A/N: This chapter gets at the "angst" designation I put for this story. I wanted my version of this "she's not dead" scenario to be something other than lava and roses. I also wanted to address something I've long considered potentially problematic from canon. I hope folks will continue to read and enjoy the story and share their thoughts.
Trigger warning for sexual assault.
She only came to herself gradually, awareness filtering through as she watched herself like a stranger outside of her own body. For most of the morning, the woman controlling her existence went grudgingly about the necessities of life, putting a pot of water on the stove to boil in order to make a cup of tea. She opened the fridge to gaze inside only to let the door shut again in dejection.
She watched as the woman stood frozen, looking at the pot even as her hand hovered over the pocket of her robe where she kept a lighter and half-empty pack of cigarettes. That hand quivered slightly, and she knew it was not from the nicotine addiction. That hand had given her trouble for as long as she could remember, the neural pathways connecting her brain to the muscles never having been the same since her coma.
Thinking about her recovery allowed her to slowly return to herself, wedding the strange new awareness of her mind back with a familiar and yet somehow alien body. She was herself and not, a new being as well as a familiar friend.
Still, she could no longer exist as she had before. This life was no longer her own. The apartment, so small and cheap, was not her style or taste. The lingering scent of stale smoke left her nauseated, and the hungry feeling in her gut reminded her that her body could not live on tea alone.
Finally, something in her came into alignment.
Catherine began moving with quiet certainty, pouring a cup of tea - a blend someone had brought her from Chinatown – before taking it out onto the fire escape to enjoy. As she did so, she let the familiar sounds of the city sweep over her, relaxing and distracting her from turbulent emotions threatening to intrude.
Everything looked and felt a little different in Brooklyn, she observed, but it was still the same city. The semblance of fresh air reminded her of the balcony of her old apartment.
Her old apartment.
The balcony.
A new flood of images hit her, dozens upon dozens of memories, some small and insignificant, and others tremendous and full of import. They cascaded too quickly to examine one at a time, but she remembered her childhood, her parents, her schooling, her jobs. She had grown up rich and indulged, her mother's death the only dark spot of her early life. She remembered wealth and privilege and all the bright, beautiful things money could buy.
And in direct contrast, she also remembered Vincent.
Unlike the relative clarity of her earlier life, so many of the recollections of Vincent were clouded and incomplete. Closing her eyes, she thought very specifically about him, focusing not only on individual circumstances but the general aura of her feelings about him.
Vincent had always been the perfect gentleman, she knew with pained certainty. He had held himself apart from her, his restraint agonizing in its intensity, only ever offering his touch when he knew she needed it. And he asked her for nothing. Indeed, the very thought of putting demands on her of any sort seemed foreign to his nature.
How often was he there for me? Catherine wondered bitterly. And I gave him so little in return.
Her realization from the night before still stung, as much because she knew she had hurt him as for the strange new sense of self she now possessed. Before, she had been relatively content in the anonymity of herself. Now, she had to come to terms with the sort of person she had been before.
And as it turned out, she was the sort of person who would use and manipulate so beautiful a soul as Vincent for her own sordid ends. The sort of person who twisted his love cruelly to force him to prove his feelings through utter restraint, even though she knew he was a passionate spirit at heart. The sort of person who led him to believe he did not deserve love, to give it or accept it, because of his appearance.
With a sigh, Catherine shook her head. At least she could stop feeling regret over the loss of the past dozen years of her life. Far better for Jake to have grown up away from so monstrous a person as she had been than to befall the same emotional abuse she had heaped on his father.
And staring deep into her heart, Catherine knew that she did love Vincent. She adored him. He was the embodiment of every positive quality humanity had to offer. He was kind and gentle, thoughtful to a fault. He gave unendingly of himself to others, to her. And he loved - so deeply.
It was his love for her which had nearly killed him.
