Title:  Heir Apparent

Description:  Post-ep for "Foreign Affairs."  Thirteenth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.

Author:  KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer:  Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers:  Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Foreign Affairs." (#9-20)

Summary:  After Gamma's funeral, Carter comes a little more undone.

Notes:  This is the latest installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed, which will continue through the two remaining episodes of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Off Limits" (Chapter 18), her post-ep to "Foreign Affairs."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two-post eps are meant to be read in tandem and share a common theme, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) respective POVs.  Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.

Wouldn't you know that when I finally switch back to a "song of the post-ep," someone would beat me to the punch?  And I thought carby had bad timing.  With all due apology to pissed off poet, I chose this chapter's soundtrack  – "Sympathy" off the GooGoo Dolls' most excellent CD, "Gutterflower" – several weeks ago (my carby muses Lanie, Pemberley and Taylor Wise will vouch for me).  What can I say, great carby minds think alike.  And as my mother always told me, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…

Looks like it's time once again to thank my loyal cadre of reviewers for their inimitable wisdom and inspiration:  the usual suspects (Lanie, Pemberley, Taylor Wise, Anna, Lesbiassparrow, MeganStar, Spooky Anne, Starbright,) and some new/returning faces on the frontier (Mbooker, Mbraveheart, Lilyhead, AnaDi, Ali, and Ceri).  And to flutiedutiedute, for a little gem that made all the angst worthwhile.

Real-life intrusions have caused me to be late to the party for the second straight episode.  So boatloads of bouquets conveying my deep sense of appreciation and gratitude go to Lanie for pulling me through my whininess and misery.  Not only did she write Carter's dream sequence (the best part of this post-ep in my very humble opinion) for me, but with characteristic pluckiness she also taught me ultimate life lessons in teamwork, collaboration and friendship. 

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy

This is my apology

I'm killing myself from the inside out

All my fears have pushed you out

I wish for things that I don't need

All I wanted

And what I chase won't set me free

All I wanted

And I get scared but I'm not crawling on my knees

Oh yeah everything's all wrong yeah

Everything's all wrong yeah

Where the hell did I think I was

* * * * *

I gingerly jangle the doorknob and peer inside Gamma's library.

A haven of sorts -- the source of so much solace for me these past few months.

And now a hiding place after I had watched them lower her body into the ground.

Truth be told, death was the only certainty left in this world.

And though I had already buried a brother and a grandfather, this time it was different. 

With Gamma, it had always been different.

I had never expected it to hurt this much.

To feel so numb, so empty, so alone.

I fall into a black leather mission style chair, kneading my temples and loosening my tie.  After munching on canapés and engaging in a torturous round of small talk with an odd conglomerate of mourners – as far as I could tell a commingling of distant relatives, old friends, household help and the thankful lot who had been on the receiving end of the Foundation's generosity – I had politely excused myself to find refuge in my familiar retreat.

I scoot my body down and rest the crook of my neck against the buttery leather of the club chair.  I fold my hands behind my head, my thoughts still a mercilessly alternating muddle of sorrow and anger. 

My mind is flooded by images of the macabre convergence of happenstance that would forever pierce my memory of her final send-off:  from the early morning visit from Kelvin Hamlin, the lawyer for her estate to the hurtful, strained conversation with my father that followed; from Abby's tardiness to Eric's spectacle; from the sight of the foreign, mournful look in my eyes that reflected back at me as she held them in her own to the tingle that reverberated throughout my entire body, hard as I tried to suppress it, when she laced her fingers through my hand and clutched my thigh.

Gamma had deserved so much better than what she had gotten today.

Somehow the orchestrated pageantry of my grandfather's farewell had been missing from the sad little affair that had transpired on this seemingly perfect sun-kissed spring morning.

Of course, his funeral had borne the thumbprint of days of careful planning on her part.

I smile ruefully thinking back to the afternoon of his reception when she too had felt the need to escape far from the concerned clutches of the maddening crowd.

When I had found her in the garage unsuccessfully trying to jumpstart Grandpa's bright red Jaguar convertible while uncorking a bottle of vintage champagne.

When I was probably the only person who understood where her head and heart were at in that particular moment.

"People want to pay their respects."

"Well, they can wait.  I'm the widow."

"I hope you weren't thinking about drinking and driving."

"'We were saving that bottle for our 60th anniversary. Missed it by a year.  Open it."

