after she'd hidden her journal underneath her mattress.
As she buried her face in her pillow, she allowed the tears to disappear into the cool, white linen as she tried to ignore the thoughts that had surfaced once again.
"I killed my mother," she whispered into the darkness, hoping that saying it would somehow make it sound absurd. But she didn't feel illogical -- she only felt worse. "My mother's dead and my father's unhappy because of me." She grabbed the stuffed dog that resided on the pillow beside her -- a toy that Phoebe had given her when she was young and that she had christened "Benbo" after her cousin. She tried to find solace in the dog's matted fur, but she found herself wishing that she was crying to something that had arms to hug her back.
"Sarah?" Chandler poked his head in her bedroom door and tried to make out her form through the darkness. "You asleep?"
"Almost," came the groggy reply.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I just wanted to tell you I was home. I'm sorry about dinner tonight."
"'S okay," she mumbled. "Went to Uncle Ross's."
"Oh. Okay. Well... goodnight then," he whispered as he kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"'Night, Dad."
He closed the door silently behind him and went into the kitchen as he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the couch. Turning on the coffeepot, he sank into one of the kitchen chairs and ran his hands through his hair as he sighed. He grabbed the mail off the counter where Sarah had left it and sorted through it, sighing when he realized it was nothing more than a bunch of bills. Suddenly feeling the urge to go for a walk, he rose and turned the coffeepot off and grabbed his jacket.
Not wanting to wake Sarah again, he scribbled a note and exited the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Hey, Mon," he whispered as he stood in front of Monica's headstone. It seemed that every time he went out for a walk, his legs steered him to the cemetery where his wife was buried. He sat down on the cool grass and took a sip of the coffee that he'd bought from the Starbucks between his apartment and the graveyard. He sat in silence for a moment before sighing.
"Sorry I haven't been here in a couple weeks... things have been crazy." He was silent for another moment before speaking again. "God, babe, I'm really screwed up, aren't I? I mean, here I am, almost eighteen years later, and I still can't..." He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
"I'm screwing up Sarah, too, aren't I? I'm such a horrible father... I just..." His eyes filled with tears. "I don't know what to do. I mean, I feel like she's... like she doesn't need me, and she probably hates me." He smiled ironically. "Did I tell you she applied to colleges in four different states? Her first choice is UCLA." He sighed. "Could she GET any further away from me?" He paused as he took another sip of his coffee. "Not that I blame her. It's not like I've done much for her the past eighteen years, why should the next four be any different?" He paused. "You know, you're the only person I can talk to like this?" He was silent for a few minutes before he wiped away the tears that had fallen.
"Eighteen years," he whispered. "Eighteen years, and I still miss you so damn much. I still feel as empty as I did the day you left, and I don't even feel like half a person. Did I tell you Rachel tried to set me up with someone from her job? I got really mad and I yelled at her. I feel bad for flipping out, but I just... I'm not ready, ya know? I mean... I still love you as much as the day I married you and I can't... I just can't imagine being with anyone else. I'm still married to you, and I still love you." Again he wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"God, it all seems so unfair. Thousands and thousands of divorces in this country... thousands of unhappy marriages, and you and me... we were actual soul mates, and you got taken away from me." He paused.
"I wish you were here to tell me what to do. With Sarah... with everything. She's so... she's smart and she's beautiful and... she's so much like you. Sometimes, especially when she's upset, she gets this look on her face and she looks so much like you that it hurts. And she hums just like you. Sometimes when she's cleaning I hear her humming and it feels like you're somewhere in the apartment again." He began to cry a little harder. "It makes me ache... feeling like you're so close, but at the same time you're so far away. All I want is to hear your voice again, to get to kiss you one more time... To have one more second with you I'd give anything in this world." He gazed at her headstone.
"Monica E. Bing," it read. "Beloved wife, mother, daughter, and friend." Underneath, Chandler had put a line from an old Yeats poem that he knew she had loved: "Take me out of this dull world, for I will ride with you upon the wind and dance across the mountains like a flame."
He absently ran his fingers over the cool stone before rising.
"I'd better get home. I don't want Sarah to wake up alone and worry." He paused as he bent down and kissed the headstone. "I love you," he whispered. "I'll be back soon." He turned and walked away, drying his cheeks and trying to fight the tears that still lurked.
"Sarah," Rachel said, surprised. "Hey, sweetie... everything okay?" She opened the door wider so that her niece could enter.
