Helping You Out
A/N: Originally this was going to be from Jamie's POV, but I thought I'd hold off on that for a couple of chapters and do Angelina's parents' point of view first. Why? I wanted to see how their contrasting personalities (fun-loving Jake Johnson vs. the "Ice Queen" Gabrielle Toussaint) would react to Angie's suicide. And also because, despite the fact that this is an angstfic, Jamie is already a severely messed up kid and losing one of the two people that he's close to would push him even further off the deep end and I don't have enough time to delve into his psyche right now. (The other is George, who closed off to everyone except Jamie. And, of course, he has his reasons for not wanting to confide in Fred.) Wow. I wonder if I can submit this story to the APA as a psychological study. Anyway, this one is Gabrielle's POV. I tried to make her as true to character as I could, still retaining that standoffish nature but making her (almost) human. And being French (and therefore superior to us English-speaking folk), she doesn't use contractions because they are so…common.
A/N 2: Sorry about the late update, but finals week really kicked my arse. And then I spent almost a week going to concerts with FA (Switchfoot is awesome live). Watched her perform a song with her other (::cough:: crappier ::cough::) band Saturday night; she's a better singer than we give her credit for. And chapter seven of OAS should be up sometime in the next two days. She thought that getting a 3.8 last semester exempted her from working, so I'm holding her SOTY album hostage until she finishes. Speaking of SOTY, why didn't they just call it Twisted Love Songs from Crazy Stalkers instead of Page Avenue? I mean, after all, that's all the album is. I don't understand why she likes them so much; they're just another cookie cutter screamo band.
Gabrielle's POV
Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS! My daughter! My youngest! Mon béb! Ma petite fille! How could she do this to me? Her own mother! The woman that brought her into the world! How could she do this to her family? To her friends?
It's just not fair! I gave this girl everything she ever wanted and she just goes and kills herself like an ungrateful brat.
I know that sounds a bit harsh and makes it sound as if I deserve the title of "Ice Queen," but I cannot help it. I do not understand how she could do such a thing. I would have done anything for her, but all she has ever done has hurt me. Constantly. Sometimes I think it became a game to her: see how many times you can shatter your mother's heart and she will forgive you. Towards the end she would not even speak to me. I knew that something was wrong – had been for a long time – but how do you tell someone "I love you" when it is clear that she does not even want to see you?
Never has she looked before she leaped. Never has she thought of the consequences of her actions. She has always been impulsive. Why should this have been any different? There is a nagging feeling that she had been planning this for some time. That something had just pushed her over the edge and she was prepared for it. Yet, at first, I was so surprised. Jake says that hindsight is 20/20, whatever that means. We have been married for almost twenty-seven years and I still do not understand half of his ridiculous English expressions.
Suicide.
I do not like that word. Self-murder is what they should call it. Destroying your family, alienating your friends and breaking your poor mother's heart is what they should call it. No matter what they call it, it sounds so nauseating.
It should sound nauseating because that is what it is. Just thinking about the fact that I am going to bury my daughter in a few hours makes me want to vomit. Twenty-two year-old witches are not supposed to die, especially in the Toussaint family. My own great-grandfather is still alive at almost one hundred fifty years old. Life is not supposed to work like that; you only die young at the hands of an extremely powerful Voldemort (yes, I said Voldemort; it is silly to call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) and that no longer exists.
Looking around, I see people everywhere. Only a week ago, I thrived on being on the society pages of the Daily Prophet. Hell, I actually have an award for being in the most issues of Witch Weekly ever. But this is the absolute last event that I want the paparazzi at. Sweet Merlin, cannot a woman grieve for her deceased daughter in peace?
Of course not. At least, not if you are the youngest daughter of the wealthiest family in France, magical or Muggle. Nor if you are the wife of the heir to the third-largest wizarding fortune in Britain. Not if you are the cousin (albeit distant cousin) of the head of the wealthiest magical fortune in Britain. And definitely not if your deceased daughter was engaged to the biggest piece of white trash in Britain.
