Sorry for the longer wait in-between updates, guys! I had to go to a conference thingy on Thursday, so I didn't get my two chapters a week in. There'll be another update on Thursday, then there might be another week-long gap when Lost-Forum goes down for maintenance. Just to warn y'all. ;)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sawyer lifted the last shovelful of dirt and dropped it onto the newly turned-over rectangle of bare earth. He patted it down and then stopped, looking up. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and a faint, golden tinge touched the clouds in the east. In another half hour or so, the sun would make its appearance over the top of the mountain. He dreaded that moment, more than anything else. When it happened, this would all be real.
Bathed in the clear, unalloyed light of morning, the remnants of last night would appear even more distorted and nightmarish. The body at the bottom of the lake, the eerie kid's cryptic warning, the small, pitiful grave in the yard... These all seemed to be things that should remain firmly rooted where they belonged, on Halloween. But they wouldn't, Sawyer knew. They were going to follow him and Kate, right into this beautiful, peaceful morning, right into placid November, a month better represented by pilgrims and turkeys than by bodies and graves.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kate, half carrying and half pushing a small boulder toward him. It was much too heavy for her, and he knew he should help, but he couldn't seem to make himself move.
Finally, she dropped the stone onto the grave, and sank down, out of breath. He glanced at her, thinking that it was funny how she always looked more comfortable on the ground or the floor than she did in a chair. He was relieved that she'd finally changed out of the damn costume, into jeans and a close-fitting dark red sweater. Although neither one of them had slept, they'd at least managed to clean up a little before they'd come out here for the last portion of their grisly task. But for God's sake, did she have to wear red? The sight of it unnerved him, especially after seeing her covered in blood all night. He was willing to bet that, in her exhaustion, she'd picked the first shirt her hand had touched, not even noticing what color it was. Either that, or she was ironic on a level he'd never even imagined.
She was running her fingers slowly through the loosened dirt, picking up handfuls and letting it trickle back onto the ground. He remembered seeing her do the same thing with sand once, while she stared out at the waves. Her eyes now were even sadder than they'd been then.
After a few seconds, she said softly, "I feel like there should be more to this. It didn't take very long."
"It's just a damn dog." He looked off toward the east again, not meeting her eyes.
"Sawyer." Her voice was reproachful, hurt.
"It was a stupid idea to begin with," he muttered bitterly. "Never shoulda brought him here."
Lowering his eyes down to his feet, he kicked away some leaves, distractedly. Kate had chosen this spot, underneath the maple tree she'd admired weeks ago from the window for its brilliant color. The color was almost gone now, the fiery orange faded into a dead, withered brown. The leaves had fallen, forming a thick carpet under their feet. He thought, insanely, that it would be fun to pile them up, jump into them. If they were different people.
"It wasn't a stupid idea," Kate said, standing up. He could feel her eyes on him, and he finally caved, turning toward her.
She was looking at him intently. Her features were imprinted with a combination of pain, guilt, fear, and concern for him. He noticed for the first time that at the corners of her eyes were traced faint, delicate lines of sorrow. Others might have mistaken them for laugh lines, but he knew better. There was also a kind of strength in her expression that terrified him, because he knew if he looked at her long enough he would shatter, would collapse into it.
She was so close that he could feel the warmth from her skin. The desire to touch her, to lean into her, to rest his head against her shoulder was so strong in him that he refused to allow himself to do it, almost by instinct. Backing away as if she posed a danger, he diverted his gaze toward the house.
"Got some errands to run...You should try to get some sleep. I'll be back later," he said shortly.
Heading toward the truck, he left her standing there by the side of their first shared grave, her eyes following him sadly.
Kate tried to stay awake as long as possible, waiting for him to return. She had no idea where he'd gone. He couldn't have stopped for groceries, because she hadn't made a list, and when he was winging it, he never took this long. What kind of errands had he been talking about? Something dangerous? She tried to tell herself that it really wasn't any of her business - that he was a grown man who had no obligation to inform her of how he spent every second of his time, and that she couldn't expect him to change his former habits so completely in just a matter of months.
But still, she couldn't help feeling that it was unfair. He knew she had no way to contact him, no way to leave the house... He must have realized that she would do nothing but sit here and worry. Or had he? She knew how much pain he was in right now, the torment that was overwhelming him. Maybe he didn't even know what he was doing, or how long he'd been gone. She just wished he would come back.