"Can I ask you something?" Sarah asked frankly.
"Of course. You want something to eat?"
Sarah shook her head and Rachel noticed that there was an album under her arm. "I was looking at these today," she said, producing the book. "And I had a question about something." Rach recognized the album as the one with Sarah's baby pictures in it. She nodded encouragingly. "How come there aren't any pictures of me at home?" Rachel hesitated.
"What do you mean?"
Sarah dropped her bag inside the door and opened the album. "I never really noticed it before, but there aren't any pictures of me in my apartment. Almost all of them are of me over here. And there aren't even as many of me and Dad as there are of me with you and Uncle Ross. Look." She held the open album toward her aunt, who stared at it for a moment and sighed.
"Come on in, hon, let's have a talk." She closed the door behind them and Sarah followed her to the couch. "Can I see?" she asked, holding her hands out for the album. Sarah nodded and handed it to her. She flipped through the pages and noticed that Sarah was right -- there weren't any of her in her own apartment until she was practically a year old. Chandler wasn't even in many of the photos, except the ones from holidays and a few here and there.
"How come?" Sarah asked simply. Rach sighed.
"Hon, maybe this is a conversation you should have with your Dad--"
"Maybe," Sarah interrupted, her voice firm. "But there are a lot of conversations I should have with my Dad that I don't. Right now I'm asking you." Rachel sighed, realizing that Sarah had her mother's determination, and she closed the book slowly.
"Well, basically... there aren't many pictures of you in your apartment early on because you didn't live there."
Sarah frowned. "I thought you guys all told me that I've always lived there... that it was Mom and Dad's apartment when they got married."
Rachel nodded. "Yeah, it was your parents' place. And your Dad has lived there since he first moved in with your Mom." She paused. "But you didn't live there at first."
Sarah's brow furrowed. "I don't get it."
Rach sighed. "You lived with your Uncle Ross... here. This was when your uncle and I were first dating, so I didn't live here, really. But when you moved in, I pretty much camped out here to help out." Reading the look of confusion on her niece's face, she continued slowly. "Your dad... he was really a mess after your mom died. He was barely even alive. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he barely spoke... we were so worried about him and we had no idea what to do. He just... withdrew from everything. He could barely look after himself, and we were worried about how he was going to cope with a new baby. I guess he knew what we were thinking because--"
"He unloaded me onto you guys," Sarah said coldly.
"No--" Rachel began, but she was cut off.
"He didn't even want me. The baby who killed his wife." Rachel froze, shocked. Sarah took no notice and continued. "He couldn't even bear to have me in his house? He had to just give me away?"
"No, sweetie, it wasn't like that." Rachel stared at her for a moment. "What do you mean, 'the baby who killed his wife?'" Sarah silenced, realizing that she'd let her emotions dictate her words. "Sarah..." Rachel's voice demanded an explanation.
"Well, it's what I did, isn't it?" she said quietly after a moment. "I killed her. It's my fault she's dead. It's my fault he's so depressed and it's my fault that she's gone." Rachel tried to hug her, but Sarah pushed her arms away and stood up as tears started to roll down her cheeks. "So why don't you guys hate me, too? I mean, I took your best friend and Uncle Ross's sister... if I were you guys, I'd hate me. Makes sense, though... why Dad's the way he is. I mean, who on earth would want to deal with the person who killed their wife?" She turned and ran out of the apartment, leaving Rachel frozen on the couch in a state of shock. She silently rose and picked up Sarah's photo album, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the phone. It was about time father and daughter worked things out.
"What's up, Rach?" Chandler stepped inside the apartment as she closed the door behind him.
"We have to talk."
"Is this about that woman? Look, I'm sorry I yelled, but..."
"No, Chandler," she cut him off. "It's got nothing to do with her. It's about Sarah." Chandler's eyes flickered.
"What? What happened?" he demanded. "Is she okay? Is she hurt?"
"Not physically."
"Rachel, what the hell is going on?"
"Look, Sarah's fine. It's just... you have to talk to her."
"Why, what about?"
Rach sighed. "She came over today with the photos from when she was a baby and she asked why there weren't any of her in your apartment."
Chandler's eyes narrowed. "What did you tell her?"
"The truth."
"What do you mean, 'the truth?'"
"I mean I told her that she lived here for a year. Well, almost a year. Well, actually, I didn't tell her how long, but she knows it was awhile from the photos."
