Disclaimer is back in Chapter One, but I'll reiterate that I don't own any character from the show "CSI."
Two chapters and counting down! Thank you all so much for your kind reviews!
Planning a funeral was actually a much more organized, boring activity than Sara would have suspected. There was paperwork at the hospital, and a teary-eyed Meredith gave Sara and the girls Lilly's instructions for her burial: cremation in Vegas, a ceremony in her old town, then a private burial back near her childhood home. She had given specifics on Bible verses, had asked that "Turn, Turn, Turn" be played at the service, and left the numbers for the funeral parlor, florist, pastor, and newspaper back in California. Sara started to cry at Lilly's thoughtfulness and thoroughness.
There were lots of phone calls to make—Jules and Grace spent half an hour on the phone with Nathan and Maggie, who promised to call Doug and Dan. Sara spent a bleak ten minutes on the phone with Grissom before calling Nick. He came over and held her for a very long time as she cried. She insisted that he stay in Las Vegas, that she would be all right during the funeral preparations and everything. He reluctantly abided her wishes. She then helped Jules and Grace call everyone in California who might make the drive down, and they spent three hours on the phone to the funeral parlor arranging…everything. Meredith spent the entire day by their side, making sure everything was accomplished. She helped them figure out the legal and financial things, called the lawyer and the bank and school and everyone. She promised to help them in the coming weeks, to help Sara remember the millions of details about the girls' lives and delicate psyches.
That was their Friday. The cremation was to take place Friday night. The girls refused to see their mother one last time in the morgue before it, so Sara went down alone. The hospital's assistant coroner pulled out the body and nodded curtly at Sara before walking away.
Sara stared at the lifeless, tiny figure. It was so unlike the Lilly in the girls' pictures, the Lilly in Sara's memories. That one was laughing, and alive. This one was shriveled-up form of a body that had been dead long before the soul left. She pressed her finger into the hard, rubbery arm, and trailed the same finger down to the hand. "Oh, Lilly," she said, sighing and sliding down the metal doors hiding the bodies. "Oh, God. I made you a promise—I'm going to keep it, to you and to Grace and Jules. They're such wonderful women. I love them." She said softly. "But I loved you, too. And—what do I do next? How do I keep you alive for the girls, but help them to move on? It's taken me so long, so many years of therapy to get over my shitty childhood. How do I make sure this one shitty year doesn't spiral them into anything besides this grief counseling? How do I be there for them without taking over your place and making them mad? I don't know what to say to them—well, yes, for these few days I do—but after that, what do I say to them? What do we talk about? I don't even know what exact day their birthday is on—how do I keep them attached to the rest of their lives? It's like they just restarted everything at eighteen. They need you, Lilly. They needed you so much. I do, too." She sat there and sobbed for a good half hour.
They decided to have the funeral next Saturday morning, a visitation the Friday before. The actual inurnment would be Saturday evening, hopefully as the sun was setting. It was a while to wait, according to Meredith, but the girls felt it was the only way that all of their mother's friends and coworkers could attend. They decided to stay in Vegas until Tuesday and fly out to California then.
They were very quiet for the first several days, interrupting the quiet only with crying jags and harsh, hollow laughter at some memory or another. The organizational aspect of the funeral consumed them all, and allowed the girls to somewhat repress their grief. For this Sara was grateful since everyone had something to focus her energy on. It also showed both girls that life went on: there were plane tickets to buy, eyebrows to get waxed, dresses to purchase, phone calls to make, papers to sort. Flowers began being FTDed to the house immediately, and gifts and checks were sent. The school thoughtfully sent both girls a necklace with a St. Christopher charm and a kind note. "Figures." Jules said dryly. "He is, after all, the patron saint of those who are on journeys."
The girls went to the basement Sunday and went through her million boxes, finding all sort of useless, meaningful treasures, like seventh grade basketball team pictures and hand-traced turkeys from fifteen years ago. Sara remembered the letters in the desk only after Meredith brought by the papers Lilly had written during the hospital during her last few weeks. There were over one hundred scribbled with notes and remembrances.
Sara hesitantly opened the door that had been shut since Lilly went to Grace House permanently. She looked around, feeling like a teenager vandalizing a cemetery. Quickly crossing to Lilly's handsome desk, she opened the designated drawer. There was a folder on top; she opened that to see several sheets filled with Lilly's scrawl. The top one read "I first took you guys to Disneyland when you were four. Grace was scared of Space Mountain and Jules threw a temper tantrum when they were out of ketchup at the restaurant. It was really embarrassing, actually." Sara smiled, wiped her eyes, and set the folder aside.
Financial papers followed; those were set in a separate pile to review with the lawyers in California—she reminded herself that she needed to write down the meeting on Thursday somewhere or she'd forget about it. Finally, she saw the three while envelopes. Jules. Sara. Grace. She pulled them out, handling them with care. Grabbing the folder filled with memories, she walked downstairs. The girls were still sprawled, exhausted, between boxes, and tear tracks ran down their faces. "Hey, girls," Sara sat down cross-legged between the girls and slid the respective envelope to each of them. "These are—for you."
"Are these the letters Mom wrote us?" Grace quietly fingered it.
"Yeah. She kept them in her desk. I don't know when she wrote them—she had a set of letters when you moved in, but she might have rewritten them. And those are the memories she's been writing down for the past several weeks." The girls just nodded; Jules turned the envelope over several times. "Are you guys going to open yours now?"
"I don't think so. Not yet, anyways." Grace pocketed hers. Jules shook her head, too.
