Always Me
by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net
"God's finger touched him, and he slept."
(--Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
A/N: Glad you guys like this. Here's the next chapter, sorry it took so long. Please leave a review, I had fun writing this, despite the angst. I do believe Cameron's husband's name was Brian, but correct me if I'm wrong. For the purpose of this, it was. Flashbacks!
I've been to many funerals in my life. Of them all, only three have been truly personal.
My older brother's, when I was twelve, was the first. Then came my husband's, when I was twenty-four. Finally there was our daughter's, when I was twenty-five.
I'm about to add number four to the tally; Wilma's. I'm thirty-one.
It's raining when I wake up, fat drops splattering against my bedroom window. The faint glow from my alarm clock tells me that it's six fifty-five. I don't have to leave until nine.
I climb out of bed, my t-shirt hanging limply to the middle of my thighs. The bathroom isn't far, and the door creaks when I pull it shut behind me. I toss my shirt to the floor, a chill sweeping over my body. The mirror hangs above the sink, but I turn away from it when I walk by. I know what I look like. I've looked like this three times before.
The cold water of the shower hits my chest like a knife, but I don't turn the dial to hot. I step forward, slowly, until the stream soaks my hair. Wet strands plaster to my face, and I blink the drops from my eyelashes. Reaching forward, I turn the water off without even washing.
The mirror isn't steamed. I steal a glance at myself, towel wrapped around my body, and I'm tempted to shrink away. The circles under my eyes are dark, and the clear green color appears a smoky grey. I look pathetic, but right now I think it suites me.
A closet full of clothes gives me many options, but I've never really liked picking out funeral attire. Dropping the towel, I stand naked in front of the door, dripping wet hair limp against my back. Whatever I pick, they'll all look the same.
A dark grey dress peeks out at me from the back of the closet. I tug on it and it slides free into my hand. Holding it up, I don't recognize it at first. I slip it over my head and straighten the hem. It's modest enough, with long sleeves and a high neckline. Turning to look in the mirror, my eyes are drawn immediately to a red stain across the front.
We sat at the kitchen table, silent. He said he had news, big news, bad news. I sipped wine from my glass slowly, eyes cast downwards. The ticking of the clock echoed in my ears, and when it chimed seven I had to speak.
"Brian?" I questioned.
He was quiet for a moment longer, and I heard him sigh and open his mouth to speak.
"Marry me," he said.
Shocked, I let my hand fall to the table. Wine from my glass sloshed over the side, spilling onto the table and across my lap.
"What?" I asked, astounded.
He raised his eyes from the mess I created, meeting my gaze.
"I don't want to die alone," he said with a cracked voice.
It was cancer. The doctors gave him six months to live, maximum.
I married him because I wouldn't want to die alone either.
I peel the dress off and toss it to the floor, the folds of fabric coming to rest at my feet. Looking down, I wonder why I held onto it for so long.
A black pantsuit is the only thing in my closet that doesn't remind me of Brian. The jacket is a little too big, the pants a little too long, but it has to work. By now my hair is dry, and I pull it back into a low ponytail, not bothering to check it. I don't bother with makeup.
My breakfast consists of a bagel, sans cream cheese. It tastes bland, and sticks in my stomach. I want coffee, but I don't have the energy to make it. Instead, I drink orange juice, cringing at the ridiculously sunny logo.
By the time I leave my apartment, it's going on ten-thirty. I'm late. For a funeral. For my godmother's funeral. I'm a horrible person.
It's still raining, but the methodical swish of my windshield wipers comforts me. Ten minutes, two songs, and one near accident later, I turn into Princeton Cemetery.
It looks the same as it did six years ago. I park my car to the side, at the top of the hill. From my vantage point, I see the gathered group, huddled under dark-colored umbrellas. A small canopy is erected, around which the people stand. Wilma's casket, surrounded by flowers, rests beneath.
The rain hits my face as I climb from the car, stinging my cheeks with its chilly force. I pull my jacket tighter around my body. The hill is steep, the path gravel, and I stumble down as discreetly as possible.
When I reach the gravesite, I stand near the back. A eulogy is being delivered, and it takes me a moment to recognize the speaker. It is Dr. Wilson, dressed in a somber black suit, blonde hair curling slightly from the rain. He notices me, and his brown eyes meet mine for a split second.
I turn away, an unknown emotion broiling within me. The rain blinds me, and I walk without thinking. When I finally stop, I'm standing in front of his gravestone. Brian William Cameron, beloved husband and father.
"Say not in grief 'he is no more', but live in thankfulness that he was."
The downpour washes away my tears, but I'm not crying for him. I'm crying for myself. Am I selfish and cold-hearted? I feel guilty. I've let his gravestone go uncared for, the weeds overgrown. I don't bring flowers on the anniversary of his death.
I've been here once since his funeral. My gaze flickers to the small stone on my left. My daughter and my husband, both dead before their times.
I hear the crunch of shoes on gravel, then the muffled footsteps as the person leaves the path and crosses the grass towards me. I know that it's Dr. Wilson, but I don't greet him. He stands beside me and I can tell that he's reading the names on the graves.
"You were married?" And you had a daughter?
I nod, staring at the muddy ground. I want to talk about it. I want to let it all out. I want to break down and cry. But I don't. I can't, because I'm a horrible person.
He's quiet for a long time. Eventually I raise my head and seek out his eyes with my own, but he's not looking at me anymore. I wonder what he's thinking about.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair.
"I was wondering what kind of God would make a woman like you suffer," he says.
He looks at me sheepishly, as if uncomfortable with sharing his thoughts, and I give him a watery smile. He returns it, and I take two steps forward. My arms wrap around his torso, and I lay my cheek against his chest. I squeeze him in a hug, and feel him shift to hold me close.
"Thanks for the coffee," I sniff.
His hand smoothes my hair, and I feel his lips press a kiss to the top of my head.