With exhaustion from the stress of last night and the lack of sleep dragging her down, she finally gave up the fight. If she slept now, she could skip right over those extra hours of anxiety. When she woke up, he would almost certainly be back. If he wasn't... She stopped her thoughts before they could wander too far along that train of possibility. She had absolutely no idea what she would do. It was best not to dwell on it.
She stretched out on top of the covers, because somehow that made it feel more temporary, less like going to bed. It was almost 2:00 p.m. When she closed her eyes, a dizzying kaleidoscope of scenes from last night rushed at her, flickering across her inner vision like some kind of demented silent movie. She almost got up again to wait, wanting to at least have Sawyer there beside her when these hellish vignettes came at her again. But her body was heavy, sluggish. As she tried to make up her mind, she fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark. She was surprised, because it felt like no time had passed at all. Turning her stiff neck towards the digital clock on Sawyer's nightstand, she saw that it read 3:47. At first, she thought it must mean p.m., and that she had slept a few hours into the afternoon. But the blackness in the room was complete. She looked toward the window in confusion, and then realized, with shock, that it was 3:47 in the morning. She had slept for nearly fourteen hours.
Although she already suspected the truth, she still felt around with her hands on the other side of the bed to confirm that Sawyer wasn't there. She willed her pulse to remain under control, telling herself that it didn't mean anything. Forcing herself to make calm, slow movements, she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, waiting a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. The house was silent.
Folding the blanket over to the side, she lowered her feet to the floor and located her shoes, pulling them on with deliberate patience, keeping her mind blank.
She stood up and took a few steps toward the door, but there was something bothering her, some detail tugging at her attention, nagging at her to look back. She glanced at the bed again, quizzically, and then, at the instant of realizing what it was that she'd been trying to remember, she walked back over and sat down heavily on the edge in the immensity of her relief.
She'd gone to sleep on top of the covers. She'd awakened underneath a blanket.
Pulling the quilt that he must have taken from the hall closet into her arms, she held it close to her, and then, after a few seconds, lowered it to the bed and headed back to the door again.
She checked the kitchen first, but he wasn't there. What was there, however, made her pause and then move further into the room with growing dread.
Arranged almost artfully on the kitchen table were at least fifteen bottles of various kinds of alcohol, of different shapes, sizes, colors, and brands. There was the ubiquitous whiskey, of course, in several varieties. There was also vodka, gin, tequila, brandy, sherry, wine, even rum. She picked up this last bottle, wondering grimly if it had been inspired by his pirate costume.
It looked, bizarrely enough, like he was planning for a party. A bowl of chex mix and a pile of napkins would have completed the illusion perfectly. The thing that disturbed her so deeply was not the fact that he'd bought this much alcohol to begin with (although that was disturbing enough in its own right), but the fact that he'd displayed it all here on the table, apparently unconcerned whether she saw it or not, oblivious to what she would think of it. It was like the sight of it all there, in one place, must have given him a comfort so profound that her opinion meant nothing when compared to it.
Despite feeling terrible for him, she experienced a faint twinge of anger at the thought. After everything they'd been through, this was how he was going to deal with the tragedy? Maybe she'd been wrong to think that the burning of the letter signaled the end of something. Maybe, instead, it was the beginning of something even worse.
She turned and headed toward the living room, not knowing what to expect. She was almost relieved to find that he was just passed out on the couch, another bottle of Jack Daniels, this one half empty, on the floor next to him. There was another, smaller, vial there beside it, and she moved toward it, alarmed. Lifting it, she saw that it was the prescription Jack had written for her - the painkillers she'd hardly needed, after the first night. She quickly tried to estimate how many she'd taken herself, and how many should still be left. More than were currently in the bottle, that much was obvious.
Glancing at Sawyer again, she watched him breathe, holding her own breath to better detect the slow rising and falling of his chest. He seemed to be sleeping fine, but what if he was slipping into a coma? Her rational mind told her that he hadn't taken nearly enough pills to do serious damage, but her nerves were already shot. Leaning over him, she lightly patted his chest, and then gradually increased her pressure, thumping on him.
"Sawyer! Wake up!"
He jerked abruptly and a grimace of annoyance appeared on his face. Shoving her hands away, he turned toward the back of the couch and mumbled angrily, "Would you get the hell outta here and let me sleep?"
She was stung by his words, but grateful for them at the same time since they made sense and were spoken with relative clarity.
Stepping away from the couch, she watched him closely for a few more seconds, and then went back into the kitchen with a gritty determination. Carrying the bottles two at a time over to the sink, she dumped the contents of every single one of them down the drain.
