IF: chapter 3
Alone. She just wanted to be alone.
After spending a day telling her friends and family that she was moving to a quieter, safer area after what happened with William – who most thought was an airline pilot for American Airlines. She spun lies and stories, recited the words she memorized from the manila folder Jack had left with her. It was a sound explanation for William's death – an unfortunate accident with a drunk driver in West Virginia. But it elicited sympathetic looks, cards and care. It also required a great amount of effort on her part.
For two weeks, she had to scrape the shards of her life together and repeatedly remind herself to lie. It wasn't something that came naturally to her, but she grew accustomed to it.
"Yes, I'm moving to Chestnut Haven to be away from the city for a while. It's a smaller town, much like the one I grew up in. Michael will be happy there."
Alone in her bathroom, the words repeated endlessly and bitterly in her mind. She felt a shiver run though her body and wrack her with pent-up grief.
Chestnut Haven is a local city, but you will not be moving there. You'll only tell people that you're going there. You'll move to Puget Sound, it's under 24-hour surveillance. (Jack)
Honey, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do help? Do you want me to help you pack up your things? (Mom)
Your possessions will be shipped to this address in Chestnut Haven, and a dummy apartment will be set up should your family and friends decide to stop by unexpectedly. That apartment will be watched for unusual activity. (Jack)
Fate has a weird way of bringing things about, Grace. If it was his time to go, then so be it. You know, his horoscope for that day said to be weary of travel… perhaps if William heeded the stars. (Trish, William's eclectic older sister)
You are free to select where you want William's burial to take place. You must take care of this immediately. Documents have been fabricated in West Virginia, adding William to the list of casualties in a devastating car crash involving three cars and two other deaths. (Jack)
Mom, can I sleep with you tonight? (Michael)
With one hand gripping the Daniels bottle and the other dangling in the water, she threw her head back and finished the last of the alcohol before she dragged herself up and stared at the pale yellow towels next to her. Embroidered in white thread in loopy script was a single word for each towel: His. Hers.
Tears stung her eyes once more and she let out an anguish cry, flinging the bottle at the wall. It hit, cracked, and splintered on the floor. A medium-sized indent broke the wall's plaster, but she didn't care. She dropped her head down low, brought her knees to her chin and sobbed.
Across the hall, Michael had been drawing a picture of his family with a blue crayon. His blonde head jerked up at the sound of her scream coupled with shattered glass. Fear suddenly overcame him and he toppled his chair in his haste.
"Mom?" he called out, sticking his head over the banister to see downstairs. Glass. The kitchen, maybe.
No. She was crying again, he thought. Mom only cries in the bathroom.
Cautiously approaching the master bedroom door, he drew the door open and stepped inside. The sound of his mother's sorrow emanated from the bathroom, but he suddenly didn't want to enter.
He began to feel the tears burning behind his eyes, and he swallowed hard once as he placed his hand on the door, which was slightly ajar, and hesitated.
"William, William… why did you have to leave me? Please, God, tell me what I did to deserve this!" Her voice was thin, hardly one he recognized.
Slowly, he opened the door, and saw her on the floor – his super-mom, the one woman who could do anything from saving the day with a peanut butter and jelly-cucumber sandwich to sewing up his cuts and lightening his bruises whenever he fell. But this wasn't super-mom. This was broken mom. Fractured.
He heard the word once, when he was six and he fell of his bike. His arm hurt a lot, and the doctor told him he had fractured it. He broke a bone. Mom had a broken heart. He knew because he overheard Aunt Trish tell Brandy Buck from across the street.
"Mommy?" his voice shook, his lip quivered. He blinked. Mommy's hurt, he knew because if having a broken arm hurt, having a broken heart must hurt more. But he didn't know how to make it better. Maybe a cast could help her like his did. Maybe the doctor could make it all better.
A small gasp passed from between her parted lips, and she looked up at him, her face wet with salty tears, her hair in tangle. The water was running behind her, she had forgotten. He twisted it off, using both hands because it was hard to do with only one.
He tried to smile at her, but it came out like a wobbly twitch. She sniffed and wiped her face.
"Yes, baby? Do you need something?"
I need you, he thought, but didn't say. So he shook his head no.
She smiled, but he saw right through it. "Okay, honey. I'm sorry. I'm just a little upset that's all. I needed to cry a little."
"For Dad." He concluded.
"For Dad." She agreed with a nod.
He looked away, lifted one hand and fingered the towel marked His. Not looking at her, he only said, "It's not your fault Dad's gone to heaven."
He heard her draw a breath sharply.
"Oh, honey."
He turned to her now, threw his arms around her neck and whispered, "I love you."
Grace's arms bounded around his small frame and held him close. God, her son… the one blessing she had left. Her son, the only key to her salvation and sanity. Her only hope. Her single lifeline. Her son.
She stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his temple.
"We'll be okay, honey. We'll be okay," she said over and over, but she knew she was saying more for her own benefit than his.
***
Life in Puget Sound wasn't as grim and horrible as she thought it would be.
The apartment was tidy and sparsely furnished with classical style pieces. She gave up her King sized bed for a full, and she usually had vivid dreams of William and the unseen murderer. They were bloody nightmares that seized her and wouldn't grant her release until she saw him lying a pool of his own entrails, barely resembling the man she knew to be William Vaughn.
She often woke up screaming, shaking, and sweaty. Instead of her comforting her son with his grief, which he carefully concealed in his attempt to be strong for her, he came running to her aid night after night.
"Mom, I'll stay with you tonight," he would say, both knowing it would happen again the next night and the night after that.
And he would. He'd fall asleep with his head tucked under her arm, mouth open, his hair just gazing the top of his forehead. She, on the other hand, wouldn't sleep for the remainder of the night, often staring at the starlight that shined just outside her window.
How did it come to this? She asked herself quietly. How will I ever cope?
Another two weeks passed, and the dreams still came, always in the same form, always with the same ending. She finally had to fess up and contact Jack Bristow.
"Bristow here," he said curtly.
"Mr. Bristow. This is Grace Vaughn." She sighed, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose. "I need to talk to someone."
"What seems to be the problem?"
"I can't sleep."
He was silent a moment. "I see."
"I'm having dreams. Horrible dreams, and I can't tell you about them now." She glanced at her son, who was busily arranging his hot wheels and other toys – all the ones she realized his father had chosen.
"I understand."
"Is there someone I can talk to?"
"The CIA has trained psychologists in your vicinity. I can call and schedule and appointment if you like." He offered.
She thought about it briefly before she sheepishly asked, "You said you had a child. Am I to assume that you also have a wife?"
"Yes, I do."
"Would she mind it much if I called her and talked to her for a bit?"
"I don't think that would be a problem. But she's an English professor, not a psychologist."
Grace sighed. "I really would prefer not to speak with a shrink. I'd just feel… a little crazier than I already do. I appreciate the offer, but I was hoping that I could leave Michael with your wife for a few hours while I went out and cleared my head."
"You want her to babysit?"
Her cheeks pinkened. It sounded so incredulous when he said it. "I know that I don't know you very well, and I don't know your wife at all, but I have no one else to turn to, and I won't leave him here alone."
"Sure." He said. "It'll be fine. I'll call Laura and let her know."
"Oh, I could do it if you just give me the number. I know you're a busy man – just as William was busy." There was a whisper of longing in her voice when she mentioned her husband, and Jack felt sorry for her. Her loss was great, and he couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose your spouse, lover, and friend.
After he gave her the number, she hung up and dialed the woman named Laura Bristow.