She remembered that moment in the cave clearly now. His anguished growls ringing out, echoing off rock walls, and Catherine heard him in the throws of anger and madness. The delicate balance which he had held onto for so much of his life had been lost. And she knew it was because of her. Each time he killed to protect her, it chipped away at the ledge he stood on, a ledge overlooking a vast chasm of violence and insanity. But she had steadily shortened that ledge, inch by inch, until he could barely hold on.
And then, when she had gone in to confront him-
Catherine shivered at the memory and pushed it all away. It hurt to think of Vincent's death. It hurt even worse to know she was the ultimate source of his pain and destruction.
Part of her envied her former self the ignorance of these memories, of the weight of guilt which now hung about her so heavily. But she also welcomed the feeling, glad to finally have a reason for her hesitation to venture out into the world in search of her former life. Despite her amnesia, she must have known deep down that coming back from the dead would only bring grief.
Even now, she wondered how she would break the news to Jake. He wanted her as a mother. Howe would he ever understand, ever accept the truth of why she could not be part of his life?
She could feel her blood yearning for a cigarette even as her lungs ached at the thought. Removing the half-empty pack from her pocket, Catherine stared at them. Everyone knew cigarettes caused cancer. And yet, she had taken up the habit not long after being released from the nursing home. Holding a cigarette was one of the few things her weak right hand could still be relied upon to do.
And beyond that… she had known the risks, Catherine realized. And she had begun smoking anyway, turning to chemicals to achieve the sort of physical and mental relaxation she could not find any other way. And deep down, perhaps she had even welcomed the possibility of shortening her existence.
Though lovers be lost, love shall not. And death shall have no dominion.
The words floated through her mind like a faraway refrain spoken in Vincent's emotion-filled voice. The line of poetry wrenched at her heart and she wondered if there would ever be a way for her to earn back his trust, to reform herself enough to actually deserve his love and devotion.
Answers eluded her. But one thing seemed clear. She could not go back to who she had been before, either Maggie or the Cathy Chandler of her youth. She could only go forward.
Without a second thought, she went back inside her apartment and threw the cigarettes away.
Catherine arrived for her shift at the diner late. Lorena shot her an unsympathetic glare before catching her up on which customers still needed service. She immediately dived into her work, taking orders and clearing tables. The breakfast rush was nearly over, and she felt determined to be completely ready for the afternoon crush of people seeking a quick lunch before the weekend.
She was so immersed in her work that the voices did not permeate her mind right away. Rather, she heard them distantly, a buzz which she could not ignore like all the other conversations of strangers surrounding her each day. And then, before even seeing the man's face, his familiar tone cut clearly through the din of the busy diner like a hot knife through butter.
"Look, Jen. I don't know what we're even doing here."
Joe…
"I know what I saw."
She knew the second voice just as well. Jenny Aronson.
To have called the woman a 'friend' would be an understatement. The two of them had been inseparable in college, and even when their lives were busy and filled with other obligations, they had always found time to catch up.
A chill ran through Catherine, but she knew there was no escape. Even if she fled out the back of the diner now, she would be risking her job. And didn't she owe the people from her past some sort of closure, especially after having obviously stirred up their lives once more?
Lorena had shown the couple to a booth by the window and gestured for Catherine to take over as their server. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself before picking up two menus and place settings. But even as she reached the table, courage abandoned her.
"Good morning," she said brightly, smiling with professional cheer as she set the items in front of the two diners. Ignoring their twin expressions of utter shock, she asked, "Do you have an idea what you'd like to drink?"
Joe's mouth hung open and Jenny stared at her openly. Neither moved or spoke, and Catherine suppressed the desire to laugh uncomfortably. How could she possibly explain herself? No, she needed to buy more time.
Schooling her features into an awkward acknowledgment, as though they were only strange or shy diners and she was simply a baffled waitress, Catherine said, "I'll just give you two a few minutes."
As she turned and moved towards another table, she heard only bits and pieces of the frantic conversation which ensued. The words "twins," "doppleganger," and "lookalike" were thrown about in hushed whispers. Catherine allowed herself a few extra minutes before returning to their table, even going to the trouble of filling them both up a glass of ice water.