When he finally shuffled into the kitchen, still grasping the half-empty whiskey bottle, it was close to 8:00 a.m. Kate was sitting at the cleared table, drinking coffee. She set the cup down cautiously and followed him with her eyes. First he glanced at the table, the fact of the missing bottles only dawning on him gradually. He scanned the room, squinting in confusion. It looked like he was in pain, probably from the last of the alcohol wearing off.
His surprised gaze came to rest on the sink, where Kate had piled the empty bottles. She'd considered tossing them in the garbage, or even bagging them and taking them outside, but for some reason, she wanted him to see them.
Dragging himself over to them, he lifted one out, holding it up to examine it, noticing with shock that it was empty. He tried another one, and then another. Finally, he turned toward Kate, whom he'd pretended not to be aware of until now.
"What the hell happened here!" he demanded loudly, a bewildered expression on his face.
"It's gone. I poured it out," she said in a quiet tone, staring at him levelly.
For a second he was so stunned that he had no response. It took a bit for him to find his voice. "You did what? I think my ears must be playin' tricks on me, Freckles, because for a second there I coulda sworn I heard you say that you poured out all my alcohol!"
She didn't answer.
The look on his face was so mystified and disoriented that if the situation had been less serious, she might have laughed. He continued. "Are you out of your goddamn mind? You got some kind of death wish, sweetheart?"
"Actually, I think that would be you," she said bitterly, unable to help herself. "Unless you have some kind of doctor-recommended reason for taking painkillers with whiskey, which I highly doubt."
Again, he was at a loss, unable to respond immediately to her words. He finally muttered, "Unbelievable," looking around the room as if to gain support from an invisible audience.
Casting one last lethal glance at her, he headed for the door with the Jack Daniels still clenched in his fingers, stopping to search for his keys on the peg near the window. They weren't there. He patted his pockets, and she could tell he was thinking. Even through the haze of a hangover, he knew he hadn't left them in the truck. He never did that.
Kate stood up from the table, slowly. "You won't find them."
He turned to face her. They stared at each other confrontationally, Sawyer looking dangerously pissed. "Where are they?" he asked in a carefully restrained voice.
When she ignored him, he took a step closer to her, threateningly. She looked down at the floor, but she refused to move back, even an inch.
"What the hell did you do with 'em, Kate?" His voice was low with barely-controlled rage. "Tell me where they're at, now."
"No," she said in a hoarse, broken whisper.
"I'm not gonna ask you again." He found himself once more having to restrain his hands from reaching out for her, but the impulse this time came from an entirely different source.
When she finally raised her eyes back up to his, she was fighting tears. "Sawyer," she said gently.
Turning away quickly from that look, he glanced wildly around the room, and then, with a violent, impulsive gesture, hurled the whiskey bottle toward the sink with all his force. It hit the edge of the counter and shattered with a terrible noise, the pieces ricocheting across the cabinet and floor. Kate closed her eyes tightly.
Stepping onto the porch, Sawyer slammed the door behind him with a deafening bang. Kate finally opened her eyes and watched through the window as he headed down the porch steps. After he'd disappeared from view into the deep morning fog, she remained still for a few seconds. Then, drying her eyes on her sleeve, she went to get a broom.
Sawyer took another deep drag on his cigarette, trying to convince himself that it tasted good after all this time. He'd been so sure that it would that he could almost make himself believe it. The planks of the dock felt damp and cold underneath his jeans, and he could barely see anything through the thick, heavy fog that rested like a blanket over the lake and the valley.
Every few seconds, he reached for his pocket, almost by instinct. The lack of paper there was something he couldn't get used to. His hand ached for the letter with an almost physical pain. It was like being cut off from a drug, or losing a limb. He could still feel it there, even though it no longer existed.
He was also miserable and disgusted with himself, doing his best to keep his mind off of anything meaningful, especially the scene that had just taken place in the kitchen. These efforts were, for the most part, a failure. Probably this was the reason that her voice, at first, seemed to come from inside his own head, from his own conscience.
"You're smoking again, too?"
He avoided turning around, knowing he wouldn't be able to see her through the fog until she was just a few feet away.
"You got anything to say about it?" he asked in a tired, uninterested voice, as if he didn't have the energy to get pissed.
"No," she said quietly as she reached his side. She sounded tired too.
Feeling his stomach turn as he took another drag, he tossed the cigarette into the water with contempt. It fizzled out with a tiny hissing sound, and they both watched as it drifted away in the gently lapping waves.