Chandler sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. "What did she say?"
Rachel sighed as she sat down next to him. "She thinks she killed Monica."
Chandler's head snapped up as he stared at her in disbelief. "What?!"
"She thinks she killed Mon," Rachel repeated. "She said it's her fault Monica's dead and it's her fault you're so depressed. She thinks... she thinks you resent her."
"That's crazy!" Chandler replied defensively. "She's my daughter! I love her, I'd do anything for her."
"Okay, sweetie, don't take this the wrong way, but I have to say something." Chandler nodded. "I can see how she might think that way."
"What?"
Rach held up her hand. "I'm not saying she's right. I'm just saying I think I know where it's coming from."
"Where?" he demanded.
"Chandler, when was the last time you talked to her about Monica?" He was silent. "When was the last time you just went out and did something fun with her?"
"Rach..."
"Chandler, she's competing with a ghost." Reading his confused expression, she continued. "She's afraid of you, afraid of hurting you. She thinks that because she was born, Monica died, and that she's already taken enough from you. She has to live with the knowledge that she's under this shadow... the memory of someone she never knew. Your entire life is wrapped up in the memory of Monica."
"She was my wife! She was everything to me, of course I'm going to miss her," he replied defensively.
"I know, hon. But there's a different between just missing someone and... well, and what you're doing."
"And what am I doing?"
Rach looked at him sadly. "You're shutting out the world of the living. You want to be with Monica so badly that you're forgetting about the living, breathing humans around you."
"Rachel..." His voice trailed off as his eyes began to sting. "When she died, I died right along with her. I'm doing the best I can!"
"I know, sweetie, I know you are. But you've got to come back to the world. It's been almost eighteen years. I know you loved her--"
"LOVE her," Chandler corrected.
"See?" Rachel said sadly. "You treat her like she's still around."
"So? Just because she died in the physical sense doesn't mean she has to die completely."
"I know, Chandler. But there's a difference between trying to keep her memory alive and trying to keep HER alive. Look, you have a daughter who's amazing. She's smart and she's funny and she's amazing, but she's hurting too. And as much as I love her and as much as we all love her, me, Ross, Ben, Phoebe, Joey... none of us can help her with this. I mean, it was easy when she was little, but now... Chandler, she needs you."
"How am I going to help her?"
Rach sighed. "Talk about Monica. Don't make it such a touchy subject. She's struggling with something that she doesn't even feel like she can talk about."
"Why now? I mean, Monica's been gone for her entire life..."
"And now she's old enough to understand what that means. She's old enough to see your emotions, even when you hide them." She sighed as a tear rolled down his cheek. "Oh, Chandler, I know it's hard..."
"No, you don't. Rach, it's been eighteen years and I can't stop hurting. As much as I want to move on, I can't. She was everything to me... she was the happiness and the sadness. The joys were doubled and the troubles were cut in half. I felt like as long as I had her, I'd always be okay. She was the reason I got up every morning... she gave me something to live for."
"And she left you something to live for. Chandler, look at Sarah. She's got so much life... if you want to look at it this way, it's easy to see that the life Monica had is in your daughter. She's so full of life and energy just bursting to be set free. She's great."
"She's her mother," he said softly, wiping his eyes.
Rach smiled sadly. "She's you." He looked up, surprised. "She's you and she's Monica. She's got your wit and Monica's liveliness. She's got your humor and Monica's stubbornness. She's the perfect mix of both of you, both physically and in terms of character. And she's also got the pain of living without Monica... just like you." He sighed. "Chandler, imagine what would have happened if, God forbid, you died suddenly when Sarah was a baby. Monica would have been devastated, okay? God knows she would have been a wreck. She'd be feeling what you're feeling and she'd be dying inside, too. But put that into perspective... what would you have wanted her to do? To go on living and raise your daughter, right?" Chandler nodded slowly. "It's okay to be sad. Hell, it's expected. But you can't let that sadness be the key presence in your life. You have to live. You owe that to Monica, and you owe it to Sarah."
Chandler nodded as he stood up slowly and gave Rachel a hug. "Thanks, Rach," he whispered. She nodded. "Now what do I do?"
She smiled. "Just talk to her. About Monica. About whatever she wants to talk about. That'll be step one."
He nodded and took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing."
PART THREE COMING SOON! PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! THANKS FOR READING! :-)