"Have you had a chance to look at the menu?" she asked as she placed the drinks on their table.
But Jenny just stared at her.
"Cathy?" the woman asked, and her heart broke at the expression on her old friend's face. "Is that really you?"
"I'm sorry," she said slowly, hoping her voice sounded more certain to them than it did to her own ears. "I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Maggie."
"Maggie." Joe repeated the name as if to convince himself of the truth of it. Looking across the table at his wife, he said, "See? It's just a coincidence."
But Jenny shook her head, refusing to move her eyes away from Catherine's. "No, it's not. I think I know my best friend when I'm staring her in the face."
"Jenny, Cathy's been dead for over a decade."
Catherine shrugged awkwardly. "I probably just have one of those faces."
But clearly, Jenny remained unconvinced. Folding her arms across her chest, she said, "You were at the town hall meeting the other night, weren't you? I saw you in the back."
Feigning surprise, Catherine tipped her head to the side and said, "Oh, that's why look so familiar." Glancing at Joe, she said apologetically, "I dipped in for a minute looking for a friend of mine. But then my cell phone went off and I left so I wouldn't disturb your speech."
While Catherine had cobbled together the excuse on the spot, she hoped the improvisation and her amateur acting skills would carry the day. She did not even own a cell phone. But many people had them, so the lie seemed believable. And while Joe nodded in seeming acceptance of her bald-faced lies, Jenny still regarded her with suspicious confusion.
"Maggie - what? What is your last name?" she demanded.
"I don't feel comfortable answering that…"
"Where were you born? What are your parents' names?"
Before Catherine could protest, Joe intervened. "Jenny, maybe we should go. Let the poor woman get back to her job-"
Finally, Jenny shot him a sharp look, and Catherine recognized at its heart her friend's unbendable iron will.
"No," she told him succinctly. "I'm not leaving until I have some answers."
Then, very deliberately, she turned back to their waitress. Catherine swallowed uncomfortably as the woman searched her face for any bit of deep recognition.
"What do you recommend?" Jenny asked, her eyes narrowing.
Catherine's eyes shot up in confusion. For a few long seconds, her friend just stared at her.
And then, Jenny prompted, "From your menu. What do you recommend to eat?"
"Oh, of course," Catherine said, but the slip seemed only to reinforce the other woman's suspicions.
As Maggie, she had heard that question at least a few times a week, and her answer was always the same. The Grand Slam was undeniably their most popular menu item, featuring a little bit of all the best breakfast foods any diner between New York to Philly had to offer. But Catherine hesitated a second, and instead she offered on impulse, "The strawberry waffles. They're my favorite."
Jenny stared at her knowingly, and Catherine allowed her discomfort to be visible even as she played the part of confused waitress. With a wary glance at Joe, she said quickly, "I'll give you two a little more time to look over the menu."
By the time she sought the refuge of the kitchen, Catherine's heart was racing. She realized suddenly that she had not recommended the Grand Slam because Jenny did not eat pork and the meal was served with bacon. And besides, Jenny loved pancakes and waffles more than anything. They were often her downfall when some new diet craze had swept through their circle in college.
Thankfully, there was no one to see witness her try to recover from Jenny's interrogation. The line cook barely gave Catherine a second glance as he plodded along, frying up order after order without bothering to look at her. Bobby, a twenty-something NYU drop out, had a singular way of ignoring the world. But ever since he had bought himself one of the new iPods which could hold hundreds of songs, he not only enclosed himself in his own universe as he worked but was able to jam out to tunes while he did so.
Catherine allowed herself a few moments of relative calm herself after the exchange with the friends from her former life. But before she could muster the courage to face them again, Lorena stuck her head through the swinging door into the kitchen.
"Hey, that couple at table five is asking a lot of questions about you," the Puerto Rican waitress said.
While Jake's teenage attentions to her had been amusing to the other server, this newest round of inquisitive diners had obviously dialed Lorena's curiosity meter even higher. And her irritation.