"Nah, you can still wait…"

"Let's drink to your grandfather."

"It's a very nice vintage.  You sure you wouldn't want to share this with…we don't have any glasses."

"You can drink from the bottle."

"To John Truman Carter.  Entrepreneur.  Philanthropist.  Family man."

"And friend."

"We gonna take this old girl out for a spin or what?"

"Damn right."

Still lost in thought, I stand up to massage the kinks out of my pesky back, crossing the room to gaze up at the rows of colorful bindings that line the wood-paneled walls.  I spot the place where I had returned "Gift From the Sea" to its original resting place, next to The Collected Stories of Oscar Wilde, a particular favorite of hers.  Absently, I pull the book off the shelf and leaf through it, uncovering a yellowed bookmark with a detailed description in her familiar scrawl of the tome's origin; my grandfather had bought it at an antiquarian book fair on Mackinac Island in 1952, and made a present of it for their twentieth wedding anniversary.

Always, always a method to her madness.

Which must explain the business about the terms of her last will and testament.

I lean against the wall and skim the table of contents.

Gamma, how could you?

But I knew.  I knew it the minute Kel walked in the room this morning.

On paper, the decision didn't make much sense, especially in the aftermath of the symphony gala when she had formally announced that she would be stepping down as president of the Carter Family Foundation and turning the reins over to my father.  He'd been in office, what, all of three months?

The way I figured it, she thought he was fine at the helm as long as she was still around to pull some strings with her characteristically sweet but steely Svengali-like aplomb.

My eventual ascent to the throne was probably something that had always been in the back of her mind, once I had at long last reconciled the irascible dichotomy between my birthright and chosen profession.

She just hadn't planned on exiting this soon.

Or had she?

"I've spent so many years trying to get you to do what I think is best for you.  Your past, having me badger you about your choices.  This is yours.  Give it, or don't, to whomever you choose."

At some point, she must have simply decided to throw caution to the wind, toss all the cards in the air, and see where they landed.

Knowing she had make me an offer and done it in such a way that I couldn't possibly say no.

Damn you, Gamma.

Even in death, you still have to have the last word.

I'm sure she would have loved to be a fly on the wall during the awkward exchange with my father that followed Kel's morning house call.

My lips curled upward at the thought.  Knowing Gamma, she probably already had channeled a direct connection to our most intimate conversations.

"I didn't realize estate lawyers made house calls."

"The Foundation Board called an emergency meeting for next week.  He just wanted me to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

"Gamma stipulated in her will that I be put in charge of the Foundation.  She appointed me as president."

"I see.  Well, I think that would be a good thing."

"For me or the Foundation?"

"Both."

"Look, Dad, it should have been you.  She must have figured since I'm in Chicago…"

"She put you in charge of the family fortune and left me with a little bachelor's trust fund.  I don't think it was a question of geography."

"I've also tried to stay as involved as I could…"

"John, who are you kidding?"

"You want me to tell you the truth.  She was disappointed in you as a son, as a father.  She didn't think you were up to it."

"You could sugarcoat it a little.  It's an opportunity for you."

"Not one that I wanted.  Now I'm stuck having to run the damn thing.  Or walk away."

"Looks like she managed to screw us both."

My hand still clutching the book, I sprawl across the couch and open it to the first page.

Twinges of regret, like tiny pinpricks, course through my veins at the recollection of they way I had lashed out at my father. 

Why had I felt the need to widen the gulf by speaking for Gamma when he could no longer respond back to her, widening the rift between them, a rift that could no longer be healed?

My clinical training had prepared me to recognize the cycling stages of grief.

Over the years, I had recognized it in others.

Now it was my turn.

I knew I was grieving over more than just Gamma's death.

The part of me that had died with her.

And the part that had not yet emerged from the wreckage.

It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever known, even during the throes of my early days in Atlanta.  I felt lost, caught in an inescapable vortex of panic, anger, malaise and despair, as though I were on an elevator locked in a death spiral sinking wildly out of control into the depths of my darkest fears and bleakest imaginings.

I wanted to hurt those closest to me and crawl inside them at the same time.  Whichever method proved immediately effective at my fingertips to shutting out the unbearable, inchoate emptiness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doorknob jiggle and my father enter the room, his fingertips permanently clutched around an icy tumbler.  I wonder how many this one made. 

