Chapter XV : To Take...To Hold

The flowers hardly distracted her for more than a few minutes, at the most. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, obviously displeased with what she saw. Her eyes kept on the image of herself, as she inhaled with disheartened interest. She exhaled in a sigh, and blinked.

"You make it worse when you frown," I commented gently. Her eyes darted to my image in the mirror, but she didn't bother to turn and look. Small wrinkles were forming on her brow above her eyebrows, and her lips were beginning to become used to being weighed down around the edges. She had been crying recently; her eyes were red, the swelling lessening.

"I can't help it…I didn't realize I lost so much weight…"

"You'll gain it back."

Tifa had been moved, some weeks ago, to another floor, only after proving to the staff and her primary doctor—who, as I would soon discover, was one of many—that she wasn't about to be influenced by the rest of the comatose patients and regress into her previous state. And unlike before, I stopped counting the days and the weeks in which the doctors kept her at the hospital. I stopped putting a time frame on how long she stayed there, on how many days I visited her (many, to be sure). Such numbers didn't seem important anymore—they actually, after a while, began to depress me, and I attempted to avoid counting down to the day she would ultimately leave, the day when she would finally come home, as much as humanly possible.

As it was, her new room was much better furnished than the one in which she had previously resided—it had been furnished and designed with the intent of housing functioning human beings, the conscious ones, within its walls. There was a bed, a beside table and lamp, and a dresser with an unframed mirror tacked to the wall above it; and while none of anything was decorated to the point of absolute hominess, compared to its precursor, even I had to admit the room was a significant improvement. Tifa hadn't adjusted well to her fellow boarders on the other ward, either—for the most part, their unrelenting gazes had frightened her. So, she had had to make do with the antisocial, although moving, neighbors shuffling about on this floor, until the day when Barret and I came to take her home.

Today was that day. Barret was off, at the moment, taking care of the massive amounts of paperwork the secretary here was having him complete. I sat at the foot of Tifa's bed, watching her stare despondently in the mirror above her dresser, as we waiting anxiously for the man to return. What few clothes she had been resigned to bring (for what patient needs clothes when she's not allowed to leave the ward?) were packed and ready, and all that was left now was to anticipate the journey home. This was not the end of the battle for any one of us, by far—Tifa still had months of physical therapy in the weeks ahead, to get herself back into the shape remotely resembling that which she had been in before this entire mess had even started. She had gained little weight from the evening of her awakening to this point, and she didn't look much different from that day save for the glow slowly returning to her eyes. The fact of the matter was, with the new room came a new mirror, and Tifa was not adjusting well to the new image that was currently frowning back at her. We were the only people in the room at the moment, and no one was around to misinterpret her reaction as she stared back at the sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones. This wasn't the first time she had been met with this reflection, but the hurt and the disappointment were the same, and I could only guess that with each fresh day she somehow expected herself to look different than she had the night before. Though most of her response was kept in control while I dutifully sat behind her, she had learned to give up attempting to keep a clean and unemotional guise when I was around—which happened to be practically every hour I was able—and I could tell from the information she was willing to leak that she was still not contented with her appearance.

I wouldn't be either, personally, if I looked the way she did.

But that was beside the point. Tifa was coming home today.

"You like the flowers?" This did manage to distract her again. She shifted, and her head creaked downwards until all her reflection showed was the top of her head. She inhaled, deeply, and sighed again.

"Yes. They're beautiful. Thank you." I nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything for a short minute. It was only for so long that I was able to at least interest her with stories of the past two years; I had long since expended the use of anecdotes to spur conversation.

I'd early on learned my lesson attempting to bring up anything regarding Nibelheim, or the past months, the famed week, week and a half I'd spent convincing her to live—she didn't remember anything; it was useless to constantly, relentlessly interrogate her on something she so obviously couldn't remember, regardless of how much I doubted her. And I did doubt her; on occasion flashes of recognition would streak across her face, her eyes glowing with the essence of understanding. Yet as quickly they came they would vanish, disappear with alarming efficiency until her look was nothing more than a hopeful, ignorant stare. She didn't seem to notice anything from the ordinary, as ordinary as things happened to be, and while many chances had arisen where we would have been able to talk freely, privately, on the subject, she never brought it up, she always denied knowing. Having for the time being given up on attempting to discuss this sensitive subject, I was once again helpless.