"Okay." Sara stood. "Well, I'm going to open mine upstairs. I'll see you guys later, okay? What would you like for dinner?"
"Whatever." Jules shrugged. Sara knew it was fruitless; they hadn't really eaten since lunch Thursday. She nodded and walked upstairs.
Flopping onto her bed, she hesitantly slid her thumb underneath the flap. She extracted the letter—three sheets of loose leaf folded over each other.
Dear Sara,
Letters from the grave are supposed to be filled with either sage wisdom or profound advice, and I have none of that to offer you. However, since memories are usually involved, I was able to come up with one.
I remember the first day that I saw you after your mother was put into jail and my parents took you in. Dad had called me as soon as he found out (he knew that you really liked me) and so I came down from school. It was a very long drive, so by the time I got home, you were upstairs and asleep. I talked with my parents in hushed, awed tones; we couldn't believe the enormity and the sadness of this situation, specifically you. You were so young and vulnerable. We felt bad for Troy because he was already lost and we hadn't intervened, but we felt sorry for you because it was your life being turned absolutely upside down. We weren't quite sure what you would be acting like or what to do with you. It was scary. And sad, and uncertain. I'm guessing it's a lot of the emotions that you're feeling now.
Anyways—back to the story. Around ten AM, you stumbled downstairs. You were a very gangly eight-year-old; I'm not sure you can remember how coltish your appearance was back then. You were tall and thin to the point of bony, with these long arms and legs and fingers and toes, and such small little shoulders and torso. Anyways. You walked into the kitchen—you'd made it downstairs quietly enough, I guess, or else we were very caught up in our conversation. Suddenly we turned, and you were in the doorway. You said, "May I have a breakfast, please, Aunt Maggie?" Mom was crying, not full-out subbing but there were tears running down her cheeks and she couldn't talk because she was going to sob, but she came over and she gave you a very tight hug. I think she said, "Anything you want, Sara darling," but I can't be sure. It could have been anything, really. You hugged her back, but the thing that got me—I hadn't seen you in a while—was the look in your eyes when I turned to look at you. There was fear there, yes, because your world had just been changed completely, and there was sadness, because your family had just been destroyed, and there was tiredness—it had been a very long night for you. But there was something else there, too. I can't really describe it on paper, and I probably couldn't elucidate it, but it was there. It was a mix of bravery, and strength, and courage, but there was a little bit of defiance there, too, like you were going to face whatever came your way and shot it down. It was just the most expressive look. Everything in your world was either destroyed or uncertain, but you were ready. You were going to fight it, and make it through, and do what was necessary.
When I was first diagnosed, I was scared. So many things were uncertain—my future was the least of my concerns. The girls came first. And I knew, as the months dragged on and the treatments didn't take, that I needed to face the reality of it all. I knew that I wouldn't be around. I just ...accepted it (The girls still haven't.) And I knew I wanted them safe, and looked after, and taken care of. I knew that I needed someone strong, that a mother of one of their friends wouldn't be capable of growing enough to love two extra girls at the very last minute of their childhoods. I knew that I wanted someone who could handle grief- and angst-ridden teenaged girls, but one whom the girls could trust and respect. It's a weighty decision, choosing who will watch after you children for you. At first, I was too overwhelmed to make the decision. The obvious people—my family—were out. My brothers couldn't do it emotionally, my parents couldn't do it physically.
But, when I actually faced the reality and the enormity of my decision, there was one thing that was clear in my mind. It was the memory of an eight-year-old you, standing in the kitchen doorway, rumpled, dirty, tired, clutching a rag doll—do you still have that doll? You loved her—and with that look in your eyes. The look that said that yes, you might be daunted, and yes, it was a challenge, but you were going to face it and do your best. The look said you knew it probably wouldn't turn out perfectly—even at eight years old you knew better than to believe therapist bullshit and fairy tales—but the look said you would take it and try and do your best. I was on the phone with my father in five minutes, on the plane to Las Vegas that night.
I admit, I don't know what has happened in your life since then. I don't know the things that have transpired or the person you have grown to be. But, from a distance, you are impressive. You've overcome great odds, though I know you are discouraged and pulled down easily. You might not even recognize it, but you continually pull yourself up, fix your mistakes, go on and sort your life out. It is a testament to your character that you've done this so many times.
The coming weeks and months are tough and scary for me, and I can't pretend to know what they'll be like for you. But it takes great strength even to agree to this. You knew absolutely nothing about the girls, our lives, our values, or me until you took us in. You opened your home and expanded your heart for us. I know that this has been a growing, a learning experience for you—that much was painfully obvious. But I can't thank you enough for trying, and I know that you'll succeed. (Though I know that you doubt my words now.) The next year—hopefully, years—will be tough and trying and uncomfortable. There will be fights and tears and frustration at an all-time high, but I can already tell that there will, one day, hopefully not too far in the future, be love and laughter once more. I can't tell you how much it means to me that I know the girls will be okay, just by watching you all interact. It's scared and awkward, but I'm confident that you will be wonderful with them. (I can sort of tell that you're worried.) What you're doing is a great thing. Thank you so much for keeping my babies safe.
My girls are special, but every mother, good and bad, says that. It hurts in so many places that I know I won't be there for them when they need me. Nothing will stop any of those hurts. But knowing that I left them with you, in your strong capable hands, certainly lessens them some. You are remarkable and you will always amaze me, you wonderful, defiant, honest woman.
Lots of love and gratefulness—Lilly