Looking up and closing the book, I'm hit with a strange sense of déjà vu.  In another "aha moment," I recall finding him glued to the television set after my grandfather's funeral, lamenting the news about his biotech stock sinking to basement levels.  Talk about role reversal.

I opt to open the conversation by tossing him a softball.  "I didn't know Gamma had collected the Oscar Wilde first edition."  I examined the book's binding.

"Oh…there was a story about him late in his life, she loved to tell…I can't quite remember."

She had regaled anyone who would listen with countless renditions of the tale, especially in her later years.  I hated him for forgetting.

"He was on this deathbed drinking champagne.  And when a friend of his asked him what he was doing, he said, 'Isn't it obvious?  I'm dying beyond my means.'"  I sat up on the couch.

"She was a society lady with the heart of Stonewall Jackson."  He deposited himself in the leather club chair.

I hunch forward and mindlessly spin a globe that rests on the coffee table.  Time to mend fences with my fractured family, the little that I had left.  Him.  And her.  Wherever she was, we still hadn't been able to reach her.  If, as they say, 90 percent of life is "showing up," my mother would have sleepwalked through it in a dazed stupor.

"I didn't mean what I said before."

"It is what it is, John, you can't pretend it was anything else."  Then, switching the subject, "Not much of party, huh?"  He takes a long slow swig of his drink.

"Not much of a funeral."  I shoot him a wounded smile.

"It certainly was memorable."  There was no mistaking the dryness in his voice.

"More like embarrassing."  I didn't like where the conversation was going.  I leaned back in the sofa, fiddled with my tie and crossed my legs, my discomfort suddenly rising to a fever pitch.

"Is that why Abby's not here?" 

I could picture what he was really thinking; the little match girl and her crazy brother.  Taking a deep breath, I ignored the comment. 

"I was just having a hard time mingling.  Sharing duck canapés and cosmos with a bunch of people I don't really know."  I folded my hands.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want, it's alright."  He rose from his chair as if to dismiss me.

Suddenly my softer side lunged ahead in the dueling foot race with its harsher counterpart.  Perhaps this was my last best chance to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Dad."  I got up from the sofa and walked toward him, hitching my hands in my pockets.  "I'm really sorry."  He turned around to face me, perplexed by my sudden change in tone.  "I feel like I blew it."

In a magnanimous gesture that surprised me, he more than met me halfway.  "Well you didn't.  Neither did Abby."  He patted my arm and I opened them up in what could only be characterized as an awkward, perfunctory embrace.  Still, it was a start.

"Let it go, son.  Let it go."  He exited the room.

For a long time, I just stood there my gaze fixed on the wooden door.

What had the reverend said above the din today about when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window?

I thought long and hard about the words he had spoken.

What had the reverend said above the din today about when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window?

I thought long and hard about the words he had spoken.

And then reluctantly set out for County General to find my other family.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy

I take these things so I don't feel

I'm killing myself from the inside out

Now my head's been filled with doubt

It's hard to lead the life you choose

All I wanted

When all your luck's run out on you

All I wanted

You can't see when all your dreams are coming true

Oh yeah it's easy to forget yeah

You choke on the regrets yeah

Who the hell did I think I was

* * * * *

I unlock the door and enter my apartment, numb to the bone, a stranger in my own home.

Mechanically, I remove my clothes and head straight for the shower.  The hot, pulsing spray feels like a tonic on my skin, soothing my weary muscles and joints.  I linger in the stall until my fingers begin to pucker and then quickly change into a faded set of scrubs.

Peering into the refrigerator, I'm greeted by a moldy sesame bagel, half a box of Krispie Kreme donuts, a brick of muenster cheese and two half-empty cans of Diet Vanilla Coke.  Hardly the stuff of which memorable meals are made.  I pull some saltines from the cupboard and spread them with peanut butter and finish up the last of the soda.  Flat.  How fitting.

I wander into the living room, leafing through a carelessly strewn pile of bills, junk mail, magazines and catalogs that rests on the coffee table.  For some reason, I squat and spread myself down on the floor, resting my back against the sofa.  I run a hand across my stomach, trying my best to push away the familiar piercing deep-in-the-hollow-of-the-belly-ache that would always be synonymous with loving her.

And losing her.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I hoarsely mouth her name into the darkness.

Abby.

I need you.

Then why had I sent her away?

Not once, but twice?