I hated being helpless.

Abruptly, a firm rasping came from the door, and it creaked open, revealing Barret's face. He glanced at us as though he somehow expected us to be doing something naughty on the floor. After a millisecond of hesitation, he came in, cautiously beaming.

"We're ready, let's go." He said it in his Avalanche voice, his 'may I command and be obeyed' leader's voice; a tone so rare it made me nostalgic. The final traces of melancholy evaporated from the woman sitting beside me, and she rose, shakily wiping at her slacks and blouse of imaginary debris.

"Finally! Let's go." Her eagerness shouldn't have surprised me, yet, for some unknown reason, it did. I took her arm, half-smiling, anxiously, and Barret grabbed her bags. He led us with vigor out of the room, into the hallway, into the rec room, with haste. Neither of them were as used to this environment as I was.

There was a small aggregation of people in the ward lobby, to see us off; doctors, psychiatrists, nurses, various staff. Some patients were there. Catherie was there; she didn't bother looking at Tifa—she'd seen enough of Tifa. She stared at me, openly and without reservation, still suspicious, curious. As the rest of the group delivered their farewells and well-wishes to Barret and Tifa and I, she pulled me aside, long, manicured fingernails digging into the pathetic tan of my bicep. Still grasping on, her eyes focused a hard, dissecting stare directly at my face, holding it there, unmoving. This went on for several seconds before she drew back slightly, her lips parting.

"I don't know why I trust you. We're both lucky, is all I can say." I was resolved to nod, the hair standing on the back of my neck protesting the impulse to smile politely. She shifted her shoulders in response, to face me square on, formally, officially.

"Thanks, Catherie. For everything."

She did smile at this, for the most part. "Hey, don't worry about it." She detached her hand and laid it on my shoulder—suddenly reaching my own height in the process—patting me. "Take of yourself. And her." She jerked her head in Tifa's direction; Tifa was stealing glimpses at us, the awkward, phony couple we make, between handshakes and tolerant smiles, her teeth bared. The group of us had begun to move towards the elevator.

I tried not to take pictures, in my head, of this place. "I will."

She seemed satisfied, enough.

--

She's sitting at the kitchen table. Some moments ago she was at the sink, washing away the remnants of her first meal home in four months, glad for something to do. Now she has nothing to do, only to wait, at the table, staring at Barret and smiling at Marlene. Somehow, she manages to do these two things at once. The two are fighting, the little girl resisting all and every attempt her father has made towards putting her to bed.

The entire afternoon, and for most of the evening, has gone by in an unmemorable blur. I stand behind the kitchen table, near the door, also staring at the father-daughter pair, because I also have nothing better to do. We're both waiting for the night to come undeniably, where there will be no excuses that we can hide in, nothing to keep us from the inevitable; I can tell this idea still has not occurred to Barret, and I know that Marlene, too high on joy and excitement to sleep, has no reason to suspect anything is amiss. She can barely speak, as it is. Today was her last cooking entire meals on a regular basis, for the most part, washing the dishes, keeping the household—she'll be seven this fall. She'll have better things to do. She was only once able to visit Tifa in the hospital, as her father promised some time ago, and now she reacts to his orders not wanting the gaiety to end, like a child on holiday.

After the struggle, Barret bids his farewells. He only reluctantly retires because I am still awake, openly unnerved by Tifa's remark, "Don't you think I've slept enough already? I'm not tired." She is exhausted, both us men can tell—that's what there is to read from the look Barret shoots me from across the kitchen as he departs.

When we're alone, she smiles at me. My presence makes her nervous; simply my being there, my being awake, waiting for her, is enough to pressure her into following Barret's advice.