"Brought you a jacket," Kate said, dropping a flannel shirt into his lap. She lowered herself onto the dock beside him.
After waiting a few seconds, she asked, "Aren't you gonna tell me that I shouldn't be out here?"
"At this point, you really think it makes a hell of a lot of difference?" he asked in a dull tone, still staring out at the water.
She turned toward him, and he could feel her disappointment. In a strangely bitter tone, she replied, almost laughing, "Probably not." She seemed to consider. "Then again, the weather seems to be on my side."
After a few seconds of thought, she went on, in a far-off, musing tone. "You know how, when you're a little kid, and you hear about heaven... how it's in the sky... you immediately think that people must live on clouds up there? I did, anyway," she said, when he didn't reply. "And I still remember the day my dad told me what fog was... that it's really just low-lying clouds, the exact same kind that you see in the sky. I was so disappointed, I almost cried. I mean, how could people live on this? It's not bouncy, or fluffy, or soft. It's just like... wet smoke." She smiled sadly in memory, pausing for a second. "I never believed in heaven again after that."
"I wouldn't worry about it," Sawyer said wryly. "Not much chance we'd ever end up there, anyway."
She sighed, amused. "Good point."
In a slightly more serious voice, she asked, "Do you believe in it?"
"I don't believe in anything." His eyes were haunted, and he finally turned toward her. "All I know is that we both oughtta be in a prison cell. It ever occur to you that we don't deserve any of this?" His arm gestured out toward the lake, taking in the sweep of the scenery and the path back toward the house.
Kate looked at him, surprised. "Deserve it?" she asked sharply. "Of course we don't deserve it. We never have. What happened the other night doesn't change that." She thought for a second. "Is that what this is about? Is that why you were planning to drink yourself into oblivion? And here I thought it was because you felt bad for their sakes." She shook her head.
"You think I don't?" he asked, angry.
She looked away, apologetically. "That's not what I meant." She sighed.
"Do you want to turn yourself in, Sawyer? Is that what you want? You think we ought to go in together, like a couples thing? Who knows, maybe they'll give us a two-for-one deal."
"You're funny as hell, Freckles."
"I'm not trying to be funny," she said, bitterly. "You know, you told me something once that I'll never forget. You said, that they would never be able to punish me any worse than I already do, myself." She looked at him intently. "And you know what? You were right."
Sawyer was quiet. He hated it when people used his own words against him.
She looked out at the lake again. "So... I know it's selfish, and unfair, and that I don't deserve any of this. I probably don't deserve any happiness at all." Her voice threatened to break. "But this is the first time in my life I've ever had anything like this." Her tone became firm, almost angry. "And I will not give it up that easily...they'll have to take it from me by force. Because I will NOT give it up." She looked over at him. "And no matter what you say... no matter how guilty you feel... I don't think you will either."
"There's a body in this lake. That we put there," he said softly.
Kate drew in her breath at the mention of it. "Yeah, you're right. There is. But like you said the other night, he did it himself. I didn't kill him, and neither did you. He did it. And so did she, for that matter. You may have set it in motion, but they both made that final decision for themselves."
"You want to know a funny thing about her?" Sawyer asked flatly, as if he were just making casual conversation. "She used to talk about doin' it before she even had a reason to. It's one of the only things I remember about her... how she had this fascination with killin' herself. I just thought it was the kind of stupid shit that women say to impress you, make you think they're all... exciting and dangerous. No offense," he said, glancing at Kate. "You got the actual credentials. But who the hell woulda guessed that she was serious?"
Kate was looking at him, shocked. "Then..." she stopped. "Maybe she would have done it anyway. Maybe they both would have."
"That 'maybe' sure is a convenient little word, ain't it?" he said sarcastically. "You can make reality do pretty much whatever you want by throwin' a few maybes in there. Hell, maybe the FBI'll let you off the hook next week, decide to offer you a job instead."
She almost smiled. "I wouldn't take it," she said.
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah."
She watched his face. "Being miserable won't bring them back, Sawyer. It makes no difference to them whether you torture yourself or not. All we can do is keep going, and not make the same mistakes again."
"And what do you think the chances of that are?"
"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I can't say I'm upset that you'll be finding another line of work."
He shook his head in weary contempt.
She smiled slightly, then grew more serious. "I'm sorry about the alcohol," she said quietly. "But I'd do it again in a second." She paused. "Seeing all those bottles on the table like that... do you have any idea how much that scared me? Or when you didn't come home yesterday.. what that did to me? I've never felt that kind of fear before. And I hate it. I don't ever want to have to feel like that again."