My mind wanders back to the conflicting mixture of emotions that bubbled up inside of me as I sat in the cemetery after the funeral and watched her tend to Eric's need, processing her every move through a resentful here-we-go-again prism. 

"He's calmer now.  I gave him some Depakote."

"How much?"

"The whole bottle.  I was stuck.  I-I, he couldn't be left alone.  I really wanted to be here with you, and I thought he would just wait in the car, and I'm really sorry, John.  I'm gonna drop him off at the hospital and then I'll come by the house, OK?"

"What for?"

"Because he agreed to be evaluated, maybe go into a locked ward."

"No, I mean why come by the house?"

"I know what happened was terrible, unforgivable, really, but my brother is sick and he's struggling, and I'm just trying to help him survive."

"Mmm-hmmm.  So go do that."

Hard as I tried, I could no longer bring myself to share her with Eric; if I couldn't have all of her, I wanted none of her.  No more second fiddle.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.  No more Johnny-on-the –spot.  It was that simple. 

 

But then buoyed by the conversation with my father, I had had a misguided epiphany of sorts. I had gone to the ER to make things right.  Only to be rebuffed at every turn, still a hostage to bad luck and a prisoner to bad timing.  In the end, the victims of the gangland shooting that diverted my attention as I tried unsuccessfully to connect with her seemed to be the only things I was capable of saving.

"OK, why don't we just get out of here?"

"You know I came to find you, right?  I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have come."

"It's OK, things are going to get better."

"Can you do me a favor?  Can you leave me alone?"

"What?"

"I need some time.  Can you just go?"

"OK."

Standing there, all I wanted to do was hurt her, cut her to the marrow, watch her bleed.

Love her, lose myself in her soft caresses, watch her build me back up.

Two distinct concepts at war with one another.

And no easy answers, no matter how desperately I wanted them.

I reach over for my satchel bag, which lies propped up against the end table, pulling out the familiar now-tattered notebook.  It was strange the way I was deriving unexpected solace from a project that was primarily intended to draw out her emotions.  Things seemed so much easier on paper.  So much easier than I had ever thought.

I rifle through the pages until I come to the last half-finished entry I had begun writing last night in Gamma's library.  My eyes stare down at the heading at the top of the page. 

If it weren't so spooky, it'd be almost comical.

Pivotal Moment #6:  "Crashing" My Grandfather's Funeral

For the first time since the exercise began, the words had not come easy.

April 27, 2003

Abby –

As I sit here on the night before my grandmother's funeral, I can't help but wonder if we're still on the same page in penning our entries.  After all, since this is a self-paced assignment, I have no way of knowing what role fate may have played in the timing of this particular entry.

But pivotal it is. For so many reasons.

I can still hear the strains of the harpist as I wandered restlessly through the throng of people gathered to pay their respects to my grandfather, my eyes coming to rest on the enormous portrait of Bobby and I that greets visitors in the mansion's front hall.

I can still feel the flutter in my chest as I learned I had an unexpected visitor.

And I saw you standing there.

I was floored by your stubbornness.  And surprised by your pluckiness.

Especially after I had told you I would never ask to subject you to the company of 200 Chicago bluebloods in a quest for a simple cup of coffee.

But you came anyway.

Just for me.

Offering comfort and friendship and a sympathetic ear.

Though things were still awkward between us after my riverside revelations, it was exactly what I needed at that moment.

And for that I will always be grateful.

It's funny how Gamma's death has affected me so much differently than my grandfather's.  Though he was the Carter family patriarch, she was its rock, its anchor.

And just always, always there for me, no matter how far off the reservation I may have wandered.

His death hit me very much like I told you as we sat there on the bench next to the crumpled birdbath giggling about the absurdity of it all.

We have to die somehow.  A sunny day.  Doing something he loved.  Not a bad way to go.

Maybe those words were a harbinger for the ones you chose to comfort me in the ER after I told you Gamma had died.

"She lived a very full and happy life, and you were a big part of that.  She wasn't sick, she wasn't in pain, she was in her own bed, it's not a bad way to go."

Then why weren't they enough for me?

And why did I resent you so much for saying them?

I think I know the answer now.

Because things are so much different between us now and I expect so much more from you.

Things that you seem unwilling or unable to give me.

And it's the widening gulf between the enormity of Gamma's death and the enormity of what I need from you that I'm having the hardest time reconciling right now.

And that was as far as I had gotten.

Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by exhaustion.  My mind can't process another thought.  Slowly I get up and pad into my bedroom, flinging myself down between the sheets and drawing the rumpled comforter up to my shoulders.

 

Despite the rage and disappointment roiling inside me, I still find myself clinging to the big dreams my whole life depended on.

And so, as my head touches the pillow, I retreat to the one place where I could hold her still long enough to keep us from falling prey to the continuously looping reel of bad timing that had underwritten our destiny.

My wildest dreams.

* * * * *

A knocking from outside my subconscious draws me out of what had been at best been a less than restful slumber.

I rub my hands across my face as I make my way towards my apartment door, fumble with the locks and find the door handle.  I pull the door open, fully prepared to berate my late-night visitor.

My eyes adjust to the vision standing before me.  I should have known.

Standing in a sweatsuit and sneakers, her hair loosely hanging across her shoulders, she stares back up at me from her perch in the doorway.

"Hi."

I frown and look up and down the hallway.  "Abby, what are you doing here?"

"I've been standing here for the past twenty minutes, debating whether or not to use my key."

"What?  I…"

She heaves an exasperated sigh.  "Can I come in?"

I step aside and hold my hand out to show her the way.  I watch as she passes by me quietly and moves into the middle of the room before stopping with her back towards me.  I shut the door as she turns around, a confused, startled look cast upon her face.

"Were you sleeping?"

"If you could call it that."  I make a face.  "It's like…twelve-thirty in the morning."

She glances over her shoulder.  "Oh."  Facing me once more, she bites her lip.  "I'm sorry."

Now it's my turn to sigh.  "Yeah."

She nods and gives me a small smile. Empathy?  I can't be sure.

"Abby?"

She raises her eyebrows.  "Hmm?"

"What are you doing here?"

She frowns and studies her sneakers.  "Umm…"

"I thought I told you…" I wave my hand submissively in the air and shake my head.  "Never mind."

"What?"

My hand finds a resting spot on my neck as I dip my head and begin to knead.

"John?"

"Just…go."  I turn on my heel and head back towards my bedroom.

Her touch pulls me to a stop.

"Hey.  Come on.  It's me."

One glance over my shoulder tells me she won't be dismissed as easily this time.

I twist around to face her again.  "Where's Eric?"

She tips her head to the side.  "Does it matter?"

I let out a low groan.  "Look, Abby…"

"No, John."  She spreads her arms wide at her sides and peruses the darkened room before looking me squarely in the eye.  "I'm here."

I scoff lightly.  "Yeah.  For now."

My words hit her like a slap across the face and she cowers back momentarily before responding.  I can almost trace the changes in her face as her expression softens.

"I'm sorry, John."

I close my eyes and rub my temples.  I won't be sucked in again.  Not this time.  "It's late."

"John."

I open my eyes and allow my gaze to melt into hers.  She bites her lip and rewards me with a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah, whatever."  It's all I can manage before retreating to my bedroom.  "Goodnight, Abby."

I roll my eyes when I hear the sound of her footsteps pad down the hallway as she follows in close pursuit.  Still, I continue on, picking my plaid comforter off the floor.  She switches on the light next to the armoire, basking the room in a sharp, unforgiving brightness.  I shut my eyes quickly and clench my fists, throwing the bedcover high in the air above the mattress.  It lands in a flurry of soft folds.

"Abby, you really don't want to get into this.  Trust me.  Just go."

She crosses her arms over her chest.  "Go where?"

"Home. Back to Eric.  Wherever you've been for the past four days."

She shakes her head adamantly.  "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because…"  She takes a step closer.  "Because I know you better than that."

I open my mouth as an acerbic retort springs to the tip of my tongue, then think better of it, and purse my lips together.  I try once more and chicken out again.  Throwing my hands up in the air, I drop to the edge of the mattress and hang my forehead into them.

"I…I don't know what to do," I finally admit.

The bed shifts as she lowers herself beside me, her hand rubbing my back.

"I just feel…lost," I add, my voice cracking under the weight of suppressed emotion.

"Shhh…"  She stokes my head gently.  "She meant a lot to you…"

I shake my head and sit up, rubbing the tears out of my eyes.  "It's just…all my life, she was always, always there.  I can't believe she's gone."

"I know she was like a mother to you."  She glances away and takes a deep breath before continuing.  "I meant what I said, John.  As much as I'd like to think I do, I have no real idea what you're going through right now.  And I'm sorry…"  She gazes up at the ceiling, finding it hard to keep her own emotions in check.  "I'm sorry I wasn't there.  It wasn't fair. To either of us."