She begins toward her room, in a roundabout way, hesitating at the door. She raises her hand, as if to knock, pretending to be an intruder in someone else's home—her reaction was the same, earlier today, when it came time to drop her bags and become reacquainted with her former bedroom, halting in blatant apprehension of the consequences of her actions. However, Marlene nor Barret are here—possibly not even awake—to witness this, only me. And of course, now she has a bit more reason to be afraid. Pressing her palm again the wood, she pushes the door open and disappears inside, never glancing at me, leaving the door slightly ajar. It filters a dark, thick light into the hallway from the lamp on her dresser. From the kitchen, I watch her travel from the doorway to the bathroom on the other side of the hall.

It's cool enough tonight to sleep in an undershirt, if not enough for anything more than that. I make myself comfortable on the couch, and slowly, I ease myself into sleep, drawn by the darkness coming from the now-empty bathroom…

I don't know what time it is when I awake, too busy lamenting on my decision to underestimate my own body's ability to produce heat, only that it is not morning. My face is flushed, a small sweat encasing my chest, neck and arms. The light from the streetlamps is constant, gently pliable—it is with this which I am able to catch sight of the room, the ceiling stain…the figure, black and obscure, positioned neatly on the glass coffee table, looming over me. My heart jumps, startled, and I freeze, a defense mechanism inherited from small rodents. I stare at the form unable to move, trying to make sense of its bends and curves through sleep-hazed eyes.

"I'm sorry." Tifa's voice is so soft and low I can barely make out the words, much less try and decipher the tone, or even a reason for her quiet. She and I both know she shouldn't be awake at this hour of the morning, whatever hour that may be. She doesn't make any effort to move away, to head back to her room, to allow me to recover from the surprise.

"What are you doing awake?" The stiffness in my limbs receding, I slowly sit myself upright, allowing the sheets to slide into my lap. As my eyes adjust further to the dimness, I manage to notice the nearly nonexistent movement in her arms—no other part of her seems to be moving, the rest of her eerily inert; she's holding herself that way. "Are you cold? Here, come sit. You can wrap yourself up." So intent on her endeavor, she doesn't respond immediately, gazing at me with skepticism. Her movements are the same, unconscious, careful, as though she worries secretly she'll break.

I worry that too, sometimes.

"I'm okay." But it's too late for that. She's close enough I can feel her cold, and I adjust so I can drape the sheet around both our shoulders. She is cold enough to cool me, at this distance. Gods, she is so thin.

"What are you doing here?" I repeat the question.

"Just thinking." She embraces herself, to smooth the gooseflesh running down the length of her arms. Without thinking, I put my hands on her shoulders, feeling the bones beneath the sheets, and smooth the gooseflesh.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." Almost immediately following saying so, she sighs, not unlike she would to completely contradict the words. I don't need this cue not to believe her, but only with it am I able to press the matter as far as I do.

"What were you thinking about?" I venture.

Tifa gazes at the floor, lost in the carpet. "…A lot of things." I squeeze her, urging her onward. In the yellow light from the window, I can see her eyes begin to glisten. "I was thinking about my parents. When I saw them in my bedroom. I always told myself they weren't real, that it was just the hallucinations. I could live with it if they weren't real, or I didn't know that they were real. They were just figments of my imagination." She says it wistfully, "Stuff from my head." Her nose twitches. She sniffs, reluctantly. "I saw a lot of people, but I wouldn't let myself believe that any of them were real. It didn't matter to me that all of them were dead in real life. I still wouldn't have believed it either, even after you came into the picture, if it hadn't been for that stupid phone call…" She let the words dissipate. It was good for her, to experience anger.

"But it never occurred to me to talk to them. I had the opportunity to tell them that I missed them…that I loved them. But they just disappeared, and I never saw them again." Her hand rises to her face, and she rubs her eyes, irritated by her tears. "I could have told them so much, and I just let them go, just like that!"

"But…I'm sure they knew that already, Tif. Wouldn't they? Of course you love them, and of course you miss them. I'm sure they knew that without you having to tell them." I don't need to think about the words; I don't need confirmation to know that they're true.