Yes, I am talking about Frederick Weasley. And referring to him as "white trash" has nothing to do with his poor background or his family. Personally, I think Arthur and Molly are brilliant people and I respect them and value their opinions far more than some people in my own family (my cousin Lucius and his wife Narcissa, for example) and the same goes for their children. But Frederick… He has never been good enough for her and on some level, I think that she knew that. The fact that around the age of fifteen she started spending more time with George than with him was enough evidence of that. The fact that she wrote to Isabelle that she should have just gone to the Yule Ball with George when she thought that Frederick was never going to ask her more than enough. Despite having been an "official" couple for almost two years at the time.
Isabelle insists that he had something to do with this, because her twin would never do something like this. I beg to differ; this is exactly the type of thing that Antoinette would do. But I do not doubt for one second that Frederick was behind this along with the baby. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure see that Antoinette was pregnant, especially not to her own mother's eyes. She had become irritable (not that she had not always been) and sank into a deep depression. But she would not talk to me about anything.
That should not have surprised me, though. She has never said anything about her personal life to me. She has always resented me. On some level, all my children do. For the little things, like calling them by their deuxièmes prénoms… I think the English call them "middle names." They all hated that because they did not understand why I did it. It was not my intention to appear aloof and detached; I wanted my children to be proud of their French heritage.
Antoinette hated it the most. Why? Because she was named after the illustrious Toni Toussaint. She felt like she was living in her aunt's shadow. But I do not understand why she did; after all, she is exactly like my sister. Same dark brown eyes, same impudent nature, same awful sense of style… And also like my sister, she spent her short adult life feeling hopeless, drowning her sorrows in firewhiskey, cigarettes and that Muggle drug…the one with the needles...heroin. She always wore long-sleeved tops so that no one could tell, but her father and I always suspected. And when I saw her with glazed-over, bloodshot eyes after one particularly wild binge and the marks on both her arms (while at a party for her father in Jamaica, no less), I knew. And I knew Frederick knew also, because she was strutting around in an absurdly small bikini on his arm. And when I approached her about it, she told me to "fuck off" and asked why I was worried about her now since I "never gave so much as a fuck" about her now.
But she was wrong, as usual. Despite what she thought, I cared about her deeply. I know that I shouldn't play favourites among mes filles, but Merlin help me, I did. And Antoinette was my favourite. I tried to hide it by criticising her far more than her sisters, but she was. Why? Because, besides little James, I'm the only one who truly understood her. But she never gave me a chance to show her.
Me understand anyone. A big laugh, right? I'm as capable of empathy as my cousin and his wife, right? No matter what you think of me, I stand by my words. I look over to the other side of the chapel. Alicia Spinnet and Lee are sitting near Isabelle and Lee has his arm around his older sister. Darryl Jordan is seated beside Alicia. And beside him…the very bane of my existence.
Francesca Elisabeth Laurence-Jordan. I can barely even say her name without becoming physically ill. Who is she? The mother of Lee Christopher Jordan. My husband's first—and only real—love. Petite and perspicacious, she is perfection incarnate. As strong as Jake is, she is his one weakness. No other woman could convince him to be unfaithful to his pregnant wife. No other woman could convince him to remain unfaithful to his wife years after the incident (I know what he does when he takes business trips to Scotland). There are a million names I could call her, but I won't because I am better than that; I am better than she is. I am better than that bitch, better than that harlot, mieux que ce femme écarlate (A/N: loosely translated, "better than that whore")!
So why did I take him back? The same reason Darryl and Antoinette remained with Francesca and Frederick, respectively. Because they loved them. Because I love Jake. I would give my life to protect his. In fact, when I found out that he was still seeing her, it felt like my whole world had ended. Like I had nothing to live for. I wanted to self-Avada. But I could not. The public image of my family would have been ruined. And…I did not have the courage to turn my wand upon myself.
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think?
Perhaps I should have named my daughter after me instead of my sister. After all, she relived my life. The only difference is that whereas I simply detached myself from everyone in the name of public image, she expressed her despair (though it was through highly unhealthy habits). And when the pain finally got to be unbearable, she detached herself permanently—something I have wanted to do for years, but could never bring myself to do. Does that make her better than me, something that she had always wanted to be? Maybe, maybe not, but it does make her every bit the Gryffindor Lioness she was.
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out
I do believe that she is watching this, listening to what is going on in everybody's minds. Well, Antoinette—Angelina—wherever you are, I just want you to know that I love you. And thank you for giving me the courage to do later tonight what I should have done years ago.