It sounded like she was trying not to cry. He felt like someone was stabbing an ice pick into his heart, but her words scared him. It was the same fear he always felt regarding her. He knew she couldn't depend on him. So why couldn't she just accept it?
"What the hell did you expect?" he asked, carefully avoiding her eyes. "With everything you know about me, you really gonna tell me you're surprised?" Finally meeting her eyes, he forced himself to choke out the words that were the most difficult he could possibly say to her. "I can't take care of you," he whispered hoarsely.
Her eyes filled with tears, but she held his gaze. "I never asked you to. But I'm not gonna lie, and say that I don't need you. Because I do." She swallowed hard. "I don't think I can go back to doing this on my own. Not now."
He looked down at the water, feeling his throat constrict with emotion. She reached out and rested her hand on his arm, the first substantial physical contact they'd had since he'd burned the letter.
"Hey," she whispered, forcing him to look up at her. "If we're both going to hell anyway, we might as well share a cab, right?" She smiled at him through her tears.
Giving up the fight he'd been waging with himself for days, he reached for her, pulling her to him as she leaned in at the same time, in the same motion. He kissed her, softly at first, delighting in the sheer texture of her skin against his lips, the salty taste of her tears, the delicate scent that was always with her, that was simply a part of her essence, independent of any kind of shampoo or soap. He would have recognized it instantly even if he'd been separated from her for fifty years.
He felt her pushing him back against the dock, and he gave in, laying down on the boards. To his surprise, although not to his disappointment, she began unfastening his jeans. He looked up at the murky, colorless fog, and time seemed to stop.
When he felt her body covering his, he closed his eyes, drifting into a state that was nearly dream-like. She moved in a graceful, rocking motion, and her hair fell in silky tassels over his face. He let her choose her own rhythm, only intervening at times to pull her face down closer to his, to feel his lips on hers again. At certain moments he seemed to forget where he was. With no notion of how much time had passed, he heard his own final, strangled gasp as if it came from a great distance, from somebody else. It seemed unconnected to himself.
When he became conscious of reality again, he found that her head was now tucked underneath his chin, her body still resting on top of his, warm and relaxed. He slowly opened his eyes and noticed a tiny patch of blue sky. The fog must be burning off. They should probably put their pants back on, he thought to himself with a grin. Just the act of thinking such a thing made him feel better, more like himself.
He put his arms more tightly around Kate, marveling as always at how small she was. Why had he told her he couldn't take care of her? he wondered. Of course he could. And he would prove it to her with his dying breath, if he had to. Everything felt different now.
She sighed contentedly and raised up, looking down at him. "Are you happy now?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "We can cross the dock off the list."
"Nothin' like that sense of accomplishment, is there?" he replied, pulling her back down to kiss her again as she laughed.
She moved over to his side and slid her jeans back on, staring out at the water, where the closest mountain peaks were now starting to become visible in the thinning fog. He fastened the button on his jeans, but remained in a reclined position, watching her. With one hand he reached out and ran his fingers slowly up and down her back. Now that he'd finally allowed himself to touch her again, he didn't want to stop.
Kate sighed deeply, not turning around. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind. "Can I ask you something?" Her voice sounded nervous, tight with worry.
"Go for it," he said, curious but still relaxed.
"You think you'll be going back into town today?"
He was confused. "I don't know... Why? You got a list?"
"No. Not really. I just..." She stopped. "There's something I need you to get for me." She still didn't turn around.
"What? Tampons?" he asked, thinking he'd guessed it. Hell, what was she so embarrassed about? He'd bought 'em before, hadn't he?
"No," she said, sounding as if she were suppressing a smile. "That's not it. Believe me."
"What, then?" The suspense was killing him. What could possibly give her this much hesitation? Unless... it was something to do with sex, he thought. His mind flashed excitedly to the possibilities. But hadn't she said she wasn't into any of that stuff?
She sighed again, shakily. "I don't really know how to say this," she said, sounding deadly serious. So it probably wasn't sex-related, after all. He waited, tense.
She finally turned her head around, looking back down at him. There was a new kind of fear there, completely different from the fear he'd always seen in her eyes before, the kind he'd grown accustomed to. This was different.
In a soft, but clearly audible, voice, she spoke.
"I need you to get me a pregnancy test."
Slowly, he raised himself up from the dock.
The two of them looked at each other.
