Disclaimer: Same old, same old.
A/N: I'm sorry for the delay in updates, but as you might have guessed from the last author's note, I moved and therefore couldn't start working on this chapter as soon as I'd hoped to.
Not Meant To Be – Chapter 9
On the third Thursday in May rain is pouring down on them mercilessly, but she doesn't hear the noise produced by the drops hitting everyone and everything around her. Later on she won't be able to recall a single word that has been spoken during the service. The rushing of blood in her ears is much too loud.
Looking up to where grey clouds are driven across an equally grey sky, she remembers that day in English class when they talked about how writers liked to employ nature to mirror their characters' emotions. Sunny day outside? Sunny day inside!
Whoever authors their lives certainly knows his profession well, she decides. This is just spot-on.
Sometimes she likes to imagine what statements made only inside her head would sound like if they were spoken out loud. And somehow she almost feels like really giving it a try this time, just to see whether she can scream as loud as she imagines she would.
Despite the enormous umbrella Luke handed her before they left the house, her clothes are soaked. The new black summer jacket – never before having worn black at this time of year, she found herself lacking suitable attire for the occasion – sticks to her back and whenever she moves her toes it feels as if there was a swimming pool in her shoes.
She would love to take the useless umbrella and beat somebody over the head with it. She would love to turn around to her right and hug her mother. She would love to be brave enough to turn at least one of these impulses into action, but she, her grandmother's child after all, judges them both as momentarily inappropriate. Also, during the past few days hasn't Luke really been the only person her mother allowed herself to be comforted by?
"Don't worry about me." That's what Lorelai said when they talked on the phone during her two-day stay at Yale this week. Yale seemed to be twice as far away from home when she hung up the receiver. But somehow, however guiltily, she enjoyed the feeling of being away from home, away from the utter sadness.
There were friends to be met, professors to be talked to about the situation that required her presence at home for another three days, notes to be copied and so many more things that kept her mind at least partially occupied.
Goosebumps spread across her wet back and she clenches her teeth. That grave is not even half as big as the giant heap of flowers and ribbons piled up next to it.
And just like her feelings careen incessantly between sadness, anger and guilt for feeling reluctant to actually be involved in any of this, the rain doesn't bother to decide upon one direction to come from. It has repeatedly tried out all four of them by the time the casket is lowered into the ground. Her hearing returns for as long as the minister's mouth stops moving. Feet shuffle on wet ground, people cough cautiously and she thinks that once or twice someone whispers her mother's name.
Black umbrellas, hats, hoods and scarves crowd the grounds of the small cemetery behind them. Yes, for a change Lorelai Gilmore's place is in the first row. There was no sneaking in late today, no giving away of tickets in exchange for faraway box office seats, no bags full of candy being passed between the Gilmore girls. They were the first to arrive and will be the last to leave. This is neither a Bangles concert nor a town meeting, although it certainly seems that the whole town of Stars Hollow is paying her dead brother their respects this morning.
She leans forward a little and turns left to look at her grandparents. Emily and Richard Gilmore are clearly at their best. Their outwardly dignified appearance doesn't betray the dabbing at smudgy eye make-up her grandmother had to do in the car or the many times her grandfather cleared his throat and re-adjusted his tie on their way to the cemetery.
Emily looks straight ahead and there's only one thing about her grandmother that Rory doesn't understand: No earrings, no necklace, no rings on her fingers except for her wedding band.
On her right side, her mother is resting her head on Luke's shoulder. Her hair is tied back in a simple ponytail and her left hand rests atop the arm Luke has wrapped around her middle. If Luke's arm disappeared into the back of her shirt instead, Lorelai could be mistaken for a ventriloquist dummy at rest, she realizes.
A few more minutes into the ceremony the minister has resumed talking and Rory is facing the grave again, doing her best to pretend to be listening. All of a sudden something hits her umbrella from the side. Averting her gaze from the drenched minister, she realizes that Luke has nudged her umbrella with the one he is holding up for Lorelai and himself.
He is wiping at his eyes awkwardly with the hand that holds the umbrella. Suddenly aware of her looking at him, an expression she has never seen before takes over his face. Their gazes lock for a brief moment before she forces a sad smile onto her lips and then turns away. Coward.
Had she been able to see his face during their phone conversation on the night of Julian's birth, she would have recognized this expression she now thinks of as unknown to her.
Ever since her mother's return home almost a week ago she has been wondering how on earth he is doing it. From what she has heard and seen, he gets up every morning at the exact same time, prepares Lorelai a breakfast she never eats, brews her a pot of coffee she never empties and comforts her regardless of what state she may be in when she finally leaves the bedroom.
One more glance at Luke's arm around her mother's waist abruptly brings about the realization that there is no arm supporting Luke. With one arm he holds her mother and with the other one he holds himself.
No wonder he doesn't have a free hand to wipe his tears. She feels selfish.
Having tossed and turned in his bed for what must have been several hours now, he just can't get the images out of his head. They keep on popping up in front of his mind's eye like a slide show and no matter how hard he tries to ignore them, he can't.
His daughter and son-in-law shake the hands dozens of compassionate townies extend towards them as they parade past the tiny grave.
His daughter practically kneels on the ground, wordlessly straightening out the ribbons that hang out of the pile of flowers on top of the grave.
After everyone else has left they slowly make their way back to the cars, careful not to slip on the slobbery ground.
His granddaughter, however, isn't careful enough. Her jacket gets all muddy when she falls and the fabric is most likely ruined, his wife guesses.
When they take her with them to Hartford for a late lunch she says that she never planned on wearing the stupid thing again, anyway.
As soon as he has pulled into the driveway she is out of the car and disappears around the corner of the house to where the garbage cans are.
When she comes back her hands are empty, the jacket is gone and if he isn't imagining things, so is the tortured expression her face wore ever since the ceremony ended.
After lunch she announces, much to their surprise, that she is not going to stay for dinner today.
"Yale?" he asks.
"No, Stars Hollow. Mom and Luke."
And somehow she looks relieved.