I struggle to swallow against the lump in my throat.  "You did what you had to do."

She rolls her eyes.  "Right."  Pursing her lips, she ponders a thought as she picks up my hand.  "You told me awhile ago that you weren't going anywhere."  She laces her fingers between mine and squeezes my palm tightly.  "I promised myself I'd return the favor one day."

I look down at our entwined fingers and rotate my jaw.  "It's not about obligation, Abby."

"I know."

My gaze meets hers.  "Then what?  Where does that leave us?"

She stares at me for several seconds, her eyes traveling around my face before settling back on my own.  "If you can sit there and tell me that you want me to go, I will."

I blink once.  "And if I don't?"

She flashes a wry smile.  "Then I just might wrap my arms around you and hold you for a few hours."  Her face falls suddenly and she brings her free hand to my face, wiping away an errant tear from my cheek.  "Please?"

I catch her hand as she begins to pull it away and kiss her palm.  "I could really use you right now."

The smile returns to her lips and she tips her head to the side.  "Here I am."

"Don't go."

She pulls herself further up on the bed, scooting back against the headboard.  Propping one pillow behind her head, she places the other against her chest and reaches out to me.  I nod in her direction and take a moment to remove her sneakers, dropping them to the floor with a gentle thud.  I join her side, laying my head against her chest.  She pulls the covers over both of us before wrapping her arms around me, one of her hands finding a spot in my hair as the other sleepily traces a path up and down my left arm.  A soft kiss lands atop my head as she sinks further into the mattress underneath me.

"Just go to sleep."

I smile to myself, expelling a breath I didn't know I had been holding.  My eyelids droop closed, and I allow myself to be lulled to sleep by her rhythmic breathing and soft caresses.

As it should be.

* * * * *

I awake with a start, bolting upright in the tangled bedclothes as I struggle to identify my surroundings.

Massaging my temples in an attempt to ward off the dull ache that is beginning to form behind my eyes, I get up and wander into the living room and flick the remote, looking for something sufficiently insufferable to lull me back to sleep.

As Emeril prepares a Cajun feast, I pick up the discarded notebook that lays tossed at my feet.

I should probably finish it.  Get it over and done with.

I press the mute button and pick up a pen as I reread the stilted passage, wondering what's left to say.

I think for a minute and then begin to write.

I wanted you to be there for me today.  I needed you to be there.  But we just seemed to be sabotaged at every turn.

I couldn't help but resent Eric's presence, especially in light of all that happened, though deep down I understood why you had to bring him.

And a part of me was comforted by the warmth of your touch during the funeral service and in the cemetery afterwards.  It reminded me of a similar overture I made to Gamma during my grandfather's funeral as I reached out to stroke her black-gloved hand.  Somehow, once again,  you just sensed what I needed at that moment.

But it wasn't enough.

And so blinded by a potent concoction of grief, jealousy and self-pity, I sent you away, not once, but twice, rather than risk the strain of your divided loyalties.

Abby, I'm not in a very good place right now.

Neither are we.

You.  Me.  Us.

I don't know what's real anymore.

And what isn't.

And after the events of the past few days, I can't help but wonder what we owe our families.  Both our blood relatives and the one-time strangers we hope to build our lives around.

I don't know right now.

So until I do, this will just have to be my unfinished symphony.

Yours,

John

I put down my pen, haunted by the look of pained, but dutiful acquiescence that framed her face as she left me in the suture room.

I thought of all of the far flung places I had followed her over the past year.

The loading dock at the Lava Lounge.

The front steps of her apartment. 

Nebraska.

Back to Chicago after an aborted trip to Belize.

The rooftop at County.

Outside the El entrance on St. Patrick's Day.

No more.

I was done doing the pursuing.

But maybe it was time she showed her hand.

Or maybe it was more than that.

Maybe it was time to toss all the cards up in the air and see where they fell.

If anywhere at all.

Just like Gamma had.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy

All these thoughts you stole from me

I'm not sure where I belong

No where's home and I'm all wrong

And I wasn't all the things

I tried to make believe I was

And I wouldn't be the one to kneel

Before the dreams I wanted

And all the talk and all the lies

Were all the empty things disguised as me

Yeah stranger than your sympathy

Stranger than your sympathy

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