"You really think so?"

"I do."

Tifa smiles, slightly, remembering. "And when you visited me in the hospital last night, I thought that was a dream too. I didn't know how much time had passed, or where I was. I thought I was just hallucinating again. Then you started talking…you shook the bed when you got up, too. That felt real." At this she laughs, finding something funny in the statement. "I was so confused. I had no idea what was going on, especially when that woman—Catherie?—when she came into my room. I couldn't believe it." There is a paused, the silence broken only by the faint sounds of wilderness beyond the city lights, and the dull, constant roar of Barret's snoring. "I still don't." Then she yawns, and drifts back into the pillows, easing herself down. "I didn't go back to sleep after you left," she says.

"You don't want to go back to your room, do you?" I don't need to ask the question, but it seems necessary. She shakes her head.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep you awake. I'll go back in a second." She closes her eyes, allowing herself to drift a bit with the fatigue before resigning back to her confinement.

"Sleep. I can take you back to your room after you fall asleep here. You won't know the difference." Her body stiffens, automatically, by instinct, yet her dark eyes open to stare at me, not as though I've done something wrong.

"You'd do that?" I nod.

"Yes. Go to sleep, Tifa." She smiles again. In the most comfortable fashion I know how, I shift again to allow her more of the sheets, to cover her spindly frame more adequately. She closes her eyes again, and after a minute her breathing slows.

"Are you going to stare at me the entire time?" Her voice surprises me. I find an old, familiar sensation in my head—the nervous embarrassment of not knowing how to respond. I don't like to admit that I also am tired, that the idea of sleep is the most appealing prospect in the middle of the night. I haven't lied to her—I will take her back to her room once I'm completely sure she'll sleep through the night without worrying what she'll see upon opening her eyes.

"You were staring at me before," I point out. There is not enough light to catch any significant flush in her cheeks. And suddenly, without warning or cause, I get a chill, a prompt string of cold running down the uncovered parts of my upper torso and limbs. And without warning or thought, I lie down. She moves over for me, and at her dwindled size, there is sufficient room on the couch for both of us to lie relatively comfortably. At this angle, her back to me, I can't see her face.

The chirps of crickets sing, echo through the city.

Her body adjusts, switches, turns over, to where we are now facing each other. I open my eyes to find hers, gazing at me in the darkness. The same anxious hesitation, sliding itself up between my ribs, choking out my breath. Tifa buries her nose in my shoulder, the top of her head just below my chin; I can feel her breath, warm, gentle, on the crook of my neck. And suddenly, it isn't so pressing that she return to her room so soon…

"You know what I want?" she asks, to my skin.

"What, Tif?"

One last hesitance.

"I want you to stay."

I find myself grinning; there is humour in that. "You forget, Tif, I'm like you. I've got no other place to go." I can feel her heart beating in her chest, against my chest. She breathes with regularity, satisfied with my answer. I am content with it also; she's safe, for once wholly safe. I know, somewhere deep, that I won't leave. I can't. I don't want to.

That is all there is. I know. I don't need anything more.

It is enough.

I did it. Unbelievable. After a year anda half, my first published story is now complete. THANK YOU EVERYONE! You have no idea how happy this makes me, and I would never have gotten this far without all of your encouragement, 100 supportive reviews. I wish I could go through each individual person who reviewed and thank you personally, but there are so many, I couldn't possibly get to everyone; off the top of my head, I'd like to thank Kawaii-Tifa (she was my first review), The Extreme Piercing, Cloti, Althea17 (sorry for making you wait, dear—bet you thought this chapter would never come, huh?), Aoi-Butterfly...just to name a few. The list goes on. Hopefully, this final chapter wasn't too disappointing for any of you!
For those of you who tried to guess, the tombstone is from Forrest Gump (Jenny's grave). Insert the appropriate disclaimers here.

Once again, thank you thank you thank you. I might consider writing a sequel, if the inspiration strikes me, or if it seems to be in high demand (you be the judge). I think I'm up for the challenge...

Sincerely, Mako Raine