"They think I look like someone they know," Catherine explained, a little breathless. "It's actually freaking me out a little. Would you mind taking their table?"
Lorena scowled at the requested favor but grunted an affirmative.
"What's up with you?" she asked. "First late and now hiding in the kitchen."
Catherine paused and then gave a partially truthful answer. "I quit smoking this morning. Cold turkey."
Lorena rolled her eyes.
"Estoy molesto," she muttered under her breath before disappearing back into the dining area.
Catherine looked over at Bobby, who had not looked up from the stove during their conversation. Instead, she watched him nod his head as he sang softly to himself, "But in the end, it doesn't even matter..."
Pressing on with her shift, Catherine studiously ignored all glances from Jenny and Joe as she went about taking orders and refilling drinks at her other tables. Even as the anxiety of them watching her every move settled over her, she found that everything else irritated her as well.
Her feet hurt. Her right hand was performing especially weakly, barely able to grasp the pen as she shakily wrote down orders to put on Bobby's turnstile. The light filtering through the windows felt too bright against her eyes. Her diner uniform seemed especially scratchy and ill-fitting.
And she felt certain that she had chosen the entirely wrong day to quit smoking.
But Catherine toiled through it.
Eventually, Joe and Jenny left. The lunch rush fizzled into a lackluster Friday afternoon, allowing her room to breath. Giving her a pitying eye, Lorena left after her shift but returned ten minutes later with a small box in hand from the local drug store.
"The patch," Lorena said succinctly. "Mi hermano quit last year and he said it helped a lot."
Not questioning her savior for a moment, Catherine opened the box and pressed one of the patches onto her arm. And very gradually over the next hour, the tension in her began to ease.
By the time the hands on the clock spun themselves to five, she felt like she was ready for the dinner crowd. Working so hard had given her little time for reflection, an aspect of her job that she genuinely liked. Thinking was overrated. Remembering had proven even worse.
But as she took orders and delivered food, chatted with customers as she refilled coffees, Catherine allowed herself to fade into the background. For a time, just like she had that morning, she watched herself from afar, this woman she had become in the years since fate had sequestered her memories.
She was a good woman, Catherine decided about herself - strong and capable. She never threw out the elderly homeless man who came in for a bottomless cup of coffee on especially cold winter evenings. She volunteered at the nursing home. She donated to the local food pantry. She bought girl scout cookies, even though $3.00 a box felt like highway robbery.
But, Catherine reminded herself angrily, none of that could ever atone for the sins of her past life. For what she had done to Vincent.
One memory which had been slowly creeping into the back of her mind was especially horrifying, and she shied away from it. But finally as she slipped outside into the fresh air for a ten minute break, it confronted her with its uncomfortable presence at the periphery of her recollections.
When she finally allowed herself to examine it, she felt like she was back there. Back in that cave where Vincent had died...
She saw him begin to fall.
But immediately before that, to keep himself from striking her amid a furious rage, he had willed his own body to simply… halt. As the light died in his eyes, she knew immediately that his heart had stopped. She fell with him to the hard ground, but as Catherine reached for him, she knew instinctively that she would find no pulse. He did not draw breath. His stillness terrified her.
She yelled at him, fearful and imploring, demanding that he not leave without her. Then per her ear to his chest but heard nothing. She even pressed her lips to his, hopeful the intimate sensation would call him back. Nothing.
She tried beating on his chest and even performing CPR, but nothing brought him back. He did not move, did not breathe, and her desperation intensified past all restrictions. Past proprietary and comfort and care.
And then Catherine kissed him. Really and truly kissed him.
She also caressed his body, moving urgent fingers across his shoulders and chest, hoping she could somehow call his soul back to his physical form through touch alone. He usually responded so strongly to tactile sensations, as though he yearned for that which he deemed himself not entitled. So for the first time, Catherine touched him with an intimacy she knew would horrify him had he been awake.
"I love you," she whispered into his ear, pressing herself against him fully before kissing his mouth once more.
Only then he did finally take a breath, shallow and raspy. And as she leaned over him, her ear to his chest, she could hear his heart slowly beat. But he did not move, did not open his eyes.
Her desperation at this point made little sense in hindsight. Why had she not simply called for help? Instead, she watched the memory of herself kiss him again, pressing her enthusiastic lips to his immobile ones. He did not kiss her back, did not react to her attentions, but she still moved with the urgency of a woman possessed. It was as though some part of her worried that if she could not bring him back now, he would be lost to her forever.
Catherine shuddered as she recalled stripping aside their clothes, of kissing and caressing his body until he opened his eyes and looked at her. But his expression remained blank, almost lifeless.
She knew she had only a short time to reach him before others came looking, so she had to move swiftly and decisively. And as tactile a creature as Vincent was, she hoped physical sensation would break through his catatonic state.
A state she herself had brought him to, she reminded herself. Paracelsus had been the one to break him, certainly. But she and Paracelsus were twin villains in stripping away his humanity - Catherine through her selfishness and Paracelsus through pure evil.
Paracelsus. The name brought back to her a fresh wave of memories but she temporarily set them aside to continue focusing on this one, awful recollection.
It was the Vincent's passionate side she appealed to in trying to awaken his sensuality, but as Catherine relived the memory in horror, she saw the truth. Vincent had been in too fragile a state to concentrate on her touches. While she excited his body enough for sex, it was one sided. He groaned low and deep in his throat as she connected them, but he did not reach for her, did not engage.
He finished with her, a deep and impassioned sensation which seemed to finally bring him to himself for a moment. But even if he seemed to look up at her with familiarity, he said nothing. He only reacted when she whispered, "I love you, Vincent. Please come back to me."
As he lay on the ground with them still intimately connected, Vincent reached one arm around her to hug her close. But his body seemed too weak even for that small movement. Sleep overtook him then, just a regular, restorative sleep, and Catherine pulled their clothes back on before moving to cradle him in her arms.
After that, her memory failed, but Catherine felt nauseated by her actions in that sliver of time.
I raped him.
She could not escape the accusation, not here in her own mind, with the conscience of her present life sitting as a jury over her former self.
You forced yourself on him. You took advantage when he was too weak to say no. That's rape. You raped him.
She knew in her bones and the pit of her stomach that this was when Jake had been conceived, and Catherine very nearly vomited at the thought. Their child was the product of coercion, of her abusing Vincent in his most vulnerable state.
Her body physically trembled as she thought about what she had done. Had she ever done it before? Or was this the first time?
These hands were not meant to give love.
His voice was so filled with pain, the wisp of memory existing within her but not tied to any particular moment. He had spoken the words with conviction, and Catherine wondered what she had said to him to make him believe such a horrible thing. Somehow, she had convinced him of his own worthlessness and then forced herself on him during his most vulnerable hour. How had she explained that to him? Did he even remember?
Or did he just accept it as the price of her love?
Catherine swallowed hard against the taste of bile in the back of her throat.
Never again, she decided. Never again will I harm this man in any way.
With her break over, Catherine returned to the diner. But if she hoped to lose herself in the busy monotony of her job, such was not to be.
Jenny sat at the counter, alone this time. She met Catherine's eyes and this time Catherine could not conceal her recognition.
"It is you," Jenny said, her voice equal parts wonder and bitterness.
"Jenny…"
"Why did you lie before? You let Joe think I was crazy."
"Please, I-"
"You lied to both of us. You lied to everyone. My God, Cathy, where have you been all this time? We all thought you were dead!"
The other customers were starting to notice Jenny's upset state. Even Bobby had leaned forward through the kitchen window to look curiously into the dining area.
"Look," Catherine said quickly, "I don't have all the answers you're looking for. But my shift ends in an hour, if you want to meet for coffee…"
Jenny stared at her - hard. They were different eyes than she remembered, shadowed by time and hardship. But in those eyes, Catherine also saw her best friend, a woman she had confided in for years. A woman who deserved answers.
Finally, decisively, Jenny said, "Okay, we can do coffee. Where?"
TBC